#i was gonna use the same thread name but figured it would be more organized if i didnt

[murderselfies]

“What do you mean? Of course I do. Look, I don’t like Tyler much, but he has good taste.” There was no two hotter girls in Lakewood than Riley and Brooke. Sarah was hot, but Jake didn’t want to hook up with her just because she reminded him of Brooke. Riley, however, she was her own person. She didn’t look or sound like anyone else, but herself. Though she despised his wicked ways, Jake had somewhat of a crush on her. She was loyal, brave, and social. All things Jake could admire and appreciate in a person. Especially since true ride or dies were almost impossible to find in the small town of Lakewood.  

“Dude, what the hell was that? Blowing rings? I didn’t know you smoke. I had Brooke take a hit and she coughed up a fur-ball.” He laughed, before dropping Riley’s foot to lay down on the lounge chair beside her. She was small enough for him to squeeze in beside her without squishing her. “We’re really going to talk numbers?” Jake smirked, before taking the joint back for a puff. Like Riley, he blew circles above their heads. “I slept with five. But yo, before you judge. I turned down Nina. So, let it be known, the Jake does have standards.” He laughed, handing the joint over. “What about you? What’s Riley Marra’s body count? Let me guess. Uhm. I’d say 3? You seem preserved but not prudish…”

[thescarletwitchsapprentice]

Would... would it be alright to ask for some soft platonic stuff with your OC Anya?

Like, maybe the her new sister is still not used to be with her but had a nightmare and Anya comforts her?

I dunno, I just love her so basically anything with her would be fun.

I am shooketh in the best way possible. (Maybe I should eventually introduce y’all to some more of my OCs)

I’m gonna make this non-yan, since you didn’t specify if you wanted yandere or not.

Home Is Where Sweet Dreams Blossom (big sister!Tetyana “Anya” Malinovsky/big sister!Iridescence x orphan!witch!plus-sized!adopted!baby sister!reader)

*Not my GIF. I miss the emo Wanda.

Summary: Roughly a month ago, you were taken in by Tetyana “Anya” and Erik Malinovsky; Ukrainian twins who, like you, were unwillingly experimented on and by the same organization no less. You thought you’d left it all behind you, but the past isn’t so easy to forget, no matter how much you wish it was.

(CW: Nightmares, hurt and comfort, weight mention, family death mention, betrayal mention)

Author’s Note: I was genuinely over the moon when I saw this request. I’m so glad that people love Anya! You’ll also get a little bit of Erik in this, so you’ll kinda get to meet him. <3

It’s been a few months since the Malinovsky twins had found you wandering around all by yourself. You were a captive of the same organization that had kidnapped them; CERBERUS. The name itself makes you feel sick. Thank God you had managed to escape, but you had no family; they were all killed when you were fifteen after the government ended up catching word that you were a witch, a death sentence there. How you’d managed to keep it hidden for five years you weren’t sure, but it didn’t matter now. Poor little you just wandered around the streets of Kyiv, Ukraine, nearly a thread’s width away from death at all times. You found yourself scavenging for food, but found little. That was the one time you thanked yourself for being overweight; when you had no food, your body burned the extra fat stored in it. Of course if your family was gonna overfeed one of the siblings, it’d be the youngest one.

That was about three years ago. You’re still a bit overweight somehow, but eventually your body was going to crack under pressure. You had been stumbling along as usual, your vision a bit worse for wear than usual and you feeling dizzy. You felt as though you would pass away if you didn’t get help. Up ahead, you saw two figures and tried to cry out to them, but your mouth was sandpaper-dry, only managing to croak out a little. You swore you could see them getting closer, but you weren’t sure, and you didn’t have time to be sure because.....

.....everything went still and silent.

When you woke up, you found yourself in a warm bed, hearing a beautiful voice singing softly to you in Ukrainian while petting your head and then offering you a hot meal and a place to stay. And that was how you ended up with the twins.

======================================================

Despite their kindness, it’s still taking you a long time to adjust. There’s always this lingering fear that they’ll kick you out like everyone else who’s offered to let you stay with them; they’d only do it because they wanted something from you, so it’s safe to say that your trust isn’t there. And so instead of talking about your emotions, you just bottle them up and try to deal with them yourself.

But somehow tonight seems different. The whole day had been extra emotional for you; it was the anniversary of the day you saw your whole family get killed in an effort to protect you, and so you’d been feeling overwhelmed with these sensations; a closing throat, tight chest, thin voice, watery eyes, the works. 

That night you get into bed and try to go to sleep. But once you do, you begin tossing and turning as you’re immediately thrown into nightmares of the twins suddenly tossing you out of their place, just as the others had done to you in the past, CERBERUS finding you, torturing you even more for the rest of your life.

Your voice rises in your sleep as you whimper out a series of “no”s; the volume crescendos. However you’re not aware that you were even screaming until you hear someone calling out your name and gently shaking you.

“Baby sister!” Anya’s voice echos over her nightmare version insulting you. “Baby sister, please wake up!”

All of a sudden, you shoot up in a cold sweat, trembling. You look at the two twins.

“P-please....” you whimper. “Please don’t throw me out.....I-I’ll do whatever you want, I promise. Just please, please, please......please l-let me stay.....please don’t....don’t throw me back to the streets.....I don’t want CERBERUS to find me!”

You feel your eyes begin to water up.

“Throw you out?” Erik asks, his voice sounding genuinely confused. “Why would we throw you out?”

“....They all do....eventually.....they get what they want and then.....I’m just trash....”

Your voice squeaks on that last part and the tears begin to fall.

“Oh....sweet, baby sister....” 

Anya brings you in close, hugging you as she tears up as well and rubbing your back.

“How about I get you some water?” Erik asks. “I promise I won’t use my speed powers this time.”

He gets up and heads to the kitchen as Anya keeps hugging you.

“I’m right here, baby sister,” she coos gently. “Your big sister’s right here.”

“Big.....sister?”

You’re genuinely confused.

“You....don’t want anything from me?” you squeak.

“No,” she assures you. “I just want you, baby sister.”

“Wh...what do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. I want you to be my baby sister. I want you to become part of our family.”

“So....you’re not gonna throw me out onto the street?”

“Never!” Anya hugs you even tighter. “I love you too much to toss you aside, Erik loves you too much to toss you aside. You are not trash and you never will be. You are our sweet and precious baby sister and you always will be.”

Hearing this, your tears of fear slowly turn into tears of relief. 

“And even if you weren’t our baby sister,” she says. “Though I’m glad that you are now, you were born for a reason. You have worth and value, trash doesn’t have worth or value.”

“Can’t it be made into compost?” you sniffle.

“Perhaps,” she tells you. “But you wouldn’t be the compost in the garden.”

“....What would I be then?” you ask innocently.

“You? You would be the loveliest flower in the entire garden, baby sister.”

“Are you sure that wouldn’t be you?”

Anya blushes at this.

“Maybe we’d both be lovely flowers then,” she says. “And our silly big brother would be a silly bunny who tries to eat the vegetables nearby.”

“Hey!” Erik arrives just in time to hear this. “I resemble that remark!”

“Don’t you mean resent?” you ask, looking at him in confusion.

“I know what I said,” he answers confidently.

You and Anya giggle as he sets down the glass of water, ice and straw included. 

“Would you like me to stay with you tonight, baby sister?” Anya asks.

You nod.

“What about your strong big brother?” Erik asks. “I could stay with you.”

“You’re the silly big brother.” Anya smiles.

“Am not!”

Anya sticks her tongue out at him and he sticks his out at her. You start giggling. Hearing this Anya’s heart melts and she squeezes you tightly.

“So precious.....so adorable!” she squeals.

“Air! Air!” you gasp out.

Anya loosens her grip and blushes. 

“Sorry....cute aggression got ahold of me.”

“So do you want me to stay with you?” Erik asks.

“I kinda wanna snuggle up with my big sister tonight, sowwy.” You look at Erik with puppy-dog eyes. 

He tries to hide his melting heart.

“That’s fine,” he says. “But first.....tickle attack!”

He speeds over to you and tackles you, tickling you. You squeal and giggle, trying to tickle him back. Anya giggles as well, but soon uses her magic to end the tickle war.

“Alright, alright,” she giggles. “Let’s not get her heart pumping so late at night.”

Anya turns to you.

“How about I tell you a fairytale, baby sister?” she asks.

“Which one?” you wonder.

“My favorite one,” she smiles.

Hearing this Erik groans.

“The same story? Really?”

“The Golden Slipper is a beautiful fairytale!” Anya exclaims. 

“But it’s the only one you’ll tell. Always slipper, slipper, slipper.”

“Because it’s beautiful and I have it memorized.”

“I like it too,” you nod, giving him puppy-dog eyes again.

His heart melts and you know it, no matter how much he’s trying to hide it.

“Fine.....but it’s gonna be a thing for you two tonight. I’m gonna go somewhere slipper-free.”

He rushes back to his bedroom. Anya rolls her eyes, smiling.

“If he tries to run off next time, I’m going to turn him into a bunny rabbit,” she whispers to you. 

You giggle and the two of you snuggle under the covers as she tells you the tale once again, petting your head. Even with a soft and gentle voice, she still manages to be expressive. Once she finishes telling the story, she softly sings her favorite Ukrainian lullaby. Her angelic voice and her calming embrace lull you further into sleep. 

And for the first time in years, you feel safe.

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela​

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween�� When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela​ for @jtargaryen18 ‘s  Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide. 

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone. 

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.  

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue. 

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. 

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound 

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood. 

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you. 

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. 

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the  gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host. 

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream. 

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. 

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall. 

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne. 

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. 

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background.  And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. 

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway. 

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.  

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his. 

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes.  With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!" 

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet. 

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away. 

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask. 

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system. 

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked. 

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow. 

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with  the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission. 

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did. 

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even, 

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his 

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby. 

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. 

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his. 

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought. 

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1 

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s  Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist. 

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide. 

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone. 

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.  

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue. 

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound 

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood. 

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you. 

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places.  Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the  gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host. 

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream. 

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall. 

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne. 

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize”  you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background.  And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway. 

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. 

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.  

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his. 

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes.  With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!" 

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet. 

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away. 

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask. 

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system. 

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked. 

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow. 

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness. 

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. 

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with  the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission. 

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did. 

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even, 

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat. 

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his 

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby. 

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his. 

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought. 

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** WIYPT Tag List:

Everything

@momobaby227 @marvelfansworld @cobalt-gear @djeniiscorner @ayamenimthiriel @coldmuffinbanditshoe @nerdofthefandoms @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @southerngracela @goldenfightergir @kellymat @what-just-happened-bro @jennmurawski13 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @jtargaryen18 @redhairedfeistynerd @charmed-asylum @saiyanprincessswanie @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @jhayes6984 @anika-ann @icanfeelastormbrewing @gigglegirl77 @princess-evans-addict @mes-2016 @theladybiers @void-hoechlin 

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit @icandothisallday @capsiclewinter​ @this-is-serenaa​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @perplexed3001​ @twittytelly​ @kelbabyblue​ @maan24​

If your name appears above but the tag isn’t live please let me know.

[thegeminisage]

top 5 moments in broken road?

i literally waited until now to answer these ask meme questions so i could do this w/o spoilers. anyway time to do an ask meme i got questions for THREE ENTIRE WEEKS ago

#5 - "my girl" john/mary reunion

Mary rushes forward into John's waiting arms. He gathers her up and holds her close, pressing kiss after kiss into her hair, tears running down his face. "My girl," he says, in aching disbelief, drawing back to cup her face in his hands. "My girl." She laughs through her own tears, and when he smooths one gun-calloused thumb under her eye she turns her face into his hand, and then he draws her close and kisses her, like they're the only two people left in the whole wide world.

look. am i valid? no. but they compel me. to them their story is just as real and longlasting as dean/cas is to us. so i added a little gutpunch to that reunion because it’s my fic and i get to do what i want >:) actually, even though i made a point of calling john “dad” and mary “mom” in dean’s pov, in this moment, i deliberately used their names - it’s more than just mom and dad, it’s theee john and mary winchester back together after all these years. no, they don’t stay that way, but after a 22-year quest in her name, it still deserves to be like a Reunion. 

(other four are below the cut to spare ur dashes. there are major spoilers for the whole fic, just warning u)

#4 - john getting punched by [SPOILER]

Dean's shoves his father with all his might, yelling, "Let go of me!" Partially because even though just moments ago the dungeon was exactly where he wanted to be, he absolutely doesn't want Dad to be the one to put him there, partially because he's afraid that Michael is about to break free from that cage in his head and vaporize everybody in firing range, and partially because he's afraid that if Dad doesn't let go, Cas will kill him.

But Dean's only got one hand free, and Dad's grip is too strong. Michael and sleep deprivation have made Dean weak; he can't get away from Dad on his own.

Then, when Cas is still just out of arm's reach, Sam lays into Dad with the fiercest right hook Dean's ever seen.

Dean knows that right hook well. That's one of the first moves Dad taught him, one Dad forced him to practice a thousand miserable times—how to stand, when to turn, where to throw his weight—until he honed it to absolute unthinking perfection. And it is perfect: Sam nails Dad right on the jaw with all six feet and change of muscle, sending him staggering back, his grip on Dean slipping free.

Dad slumps against the wall for a moment like he's literally seeing stars, like it's all he can do not to pass out. His nose looks like it might be broken. Dean rounds on his brother; if he was expecting Dean to thank him for that, he's going to be disappointed. "What the hell, Sam?"

But Sam's looking at Dad, not at Dean. "He said," Sam pants, "to let go of him."

i’m normally very anti-punching john, but i feel like if anybody has the right to do it, it’s sam. he’s spent his whole life being protected from john by dean and he finally gets to return the favor! all his problems are solved because he’s literally the bigger man now in every way! i doubt sam would ever punch john on his own behalf, but it is UTTERLY in character for him to do it in defense of someone else, but i bet it was pretty fucking cathartic too. picking sam moments in this fic is like picking children but this...you know, it wasn’t even in my outline. it happened organically as i wrote. and it just. feels right.

#3 - sam telling john to clean up his mess

"Seriously, Dad—we've had enough of your lip service. You're sorry? You want to help? Clean up your mess."

What? John frowns. Does he mean Dean?

But, no—Sam twists and picks up an actual mop and bucket from the corner behind him. The bucket is full of red-tinted water. "Go in the kitchen," he says, "and if Dean says you can use the sink, run some clean water with bleach. We gotta get the blood off the floor, because the longer it stays there, the worse it'll stain—especially on the hardwood."

"Uh," says John.

Then Sam gives him a severe, no-nonsense look that nearly punches the breath from John's lungs—because for the very first time, he sees his Mary in that stubbornly unimpressed face. "Do you understand? This isn't a motel. You can't expect someone else to do it for you. Don't go in the kitchen," Sam says slowly, enunciating every word, "unless you're going. To clean up. Your mess. You want room service—there's the fucking door."

THERE’S THE FUCKING DOOR. i love this bc firstly i believe in man of the house sam and secondly it falls into the same thing of like...sam is finally big and strong enough to protect dean and by god he will make himself an impassable 6′4 between this man and his brother. i think especially since finding out about flagstaff, DOUBLY since becoming a parent, sam is like...so less than impressed with john’s bullshit, and even more impatient than he already was of john’s stupid excuses. 

there’s also this motif of cleaning throughout the fic - in john and sam’s very first scene alone together, they are washing dishes. at first this was a nod to sam and dean doing it in lebanon - dean washing, sam drying - but washing is the “hard” part of doing the dishes; when my mom taught me how to do them i began learning by drying first. so of course dean has been washing and letting sam dry all their lives - almost literally, because john talks pretty early on about dean being a neat freak too, because john simply wouldn’t pick up after himself but still hated the mess. there’s a few mentions of it in the fic, how john liked being able to leave a mess behind in their motel rooms, how he’d prop his feet on the table - but in season 10, it’s sam on his knees scrubbing the bloodstained floors after dean’s murder spree, and in broken road sam makes john wash the dishes, and at the end, sam makes him mop. @maulthots put it best:

like that’s it. that's literally it. and then, finally, john offers to clean up on his own without being asked. that’s Growth™, at least in whatever way he’s capable of it. at any rate, he’s too afraid of getting hit again to NOT clean up after himself lol

#2 - dean/cas car scene [content warning for nsfw and discussion of past sexual violence - scroll down to #1 if you’d like to skip it!]

Cas lets go of Dean, but it's to reposition his hands on Dean's knees, slide those huge palms up Dean's thighs. Dean feels the heat of them bleeding through his jeans. Then, holy shit, Cas rests his thumbs on Dean's belt buckle, and makes eye contact.

Dean wets his lips, a little uncertain. He has no idea what Cas is going to do. "Yeah, okay," he croaks.

Cas leans in and kisses him again while he undoes Dean's belt. Like—fuck, like he knew Dean wouldn't want to watch. Dean hears the zipper on his fly, and all at once it clocks that, yeah, okay, this is really happening. Heart thudding in his ears, Dean reflexively lifts his hips so Cas can pull his jeans off. But Cas only slides them down a little. Then he reaches into Dean's boxers and gets a hand around his dick.

Oh. A small, quiet noise drops out of Dean into Cas's mouth, and he turns out of the kiss, panting as Cas pulls him out of his clothes. He's not sure what he was expecting, but this is okay. Just a handjob—he can handle that. It's good, actually. A little dry, but Cas has a light touch, and Dean has decided that he likes Cas's hands. He knows the shape of them very well.

i really enjoyed writing this whole scene, but this was my favorite part. cas technically does get dean’s consent, which was important to cas and a little bit of a big deal for dean too, but dean didn’t ask what cas was going to do before giving that consent, because he almost...doesn’t care? like, dean’s previous experiences with men were all lousy at best, and violent and traumatizing at worst, and arguably none of them were 100% consensual. so part of him is figuring that whatever happens will be within that spectrum, and he’ll just deal with it being awful no matter what it is because he almost literally can’t picture it not being awful. he's not doing it because he likes fucking men or expects he’ll like fucking cas, he’s doing because he wants to be close to cas, he wants to be away from michael and his dad, and because if he and cas are together now that’s part of the package and he’s just done the full “for keeps” commitment bit, so he’s not gonna pussy out now, right? he trusts cas not to actually harm him, and be closer to “lousy” than “violent,” but he is, in his mind, basically giving cas consent to hurt him, because to him that’s what sex with men IS. and he’s understandably pretty nervous because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen - all he’s sure of is that he won’t like it. 

but then he does like it! he likes it a lot! trusting cas turns out to be the correct choice! because if cas had turned him down in that moment, trying to baby him or second guess him, i think dean would have felt really hurt and angry and embarrassed, he would have felt like he was broken or untouchable. which is why cas took him at his word, but ALSO did pretty much the most tame thing you can do and still count it as having sex. so cas managed to thread the needle perfectly because he knows dean so well and he’s literally been inside his mind and witnessed that trauma and knew everything to avoid doing. so for dean it wound up being TRULY consensual instead of the sort of fake consent he’s used to handing out to johns. if that makes any sense. idk i just really enjoyed doing it. i think a valid reading is that dean has this physical fear of men that is just...not explored very much in fic. and it was nice to write something where cas was sort of able to undo or heal a little of that damage. 

#1 - michael

No, no, no—we can't die—we can't die, we are eternal, we are our Father's most beloved, His favorite son—

No no no no no no no no no—I can't die—I can't die—

Light fills the room, reflecting in Dean's eyes making them look as though they glow. And for the very first time, John sees him. John sees him, John sees him, John sees him—

Where is my Father? Is He watching? Can He see me?

Father, help me, I beg You—please, I don't want to die—

I don't want to die—

i could honestly paste the entire michael scene here, there’s not a thing about it i don’t love, but this was probably my favorite part. and look, i waited NINE YEARS to see michael!dean, i deserved to go apeshit!!! i think the fun thing about michael is that he’s a great foil to both john and dean, the literal connecting tissue, especially when he’s hopping bodies like that. he’s dean’s aggressor but he’s also dean’s twisted reflection, nearly broken by his father’s absence. it was impossible for john to see dean as he really is until michael let him see it through dean’s own eyes.

and then “i” at the end - i knew going in that i wanted a “we” pronoun (though i almost chickened out of it), because michael’s in charge but he’s also making his vessel do things with him, like laugh or scream or hurt people. but when michael dies, he’s alone figuratively and literally, because john’s not dying with him, and his own father has forsaken him too - and that’s the way dean so often felt, and FEELING that was probably the only thing that could possibly give john the motivation to be even slightly less self-centered and shitty. 

michael was my whole reason for writing this fic - because i was livid they didn’t use him to tie dean and john together in canon, because the burden of being his vessel is just one more thing dean had to take...this whole chapter, this whole fic, hinged entirety on the batshit insane dynamic between michael and dean and john. and like there are parts of this fic i was insecure about and wished i could have done better, but this? i think i nailed it. definitely the part i had the most fun writing. 

but like, honorable mention?

"Dude," Dean says, flipping on his blinker so he can pull up beside the local grocery, "can we not do any touchy-feely shit, please? That's—"

"Gay?" Sam suggests.

"Get out of my car."

>:)

[peachnewt]

Layla’s Spool: A Giant/tiny story

When Layla, the only sister of a house full of rough hunters and trappers finds a giant washed ashore after a storm, she takes pity on it despite knowing that helping a monster might get her burned at the stake as a witch. What starts as begrudging charity turns into affection between Samuel, the giant shipwrecked scholar, and Layla, the girl that can fit in the palm of his hand.

Layla’s Spool - by peachnewt

Clouds boiled over the sea, the wind whipping air and water into a cold froth and mist flashed in the distance over the sea, the wind whipping up Layla’s black locks and throwing them back in her face as she dragged her cart along the sand, looking for driftwood and possibly trinkets.  She kept her skirts hiked up to her knees, freeing her bare feet from tripping over their ragged hems.  A stray thread from her bodice and used it to tie her hair back.  Despite the rough winds, she would dare not let another person get at the pickings before her.  Already she had gathered a few lengths of rope.  

 A storm had raged along the sea coast for the last few days, breaking limbs and foundering boats.  As it passed, it left gifts upon the beaches, driftwood, kelp, sometimes rope and bits of metal.  Layla considered herself lucky that others were too afraid to approach the beaches so soon after a storm, afraid of disturbing beached whales or monsters from the deep.  No such things would come to the quiet coast of Winchel.  

 A piece of carved wood, maybe a part of a ship’s bow stuck out of the wet sand.  A little digging and Layla unearthed it only to stand back aghast.  It was not part of any ship she had ever seen.  A long cylinder, as big around as her waist longer than her arm, splintered at one end like it was supposed to be longer.  On one side she saw a hole in it bigger than her fist.  Perhaps a wooden pipe to one of those newfangled pipe-organs?

 Layla heaved her finding into the wagon and kept moving.  A large outcropping of rock poked out of sand ahead, she would either have to go around in the surf, or climb.  Rather than get her skirts wetter than they already were, she climbed, leaving her wagon behind.  A groaning rumble echoed beyond the rocks.  More thunder?  

 At the crest of the rocks Layla froze.  

 ***  

 Samuel shivered in his long-coat, the grit from the wet sand sticking to his face and hair as he collapsed on his chest from wading into the beach.  How he had survived the swim from the wreckage with the coat on was beyond him, but now it weighed cold on his back.  His temple still bled from a gash given to him when the main mast had split. The pounding in his head made his vision blur in and out.  He kept his left hand close to his chest.  At least two of the fingers were broken, the digits curling inwards towards the palm like a flower refusing to bloom.  

 Out of the corner of his eye she saw a flash of muted green.  The skirt of a young woman sitting on top of a outcropping of rocks far away.  She seemed frightened, as if she had never seen a man shipwrecked before.  He reached out his hand, hoping to get her attention, his voice rough from the saltwater he nearly inhaled during the storm.

 “Help,” he rasped.  “Please.”  

 Help splinting his hand. Help to get dry and warm.  Help with his hunger.  Help to get back home.  Heavens above, a kind face would be a grace to him.  He reached his hand further to the woman, begging.  

 The dark haired woman shrieked and crawled away to the other side of the rocks.  Why would she fear a nearly drowned man with less strength than a kitten?  

 When his fingers touched the rocks that were so far away, his mind sobered from his lethargy and pain.

 Samuel realized the startling difference between his still muddled perspective, and distance.  The outcropping of rocks no more than a foot tall, and the young woman no bigger than his hand.  

 Samuel jerked back his arm with a gasp.  Had he been marooned on some fairy isle?  Was he suffering some delusion caused by the knock to his head?  Or worse, in a land where everyone was small?  

 The thumping in Samuel’s head deepened until the dark edge of his vision crept inwards.  The shock had finally got to him.  He managed to turn over on his side, still cradling his damaged left hand.  

 “God, help me,” he murmured as sleep took him.  

***

 Layla sat shaking, muffling her mouth with her shawl.  A giant. A real giant had washed up onto her shore.  She glanced over the rocks again.  Albeit a very tired giant.  One that looked hurt.  Still a giant.  Probably took to raiding the countryside and eating live cows on the weekends while it took care of it’s clothes during the weekdays.  

 She should run to the village and get the soldiers.  Get away from trouble before the trouble got her.  But something stopped her.  Perhaps the glint of gold off the giant’s hair, or the way his brow furrowed while dreaming.

 The breeze picked up again; another storm making itself known for landfall soon.  Layla gritted her teeth and went back down her wagon.  

 ***

 Samuel woke to his broken hand on fire.  He jerked it back to his chest and something small hit him on the shoulder.  

 “You keep movin’ it like that it’s gonna heal crooked.  D’ya hear me?”  

 Samuel opened his eyes. The tiny, dark haired woman in the green skirt stood by the sandy indent where his broken hand had lay, a pile of rope and driftwood by her.  She had been splinting his fingers.  Cumbersome work for a such a tiny thing, but she had managed to get three of his fingers straightened.  

 “Sorry,” he said, shifting his hand back to her.  Any fear he might have inspired had evaporated as she went back to work.  “Thank you.”  

 “Yeah, I should be sorry.” The woman, pulled on his ring finger, straightening the bones with quick motions before lining it up with the driftwood. “Ya asked for help, so I’m giving it.”

 “Why did you take pity on me?”  

 “Ya called out for God.”

 “I supposed I did,” said Samuel.  He blinked hard, trying to get rid of the sand in his eyes.  “But how did that sway your decision?”  

 “Figured if a man is askin’ help from God, he’s hit rock bottom and begging.  And I was taught to never look down on beggars.”  

 “I am not a beggar,” said Samuel.  The nerve of that woman, thinking him a beggar when… well, a castaway was close to a beggar.  But there was still a difference.  “I’m lost.”

 “You could have fooled me,” said the woman with a laugh, but the pitch of the laugh was off, as if forced. “Look, I can patch up yer hand, but if we say here any longer we’ll either meet up with the storm, or soldiers on patrol, and I’d rather not have either.  Can ya get to yer feet?”  

 “Yes.”  

 The young woman tied off the rope and stood back.  “Good, ‘cause we need to get moving.”  

 With a few pauses and a careful eye to make sure he didn’t step on anything, like his new guide, Samuel made it to his feet.  He followed behind the tiny woman as she led him through snarling trees as tall as him. Despite her size, the woman moved nimbly and Samuel had to actually work to catch up.  Though he stumbled a few times, she kept encouraging him to move, just a little further.

 Just a little further.  Right.  He’d heard that before when he’d been told his new teaching post was just a short trip across the sea.  Overhead the clouds kept rumbling as a light rain pelted down on his scalp.  He was tempted to reach out and see if the sky was closer than he thought, but the ache in his body bound him to trudge forward.  

 During the walk he learned the young woman’s name, Layla, and that, indeed, everyone else in the country was the same size as her.  Except her brothers; large, muscled brutes that could take him down if they wanted. Samuel assumed that last bit was more of a warning pointed towards him if he tried to do anything violent to Layla. He couldn’t if he tried, he was too weak.  

 Perhaps by accident, if he tripped and fell on her.  

 Oh, how he wanted to sleep. “I’m tired,” he murmured, resting his weight on the branch of a tree that creaked at his touch.  

 “A little further, giant” Layla said.  “I promise.”

 The “little further” turned out to be a glade big enough for him to lay down, trees curving overhead creating a shelter that kept most of the rain away.  To the side of the glade bubbled a rocky spring.  Within minutes Samuel lay back on the ground, asleep, the promise of Layla’s return echoing in the lull between dream and awake.  

 Samuel woke.  The rain had stopped, and the rest of his hand had been splinted.  The sun shined and birds overhead sang.  A semblance of normalcy in this odd new world.  But when would Layla be back?

 He wondered what was worse; being a giant, or being at the mercy of a small woman.  

 She had been right, he was a beggar.

 ***

 As the only living, and of age, female in the Winchel family tree, Layla had more than her share of brothers and cousins and uncles looking after her, even from afar.  At any one time half a dozen brothers or uncles would be taking up space in the cottage, on their way from one hunting area to another, gathering furs and trading.  She would receive bear hugs, bruising nudges at coarse jokes, but all done with affection. They left her with provisions and she kept the cottage from falling into ruin and occasionally making the meals.  

 As Layla looked at the larder, she wondered how much a giant could eat in one day.  More than what she had available, especially when her brothers could make off with all the bread and cheese in one sitting.  Though technically poor, they lived comfortably, but sometimes that comfort came way of poaching when the larder ran bare.  

 Layla huffed a breath as one uncle ruffled her hair and took a wedge of cheese from a shelf.  She had to improvise.  Over the afternoon she gathered all the dandelion greens she could find and boiled the bitterness out of them.  She then added onions, garlic, and a few of the potatoes in the cellar that had dried too much for human consumption.  A little salt and a lot of water left her with a broth too thin for a monk on a fast.  It would have to do.

 She had two of her brothers haul the heavy cast iron pot to her wagon, retrieved from the beach after the storm had died down.  

 “What you hauling this soup for?” one asked.  

 “You call this soup?” said the other, lifting the lid.  

 “There’s a shrine up in the woods,” said Layla.  It wasn’t really a lie.  Father Constant had once said nature was a shrine to God.  “Figured I’d bring an offering for any beggars.  Get up my good deeds.”  

 “What you need good deeds fer?” asked the other.  “You praying for a husband?  We can find you one.”  

 “No, thank you,” said Layla with a roll of her eyes.  She knew the types they would find.  More like them, thick headed and full of hunger.  She waved off their offer to help with the wagon, saying it was a solitary pilgrimage to feed beggars.  

 ***

 The smile the giant had given Layla when she had returned made the glade seem warmer.  The weak broth she brought gratefully accepted.  He had laid out his coat in the sun to dry, a swath of dark blue that covered most of the glade.  She could crawl through the sleeves if she wanted.  

 Layla lay in the shade cast by the giant, taking a longer look at Samuel now that the sun rose high. Though huge and pale, his features were pleasing.  Eyes round and attentive, nose sharp, and lips full and proportional to the rest of him. He wasn’t muscled like her brothers. He stood tall and lanky.  

 “I don’t know how to repay you for your kindness,” said the giant, sipping at the broth.  His splinted hand lay in his lap, a testament of her handiwork.  

 With her experience of binding up the legs or arms of her brothers, Layla figured his hand would be fine in a few weeks, but she didn’t know if giant bones mended faster or slower.

 “I could think of ways,” said Layla, sitting by the spring.  “But they would all end up with either me being burned as a witch or you being hunted as an ogre.”  

 “Still, I might be able to pay you, meager as it may be.”  The giant put down the broth and reached for a pocket in his coat and withdrew a leather pouch.  From it he took out a handful of large round discs and held them to the ground next to her. “Would any of these do?”  

 Each disc held a profile of a man’s face larger than her own.  Coins, Layla realized.  They were giant coins of copper, silver, and gold.  Her eyes widened at such wealth.  She crawled into Samuel’s hand and held up one of the coins polishing it with the hem of her skirt.  With one gold coin she could buy a carriage, hire a team of horses and a man to drive her all the way to Joston and back in style.  

 Her smile dropped.  

 “They are real, I assure you,” said Samuel.

 “That isn’t the problem,” said Layla, laying down the polished coin.  “I know yer honest.  But if I try to spend something like this, or have it melted down to sell as raw gold or silver, people will ask questions.  I won’t have a good enough answer to back it up.  And ya don‘t want to know what happens to those the Soldiers catch in a lie.”  

 The giant grimaced.  “Forgive me.  I did not think this through.”  

 Layla shaded her eyes as the sun glinted off the giant’s hair, making it glow like a halo of honey and copper.  An idea came to her.  “Giant, lay down.”  

 “Samuel, please,” he said. “And why?”  

 “Just do it.  And lay your head somewhere I can get to it.”  

 She got a hold of a lock of hair behind the giant’s ear, passing it through her fingers.  While a single strand was thick and a little bit wiry, its color was magnificent.  Dark amber, copper, gold.  And the giant--no, Samuel--kept his hair long, far past his shoulders.  At least four yards in her book.  

 Layla grinned and leaned towards Samuel’s ear.  “I think I know how you can pay me back!”  

 ***

 The next day Layla pulled her cart, laden with more dandelion greens, and a case of empty spools.

 ***

 While giant gold coins would have raised questions, spools of “long-haired yak” thread simply raised a few eyebrows amongst the Textile’s Guild.  Until she showed them the two spools she had brought as a sample; one a single pale strand from the top of Samuel‘s head, the other a dark amber from the thinner under layer.  Then their eyes lit up.  The touch of gold they could create in their embroidery, their weaving, more luxurious than the pale yellow and orange they were used to.  

 “How did you manage to get such thread?” asked the Head Dyer as she held the spool up to the light.  

 Layla, after thinking over her story a hundred times, had her lies lined up and ready.  It wouldn‘t do to have the Textile Guild believe she could spin straw into gold.  “My uncle in Joston came back from a trip to the East Nations and he brought a shipment of this stuff with him.  Sent out a few spool to his nieces and daughters to try it out before presenting it to other merchants.”  

 A partial truth; her uncle had sent her cases and cases of empty spools thinking she could fill them with flax.  He hadn’t realized flax grew in short supply in the village.  

 “This isn’t thread,” said the Head Weaver, pulling the thread out to circle his finger.  “It’s a single fiber.  That’s impossible.  And it‘s so thin and wiry it could almost be made from metal.”  

 Layla shrugged, a not-quite lie ready for the question.  “I don’t know how them Eastern folk make thread, just what it’s called.”  

 “How much of this do you have?”  

 “I can get a whole box of it if you’d like.  I don’t do much fancy embroidery or sewing anyway, so it won’t do me much good.  But uncle said I shouldn’t let it go cheap.”

 The Head Weaver looked skeptical, but the Head Dyer looked willing.  

 “We’ll pay you for these two spools.  If they are satisfactory, we’ll make a deal.”  

 Good enough for Layla. And for more than greens to thicken Samuel’s next pot of stew.  

 ***

 “They believe my hair was long haired yak?” asked Samuel aghast.  

 “I could have said moose,” said Layla with a smile.  “If a place is far enough away, even learned folk in a small town will believe it.”  

 “Well, as long as it’s keeping your out of arrears,” said Samuel, sipping his broth.  It tasted thicker, more vegetables and less bitterness. “I’d imagine the foodstuffs needed for this feast you’re making cost quite a lot.”  

 “Not as much as you think. It’s coming out of your hide anyway.”

 Samuel laughed.

 ***

 It became routine that Layla would come in the middle of the day with her broth.  During her stay she would talk with Samuel and examine his hand, feeling around to make sure the bones were still lined up and healing correctly.  Sometimes her fingers lingered in the swirls of the giant’s fingerprints.  Samuel wasn’t a sailor or trapper or hunter, she had learned. He was a teacher.  A learned man with stories of faraway places and new ways of doing things.  Things with numbers and letters and people she’d never heard of before.  And Samuel was more than willing to tell her.  

 Her brothers at first took her trips to the “shrine” with humor.  

 “Really hoping for God to come through with a husband, eh?”  

 She would shrug them off, tell them that she had to keep up the good deeds for the rest of the family. They let her go at that, rubbing at her tangled hair as she gathered more greens and vegetables for the soup pot.

 Once, after a late night mending an uncle’s leather coat, and an early morning making meal packs for four brothers that would be out on a week long hunting trip, she fell asleep right as Samuel drank his broth.  Samuel finished off the broth and then laid down beside her, head as close to her as he dared.  His breath ripped warm over his small body.

 Layla lay curled in a ball of faded green and brown.  Gently, he pushed her dark hair away from her face.  Though young, lines already creased around her eyes from the sun, hard work, and worry.  Her eyes too heavy lidded and her lips small.  Yet to Samuel she was beautiful, harsh language and all.  

 Here, lost in a strange land, he found some comfort.  

 ***

 Layla’s routine could only work for so long.  One of her brother’s confronted her after breakfast.    

 “A runner came by from the Textile Guild, asking about golden thread.  What’s he talking about?”  

 Layla shrugged.  “Just some spools Uncle Tev sent a couple years ago. I’ve been selling them.”  

 “I thought he sent you empty spools?”  

 She shrugged again, hoping her brothers’ hunger would keep them from questioning more.  

 She should have known better than to go out when her brothers were suspicious.  Though loving, they were fierce.  There was a reason she had never had any suitors from the village, the threat of a dozen brothers, cousins and uncles unleashing their wrath kept them away.  

 As Samuel sipped at his broth the next morning, two arrows flew from the edge of the glade and hit him in the shoulder, going through coat, shirt and skin.  He dropped the pot, nearly missing Layla in the process. Layla spun about and saw three brothers and an uncle running at her, bows drawn.  

 “Layla, get away from that thing!”  

 God, they were thinking wrong.  They were going to kill Samuel.  This shouldn’t be happening.  Layla stood front and center, as if her small body could hid anything of the giant’s.  

 “Stop!” she yelled as another arrow shot over her shoulder.  In an instant, Samuel picked her up with his good hand, holding her to his chest, shielding her from her brothers while he kicked at them.  Samuel was not a fighter, Layla knew as much, and his kicks were about as effective as beating against a wild dog.  

 “No!  Stop it both of you!”  

 “Let go of our sister you freak!”  

 The heartbeat under Samuel’s chest beat wildly, and Layla could feel each beat like thunder against her cheek.  The volley of arrows started again, her brothers dodging Samuel’s foot with ease gained from hunting under the noses of game wardens.  One held out a knife, going for Samuel’s heel, hoping to hobble him by cutting the tendon.  

 “He’s my husband!” she shrieked.  

 Her brothers and Samuel froze at that.  

 After a few beats one brother stepped forward, hesitant.  “Your… husband?”  

 Layla’s mind grasped at straws for something to say.  Her chest clenched.  She hadn’t expected to back up her lies, but her mouth ran faster than her brain.  

 “You were the one that said good deeds might get me a husband.  Well… I guess God heard you and… well.  Here he is.”   She gestured up at Samuel’s slack face.  “Lot of good deeds.  Big husband.”

 Samuel stood still, chest heaving and arrows sticking out of him.  Layla didn’t think the giant capable of lying, of going with the story she had spun in desperation.  But he lifted her higher, cradling her in the curve between collarbone and neck, his face cleared in tired relief.  

 “We were hoping for a fall wedding,” said Samuel.  

 The tension in Layla’s chest melted away.  She pawed her hand up towards Samuel’s face, his cheek rough from his beard, and he lifted her out before him, still cradled in his hand.  Bracing hers arms on either side of his face, she kissed him.  It was soft, unexpected, but she could feel his lips tilt up in a smile.  And they were happy.  

 Her brothers were another matter.  

 “Can he at least hunt?”

I have a ko-fi!

Story originally posted on my deviantart for a fluff contest. ^_^

[herrashmoo]

secondly, im not a tumblr teen. ive been on this website for god knows how long and ive been well versed in queer history. me calling them a pedophile, after a conversation with them resulted in them refusing to admit sexual imagery is not for children, them calling me a bootlicker and several other names, before getting wildly upset and blocking me, had nothing to do with their sexuality and everything to do with the fact that they couldnt tell me sexual imagery is not a thing for minors to consume period end of story. this is AFTER the fact i had been a bit more educated about pride and had ALREADY agreed where i went wrong. now about the sanitization of pride- thats wrong as well. dont get me wrong. but you cant seriously look me in the face and tell me that sexual imagery is not for minors. like- just that statement alone, right? so how is this such a controversy?

ugh okay I guess I’m gonna write A Thing. I’ll get into a proper response to your final questions but first, let’s do some context work.

first thing to make clear is that I know Jux irl, and I also want to make it pretty clear that they and I have pretty similar opinions here, I’m just slightly more likely to put my anger aside to reply to stuff. Do not get it twisted, rhetoric like the kind you were/are using is like, a big red flag for me, it’s the kind of shit reactionaries have been using for eons and like, were I in a less chill mood, I would’ve also likely written you off as a bootlicker troll. Their response was pretty aggressive but not completely misplaced, so I just want to make it clear that like, as another queer dude who is tired of seeing this shit every fucking May for the better part of a decade, I’m also exhausted and pissed off.

As for my claim of teenagerdom, I apologize if that offended, but you have to understand that, generally speaking, the loudest groups having this conversation on the regular are (1) right-wing reactionaries, TERFs, and their ilk trying to stir shit up (see: Operation Pridefall) and (2) young people who don’t have any context for Pride, often haven’t been, and only really have queer politic and history from tumblr and twitter threads featuring reactionary revisionism from the first group. When I see people engage in this conversation, I generally assume they’re in the latter group, as it helps me try to frame my responses in the best faith I can given how tired I am of this shit.

But that aside, sure. Kink isn’t for children. But provided there’s a parent accompanying this hypothetical child at Pride, their job is to explain and provide context for the things they can, and give a solid “you’ll learn more when you’re older” for the things they can’t. The Village People are all each in different kink gear, and as a kid I was told “they like to dress up, and there’s some costumes specifically for adults,” and I was good. I saw bare titties at festivals, smelled weed at concerts, saw bulge at the beach — these are normal human things that happen in the world, and having a responsible adult nearby to explain or provide context for them made them non-issues for me. I don’t think a kid seeing a pup hood is thinking anything more than “oh cool, that dude is dressed up as a dog.” Kids understand fantasy and make-believe. And especially as they age into their teenage years, withholding or sheltering them from knowledge about sex and sexuality can do real damage — hell, we’ve been having that conversation for over a century at least.

(Spring’s Awakening was first published in 1891 and was deeply censored in productions for the better part of a century, due to the content of the work, which is about how sheltering young teens (both straight and queer) from sexual content (and also mental health resources) leads them to try to figure shit out on their own and make catastrophic decisions that they don’t understand the consequences of until it’s too late. Great play, pretty great musical adaptation, wild that we keep rehashing its points like clockwork over a century after publication.)

But I am also of the opinion that Pride isn’t for children, as, while two decades of assimilationist politic would desperately try to argue otherwise, I am queer because I am sexually attracted to, and have sex with, other men. Pride is a response to the criminalization of queer sex acts, and so it is, in turn, a celebration of queer sex acts. So if someone wants to walk around in chaps and a jock, great! If someone wants to wear their pup gear or a harness or a rope tie or a vest, fuck yeah! It’s a space specially carved out for celebrating the queer experience — the original Pride flag (before it was simplified to make it easier to mass produce for profit, which, again, love seeing our culture made into product) had a pink stripe at the very top, specifically representing sexuality. It is, ostensibly, the thing that defines our community (at least the L G and B parts of it) as an outgroup against the mainstream society.

I think that, if you are uncomfortable with kink displays, or you’re uncomfortable with children seeing kink displays, then Pride is not for you or your children! Don’t go! There’s kid-friendly and sanitized versions of Pride in most major cities, do some research into your local/state Stonewall organizations and you can find more about them. But I’m already sick of having actual cops at Pride, I don’t need people who are uncomfortable with displays of sexuality also policing myself or any other queer person in a space they have spent decades carving out for themselves.

A final note — if you don’t understand why a queer person would blow up and completely write off your bullshit after calling them a pedophile, I urge you to do more reading, more listening. I know that in this brave new world of same-sex marriage equality and PrEP access that it’s hard to remember the collective trauma that the community has experienced, but this shit is inflammatory, you’re straight up spewing fightin’ words. The dude wearing a leather harness at Pride isn’t trying to corrupt any youth or fuck any kids, they’re just trying to live their shit, and I’m sorry that you and so many others have somehow decided that that’s an attack on a demographic of people who aren’t the audience for a celebration of sexuality. We’re not fucking pedophiles, and this “think about the kids” nonsense is some Reagan-era bullshit.

[easily-infatuated23]

Undercover- Part Three (Healer!Draco Malfoy x Reader)

Prologue, Part One, Part Two , Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

a/n: ok i kinda love where this is going and i’ve decided that the Reader is a spy lol comment if you would like to be added on the tag list for this series! also sorry if this is a cliff hanger 

pairing: Healer! Draco x Spy! (?) Reader

word count: 2.1k

warning: mentions of trauma and death

summary: During her stay at Malfoy Manor, Reader finds some evidence that will help figure out who had been ordering the killings of muggle-born witches and wizards but will Draco trust her?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This assignment had really taken a strange turn. Not only had I been imbedded with Death Eaters, but I had been stabbed and was now hiding in Malfoy Manor. Draco was much kinder and happier than the last time I saw him. Of course, I had heard the stories of this newer and better Draco, but witnessing it first hand was something else. No matter how many times I told him I had to leave to keep him safe, he would just assure me that the protective charms he placed around the house would keep us safe. I remained on edge. After all, safety is a matter of perspective. I had a feeling part of the reason he was against me leaving was not just for my safety, but I suspected he was glad to have the company. It truly was a large house. A large and empty house for just one person. With his father in Azkaban and his mother taking a much needed vacation abroad, he was the most alone he had probably ever been…physically that is. After my slip up in revealing the name of the organization after me, I tried to speak about the subject as little as I could. All I wanted was to be relieved of the burden I was carrying but, I knew if I did, Draco Malfoy would surely be killed. So, I continued to bear the burden of knowledge as Draco began healing me again.

Draco had lead me to his kitchen and motioned for me to hop up on to the counter. He had attempted to assist me but I was stubborn and struggled through the process myself. He opened his medical bag and pulled out a needle and suture thread. He rolled up his sleeves as he went to wipe some disinfectant on my side before turning to thread the needle “How did you figure out who I was?” I asked my Healer on the second day of my stay. “Well, the appearance change was pretty hard to see through but once those Death Eaters said your name at St. Mungo’s I remembered you”. “Remembered me?” I questioned. “I don’t think we spoke once while at Hogwarts and I have been off the grid pretty much since I finished there. Ouch! That hurts.” I said, wincing as he tended to my side. “Stop fussing, it’s only a few stitches. And if you hadn’t apparated I wouldn’t have to give you stitches you know” he replied, slightly laughing at my inability to stand the pain, especially after I had refused to let him use a pain relieving potion on me. I was worried I’d say something I would regret later. Whether I was worried about spilling something about my assignment or something else was still up for debate.

“You are avoiding my question” I said matter-a-factly. He sighed. “You knew me back then, I always noticed the pretty girls” he said with a slight blush. “That’s just a cop out answer, I don’t believe you” I replied, not making eye contact so that he couldn’t see the slight smile on my face. He shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “Believe what you’d like”.

He walked over to the sink and washed his hands. I jumped off the counter. “Fucking hell” I muttered. He laughed again. “You should take it easy for at least two weeks” he said. I groaned but then, remembered something. My heart sank a little as I remembered where I was and the history of this house. “Hey look I am gonna ask you a question that’s gonna make you really uncomfortable so I apologize in advance. And, please know I am only asking because I feel like I have to.” He turned to face me, a worried look washed over his face. “Do you have a record of all You-Know-Who’s followers? There were rumors about a book. I know he used this place as a headquarters during the second war and I am desperate for any lead on…..well a lead” I said, holding in my reasons. He grimaced slightly. “Unfortunately for me, yes but I guess that’s fortunate for you” he replied harshly. I felt guilty for bringing up the awful things in his past like this but I truly felt I had no choice. And besides, if this caused him to feel some apprehension towards me that might be beneficial in stopping his relentless questions.

He walked past me and began down a long hallway. I followed close behind him. He took a sharp left turn and continued down a spiral staircase that seemed as if it went on for ages. As he lead me down, neither of us spoke a word. When we finally reached the bottom, it felt like an entirely different place. This couldn’t possibly be the basement of the surprisingly homey manor I had just been inside. Could it? As we exited the staircase, we stood facing a large green door. The green paint on the door was faded, as if the door was centuries old but there was a large golden key hole shining on the front, underneath an equally shining golden door knob. The two looked as if they’d been installed recently.

“Mother and I tried to destroy it but nothing we did worked. There is some serious dark magic in this book. We locked it down here to make sure it wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.” He turned towards me, his face only inches from mine. If he hadn’t done this in such a menacing way, I might have swooned a little but now was not the right time for that. “I hope I am not putting it in the wrong hands now” he said. I shook my head. It had just occurred to me, there was a possibility that he didn’t believe my story. I knew it was true and the thugs after me were good evidence in my favor, but it all could have been a plant. Thats why he was asking so many questions. Maybe I would have to tell him after all. He turned back around to face the door. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a small golden key on a string. Had he been wearing the necklace the whole time? I wondered why I hadn’t noticed. He took off the necklace and put the key into the hole. He took a deep breath and unlocked the door.

Once the door opened he stepped aside, allowing me to look inside the small room that had been revealed. The inside was dark and gave off a feeling of uncertainty and slight panic. There were only two things residing in the small room; a podium and a large black leather bound book. I started to walk in when Draco put his arm across the entrance and stopped me. “Prepare yourself. Once you go in and open it, you will never feel the same again. The book can have an effect almost like a Dementor” he said. “What exactly is the book?” I asked. “The Binding of the Death Eaters” he said with a shiver. “Before someone could receive the Dark Mark and be fully inducted as a Death Eater, they would have to sign their name. It binds your fate to the Dark Lord” he said. The way he stared at the book could only be described as a raging and powerful fury. I knew that Draco Malfoy had been a Death Eater but I had no idea that even after the Dark Lord had been killed, he still had so much power of Draco’s life. “I am really sorry” I began. “I know that sorry means nothing especially since I have forced you to come down here but I truly am. I’m also sorry that you never got to chose not to sign.” He looked at me. The fury was still spinning in his eyes but with every moment it lessened. He said nothing but simply nodded. I entered the room and, with a deep breath, opened the book. I titled my head to one side and turned to Draco. “It’s blank” I said. He looked almost relieved. “The names are only revealed to someone who has the Dark Mark” he said. “So you were testing me and my story” I said. He nodded. He then turned side ways and gestured with his left arm for me to exit the room. “This might freak you out so you might want to leave now” I said, pulling my wand from my jacket pocket. “Obscure Appareat Vestigium” I whispered, pointing my wand at my left forearm. The black skull appeared on my arm and a snake slithered out of its mouth. Draco stepped back with a horrified expression on his face. “It’s not a real Dark Mark and it’s not permanent” I said quickly. “The task force I’m apart of developed this charm for undercover work”. Draco looked me in the eyes, turned, and hurried up the staircase.

Now I’d done it. Just as he was going to fully trust me, I broke his trust. The look he gave me made me feel sick. Just another horrified face to add to the growing list that haunted my nightmares. I sighed deeply then turned my attention back to the book. I flipped through the pages. I saw plenty of names I recognized, all ex-Death Eaters who had wound up in Azkaban or served lighter sentences and some were names of people who were killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. I even saw Draco’s name. His signature was much shakier than most of the other names. He had been so young. The more I looked I realized something was missing. I started to realize an option that I had never considered. It made the sick feeling in my stomach lurch again but before I could fully register the awful feeling, I saw a name I recognized. This was a name I had never seen associated in this way with the Dark Lord. Suddenly, things started to make more sense. My heart was practically beating out of my chest.

I jumped out of the room and shut the door. Draco had left the key hanging on the door knob which I grasped and used to lock the door. That book had just become very important evidence in a trial no one knew was beginning. I spoke the Dark Mark removing incantation and raced back up the spiral stair case. When I got to the top I was out of breath. I turned right and made my way back into the kitchen. Draco was sitting at the kitchen table. He looked dazed and upset. “I can give you an explanation now” I said breathlessly, tossing him the key. He looked up at me suddenly, just barely catching the key. I had clearly startled him. “I know who is behind the Dark Saints and right now you may be the only chance there is that this will all stop.” He stood up. “What are you talking about? Stop what? You being chased?” He was clearly frustrated. “You have every right to be frustrated with me and I promise I will explain everything but first I need to get one more piece of information.” I said. “And what’s that?” he retorted, crossing his arms. “Do you know where I can get the last…let’s say year of Daily Prophet obituary sections?” He looked at me, clearly feeling very puzzled. “I mean…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I guess they did start offering a digital option two years ago-” “Perfect!” I said, cutting him off. I raced back up the stairs to his bedroom where I remembered seeing a computer. “Wait! What are you doing?” he called after me.

When I entered his room I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. I sat down at the computer and began furiously scanning through the obituary pages. He entered the room moments after me and stood over my shoulder, curiously watching my frantic scribbles. Once I had finished I slumped back in the chair for a moment. I hadn’t noticed when I started crying but once I did, the tears flowed at a hotter temperature and more quickly down my cheeks than they ever had before. I finally turned to face him. “There’s at least twenty of them” I said, trying to hold my voice steady. “What does that mean?” Draco asked. He understood that I meant twenty people had died but he wanted to know how that was important in my explanation. I slowly stood only to suddenly become so dizzy my balance faltered. “Y/N? Are you ok you’ve gone very pale”. I started to nod but then shook my head then everything went black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist!:

@pointlesscoconut @bi-andready-tocry

[rubyjcat]

[Behind-the-Scenes] HELIOS Rising Heroes: Animation Showcase

“HELIOS Rising Heroes: Animation Showcase” is an English voice fan project I worked on all by myself (barring voice actors) that took five months to make.

The original plan was to make just one video, but it ended up being eighteen of them!

Link to YouTube playlist:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0UbdFyWSx0n_ewcd-t0iAB0adGe5lghH

In this write-up, I’ll be discussing details about the response to the project, recording all the footage, video editing, voice acting + audio processing, script translations + rewriting, which fonts were used, and even the emulator used. I’ve organized it into sections to make it easier to find certain things. Also, this is directed to English-speaking readers since I’m not gonna bother translating the entire thing to Japanese.

THE DREAM

I wanted to make this fandub ever since the game was released (in Aug 2020). I just knew that English voices would be extremely fitting to the world of HELIOS with a setting inspired by America and characters, places, and terms mostly in English. I was disappointed to hear that the studio behind the game, Cacalia Studio of Happy Elements K.K., had no interest to localize their games outside of Asia, which meant the chances of an English dub, let alone a global release were close to zero.

I was able to understand how to play the game thanks to the fan translators, some of which came from other Cacalia Studio games, and got inspired to continue learning Japanese (there was a previous attempt to translate Japanese lyrics years back).

What I thought was just the silly dream of one overseas player’s became something much more!

THE TIMELINE (BRIEF OVERVIEW)

I played the game for about two months prior to working on the project. Before starting the project, I had to sort out graphical and technical issues on my end first as I was unable to play the game smoothly until November.

November 2020

Finding all the in-game battle lines

Writing transliterations (romaji) of lines by ear

Learning and translating lines to Japanese

Started recording footage

December 2020

Further translation revisions

Held a casting call

Script rewriting and finalizing

January 2021

Completed casting

Started video editing (learning process)

Started audio processing

Recorded more footage

February 2021

Recorded more footage

Japanese script revisions

Finished working with VAs

Finished audio processing

Continued video editing

Published Preview video

March 2021

Recorded the last of the footage

Japanese subtitle revisions

Finished Showcase video

Finished Individual battle clips

Gave recommendations to VAs

The exact start and end dates were Nov 1st, 2020 to March 31st, 2021. Pretty neat.

RESPONSE TO THE PROJECT

I was absolutely shocked with the response to the preview video, which at the time of writing has just hit 10K views and almost 600 likes on Twitter and YouTube combined. Not bad for an unpaid hobby fandub (a joke only I find funny...) of an otherwise “niche” Japanese-only mobile game.

As of Apr 4th, 2021 - Thank you so much. This is more than I could’ve asked for.

The preview video blew up way more than anticipated, setting up for a bit of disappointment when the Showcase video was released.

The amount of views I expected for this project within its prime were a couple hundred views, so I’m content that the Showcase video reached that amount (it had ~500 by the end of March).

The expectations for the battle clips were an average of 100 views and a handful of likes - and each one got roughly that amount (or more) - so I’m also content with that, especially for something that’s just “bonus material”.

I tried my best to promote this project on Twitter with three main tweets. My one regret with promoting the project was making the second tweet after publishing the Showcase because the Japanese I wrote there was pretty terrible (as I was all worn out from editing and was in a haste to tweet about it). I tried to make up for it in a follow-up reply the next day, but it was too late. I was satisfied with how my third and final tweet and thread of battle clips turned out, but it sadly didn’t garner much attention. A reason for this was probably due to bad timing. I knew that the timing of the last tweet was awful as HeliosR did something special for April Fools’ day, plus the Easter event was being hyped around the same time, but I really wanted to finish up the project within March (my timezone, at least. It was already April 1st in Japan).

It was important to also make the videos accessible to the Japanese audience as they were a large portion of the viewers. This proved to be a challenge as my knowledge of Japanese is limited - at least for me, it’s easier to translate grammar-correct Japanese than it is to write my own sentences.

I ultimately decided against posting any of the videos on NicoNico because I wasn’t sure about Japan’s laws regarding copyrighted material. I knew it was already risky enough posting on social media and didn’t want to take any additional risks.

ABOUT THE FOOTAGE (1) – HEROES & ATTACK ORDER

HeliosR uses a gacha system, so to be able to even make something like this, you’d first need access to all 16 ★4 OG Heroes in the game.

I had them spread across five different accounts, four of which were reroll accounts. Asakou from the Cacalia RPG server gave me two of those accounts, and I rerolled myself for Keith and Ren during their Birthday Orders (one free 10-pull per account). Every account is also given a free ★4 selector ticket which I made good use of.

3,000 rubies (in-game currency) were sacrificed to pity the ★4 OG Dino when he was released in December just for the sake of the fandub!

Besides covering all of the Heroes, I also needed to play through each account to unlock certain story chapters, event stages, and evolve the Heroes for their shiny evolved CG art. Some of the Expert event stages (that had the Nighttime backgrounds) proved difficult to clear with a new account.

When using skills, the order of the Heroes were edited such that everyone was able to have the majority of their lines used at least once. All Heroes had two “receiving support” lines, two or three “supporting” lines, and two or three “skills against the enemy” lines. Some of the extra lines didn’t make it into the Showcase, so they were used for the individual clips instead.

I should’ve used Gray instead of Marion for the account that had Billy because you can see Marion’s sprite in Billy’s image. xD

In the Showcase, you may notice that the "Union Attacks" consist of all the ★4 CG images. These were spliced together; I never had all four Heroes of the same sector on the same account. For example, I would have Gray, Asch, and Jay on one account and Billy on another account, recorded their ★4 Bursts separately using the same background (from unlocking the Expert stages on both accounts), and then edited all the footage together.

Jay’s Burst was later re-recorded with a different attacking order so that he wouldn’t link to Billy.

It was also important to keep the same order of Bursts as well as use all four Bursts in the same turn. The ★4 Burst order was usually determined by who didn’t link skill with one another (with the exception of East sector as I was still figuring things out) because I didn’t want the link skill activation getting in the way of the animations.

As a little bonus, I also showed off the exclusive damaging skills of the Chapter 6 and 7 ★4 frames that I was lucky enough to pull from the gacha: Marion’s "Invitation To The Dance“ (roses), Faith’s “Synthetic Vibes” (beats), and Dino’s “Crow Mark Dead End” (claw marks).

ABOUT THE FOOTAGE (2) - BACKGROUNDS

Since I didn’t want to use the same battle music and backgrounds for all of the videos, I decided to use some of the themes from the limited-time events which went as far back as Nov 2020.

Each background has three variants (Daytime, Afternoon, Nighttime) and so I carefully picked them based on the colours. I ended up using mostly Expert stages - or Nighttime backgrounds, since Daytime versions were only used for Normal difficulty stages (which are too easy to clear).

The backgrounds used for the Showcase, all from limited-time events.

I decided to mix up some of the Heroes from other sectors in the individual clips for fun, basing it off of their relationships with each other. Using South sector’s background for Gast’s clip was a purposeful choice because I already used the North sector’s background for the other three North sector Heroes. I made sure to include Akira and Will of the South sector in Gast’s clip so it didn’t feel too random!

The only default background I didn’t use was Chapter 2’s because I already made use of the Casino theme for OG West sector’s individual clips. (...Plus I didn’t really like that background :p)

Here’s a list of all the backgrounds I used:

Escape the Prison (Nov 2020) - used for Showcase [EAST]

Mission of CASINO (Nov 2020) - used for Junior, Faith, & Keith clips

HAPPY NEW YEAR SHOW! (Jan 2021) - used for Showcase [SOUTH]

Help! Cooking Hero! (Jan 2021) - used for Will and Oscar clips

A Sweet Spell Garnished With Chocolate (Feb 2021) - used for Showcase [WEST]

Grandiose Chinoiserie (Mar 2021) - used for Showcase [NORTH]

The Hero Is A Detective!? (Mar 2021) - used for Billy and Jay clips

Default backgrounds: Chapters 1, 3, 4 (shared with 7), 5 (shared with 6) - used for all other clips

The Christmas event was the only event that went unused during the Nov 2020 - Mar 2021 period.

I didn’t record the East sector event (Christmas) in Dec 2020 because I was actually too busy with the casting call! I also didn’t think I would make use of it after already recording the Prison event intended for East sector. The project ended up taking so long that it actually benefited from having a wider selection of events over the months, which also showcased the beauty of the game.

ABOUT THE WORK & VIDEO EDITING

Hardware:

A decent computer.

A pair of no-name earbuds I found while cleaning out some junk.

Software:

All FREE!

*There’s a catch

NoxPlayer* emulator (debloated, read more about in its own section) and Open Broadcast Studio were used to record game footage and sounds.

Davinci Resolve was the main tool I used to edit the videos. A very demanding program that I only recommend using if you have a mid to high end computer.

MediBang was used to edit some of the art like the logos, but I ended up using Resolve for the majority of the graphics, including the thumbnails.

Audacity and Cakewalk were used to edit audio.

Many aspects for this project took longer than I had hoped because there was a learning process with using Resolve for the first time. I’m also a bit of a perfectionist, re-exporting videos tons of times just to fix small mistakes. Lastly, the time it took to make all the fancy effects was longer than I’d estimated. As the project dragged on, there was pressure to not delay the release of the videos any longer than I had to. A lot of this was self-imposed though.

There were days where I just did something else other than work on the project, which helped re-fuel my motivation when I decided to pick it up again.

Pretty much everything in the videos were taken from the game itself. The only graphics that were taken from the official website instead were the Substance symbols (the pictures with HERO at the bottom).

Additional overlay graphics were custom-made. It took two whole days to make the 3-second long sector intros and another two days to create and animate the arrow graphics for the credits. These were made using Resolve’s fusion and colour features. Much of the edit was inspired by the official HeliosR designs.

Left: Official in-game graphics // Right: My fanmade video (sector intros)

Sector intros were inspired by the four Heroes version of Union Attacks in-game.

Left: Official HeliosR video // Right: My fanmade video

The Preview video took after the ★4 Burst mini-previews as part of HeliosR’s promotional campaign, uploaded before the game was released.

Left: Official HeliosR video // Right: My fanmade video

The credits at the end of the Showcase were inspired by a different video, this time being the Half-Anniversary video.

The Showcase - which had a duration of 29:07 - was 11.5GB large in size. It took almost three hours to render (which I re-rendered to fix things) and two DAYS to upload to YouTube because I experienced multiple uploading interruptions. It’s a good thing you can re-upload the same video to continue where you left off without having to restart the entire process.

The individual hero clips didn’t take as long to make (but they took a while anyway as I re-uploaded some of them to fix minor mistakes). The recommendations for the VAs that were given alongside the publishing of each clip also spanned over another five days as I wanted to personalize and think about each one carefully.

A pretty frustrating part of the project was the prevalent lag when recording footage, which may have been due to the emulator and/or some technical things on my end. The Prison event used for the Showcase was the very first one I recorded when I wasn’t as aware about the lag, and so it suffered a bit as a result. The Union Attacks were the worst offender. I re-recorded the same battle scenes several times each just in case, then went through the footage frame-by-frame in Resolve and chose the ones with the least amount of lag. If all of the recorded footage suffered lag at different parts, I would even compare and splice together parts of them that didn’t lag. There was also audio lag (a known issue of NoxPlayer) so I had to move all of the audio forward by 1/3 of a second.

By the end of the project I had over 200 videos of game footage with a total size of over 24GB and a total duration exceeding 9 hours, not even counting all the ones that went unused.

The Heroes weren’t the only ones who evolved. MS Paint not recommended for thumbnails.

Overall, (despite the few mistakes here and there that nobody other than me would notice) I was happy with how everything turned out, down to the gorgeous thumbnails! I am an artist, after all~ :^)

I also have much more respect for video editors. They should be called VIDEO ANIMATORS!

ABOUT THE VOICES & AUDIO PROCESSING

When making a dub, it doesn’t mean we want to replace or best the original language, we just want to give it a new interpretation. In fact, the characters’ voice descriptions and direction provided in the scripts were heavily inspired by the seiyuu (Japanese VAs) and how they performed their lines.

Honestly, this was THE dream cast!! Some of the VAs had comparably similar voices to the Japanese ones which was an amazing coincidence. The ones that may not have sounded as similar had unique interpretations that I felt still suited their characters well. I also chose actors based on their performance, and everyone delivered!

Voice actors were not expected to imitate the Japanese voices and lines. They were provided direction and reference videos to help time their lines, but were otherwise given liberty when it came to their own interpretations.

You shouldn’t hear any jarring differences between the voice actors’ microphones and setups. That’s because I took the time to process the audio. Faith’s audio was submitted to me post-processed so it was used as a guideline for what the audio quality should sound like. Some of the others had comparable quality to Faith’s, so I only added compression to balance their volumes. Most of them benefited from equalization of various levels - this took some experimenting back and forth with the frequency spectrum. Lastly, a couple more benefited from clip fixing, noise gate, de-essing and/or click removal. It was very important for VAs to have at least decent room treatment; while small differences between mic frequencies can always be altered, echoes are difficult if not impossible to remove completely.

I feel that audio engineering is highly underrated and more important than ever as voice actors continue to record from home studios.

And in case it wasn’t already clear, this was purely voluntary work. No VAs or myself were paid to contribute anything for the project. Though, the experience alone was worth more than any amount of money.

ABOUT THE SCRIPT & TRANSLATIONS

HELIOS Rising Heroes「エリオスR」English Translation - Battle Lines

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1ImWrAfvS_hgp6qr5qt30vCP63uHEk2o79uqY0h-3wL4/edit?usp=sharing

This spreadsheet consists of the literal translations for all the battle lines I could find in the game (it still isn’t done -yet-, plan to finish it when I get the chance). These are only fanmade and are not guaranteed to be accurate, especially as I wasn’t able to find another translator to help or proofread it.

After translating the lines, I made many additional revisions from the literal meanings such as changing the intention of the line slightly to flow better, having extra words added in to provide more context, or changing them completely. Thus, the lines used in the video are NOT literal TLs!

Another thing of note that may not seem apparent, but is what I feel an important aspect of character writing, is to remain completely unbiased towards all the characters. Personal favourites aside, I ensured that every Hero had their own spotlight as well as lines written in a way that remained faithful to their personality, no matter how unlikeable they were (looking at you, Asch Albright).

Even after giving voice actors their scripts, I made another revision in February after the release of the aforementioned Half-Anniversary video with the transcriptions for the ★4 Bursts, which is when I discovered a couple of mistakes with my transcriptions. This resulted in me having to edit out a part of one of the voice actors’ lines (Billy’s “String Show” line in his ★4 Burst) because of a translation mistake! I’m really glad I was able to double-check the correct lines before releasing the Preview video, or it would’ve looked pretty silly to Japanese viewers.

The last set of revisions were just minor edits to the subtitles (such as using kanji instead of kana) while I was working on subtitling all the videos.

Notable changes included:

WILL SPROUT

During attacking combo

Original line:

tanonda zo... ike! / “Counting on you... Reach!”

Rewritten line:

“I’ll become stronger... For everyone!”

The rewritten line is a condensed version of one of Will’s ★4 Evolved CG lines (“For everyone... I’ll become more and more stronger!”). He had “Reach!” in both his attacking combo and regular Burst, so I gave him an extra unique line.

★4 Burst

Original line:

warui kedo... kore de oshimai da! / “Sorry, but... it ends with this!”

Rewritten line:

“I’m sorry, but... it’s over for you! HAAAH!”

There were a couple of oversights I made with the script, and this was one of them that didn’t fit the animation properly. Props to Ryan for coming up with the extra shout at the end! So yeah, we kinda winged this line.

OSCAR BALE

When using skills against the enemy, during attacking combo, and in the ★4 Burst (repeat line)

Original line:

osoi! / “Slow!”

Rewritten lines:

“Too slow!” / “You’re slow!” / “Over here!”

Rewritten simply because I wanted to minimize repeated lines and change things up.

GAST ADLER

When supporting an ally, and during attacking combo

Original lines:

tetsudau ze / “I’ll help (you).”

itchouagari / “All done.”

Rewritten lines:

“I’ve got your six.”

“Target eliminated.”

I wanted to add in a few military terms to reflect Gast’s background.

FAITH BEAMS

★4 CG line (for the credits)

Original line (literal TL):

“It’s not terrible or evil, right? Surely this isn’t punishing... I guess?”

Rewritten line (with “mistake”):

“I’m not doing anything horrible or evil, alright? This is just business as usual... I suppose?”

Faith’s CG line had a mistake when I first translated and handed it off to his actor. I accidentally wrote “oshigoto” (work/business) instead of “oshioki” (punishment). The original has him pretty much saying the same thing twice anyway, so I would say the intention was still retained.

KEITH MAX

When supporting an ally

Original line:

gambare yo~ / “Do your best~.” or “Hang in there~.”

Rewritten line:

“Stay alive, would ya~?”

I know Keith’s meant to say “serious” things in a sarcastic or snarky way, but I just had to add in this fun line!

DINO ALBANI

Using skills against the enemy

Original lines:

haa! / “Haah!”

hei! / “Hey!”

Rewritten lines:

“I can do this!”

“Leave it to me!”

The Japanese lines for Dino’s offensive skills were rather basic, with the third and unchanged line “Here goes!” being a repeat line Dino also says when attacking. I wanted to give him some more lines - as standard as they are - to show his personality a bit more, along with having an additional fun West sector interaction. The changes fit the animations better too. (I actually had his VA say the "Haah!" line, but ended up using a different take of “Here goes!” in place of it.)

ABOUT THE FONTS

Fonts were taken from various sources and were either FREE for personal use or had an open font license. I didn’t have access to the commercial fonts (such as Futura) used in-game, so these were the following fonts I made use of:

Techna Sans looked similar enough to Futura when capitalized, and still looked decent in lowercase.

Jost* is a font that was derived from Futura. Some of its uppercase letters are sharper than Futura's, but it worked pretty well for the text in the credits.

Gau Font Over Drive was used for the ANIMATION SHOWCASE text.

Gen Jyuu Gothic LP was used for the majority of the Japanese text and its English letters were also used for the battle clip subtitles on Twitter.

Meiryo UI (default font) was used for the Preview videos’ subtitles.

Noto Serif JP (default Google font) was used for the serif Japanese text in the credits.

ABOUT NOXPLAYER ANDROID EMULATOR

ETA: AS OF VERSION 1.1.18 (04/23/21), EMULATORS NO LONGER WORK WITH HELIOSR (AS WELL AS OTHER CACALIA STUDIO GAMES). THE BELOW INFORMATION IS OUTDATED.

If, for whatever reason you’re interested in using NoxPlayer, you should take caution when installing it onto your machine. I don’t advocate for or recommend installing Nox. I had to resort to emulation so that I could record the footage and sounds directly from my computer using OBS. The reason why I used Nox specifically is because Cacalia Studio doesn’t like emulators, blocking most of them from running their games. I found further instructions on how to run the game in Nox from the Cacalia RPG Discord (via Twitter @HeliosR_en).

First, not all Nox versions are safe. It should only be installed from the official website, Bignox. More recent versions (I believe from 6.3.0.6 and up) may contain malware such as Segurazo and Chromium packaged with the installer which can be annoying to remove. The version of Nox I used was 6.3.0.0 (you can install older versions, then just don’t update it), which has Android 7 and doesn’t contain packaged malware (AFAIK).

Second, NoxPlayer may be “free” to use, but it comes with bloatware and profits off of its users’ data by collecting and sending it to many different servers. The below guide is what I used to debloat Nox and minimize communication to these servers. Scroll down the comments for additional domains to add to the hosts file.

Debloating & Optimizing Nox:

https://gist.github.com/Log1x/12d330ef7685d6fbc611d1d57efb5c29

This is another good guide that makes use of command prompt to remove additional bloatware from the emulator.

How to Remove Bloatware on Nox and LDPlayer Emulator:

https://codefaq.org/emulator/how-to-remove-bloatware-on-nox-and-ldplayer-emulator/

ENDING NOTES (TL;DR)

Images of the first and last video for the HeliosR project. We’ve come full circle!

One very tired and average person decided to translate, script, cast, direct, and edit an ambitious project all by herself using only FREE tools, and ended up taking too long to finish it. But at least she finished it, right?

Translators = RESPECT

Voice actors = RESPECT

Video editors = RESPECT

Audio engineers = R E S P E C T (their work is especially behind-the-scenes)

Hell, I even like Asch now.

During my time working on this, there was one question I always had in mind: “What would the fans want?”

I hope this follow-up has given you a bit of insight into the makings of the HeliosR project. Thank you for reading!

~RubyJCat

[frickyeahfanfic]

prompt: “I don’t want to hurt you”-”you won’t.”

pairing: general hux x reader

summary: you are a medic aboard the Supremacy and General Hux comes in one chaotic day for you to stitch up his wounds. (PRE TROS) 

EDIT: want some backstory? check out RESIGN

word count: 1746

warnings: a little intense, you gotta take care of his owies so

__________

White coats darted past you as you made your way down to the entrance of the medic wing of the Supremacy, your datapad balancing carefully in your palm. It was a particularly busy day; more than enough stormtroopers and officers had made their way to seek medical attention. You barely had time to figure out what was going on outside of the sterile haven, but you knew something had to do with the resistance fighting against the First Order.

You datapad chimed happily despite the chaotic setting. Someone was requesting medical attention, and only high ranking officials had the authority to contact you, the lead surgeon. You had to push oblivious nurses and doctors aside to avoid crashing into them, knowing that whoever was behind the door was seriously injured, or needed attention quick.

Just before you could take a step closer to the entrance, General Hux stumbled through.

The General looked awful. His face was bruised, lip and nose bleeding profusely. The orange hair on his head was disheveled, but you could see a spot that was matted down with blood. His greatcoat was torn almost in half, and gashes were visible on his back as he staggered past you.

“General!” You gasp. His head snapped to you and he placed a gloved hand on you for support.

“Take me to your next available room,” He snarled through bared teeth.

You snap your fingers and a medic standing by scurried over and stood by Hux for support, following you down the hallway to an operating room. The medic left Hux’s side and helped you prepare the room, and scampered out when the General was on the table. Without speaking, you hooked him up to an IV, administered some basic medication to and started examining the damage.

“What was it this time,” you say, typing on your datapad hurriedly.

“Same as last time,” he muttered, tugging on the IV mischievously.

You nodded and put the device down, reaching for a syringe on a cart beside you.

“Flip over.” You demanded, a finger twirling in the air indicating the command in case Hux didn’t understand. As he was adjusting his body you noticed the intensity of the wounds on his back.

“Shirt, off.”

“Would you quit bossing me around, Doctor?” Despite his complaint, he unfastened the clip on his waist and stripped off his shirt. He held the bunch of clothing with one hand as the other hit a button to recline the hospital bed.

“Would you quit getting beat up, Sir? I’m kind of getting tired of always having to stitch you up.” You retaliated, taking the garments from his hands and placing them on the counter behind yourself.

He placed his forearms underneath his face to cushion his head, and so he could still talk to you clearly. “This is your job, isn’t it? I could very quickly relieve you of your position…”

“We both know you could never do that. After all, sir, you don’t trust anyone but me to do surgery on you,” you reminded him, a domestic tone engulfing your voice.

He humphed, a sound of defeat.

In the medic wing of the ship, you were the general. You commanded your fleets of nurses and fellow doctors. You ordered and directed the chaos that was your job, your life. And in your territory, the General was submissive. It brought you so much pleasure knowing that, besides Kylo Ren or the Supreme Leader or whoever was above him, Hux was at the mercy of your decisions. It was an eloquent balance, and a trust bond was built between the two of you. General Hux learned very quickly that in order to keep you around for his own sake, he had to actually be nice and learn to respect you. He trusted very few people in the galaxy, but you had saved his ass enough times to earn the confidence of the General.

You waved a syringe of something in from of his face, that was sure to knock him out cold for a few hours. “I’m gonna drug you. You’ve got a lot of damage on your back and stitches will have  you out and about in no time.”

He propped himself up with one arm. “No, I don’t have enough time for that. The Supreme Leader needs me to go back immediately, I can’t have my men without a leader while the Resistance re-coups. Surely they are planning something devilish.”

“They won’t have a leader if you’re too busy in pain. I’ll put you out for a bit-”

As you moved the syringe closer to his neck he grabbed your wrist tightly. “No.”

“But,”

He didn’t let go of your arm, instead, he squeezed it tighter. A warning. “That’s an order, Doctor.”

You withdraw your hand and place the hypo back onto a tray. As you fumbled with the organic thread used to sew wounds and gashes, Hux clutched the pillow he put underneath his head. He was going to fight the pain.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” You hesitated when you saw his chest rise and fall faster than most of your patients. You hadn’t recently operated on someone conscious since your time as a field surgeon, the graphic scenes and messes you had to clean up scared you to the point of resigning and taking the position as lead surgeon.

“You won’t. Just do it quickly. I have work that needs to get done.”

It would definitely cause a great amount of pain to Hux, especially because any shock had been worn off and the numbing meds that you gave him surely wouldn’t cover the excruciating torture that a needle and thread caused.

And it would definitely cause a lot of pain to you. Not physical, just emotional. You didn’t like seeing people in pain, that’s why you because a surgeon to operate on sleeping people.

You quickly grabbed a sterile rag and ran it over the gashes, and he shuddered, knuckles going white on the pillow he was grasping. After applying some antiseptic, you began the tedious work. Stitch after stitch, the General hissed and groaned, face pressing deeper into the cushion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered several times in the procedure, especially after tugging the thread tightly over deeper areas.

In reality, the only way he made it without passing out was the gentle grace of your fingertips, brushing softly against the skin on his back. And the way you muttered under your breath while you worked was like a song lulling him to sanity while enduring the pain. Yes, you had occasionally given him a bandage or administered some sort of antidote to him, but he had never experienced the true beauty of your labor consciously. Yes, it was painful, but it was peaceful.

It was finished sooner than Hux had anticipated. You slathered on some gel, presumably bacta, and wrapped gauze around his back.

You tapped him gently on the shoulder to stand, but he was already sitting up, knowing that the gauze was the final step. As you take off your gloves that were marked with Hux’s blood and remove the scrub cap and mask on your head, he stood up and wandered to the pile of new clothes on the counter that a nurse had delivered during the procedure. As grabbed the undershirt you froze.  

“Wait, Hux,” you said, quickly placing a hand on his arm before he lifted his arms over his head.

He stopped, raising an eyebrow at the slip of professionality. “Yes, Y/l/n?” He responded, dropping protocol.

You take his undershirt from his hands and bunch it up carefully, pulling at the collar slightly. “Let me help you.”

“I’m not a child,” he objected, but bowed his head so you could slip the shirt over his shiny orange hair. You circled him and continued pulling down the shirt carefully so that it didn’t take off any of the bandages.

He slipped the buttoned shirt over his sleeves and you stood in front of him, buttoning up the front carefully. It was tedious work, wiggling the buttons just right so that the extra flap of fabric hid the details, but you’d rather him not do it. The less movement he had to do, the better.

As you fumbled with the top buttons, Hux was transfigured on your face. He had been watching you as you dressed him, and had no problems with the proximity of your body to his. As you smoothed the starched collar down, you caught his gaze and quickly avoided eye contact, fluster evident in the warmth of your cheeks.

He caught your chin in his hot fingers faster than your brain could process. The heat felt like a hot rod of iron pressing against you, no doubt the warmth was caused by the clenching of his fists during surgery. Hux’s hand firmly, but not harshly, pulled up, forcing you to crane your neck and look into his eyes.

“Thank you, Doctor.” His breath tickled your lips. Your eyes darted back and forth between his, searching for a reason behind his behavior. Yes, he was acting like his normal, dominant self with his hand gripping your chin, but the words that tumbled out of his mouth were soft and gentle. “I know you know better when it comes to medical care, but,”

“You’re irrational. I know General.”

The names you called each other reflected poorly the intimate moment of the two of you standing so close. His face was inches from yours, your hands still pressed on his collarbone.

“I need to get back to the deck. Ren is most likely having a fit,” he whispered, but making no effort to move away and out the door.

“It’s probably chaos in the emergency wing, I haven’t checked there all day,” you replied casually.

“I’ll see you around then, Doctor,” he muttered.

“Guess so-”

Your reply was cut short by Hux closing of the distance between your lips. The kiss was desperate, fueled by the tension the moment. His hand slipped to your cheek and then to your neck, tugging you towards himself.

There wasn’t enough time to continue. He needed to get on his way. Hux pulled away forcefully, leaving you to stumble forward from the loss of contact.

“Be safe,” you said, glued to the disinfected tile as he started towards the door. He stopped at your words and turned slightly on his heel, looking at you through the corner of his eye.

Hux smirked. “If you are going to be the one to fix me up, maybe I won’t.”

[capricornus-rex]

What You Fear To Lose (3)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by: Anon | Prompt:

Okay so maybe a fic where Cal keeps having nightmares and visions when   he meditates of the reader dying and the events leading up to her death.  He starts being really protective and the reader tries to reassure him  shes fine. But on a mission things start happening that he saw in the visions before the reader dies and gets really on edge. You can decide how it ends, aka reader dying in cals arms to make me cry or him saving  her to also make me cry! Sorry if this is too much!!💕 

Tags: Near-death! Reader

Previous: Part 2 | Masterlist

3 of 3

The Fifth Brother finally drops you to the floor, half-dead and barely holding onto your last thread of life.

“NOOOO!!”

Cal flung himself back on the surface and landing a strike on the Fifth Brother. Astounded, the Inquisitor witnesses the rage of a Jedi—their strength and biggest downfall—he realizes that he is not yet done with this fight. Cal’s heart rate is going through the roof, factoring from the race against time in completing the objective and saving you, along with the head-to-head duel with the Fifth Brother.

“You think your sudden burst of power will save you? Foolish boy! Join her in death then!”

Stuck in a clash of blades, Cal managed to turn the Inquisitor’s guard down, slipped past him and afforded himself a strike from behind. You struggled to turn your eyes to the battle, you raise a weak hand directed at the Inquisitor, and while Cal was busy trying to lower the enemy’s guard, you stole the Inquisitor’s lightsaber—in one last effort, you flung it while it was still activated straight into the main power pillar.

White sparks flew in all directions from the main power pillar, with the surge of power clashing with one another, the Fifth Brother’s lightsaber was destroyed in the process.

“No…”

Before the Fifth Brother could further react, Cal kicked him down the shaft, his back colliding with the lower walkways as he fell. From the outside, Cham saw the result of your work and the fighters have picked up their momentum. Cal ran up to you, fell to his knees, and cradled you.

“[y/n]? [y/n], stay with me, baby. Come on…”

You struggled to keep your eyes open.

“Cal… I can’t… it hurts…” you sobbed.

“Okay, it’s okay,” he whispered frantically.

“You have to go…”

“No, I’m not leaving you!”

In a last resort, he attempted the only thing that he has never done up until now. He tried to remain calm in a span of a few seconds while hell was breaking loose. He places his hand on your stomach, just near the stab wound, and focused whatever Life Force he can muster into you. For a moment, it felt like cold water was running across your skin until the sensation touched your organs.

In return, Cal felt exhausted and sluggish. It’s as if the toll of the duel had finally reached his body, though he felt the rush even after he’d kicked the Fifth Brother down.

It felt good… but it was only enough for the both of you.

“[y/n]…? Can you stand?”

“I… I’ll try…” you whimpered.

All of a sudden, standing up became difficult for him; it felt too much of an effort for him—in addition to having you hanging by his shoulder—as he hobbled you out of the chamber.

“Come on, [y/n], we’re almost out of here,”

The path that seemed like a quick sprint for him transformed into a strenuous, long trek. He brought the commlink attached to his gauntlet to his mouth.

“Cham, the main generator’s destroyed…! We need reinforcements in the stronghold… now!”

“My men are on their way to you already!” Cham radioed.

“Hurry, [y/n] is hurt real bad!”

“Hold fast, we’re coming!”

The urgency in Cham’s voice was a relief, but the probability of his men reaching you seemed bleak. Cal has never been this terrified in his life and this was a horrible first time for him. Never in his life did he expected a premonition to come true. He used his strength to scoop you up from the floor and into his arms as he strode through the hallway, destroying the control panels of the blast doors to bar the Stormtroopers that might tail him.

I thought… I could stop it…

I thought… I could protect her!

And now she’s dying!

“Please, [y/n], not now!” he begged.

“Cal…” you barely breathed. “I can’t… anymore…”

“No, we’re gonna make it. You’re gonna make it!”

“I don’t think…”

“Come on now, just a few more steps! We’re almost there!” he whimpered tearfully, holding you ever closer to him. “Please, don’t go out quietly on me!”

His determination was also in shambles. His conscience has been shattered into half—a part of him believed you can make it, the other believed that this premonition is materializing, no matter how it went, the result shall remain the same as it was in the dreams: Cal will witness you die right in front of him.

As he dragged his lethargic body along with his precious cargo in tow, all the while, he’s mentally struggling it all. He has come this far already, he wouldn’t let himself go down this easily.

“Cham… where are you? Cere…?” Cal sobbed. “Please… help…”

Eventually, the young Jedi fumbled to the floor. His vision began darkening around the edges. He crawled behind a metal crate and dragged your body with him. Your eyes were closed and you were very still.

“NO! [Y/N]!!”

That cry siphoned out a lot of energy remaining in him, he repeated your name many times until your eyes could open again. He cradled you again, shaking you with every time he said your name.

“Cal…” your voice was barely within his earshot, but he heard it. He heard it.

“I’m here… Baby, I’m here…!”

“I’m sorry…” you weakly muttered, barely able to string words together form a complete sentence. “Save yourself…”

“No, no, it’s okay! Cham is coming, help is on the way…” he choked on tears. “I promise!”

The exhaustion is creeping up to him, slowly devouring and numbing his body. His eyelids were heavy, he could barely keep his eyes open. The explosive burst of the blast door didn’t do much in getting a reaction from him anymore, a familiar face shows up right in front of him.

It’s Cere.

“Come on, we’re getting you out of here!” she said with a tenacity and an uncontrollable desire to protect.

“Cere… came through… save her…”

The poor young Jedi, having the burden of the battle weighed on him, blacked out after registering in his mind that Cere has finally arrived.

Cal later wakes up in what ought to be the medical bay of the stronghold. The blinding white lights danced behind his eyes, the low humming of the air-conditioning rung close to him, he found his hands stripped of his gloves and climbing claws only to be replaced with bandages. A slight nudge of his arm made him feel the cold tingle of a drip needle stuck into his arm.

“Boo-woop! Boo!” BD-1 chirped.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Cere, standing at the foot of the bed, greeted.

“BD? Cere?”

“We did it, Cal. Cham has reclaimed the stronghold. He decided that this med-bay would be a better option that the medical supplies back—”

“Where is she?” he immediately snapped.

Cere exchanged glances with the little droid sitting on Cal’s lap. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as she carefully gathers the words in her mind that she’ll say to him.

“Is she safe? Is she alright?”

Cere sighed, the same resigned look was painted in her face again, only this time it was more somber.

The medical droid supported Cal in sitting up and finally bringing his feet to the floor. Cere took over and supported Cal by his side, making herself his crutch as they hobbled out of his med-bay room. Luckily, the ward where you’ve been placed is not far from his.

“We’re here,”

They come across a room whose front wall was a whole sheet of thick glass. In the center of the room, a group of medical droids—namely a GH-7 medical analysis droid, an FX-6 medical assistant, and a 2-1B. Cal watched them hover around your unconscious body in all sides as they extract the necessary medical data, reflecting their findings in hologram projections that were visible to even the visitors outside the room.

The GH-7 droid hovered towards Cal to report its diagnosis. Its emphatic voice was somewhat reassuring and soothing as it spoke, its perceptiveness on the patient gave Cal a stroke of comfort when he demanded to know the status of your health.

“She is very lucky,” the droid’s empathic voice purred. “And very strong.”

Cal noticed the hanging tone at the end of its sentence, he prompted it to continue.

“Fortunately, the penetration wound found in her abdomen did not rupture any of her vital organs. In fact, it barely missed the bottom of her left lung. However, the severity of her wounds factored to her needing immediate surgery. It’s a miracle that she was able to hold on in such a nearly-long period of time. The weapon used on her—to some extent—saved her. It cauterized her wounds both on the arm and torso, therefore lessened the blood loss. If it was any other weapon, she would have bled to death, and she would’ve died instantly.”

“Has she woken up ever since she got here?”

The droid hung its flat-faced head and gestured with its arms attached with various apparatus.

“No, I am afraid she is in a state of comatose. Her chances of waking up appear bleak. We are currently figuring out how long she’ll remain unconscious; until then, we can only hope. It is in my analysis that comatose patients—albeit in a sleep-like state—are still capable of hearing voices when being spoken to. You may do so in a few minutes. Please, excuse me.”

The droid gave a quick bow before turning around and hovering back into your ward. A few minutes later, it kept its promise and allowed you to go inside your ward. Cal sat down by your bedside, studying the hologram projections of your vitals’ readings as the droids hovered about, continuing their data extraction.

“[y/n]? We did it,” Cal whispered. “You did it, my brave little girl.”

He gently took your hand into his, feeling the softness of your palm and the warmth that you radiated. Even before he could utter a word, he was already choking while blinking away the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Please…” he muttered as he stared at the stillness of your face. “Please, fight. Please wake up soon. Until then, I’ll be waiting for you. Be strong, [y/n].”

He fought back the tears, telling you how brave you were in fighting the Inquisitor, if it wasn’t for you then he wouldn’t have defeated him. He promised you things that the two of you would do once you’ve awakened—he’ll take you to a trip to Takodana, knowing that you would love the fresh air and swimming in its great lakes, he’ll make Maz serve the best booze in the castle just for the two of you, and so many more things that you would have absolutely loved.

“Only if you promise me you’d wake up, won’t you, [y/n]?”

“Cal,” Cere tenderly called, not intending to break up his moment with you. “Come on, you need your rest too if you’re gonna keep your promises to her.”

“Yeah, I just… give me another minute,” he wiped the tears off his cheeks with his bandaged hands. He leaned closer to you, planting a kiss on your forehead before he leaves.

“Rest well, my love.”

As he turned away, he didn’t see the single tear that escaped the corner of your eye and the faint twitch of your fingers.

His voice, his words—you heard them all.

Even in your subconscious, you coax yourself harder than ever before to fight back, to regain your strength and fulfill your end of the promise.

[wolfgrowlwrites]

Tribe of Rushing Water Analysis

Since people were curious both on my thoughts about the Tribe of Rushing Water in Canon and how I’ve rewritten them in my fic Ties that Bind, here’s the massive post on it. If you read this entire thing, thank you.

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Alright so I’m not much of an internet funnyman but I was an English Major and someone with a hyperfixation on the Warrior Cats series so it’s time to analyze the Tribe! The following post will include Spoilers for Watership Down (yeah the rabbit book, I’ll come back to this) and I will speak openly about the Warriors Series as a whole with the assumption that the people reading have already read the books in question. The goal of this is to discuss the Tribe’s narrative placement in the story, and what I’m doing with them in my rewrite.

Now Warriors was originally just going to be one book, and then six, and then first three books of the second arc. The weird effects this has on the narrative and tone is best explored elsewhere, but I bring this up because Midnight, Moonrise and Dawn were meant to be a trilogy ending the series. And this trilogy was based on nothing other than Watership Down, all of which is important to consider when we talk about the Tribe. The Tribe was meant to only appear briefly, which means there was no need for fleshing them out, and they are the Warriors parallel of Cowslip’s Warren.

For those of us who haven’t read Watership Down, it is a story about a bunch of rabbits who have a prediction of the destruction of their home and set out on a quest to find a new one. (Sounds familiar right?) One of the dangers they run into along the way is what originally appears to be a friendly warren run by a rabbit named Cowslip. The rabbits immediately find themselves on edge, as while this warren is exceptionally friendly there is the underlying evidence that something is wrong. When they ask questions the natives to the burrow deflect and dance around answering, and while their customs seem similar, they’re different enough to be unsettling. Behold, I’ve described the Tribe in Moonrise. And like the Tribe, the fact that Cowslip’s Warren is hiding is that there’s something extremely dangerous hunting them. Cowslip’s warren is being maintained by humans who are actively snaring the rabbits, and the Tribe has Sharptooth who is also hunting them. In fact, the snares almost kill one of the traveling rabbits, while Feathertail does end up dying to Sharptooth.

(Thank god I’m doing this on Tumblr not Twitter, god this thread would be unbearable.)

(For those who have read Watership Down, Brook is probably supposed to be Strawberry.)

So narratively, the Tribe are there to be a hinderance to the traveling cats who seem friendly and similar to them but have a danger to them that will put the traveling cats at risk. That is the role they’re meant to play, and as the series was meant to end after Dawn, the Erins didn’t need to flesh the Tribe out really beyond that.

But then money and the publishers spoke and the series continued and we returned to the Tribe except uh… huh. Honestly I kinda don’t want to get into this because it’s the same thing every time. The Tribe, who when we first meet them are described as huge and able to fight eagles, and are well adapted for life on the mountains, have encountered some problem and only the Clan cats can save them. Rinse and repeat. And as someone who has attempted to figure out the Tribe’s Allegiances, if you thought they were bad about remembering details for the Clans oh boy. For specific citations of the Tribe needs the Clans help, oh no, please see Moonrise, Outcast, Sign of the Moon, and Tawnypelt’s Clan. Sign of the Moon in particular because a Clan cat straight up choses the Tribe’s new leader. Can you imagine how the Clans would react if a Tribe cat tried that?

But it’s okay right because of the whole time-travel thing which means that Jayfeather actually founded the Tribe and named the first Stoneteller. I could write an entire essay on how much I hate this plot point, but that’s not the point here. The more important part is that some how the Tribe went from names like Stone Song, Half Moon, Lion’s Roar, Clear Sky, Gray Wing, etc. to names like Brook where Small Fish swim. I, as a white guy, don’t want to touch the racism there, I’m pretty sure other people have explained it better than I can, but the short version is that a group named the Tribe with names like Jagged Rock where Heron Nest comes off like a stereotype for Native Americans, at least from my white American experience. So, uh, solid yikes on that one, especially when those aren’t even the names they use (because of course not they’re a fucking mouthful) which gets to the world building point I’m gonna touch on instead.

The Ancients become the Tribe but somehow the names grow so long that they all have to go by nicknames that… almost resemble what Ancient names were to begin with? I understand this is because the Tribe’s naming convention got established before the time loop thing, but honestly, there is no reason they should’ve been named like that and in fact more reasons why they shouldn’t have. Between the racism and then from a writing perspective, what is the point, of having names like that if they’re never used? Like narratively it makes no sense from the start, and the Time Travel plot only makes that more obvious.

All that said, I actually super adore the Tribe! I wish they’d been handled differently in a lot of places but they had so much potential to be cool that got lost along the way. So thus, we come to my rewrite. If you’re just here for Tribe Analysis you’re free to go, but if you’re here for how I’m rewriting the Tribe than settle in.

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In my rewrite the Tribe has Ancient names from the get go, because it makes more sense and allows for the Tribe to serve its original narrative function, that is, a place similar to what the Clan Cats are used enough to be comfortable, but different enough to be unsettling. The Tribe has ancestors not unlike StarClan but I have the Tribe’s worship working very differently. Stone Tellers are raised from birth to serve as a guiding force for the Tribe because they are the ones that can speak to the ancestors, and every full moon, when the Cave of Pointed Stones glows, they lead their tribe to speak with their ancestors, in something not unlike a gathering, but it is meant to be a form of remembrance, as they are sharing news with their ancestors instead.

The Tribe has very extreme views of their ancestors, refusing to take the Tribe of Endless Hunting’s name in vain. It is also believed that a Tribe cat that has passed cannot move on to the Tribe of Endless Hunting until a final task has been completed. This task is something the cat would’ve wanted to do while alive, but didn’t get to, so now one of their family, or a close friend, does it in their place. (To a reasonable extent, for example telling someone that the cat who died was in love with them, not settling down with them to raise a family because that’s what the dead cat wanted to do.) Those who have not moved on linger as ghosts. They don’t have stars in their pelts, and they don’t have the ability to see the future to warn their Tribemates the way StarClan or the Tribe of Endless Hunting do. They are capable of speaking to those who can see them, usually Stone Teller, but otherwise they tend to simply watch and wait for someone to help them move on.

The Tribe believes that the future is chosen by the Tribe of Endless Hunting, to challenge their omens is the most heretical thing a cat can do. The current Stone Teller decides a cat’s future when they are born, Cave-guard, Prey-Hunter, or rarely, the next Stone Teller. Those kits are taken by the current Stone Teller once they’re old enough to be weaned and raised in the Cave of Pointed Stones. Their name is chosen by the current Stone Teller and stripped from them when they become the next Stone Teller. Stone Teller is meant to be the ancestor’s conduit to the living and an impartial leader to the Tribe. However, not every leader can live up to those expectations, and should the Tribe begin to doubt the current Stone Teller’s capability to guide them, they can make a new cat leader. This cat would do the job of leading the Tribe, while Stone Teller continues to serve as the medicinal and spiritual leader. This rarely happens, and when it does it is rarely so clean cut, as no one particularly enjoys admitting they’ve made a mistake and need to be replaced as leader.

The Stone Teller is assisted in leading the Tribe by the head of the Cave-Guards and the head of the Prey-Hunters, these are seen as the cats that are best at that job and capable of quick decision making and good judgement calls. They often work together to organize hunting patrols and discuss issues in the territory, often presenting Stone Teller with their solutions alongside problems.

Honestly the Tribe won’t be playing a very large role in my rewrite as a whole, but since they have an entire arc dedicated to them, I wanted to make sure I had them well fleshed out. There’s a few details I’ve left out because this is long enough, but if you’re curious about anything I’ve said either about the Tribe or my rewrite, hit me up.

[princess-of-the-corner]

So I’m doing this 100% for fun but like

Remember I mentioned a dream I had after reading to many of those salty “AU where Marinette’s sort of adopted and her bio parent(s) is rich/famous/powerful” of an mlp crossover where Mari’s bio moms are Twilight and Rarity from mlp? Yeah let’s expand on that a little!

Also, while this is kinda salty and has salty origins, this ends up being pretty sugary because that’s the nature of mlp stuff. 

So like there’s some interdimensional fuckery.

A little over 10 years prior to Canon the Equestria and the ML world kinda connected.

Twilight Sparkle, as Princess of Friendship, was sent as an ambassador to the new dimension.

Of course Earth sent someone to Equestria but whatever they’re not important.

Also involved is Twilights wife, Rarity, and lil baby Marinette pony.

Side note: while in Equestria they’re ponies, but interdimensional travel turns them Human in the ML world. Kinda like EQG but they have normal human skin tones.

Anyway! Mari is a lil pink Unicorn, but in the Human world she looks Human. She ends up wearing a lot of pink clothes because she misses her pony coat.

Because of several things, like wanting Mari to have a normal childhood and also some political stuff that her moms want to protect her from, she ends up being taken care of by Tom and Sabine.

I’m gonna say that Twi and Rares met Tom and Sabine through Pinkie, who has a habit of getting low-key adopted by bakers, and had met them through wanting to learn about Earth cuisine (and T&S wanted to learn Equestria cuisine, so it was a win-win).

When Twi and Rares are thinking about this plan, T&S are trying for a kid and haven’t had much luck.

Mari lives with Tom and Sabine for the day-to-day, but Twilight and Rarity visit as often as they can, spending plenty of weekends with their daughter, even if it’s low-key to keep her safe.

As far as Mari is concerned, she has four parents. Twilight=Mom, Rarity=Mommy, Sabine=Maman, and Tom=Papa.

Other than visits with her moms and trips to Equestria, there’s only a couple differences to Mari’s childhood.

First is that she gets visits from other mlp characters too. They don’t cause too many issues because

1.) they know how to not blow her cover and

2.) the ones who would do it accidentally can be reined in.

By that I mean that if Discord starts to act up Mari just says “I’ll tell Auntie Fluttershy” and he nopes the fuck out.

Mari’s classmates think she just has a lot of aunts and uncles with weird names and haircolors, not connecting them to the Pony stuff.

The other thing is that Marinette is a little more confident and somehow even more forgiving. Like, this is shown best in her interaction with Chloé.

Marinette stands up to Chloé from day 1 and doesn’t take her shit. She protects others and shuts down any of her petty schemes. Etc.

But she also doesn’t write Chloé off entirely. Marinette constantly offers her friendship, because she’s grown up with stories about her various aunts and uncles who were like Chloé or far worse, and that they eventually reformed. When she sees Chloé try to change, Marinette welcomes her with open arms and works with her to help her be a better person.

Anyway one more thing for Mari’s childhood before Ladybug: her Cutie Mark!

Marinette’s special talent is her eye for detail. Mostly she uses this to be a designer just like mommy(Rares is so proud!!), but it helps her be an expert at planning and organizing like her mom(Twi is also very proud!!).

Her actual Cutie Mark is an image of a Ladybug threading a needle.

Onto the Canon Timeline!!

Okay! So! Origins happens and Marinette gets the Ladybug Miraculous.

Mari is paranoid that it was given to her because someone found out about her being a Unicorn Princess. So she interrogated the hell out of Tikki.

Tikki’s like “okay I didn’t know that. I knew you had powerful Magic and that explains it but no. You were chosen for general compatibility with it!”

Ladybug’s secret identity lasts until Twi and Rares visit because they’re like “honey why are your earrings a powerful magic artifact???”

“Our little girl is all grown up and using Magic jewelry to save the world! Just like her moms!!”

So the whole family knows. Tikki does say that it breaks the rules, but there’s not much that can be done because of the circumstances.

Mari’s parents all kinda debate on whether or not she should try and figure out Chat Noir’s identity.

Twilight and Sabine argue that they would feel better if they knew who the boy was so that they could trust him. Twi’s reasoning is more “while you trust him now, your teamwork will grow stronger as you learn more about each other!” while Sabine’s is more “I want to make sure he’s not some creep/entitled dudebro.”

Rarity and Tom are okay with the mystery. Tom because obviously whoever chose Chat Noir to be a hero saw the same things in him that they saw in Marinette when making her Ladybug, so of course he must be a good guy. Rares just loves the drama of the whole thing! Secret identities! Romance! Etc.

Tikki is the deciding vote on that, saying it’s supposed to be secret.

That also doesn’t last long. Because Mari tells Rares about the crush on Adrien. And naturally Rares has to meet the boy! And they notice his ring and yeah…

She tries to keep the secret but as much as she loves the drama, the fact that her daughter is actually sad thinking Adrien isn’t interested in her when he absolutely is just breaks her heart.

Whoops the lovesquare is solved real early! Like, ‘sometime in Season 1 early’.

Of course they bring Adrien into the whole ‘secret royal horse family’ thing.

Mari’s a little scared on that because species difference.

Like, in Equestria interspecies relationship isn’t an issue because it goes by the basic ‘Harkness Test’ rules. So her interest in Adrien is normal to her.

But some Humans get weirded out by the idea so she didn’t know how Adrien would react.

It throws him for a loop but he’s cool with it!

This also involves telling Gabriel about the horse girlfriend.

Lucky for him, he decided to leave the Butterfly Miraculous upstairs during dinner or else he would’ve been found out too.

Anyway, the whole ‘royal horse princess’ thing is definitely enough to make Marinette a good candidate for dating Adrien. So Gabriel is okay with the relationship.

It also helps that Gabriel and Rarity actually somehow get along. She’s used to stuck up rich people so she can play his games without getting frustrated, and she can discuss fashion with him!

They get into a long discussion about Equestria fashion vs. Earth fashion, and Mari is sitting there taking notes because her goal is to make a fashion line that incorporates both dimensions!

Gabriel is kinda low-key thinking about how they’d make powerful Akumas, but tbh… magic horses are things he doesn’t want to risk messing with. Yeah they’d be powerful, but if they go rogue or have issues with merging the different types of Magic… it could be a bad time.

That said, he does try to low-key find out if Twilight and Rarity know of any Magics that might help him save Emilie other than the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculous. He doesn’t ask outright as he doesn’t want to tip his hand, but he feigns curiosity in some subjects.

They don’t tell Gabriel about the superhero thing because Adrien begs them not to, knowing that he’d try to stop him if he found out.

One more thing that changes is Mari and Adrien’s relationship with Master Fu as a mentor!

Because of Twilight’s experience with Celestia as her mentor, Marinette is encourage to question Fu’s decisions. 

They quickly realize that yeah, Fu’s not always right. In fact, he’s fucking up a lot. 

Fu and Twilight can get along as ‘protectors of Magical Artifacts that could either save the world or cause doomsday’. They debate about methods, and while Twilight agrees with Fu’s logic, she can also to get him to see the flaws in it. 

So. Outside of occasional pony stuff and various shenanigans involving the ‘aunts and uncles’, and the fact that Adrienette is canon, not much changes. I’ve written outlines for other AUs where Adrienette was Canon early on, so y’all can go dig those up. And I can’t think of specific instances where weird Pony stuff happens outside of like, Marinette’s birthday or something.

But this did start from a salty dream so we gotta get to Lila being a fuck.

Lila comes in and does her usual shit.

She lies about knowing Ladybug and various other celebrities. Of course.

She tries to flirt with Adrien. He turns her down as soon as he realizes because he’s in love with Mari. This gets Mari on her radar.

Between that, and Mari calling her out on her lies, Lila decides to try an ruin her.

So, Mari and Adrien’s responses to this are a little different than Canon.  

Marinette feels comfortable telling Adrien that Lila threatened her. So he’s not going to sit by and be quiet since he knows this is a threat, not just a girl lying for attention.

Despite the threats, both are too soft and sweet to write off Lila completely. Especially Mari, oddly enough. As I said. She grew up with stories about her aunts and uncles that changed for the better. So the two of them think that they might be able to be friends with Lila.

That said, they don’t put up with her shit. They call her out when she lies, and don’t tolerate her lying and manipulating people. It doesn’t usually work because Lila is good at thinking up more lies and turning it around, but they try.

The idea that Marinette hates Lila out of jealousy over Adrien is slightly more believable, because the classmates never saw Marinette be jealous before.

Chloé stopped ‘flirting’ with Adrien as soon as he and Mari got together because she respects Adrien as a friend. She makes it clear that they’re just friends and her flirting is mostly joking/possessiveness, and the relationship itself is the first thing that helps Chloé want to change so she can not lose Adrien over being mean to Mari.

Kagami was a little interested in Adrien, but shut it down as soon as she found out that he was dating Marinette, so she and Mari never got off on the wrong foot with jealousy, becoming friends rather quickly. (Mari might have tried to set her up with Luka after she rejected him but you know.)

Mari is usually nice to Adrien’s fangirls, barring any creepy actions.

So this is the first time the class is seeing her react to a ‘legitimate threat’ to the relationship.  

Now, while I like salt stuff, I don’t go full ‘the classmates durn into worse bullies than Chloé ever was because they’re convinced Mari is bullying Lila and believe Lila’s word like gospel’ thing.

I could go on a hell of a rant about how that’s a lot of victim blaming but that’s for another time.

Anyway, the classmates are still friendly with Marinette, but they are frustrated at her fighting with Lila. And Lila is lying, manipulating, orchestrating events to make it look like Mari attacked her, etc. It would take a decent amount of manipulation and gaslighting the class to get them to think Mari’s actually horrible, so this is a long-term plan.

One of the biggest things she does in the meantime, is try to isolate Marinette. If she sees someone talking to her, suddenly Lila needs their help with something! She tries to schedule hanging out with the class on days that Mari’s busy. Or just says she’s uncomfortable with Mari being at a hang out, so don’t invite her to this one(it works on smaller hangouts and ones where they’re at someone’s home, but big groups don’t work.). If she is forced to interact with Marinette directly, she starts a fight and blames Mari.

There’s a lot of tension. But Marinette learned from the Princess of Friendship herself. This can be mended, once they figure it out.

This all comes to a head when it comes time for the Class Trip.

The class gets permission to go out of the country, and Marinette suggests Equestria!

Her thought process is

1.) they can help mend things by learning about Equestria’s history and importance of Friendship.

2.) Despite the recent hiccups in their friendship, Marinette loves and trusts most of the class enough to tell them about the ‘I’m secretly a Pony Princess’ thing. And taking them to see Equestria is a good idea to help hammer it in and really wow them!

The school board is hesitant at first, because Equestria is technically another Dimension and all. But they tell her ‘if you send a letter to the Equestrian Government and they say yes, then okay’.

So Mari just calls up her mom and asks. Twilight is immediately planning the trip’s itinerary!

When Marinette announces it to the class, they’re all estatic.

Lila, of course, lies about stuff.

She claims that she went to Equestria before and when turned into a Pony by dimensional Magic stuff, she was totally an Alicorn!

Mari calls so much bullshit on that.

Because the only ways to be an Alicorn are either being born one, which means she’d have to be related to the Royal Family and that’s impossible, or Ascending, which is so goddamn rare.

Not to mention that even if a Human who crossed over became an Alicorn legitimately, that would’ve been major news.

Thankfully most of the stuff Lila lies about regarding culture/celebrities in Equestria/etc are either things Mari can spin as ‘actually that’s a misconception’ and redirect the class to real facts, or something that is coincidentally true, just fuckin buck wild.

When it comes time for the actual trip, Twilight and Rarity show up personally! Partly because they have to, as the link between Earth and Equestria, but also to see Mari and dote on her, glad to formally meet all her friends!!

The class begins to notice things when they are actually transported to Equestria.

First, they notice that Mari seems way too friendly with Twi and Rares. Like, yeah she’s a friendly person, but this is excessive.

They also notice that Marinette is a bit… too used to walking around as a Pony and using Magic, while everyone else is like ‘fuck how do hooves work???’.

There’s, like, a half second after they first go through the portal and are transformed where it seems like Lila wasn’t lying, as she looks like an Alicorn.

But then Twilight recognizes ‘Oh. You’re not an Alicorn. You’re a Changeling. I understand the disguise, as some Ponies are still a bit wary of Changelings, but you shouldn’t go around as an Alicorn as that will get you some unwanted attention and cause a lot of issues!’.

Everyone asks about that, and Twi happily explains that Changelings are shapeshifters!

So like, the excuse here is that Lila didn’t lie about going to Equestria before. She did once a few years ago with her mom. But she was a Changeling, not an Alicorn. She’d hoped that she’d be able to trick the classmates, and possibly even Twilight, but didn’t count on being called out so soon!

Unfortunately, everyone believes the reason Twilight accidently gave instead of the ‘Lila’s a dick’ thing. Mari’s frustrated because ‘damn it mom!’ but you know.

Side notes: What kind of Pony everyone is and their Cutie Marks!

Marinette: Pink Unicorn. Cutie Mark is a Ladybug threading a needle.

Adrien: pastel green Pegasus. Cutie Mark is a fencing saber with a neon green pawprint behind it.

Chloé: Black with white markings Crystal Pony. Cutie Mark is a golden crown, but with honeycomb shapes. (Basically imagine Diamond Tiara’s Cutie Mark, but gold and with hexagons instead of circles on the ends)

Alya: orange Unicorn, Cutie Mark is a Wifi signal with a foxtail

Nino: Deep green Earth Pony, Cutie Mark is headphones with a turtle shell

Juleka: Purpleish-black Unicorn, Cutie Mark is a mirror with claw marks behind it/

Rose: pink Earth Pony, Cutie Mark is a rose but the stem is real curly

Nathaniel: lavender Earth Pony, Cutie Mark is a tablet pen and a feather quill (Ya boi has so much trouble attempting to draw!!)

Alix: light blue Pegasus, Cutie Mark is a pocketwatch with wings

Mylene: tan Pegasus, Cutie Mark is a mouse-like theatre mask

Ivan: dark blue Earth Pony, Cutie Mark crossed drumsticks with a pair of ox horns above it.

Kim: red Pegasus, Cutie Mark is a star with a staff weapon in front of it.

Max: brown Unicorn, Cutie Mark is a computer screen in a horseshoe.

Sabrina: Turquoise  Earth Pony, Cutie Mark is a dark turquoise notebook with a purple diamond on it.

Lila: orange Changeling. No Cutie Mark. Uses a foxtail design when transformed to look like a regular pony.

So, as I said, the class is realizing that Marinette is a little too comfortable in Equestria. They eventually ask.

Marinette explains the whole ‘Okay, so didn’t tell you because I didn’t know to trust you guys, and then after I did trust you I wasn’t sure how to tell you but actually…’.

She goes over the whole ‘Twi and Rares are the bio moms, Tom and Sabine are her sort-of-adoptive parents but all four are parents to her’ thing.

Everyone’s like ‘Wait… you’re actually a Pony???’ then they’re like ‘HOLD HE FUCK UP YOU’RE A PRINCESS???’

Lila does kinda try and spin the whole ‘oh she didn’t tell you guys’ thing, but Twi and Rares explain the whole thing was about keeping Mari safe. And if certain people found out about her, it’d be bad.

Time for a little bit of the trip itinerary!

The first few days are spent in Ponyville, with the class staying in Twilight’s Castle.

I feel like I should mention that the last couple seasons of mlp aren’t canon to this timeline but whatever.

While they’re enjoying the sights and learning about Equestria, a chunk of the time is spent learning about how to be Ponies. How to walk on four legs and function with hooves, and how to use their various Magics. Nothing too wild. Just flight lessons for Pegasai, controlling strength for Earth Ponies, and basic spell casting for the Unicorns (along with control so they don’t blast something.).

Lila already knows how to use her Changeling spell stuff, unfortunately.

Marinette does discuss Lila with Twi and Rares.

They go into mom mode and are ready to throw down, but don’t.

Twilight asks them to just keep an eye on what Lila says, correct her if she lies, and maybe also ban her from shapeshifting?

Thankfully, Twilight is smart. She knows that banning Lila from shapeshifting altogether might end badly because there’s have to be questions of why. But she can subtly tag Lila with a specific ban.

Basically, Lila’s Magic will malfunction if she tries to shapeshift into Marinette, any of the classmates, or some of the more important Ponies. Lila won’t know about it unless she tries to do that specifically and finds she can’t.

Lila does, of course, try exactly that. She attempted to change into Marinette and be a jerk, but didn’t even get that far.

When she complains, Twilight just handles it by saying that it’s standard that Changelings nearby Royals and such have that ban.

Other highlights of the trip:

They hit some major cities in Equestria. Like the Crystal Empire, Manehattan(Which annoys Chloé a little because ‘I got to go to Manehattan before Manhattan fuck you mom!), Cloudsdale. And eventually, Canterlot!

Meeting various Royals is a trip in itself. I mean, this is Magic Pony Royalty!! But they’re also absolute dorks.

Adrien gets heckled by all of Marinette’s Aunts and Uncles and he’s a little terrified but loves her.

Diamon Tiara attempts to adopt Chloé somehow. Spike reminds her that Chloé does technically have parents back home, but Diamond’s like ‘no! she reminds me of me so much!!!’.

They get to see a Wonderbolts show in Cloudsdale, and a play on Bridleway.

As usual with me and ML fics, Chloé figures out that Mari and Adrien are LB and Chat. She had some strong suspicions before the trip, but after seeing the Cutie Marks of both them and other suspected Heroes, she’s like ‘you motherfuckers!!’.

Later on once they’ve gotten used to being Ponies, they get to go to the old Castle in the Everfree Forest, which is currently half archeological study, and half ‘training for all those bullshit Indiana Jones-like traps that Pony Archeologists have to deal with’. Which means it’s basically an obstacle course!

The final MANE event is an invitation to the Grand Galloping Gala!! With Rarity making all their outfits because she’s GENEROUS like that!!

Last plot point: Lila.

Of course Lila’s lies will be revealed somehow. But tbh…. Since this is a mlp crossover, I sort of want to try giving her some kinda redemption.

I think the best way to do that is to be able to feel the emotions. I mean, Changelings are empaths, basically. She can now physically feel what others feel about one another.

I mentioned in TMOLR that Lila’s lies are part of a cycle. She lies to make people love her, but they don’t love her, just the lies. So she continues the lie to keep the love.

With her empathy powers, she can feel that the love aimed at her is no different than the love they aim at each other. And at first, she brushes it off as her fooling them too well.

It’s actually only once the lies are exposed that she begins to realize that, despite the anger and betrayal her classmates feel, they still care. They still, on some basic level, love her.

She’s not going to be free of consequences, but she might be able to turn it around.

Legit though, I think a mlp crossover is the only time I can genuinely think of having a Lila Redemption because of the kind of bullshit the Ponies have done with redemptions.

[scrutineyeze]

i’m seeing a lot of ppl tossing around ideas about the nature of Fear & the Fourteen Fears (& some about the Extinction & its place in that), so i thought i’d try my hand at it too, lol. these thoughts have been kicking around my head for a while, & i’d be really interested in hearing what others think about this !

gonna put a warning here just about descriptions of fear/s & stuff. also a heads up: this contains spoilers for all of the magnus archives up to date [6/29/2020] and also i have A Lot of thoughts & can Not shut up, so this got. long. (2.7k) & ,,, increasingly weirdly worded bc uhh that’s kinda How I Write

without further ado: my thoughts on Fear, its facets, & how Old these might be. possibly also featuring mentions of the sublime & various things i’ve read. (i’ll work to paraphrase and/or quote these things as succinctly as possible.)

01. introduction 02. Fear: that it is not distinct Fears 03. Fear: a continuation, that it is in Facets 04. on the separation & age of such Facets 05. on, indeed, why such facets cannot be seen are Separate 06. some closing thoughts

01. thesis: robert smirke is Wrong about Fear. robert smirke believes that Fear is distinguishable into Fourteen Separate Fears; this has been shown to be, of a sort, already incorrect, as jonah magnus figured out & demonstrated with the only successful ritual, which entailed bringing in all the “fears” at once. however, to think of them as distinct Fears as in plural is a misunderstanding.

02. the following are selections from the meno, a dialogue written by plato & this translation is from Cathal Woods. beginning at 71d.

Socrates: … But you yourself, divine Meno, what do you say virtue is? … Meno: M: But it's not hard to say, Socrates. To begin with, if you want the virtue of a man, it's easy. A man's virtue is this: to attend to the affairs of the city effectively and in the process to benefit his friends and harm his enemies and make sure that he suffers nothing similar himself. If you're looking for the virtue of a woman, it's not hard to express. It's to manage her home well, preserving her possessions and being obedient to her husband. And there's a different virtue for children, both male and female, and for an old man, and, if you want, for a free man and, if you so desire, for a slave. And there are so many other virtues that there's no problem saying what virtue is, since there's a virtue for each occupation and stage of life with respect to each function of each person. And I take the same to hold for vice, Socrates. Socrates: It seems I've had some great good fortune, Meno, if, when looking for a single virtue, I have discovered in your possession some kind of swarm of virtues.

socrates then goes on to ask about bees & if meno thinks that they differ from each other insofar as “their being bees” or if they only differ through other means, such as beauty, size, colour, etc. meno says that they differ by other means, not through their being bees, & socrates presses then that virtue must be the same: there must be something which makes each of the attributes which meno listed virtues, and that connecting thread must be Virtue.

imagine, then, that we are talking about fear. (not so hard to do, when we are talking about fear lol.) so it might follow thus:

Socrates: meno, what is fear? Meno: Well, it is of corruption, and of violence, and of death, and of …

and so on—except that meno could, of course, differentiate further than simply the fourteen which smirke spoke of. as said in 111 “Family Business:”

I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and you can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but you group them together into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. I mean, why are navy blue and sky blue both called blue, when pink’s an entirely different colour from red?

and, of course, he goes on to say:

I mean, you could see them all as just one thing, I guess, but it would be pretty much meaningless, y’know, like… like trying to describe a… shirt by talking about the concept of colour.

but i would (will) argue that it isn’t meaningless to try to describe Fear as it is, which is as a single Entity. because it is the differences by other means (beauty, size, shape) which distinguish the facets of Fear, and not that it is distinct from itself by its Being Fear. that which makes us afraid—and us here, and likely everywhere, will be in reference to living things which feel fear in general, tho i will try to make myself clear at any time i speak less or more generally—makes us afraid through its Shared Connection to Fear, not through its connection to any other thing or other attributes. if something has the capacity to induce fear, then it must contain within itself the connection to Fear, or its being scary—the way that a bee, regardless of its other features, will always share with other bees their Being Bees, and the way that virtues must all contain within themselves that which Makes Them Virtuous in order to be listed as virtues at all. “that which Makes Them Virtuous,” socrates says, must be Virtue, & he spends the whole dialogue trying to get meno to help him answer that question (plus an interesting part about memory & reincarnation, but that’s unrelated).

(i’m going to say here that you Really Don’t Have To Read the meno. i uh personally dislike plato, esp when he’s not talking about love—but this is neither here nor there.)

03. so this brings us to, well, if Fear isn’t separate, then what are the Fourteen in relation to Fear? i’d say that they’re Facets of Fear, the way that honeybees and bumblebees are both bees, and aren’t different insofar as “their being bees,” but they are different in terms of other things, such as size and shape, so you might call them Facets (or different manifestations) of Bee-ness.

this does, also, allow for the looseness of seeing Fear like Colour. you can stick to the basics—blue, red, yellow, green, etc.—or get into specifics—ochre, cerulean, lilac—but you’re still discussing Colour. at the same time, Fear works similarly; you can speak of Fear of change (which would include fears such as uninjured to injured, healthy to sick, alive to dead), of depths (which is my reasoning against the point in 111 that “[s]ome really clash, and you just can’t put them together” … “I doubt The Buried would be bringing through The Vast,” because the fear of both seems to me as significantly more similar than dissimilar: the fear is often categorized as not being able to breathe, due to a too-much or not-enough, and also as the fear of being insignificant in comparison to the size, the fear of a deepness you will Never comprehend that Will Swallow you—a video i would Highly Recommend is “Fear of Depths,” made by Jacob Geller; he talks mostly about caves, the darkness you can’t see into, the call of the void. he talks some of the creatures at the bottom of the ocean, a lot about various video games, including a platformer which causes you to lose the floor. it’s a game about going deeper, ever deeper, and yet … you’re plunged into a massive, empty space. it’s a very, very good video. cw for talking about someone dying stuck in a cave.)—and you can speak of Fear in specifics, even more into detail than the Fourteen do. the Fourteen seems, to me, as a relatively easy nomenclature for these things, especially as understanding these things involve “paradoxes that most adults couldn’t handle” (111)

04. and i’m not arguing, necessarily, against using such nomenclature. to talk about Fear is difficult—i believe, much like socrates believes in Virtue, that there must be something that we can speak to which will succinctly categorize all that we find Scary, but, just like socrates and his search for Virtue rather than the naming of virtues, i find myself at a loss. i have my own thoughts on its connection to the sublime, & how terror and awe meet—how i find it impossible to separate the two, and other thoughts on how perhaps calling what i’m speaking of Fear is a reduction of what it Is—but i think putting those thoughts in another meta is a better organization of my thoughts.

so to talk about Fear in a much more manageable way, to talk about it in its particulars, in its Facets, allows us to better speak to it, just as, when trying to speak of Bravery, one does not need to speak of all things Virtuous.

however, i do believe it important to bear in mind the distinction between something being a Facet of Fear, and something being A Separate Fear. this is when we come to the “age” of various “fears,” or facets. this is another point at which i believe that robert smirke is wrong. he believes that the flesh is the youngest entity, that the end is old & so is the dark—and i’ve seen further speculation from there, about the eye being young—which, in light of how the eye (or, at least, jonah magnus, which i think is more likely, as it does seem Fear is malleable based on belief—as it should be, if it is to reflect our Fear) feels about children’s fears (cf. “Night Night,” ep. 173), i’ve seen quite a bit about

in order for fear to exist, the Fear must have been there since the first time fear was felt—or must have been created simultaneously with it, or some such thing. if Fear is indeed how i’ve described it, and smirke took the easy way out by calling it by its Facets as meno did Virtue, then i would argue against the saying that one facet of Fear is older than another—especially because the difference seems only to be in how close one pays attention.

consider the hunt and the eye, for a moment. at first glance—indeed, likely from smirke’s point of view—the hunt would be an older fear than the eye. we understand the hunt to be the fear of being chased, the fear of being made prey, the fear of predators lurking or stalking or hunting. and we understand the eye to be the fear of being watched, seen, known, of having our secrets brought into the light—the eye, as i’ve seen algie @equalseleventhirds say (along with a great deal of other things that i find highly interesting! they have had a lot to say about the connection between fears—fear soup is the nomenclature there—& also about jonah’s effect on the apocalypse & the distinction of Fear that we’ve seen in season five; all of this i highly recommend checking out) is younger than others, and from how these facets are understood now, it seems possible

after all, animals have been afraid of being prey since there were first hunters.

except to be hunted, you must first be Seen. how many animals protect themselves through camouflage? how long have animals used camouflage to protect themselves? how many animals Must fear being Seen just as much as being Hunted because, to them, those facets are inextricable?

05. which brings us to the facets being incapable of being made separate. we—and once more, this is all living things which can feel fear—don’t ever fear only One Thing At A Time.

from a piece of my writing (which is still very much in the works):

“Fear … isn’t that separate. The cabin fed on your fear of loss, yes, but also of being alone—of being left alone. Of being the sole survivor. Of watching us slip away—of losing us to an unfathomable violence that hid[es] … you’re not only afraid of one thing, Tim. It all blurs together.”

in this instance, i’m talking about desolation—kind of. 111 describes it as the “[f]ear of pain, fear of loss, fear of unthinking or cruel destruction.” but where does the fear of pain stop connecting to the fear of being prey, of being the victim of some unexpected violence? from “the Eye Opens,” ep. 160:

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

where does the fear of loss stop being the fear of being alone? if you’re afraid of losing those you love, you’re also afraid of being made separate from them, of being alone, aren’t you?

even the flesh, which smirke thinks began with the industrial revolution, must have existed since there were first bodies. even if included within other facets, there are so many things which force us to recall our own physicality in the worst way. in the disease & decomposition of bodies—in things like gangrene, in the bacteria that consume flesh—in the witnessing of flesh (sometimes yours) in the mouths of predators—hyenas and lions don’t always kill their prey being beginning to consume it—

humanity’s stories are full of reminders, too. we have cannibalism in our fairytales (hansel & gretel) & we have it in our propaganda: horror stories ranging from during the famine in Jerusalem during Titus’ siege—Reza Aslan’s Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth, “There were scattered reports of Jews who succumbed to eating the dead.” and i think i’ve read of similar rumors spread about early christians eating children, tho can’t currently find any sources—and also in significantly more recent times we also tell stories of various people participating in cannibalism, or of monsters which only consume human flesh, or people driven to starvation (cf. ep. 58, “Trail Rations”)—these stories aren’t new. living things have probably feared our own bodies since we had the knowledge that they age and deteriorate and die—that we must eventually end because of them.

this is also why i don’t believe the extinction is any more than another facet of Fear, just like any other; (from “Rotten Core,” ep. 157) “[p]erhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore.” it overlaps with and through and into the other facets just as each other in turn folds into the rest. i mean ,,, how many apocalypse-setting shows/books/movies/podcasts exist now? how big was the “2012 as the end of the world” thought? (they made a movie about it: 2012.) us, our end, & the life that comes after … i’m put in mind of a post i recall going around:

“but we built robots, who have beat-up hulls and metal brains, and who have names; and if the other people come and say, who were these people? what were they like?

the robots can say, when they made us, they called us discovery; they called us curiosity; they called us explorer; they called us spirit. they must have thought that was important.

and they told us to tell you hello.”

06. this has all been a rather long-winded (and somewhat meandering) proposition on how Fear might work—i’m Very interested in how other people think about Fear/the Fears/the Fourteen (& if anyone wants to talk to me about the Sublime & where that meets Fear, i’d ! be Very interested in talking about that, i might make another post about that too). i see each facet of Fear as inextricable—when talking and/or writing about them, i find it hard to keep any of them separate at all, especially when it comes to fears i specifically have myself. what do other ppl think ? how separate do you see the various fears/facets ?

[fakedudes]

The Gravewood Curiosity Shoppe was the least neglected building on Psychics’ Strip - but that wasn’t saying much. Many of the supposed seers who lived on the block considered decrepitude part of the aesthetic. The more a house was falling apart, the more accurate the Tarot card reading. 

Boris Andreyez, the proprietor of the Curiosity Shoppe, did not deal in fortunes, however. He sold artifacts - evidence of the existence of cryptids, ancient relics from tribes long gone, cursed jewelry, anything demonically possessed. A spooky storefront was unnecessary for this; before moving to Gravewood, Boris had traveled the world. His stories alone were enough. 

Despite his strong belief that his salesmanship would prevail over cheap gimmicks, he couldn’t deny the allure of atmosphere. It was why Autumn was his most profitable season. The town Halloween festival his very best day. Regardless of any roaming imps who wandered near to play tricks upon him. In fact, the obnoxious band of college boys barely crossed his mind at the end of the evening, when he returned to the Shoppe with pockets full of gold. Metaphorically, at least. 

“It was good this year,” he said in greeting to his nephew, a gangly boy with messy hair sitting behind the front desk marking up a notebook. Griffin did not so much as glance up, scribbling something fervently on the paper. 

“‘Good’ is incredibly non-descript, Uncle. It sounds dull to me.”

Boris smiled warmly, a sparkle of humor behind his tortoise-shell glasses. “Hm. Profitable, then. It was a fantastic capitalistic enterprise. I sold the entire lot - including every issue of your magazine.” 

Griffin looked up at this, as Boris had known he would. Kick Rochs, the literary ‘zine Griffin spearheaded at school, was his pride and joy. He peered at Boris for a moment, as if to determine the veracity of his claim. When his mouth twitched, it appeared he’d decided to believe. 

“The Halloween issue always does well,” he reasoned. Ever the reasonable boy, Boris’s nephew. 

“Logical. It is Gravewood’s favorite holiday. I even saw your friend out and about... uhh... what’s his name? The Goliath with skin like a coloring book.”

“Dean Grady is not my friend. Not anymore, anyway.”

“Oh? Shame. He’s a good boy. He would come in handy whenever we have jars we need opening.”

Griffin slid off the stool he’d been sitting upon, finally closing his notebook so that he could help Boris pack away the Shoppe’s booth setup. He had not been asked, but he never had to be. Griffin was a dutiful boy. He shouldered every nearby burden like he was born magnetically attracted to responsibility. He was, perhaps, every parents’ dream child. But Boris had never planned to be the caretaker of a child - or a man, now, he supposed. The ever-present crease of anxiety in Griffin’s brow did not so much fill Boris with pride as it did melancholy. 

“There will be many parties tonight,” he said as they carried a table in from the truck. 

“That is the trend these days,” Griffin replied sarcastically.

“Why not attend one? Perhaps Dean Grady will be at one, you can reconnect.” He swayed, singing a tune. “Make new friends, but keep the old...” 

Griffin huffed, stumbling as he attempted to keep up with his uncle’s impromptu dance. “One is silver but Dean Grady is coal,” he finished, letting the table fall to the floor with a thud as soon as they reached the foyer. 

“Sourpuss. Where’s your holiday spirit?” 

“I seem to have been born without the gland for that.”

“Preposterous. Your mother loved holidays more than anything. She even celebrated Arbor Day with vim and vigor.” 

Griffin froze. With the pained expression now on his face, he looked like a companion piece to the Bigfoot in the Shoppe’s front window. Like he’d been attacked. Boris, for the first time that day, felt nervous. Because it was not a group of rowdy, privileged boys that frightened him. It was this one, wrapped in a thrift store sweater and claiming more than his share of sadness.

“Loves, of course. Celebrates. She’s not... Poppet, you know I know she’s not... The brains of us elderly folk, we lose our aptitude for tense with the years. Time becomes an unknowable concept.” 

Griffin glanced at the Bigfoot statue, as though it were the cause of his torment and not the fact that his mother was somewhere, but not there. 

“I’m tired,” he said, speaking directly to Sasquatch. “I’m going to call it an early night.” 

Boris watched his nephew retreat upstairs to their apartment, feeling helpless and inept. 

sweet dreams (are made of this) ➙

Griffin stood on the street outside the festival. It was over, the sun having gone down hours before. Only remnants of the day’s entertainment remained; stray candy wrappers, abandoned jack-o-lanterns, glitter clinging to the grass like morning dew. The park was empty... except for one figure. They were cast in shadow, the street lamps not bright enough to reach where they stood near the jungle gym. 

Griffin’s heart beat solidly in his chest. Something was wrong. He could feel it, like prickles creeping up the back of his neck.

“Hello?” he called out. His voice disappeared across the cool evening. The silhouette did not react. It stood unnaturally still. 

Of course. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t a person. It must have been one of his uncle’s ridiculous store mannequins. That was why Griffin was out there at the park, after all. Wasn’t it? 

He strode forward with a sigh... only to stop dead in his tracks when the light at last angled over the figure in the park. It was not a statue. 

It was Dean Grady.

And he was looking right at Griffin.

“What are you doing out here?” Griffin asked.

“What did we do?”

Dean’s voice was quiet and low. It was always quiet and low, but that night, in the park, it was also... afraid. Dean was the tank. He was the fighter with the iron fists. Griffin had grown up knowing his anger. Never his fear. 

Griffin was about to ask him what was going on, but then Dean continued. “What did we do?” he asked, louder now. “What did we do? What did we do?” He was frantic, his voice raising in volume with every question. Griffin shook his head, confused, until he realized that Dean was not looking at him. He was looking through him. 

Griffin spun around. And there was Ace. Ace, who never left the house without that pesky smirk of his, looking inconsolable.

“I never meant to hurt you.” 

Were Ace and Dean in a fight? Some sort of weird lovers’ squabble? Griffin turned back to see Dean’s reaction, but he was no longer there. He’d been replaced by a young man nearly a foot shorter than his predecessor. Duck. Duck who was smiling in an absent daze. Duck who was absolutely covered in blood and guts.

“I’m so glad we’re all friends again,” he said. “Hey! Do you think Griffin would let me braid his hair? I learned how to braid hair when they put me in charge of the girls’ bunk at church camp last Summer. I think he’s got enough of it. It’s really not that hard, you just have to...” The normally neat and organized Duck threaded his fingers through his own hair to gather it up, spreading something’s - or someone’s - innards all throughout. 

Griffin’s heart had started pounding again. The wrongness had crept back in. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the macabre sight of a blood-soaked Duck Bettencourt. Until something bolted in the space between them. 

It was Kaz, running. Not with a football in hand. Not in his jogging shorts. Running from something. An invisible pursuer. He stopped next to Griffin, so close that Griffin could hear his labored breaths. But Kaz didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes were open wide, peering through the darkness for signs of whatever monster was chasing him. 

“Holy shit I’m gonna die, holy shit I’m gonna die,” he was muttering.

“Alea iacta est.” 

The sound came from behind them, and Griffin spun around once more. There he stood. The last, and first, of them. The Mystery Club’s esteemed leader and most loyal member. Jamie Ward. 

It was then that Griffin was thrust into the reality that this was a dream. Because he had dreamt about Jamie before. 

It was always the same. The Latin, spoken in a too deep voice. Jamie, standing before him as a mist rolled in. He began to raise from the ground, his arms slowly spreading out to his sides. He hung in the air, suspended above Griffin.

Jamie looked down at him, meeting his eyes. 

“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.“ It was Jamie’s mouth that moved, but again, that too-deep voice. Then he smiled. Something that looked both foreign and fearsome on Jamie Ward’s face. 

Griffin woke up just as an invisible force began to rip Jamie limb from limb. 

He sat up with a start, heart racing. He could hardly catch his breath, blinking rapidly as though it might help vanquish the lingering image of Jamie’s body being torn apart. The bones cracking, the skin tearing. Blood pooling from his veins as his joints and sinews snapped apart. 

It took several moments before Griffin even realized he was not in his bed. His hands felt the soft Earth beneath them and he finally saw something other than the gory destruction of his once friend. 

He was in the cemetery. Back where he’d been a week ago at Kaz’s behest. Sat right in front of the door to Jamie’s shed. The raw fear coursing through him did not dissipate. He was too afraid the dream wasn’t over. Terrified of what he’d see if he opened the door. But Griffin knew enough about these nightmares by then to know they always ended the same way: with Jamie. Jamie who was most certainly in that shed.

Griffin really wanted to wake up. So he opened the door. 

[1soos]

Wasting Time: Part Deux

type: slice of life, best friends to lovers, eventual smut

pairing: namjoon x reader

warnings/things to look for: there’s a moment where something homophobic could happen, but doesn’t. drug and alcohol use, cursing, eventual sex, movie and music references,   other than that this is some real soft 

length: 5.3k

summary: Namjoon is your best friend and that comes with a lot of perks and privileges.

a/n: it’s been the hottest minute, but here’s part 2. I do not have it in me to angst this up. Read part one here if you wanna.

Namjoon was gone when you woke up; the spare blanket he’d used in the night folded thoughtfully over the back of the couch. He’d cleared away the chicken containers and the beer bottles and moved the weed to the middle of the coffee table. His delicate care and thoughtfulness sits heavy in your chest, making you feel weird and wishing like hell that it didn’t.

You scoop your piece off the table and take a hit while you make your coffee. You don’t work at the boutique until noon and you aren’t scheduled for the park today, so you decide on a chill morning scrolling through memes on insta. You get stuck on a Raimi Spiderman thread, scrolling endlessly through screenshots of The Goth Dance Moment (^TM) when Lisa throws open the apartment door, the long strap of her purse getting caught on the handle. “I have been fucking for the past 7 hours. I need coffee.”

“Nice,” you say, genuinely impressed and point to the percolator.

Lisa throws her miniscule ‘going out’ purse (really the length of the handle is not proportionate to the actual size of the bag and the ridiculousness of it amuses you) to the floor and whispers, “bless,” as she downs half a cup in one go. She tops herself off and lowers herself gently into the chair across from you.

You sit in silence, every once in a while, turning your phone in her direction when you come across particularly relevant Baby Yoda memes. The moment is broken when Lisa groans dramatically and asks you if she’s on the schedule at the boutique like she’s suddenly remembering that she works there.

You tell her to pull up the spreadsheet that your boss sends to you a week in advance (truly the most organized woman you know) and Lisa tells you, “no.”

Instead of having it turn into A Thing, you open the schedule on your phone. You scan quickly for Lisa’s name color coded in bright blue. “You go in at 5,” you tell her. Kind of disappointed, but not surprised that Sunmi scheduled you in different time slots. Something about not having two crackhead, meme lords in one shift.

“Ugh, fuck. Okay, so I’m going to be dead until at least 4:45. Do not attempt to revive me or I will kill you.”

“That’s a lot of negative death imagery you’re using there.”

“I said what I said."

And like that, she disappears into her room and you’re left overthinking every tiny noise you make until you leave the apartment.

 …

 One of the things you love about working at the boutique is trying on the clothes. You do a dramatic turn in front of the tri-fold mirror and strike a pose while the extremely see-through, sparkly, tulle skirt shifts around you.

Your co-worker, Bambam, stands behind you, switching between gassing you up and, “wow that skirt does nothing for you. Take it off; I’m gonna try it on.”

“Rude.” You work the elastic of the waistband down over your hips, careful to avoid taking your leggings off with it, and throw the skirt at his head. The fabric muffling the curses he shoots your way. The bell above the shop door chimes, announcing the presence of a potential customer so you leave Bambam to figure his own way out of the mess of tulle.

You put on your best ‘I work in retail and get paid on commission’ smile. “Good afternoon! Welcome to Siren’s! Please let me know if there’s anything I can help you find.” The woman smiles good naturedly back at you and says she’s just looking. She already has some shopping bags loaded up her arms, so you’re feeling pretty good about a sale and place yourself equidistant between her and the cash register while eyeing Bambam over in the corner still struggling with the skirt.

The bell goes off again, to your surprise as there is hardly ever more than one person in at a time.

“Joon?” His presence shocks you and for a moment, you forget about last night. The smile that jumps out is too real; genuine joy filling you up and spilling out. He looks slightly stunned himself.

“What are you up to?” he asks, and you look around at the over-priced clothes all around you and then back to him a little confused.

“Working?”

He blushes and your chest hurts. “Ah, I mean, do you have plans for lunch? Um, I think we need to talk.”

Your stomach feels like its going to fall out of your ass and your thoughts spin around and take off like Road Runner.

Beep beep, bitch.

He wants to tell you how weird last night was. There is this horrible feeling that persists; that he knows how you feel and now he’s uncomfortable. He’s probably going to tell you that he doesn’t see you That Way and that you should just continue being friends. Which is fine; you can take that and so could your friendship. Besides, you haven’t really had the time to examine your feelings for him past the fact that he’s your best friend whom you also might want to kiss right now (and constantly) because he’s being awkward and it’s unfortunately adorable. And that you’re scared, kind of. Whatever is going on between you feels major; like, life altering. You feel a duty to yourself and Namjoon to handle the situation with care, so yeah, you think that talking would probably be good.

You smile again at him, more weighted this time and softly say, “okay.”

Caught in your own feelings, you don’t notice Bambam gliding over to you both.

“Knew it would look better on me.” The fabric flutters beautifully around him though he stopped walking several moments before and you have to admit that it does give him the ethereal look that you were hoping to achieve. You nod, conceding the point.

You subtly try to will him away, but his eyes focus on Namjoon. You can see the moment that Bam recognizes him. Bam doesn’t really run in the same group as Namjoon, but there are a few mutual friends and enough shared drunken moments for him to say hi.

“Woah, Namjoon! What’s up, man? I haven’t seen you since Jackson’s.” Bam wiggles his eyes, dramatically suggestive, making you wonder exactly what happened at Jackson’s.

Namjoon’s eyes go wide and he responds quickly. “Nothing much. Just working. You?”

Bam shrugs and gestures around the boutique. Your eyes follow his hands and you notice that the customer is looking at the skirt that Bambam has on and you really do hope it’s because she wants to buy it. “Did I overhear that you’re going to take this one,”—he points at you and you give an annoyed ‘hey’— “to lunch?”

“Trying to anyway.”

“I forgot about Bam,”—“rude!”—"I don’t want to leave him to work alone.” Bambam once again looks around the almost empty store and then back with an incredulous look at you and a pitying one at Namjoon.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the woman says, but doesn’t actually look very sorry at all. The way she’s eyeing Bambam looks like she’s about to say some shit about the skirt. Your eyes find Bam’s, but he looks ready to do battle. Your adrenaline kicks up a notch and you prepare to throw this expensive looking woman out on her ass if she tries to pull any bullshit. “I noticed you wearing this skirt.” You stop breathing and Bambam goes very still. You fist your hand into the back of his shirt to let him know you’re there, barely registering that Namjoon has placed his hand in the middle of your back in much the same manner. “And I just wanted to say, it looks so good on you! You have a really interesting look. Do you model?”

The collective anxiety that the three of you felt leeches away almost at once. You sag back against Namjoon and he rubs your back. Bambam lights up and tells the woman, “I’ve walked a few runways.” Liar. The most he’d done was a photo shoot for one of those coupon books that goes in the middle of the Sunday paper.

The woman smiles. “Well, if you’d like to walk a few more,” she trails off and hands Bam her card. He raises his eyebrows at the name written there. “Do you have some time right now to talk?”

“Yes!” You interject. “He does. He was just about to go on break.” The woman and Bambam look pleased and as they head out the door, Bam turns, eyes wide and sparkling, and mouths ‘thank you.’

The door chimes shut behind them and you sigh, leaning even further onto Namjoon for a moment, your body giving in to the comfort it wants before your brain reminds you that you shouldn’t be taking advantage. You step away from him and immediately feel colder.

You cough awkwardly and immediately cringe. “Sorry about lunch.”

He smiles down at you and tells you not to worry about it. “I’ve got a plan b. Be right back.”

He drags his hand down your arm as a parting gesture and you try really hard to suppress the shiver that the small act sends through you.

…

While Namjoon is gone, your only customers are two women. One model tall and the other almost a head shorter, holding hands and smiling at each other.

After giving your standard “Welcome to Siren’s” speech, they tell you that their looking for party clothes, you take them to the rack with sparkly dresses and tailored pants and ask them to let you know if they need anything before giving them space.

They go through the rack; the tall woman, seeming to have more fun looking at the clothes than the other who had her clothes picked out in under 5 minutes, balks at the price of a bright sequined number that she had been considering. The other woman places her hand at the small of her back. You can only just hear her ask in a low voice, “do you like it?”

The woman takes a long look at the dress, running her fingers across the sequins. After a moment of consideration, she nods, and the shorter woman takes the dress from her and puts it over her arm where the clothes she’s chosen for herself lay.

They come up to you at the counter and the short woman smiles at you, “just these, thank you.”

You ring up the clothes and give the total. The tall woman looks embarrassed while the other pays with a matte black credit card.

You hand over the bag and tell them to have a good rest of their day and to come back anytime; giving them a genuine smile that most patrons do not get from you.

As they exit, the taller woman says, “I’ll pay you back.”

The other shrugs and says, “okay,” and taps her finger to her pouted lips.

“That’s not what I meant,” she grouses, but the woman pouts harder and taps her lips again. There is an audible sigh and the tall woman leans down and presses a short, sweet kiss into the other’s lips.

They leave and the bell above the door doesn’t ring again until it’s Namjoon that’s coming through it. His dimples pop out as he drops the bag of food onto the counter. The smell hits you and you already know that he’s gone to the Indian restaurant down the street.

“Please tell me that there’s aloo gobi in here,” you say, even as you’re digging through the knotted bag and the excess of napkins that cover the takeout boxes. “Yes!” you exclaim when you open the top container and find the curry dish inside. There’s a brief moment where you wonder if it’s too hot outside to eat something so heavy, but you forget to care, placing your face directly into the Styrofoam container. “You really know me,” you intone dramatically through a comforting mouth full of potatoes and cauliflower.

He huffs, “yeah, I do,” through his own mouthful of what looks like vindaloo.

“What do I owe you?” and even as you ask, your mind supplies a pouty Namjoon asking cutely for a kiss and you flush, eyes almost watering with how much your body craves that contact.

He waves his hand that holds the fork around, brushing away your question, “I was the one who asked. You don’t owe me anything.”

Your brain must short circuit because the words that come out of your mouth cannot be stopped, “But what if I want to owe you something?”

“Are you really about to fight me over, like, eight dollars?”

You stare intently at your food, separating the cauliflower from the potatoes rather than answer.

“Hey,” he says, trying to get your attention. You look up and his eyebrows are scrunched, and lips pursed, an overall confused Namjoon. So fucking cute, lord help you. He looks like his brain is working overtime, but he keeps his mouth shut until he’s chosen what he wants to say. Completely the opposite of you and a quality of his that you usually admire, you really should take a page or two out of his book, but right now you’re on tender hooks waiting for what comes next.

He un-scrunches and looks at you, “What exactly do you want to owe me?”

“I don’t know,” you skirt.

“Hmm.” He stares at you like he’s trying to decipher your soul. It’s…intense.

He looks so serious; it’s intimidating and so much of you doesn’t want to give away your feelings even though you’ve already hyped yourself up to do just that. And no matter how much you want to shut down and deflect, you owe it to yourself and to him to be honest.

You set down your fork and swallow your food. “Okay, so please keep in mind that you’re my best friend in the entire world and you matter more to me than my own feelings.” He straightens up and opens his mouth to say something, but you put up your hand to stop him. “I don’t think I’ll be able to do this if I don’t get it all out in one go.” He nods tightly. “I guess I’ll start with the obvious,” you take a deep breath and looks down at your hands knotting and twisting together in a physical manifestation of your anxiety, “I like you. Not in a platonic way. I like you like I’ve had to stop myself from wanting to kiss you at least 3 times in the last hour. I like you like I want to hold your hand and tell you you’re cute when you’re being cute; like I want you to sleep in bed next to me and not on the couch when you stay over. I like you so much that I’ve been trying really hard not to notice it, but I think that last night changed something between us and I think that you noticed too and that’s why you wanted to have lunch with me today.

If that’s not the reason and you wanted to talk to me about something else and you don’t like me the way I like you, I will be really fucking embarrassed, but that’s okay. I can deal with my own feelings, okay?” You stop because you don’t think you can say anymore without accidentally making yourself cry.

“My turn?” he asks after a few moments of silence. You nod and brace yourself. “You said that you wanted to kiss me?” You nod again, daring to look up at him, wanting to see his face even if it might break you. He considers your confirmation. “Something did change last night. I think, that for me, it was the hope that you saw me as something more than a buddy to kick around with because I more than like you.” And then, it’s the way that he breathes out your name that makes a tear slip out and down your cheek. He says it with so much care that you can feel it.

Food forgotten, you move around the counter and into his space, wrapping your arms around his middle and squeezing tightly. “I more than like you,” you say with your face smushed into the warmth of his chest.

His hands come up to frame your face and guides you to look up at him. “When did you want to kiss me?” he asks, and you let out a wet laugh.

“Right now.” You tap your lips and pout and he laughs too, but he leans down and presses his lips to yours. Your eyes close after a moment; he’s too close for you to see properly anyway. It a sweet first kiss, mouths opening just a little, testing boundaries that have been in place for so long that it feels strange to be kissing him.

You’re kissing Namjoon.

You confessed and he likes you back and now you’re kissing and it’s weird, but nice and you feel like you’re going to explode you’re so happy.

You go up on your tiptoes to press more firmly into him and he presses his hands into the small of your back, helping you arch yourself closer. You can feel the difference between your bodies, the plush give of yours to the hard planes of his and all you can think is, “Does this mean I can see your tattoos?” you say against his mouth, words coming out slurred as your lips catch against his, and tug on his shirt so he gets your meaning.

“Baby,” he warns with a smile, and you close your eyes at the pet name, but it makes you remember that, while the store may be empty currently, you are still in public and actually on the clock. “You can look at whatever you like for as long as you like.”

You hide your face in his neck and wonder if he can feel your smile against his skin. You drop a kiss there, at his collar bone because now you can. “I’m really happy. You make me happy.”

He taps your shoulder to get you to look at him. He kisses you softly, barely anything at all and it makes you unsteady. “Always.” The implication of forever makes you want to fall apart in his arms; you want him to make you feel the weight of his forever which is kind of embarrassing. You note that Namjoon Kim makes you disgustingly sentimental.

“Shut up,” you mumble, face red.

“Cute.”

You smack his side until his grip loosens and you’re really looking at each other. “You need to go before I get in trouble.”

He pouts and it’s just so fucking adorable. It’s emotional terrorism is what it is. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

You take your pointer finger and push his lower lip in toward his teeth. “Yeah, I wasn’t allowed to kiss you before, so.”

He smiles and your finger hits his teeth before he grabs that hand and manipulates it into holding his. “You were always allowed; you just didn’t know it.”

You let out an undignified screech and he laughs. “You gotta go, for real.”

He concedes, but not without stealing another kiss. “I’ll see you tonight? I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. I think we still need to talk about some things.”

“Your place?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he agrees as he backs his way through the doors, eyes on you, smiling like an idiot, but you know you are too, the bell chiming as he exits.

…

Bam makes it back before the end of your shift, coming in with a big shit-eating grin on his face. He’s landed an actual modeling gig for an actual brand that you’ve actually heard of and you couldn’t be happier for him.

You part ways at the end of your shift, trading the guard with Lisa and Chung-ha. Lisa slips you some fresh Star Wars prequel memes and you drop that there’s some Indian food up for grabs in the communal fridge.

You don’t say anything about Namjoon. The knowledge your talk brought this afternoon sits so warm and comfortable in your chest you feel like you’re glowing, and you need to keep that cheesy ass sentimental shit to yourself. You can’t stop yourself from wondering about the reactions from your friend group, though. You would think that they’d mostly be positive considering how many times you’d been asked if the two of you were secretly dating.

Damn. Hindsight really is 20/20.

Heading over to his place is different than usual; your stomach full of nervous butterflies. Which is gross and wonderful at the same time. The fact that you could get used to kissing him and being with him the way you want to is so absurd and fantastic that just the thought of being next to him carries you all the way to his apartment.

Even knocking on his door borders bizarre. He opens the door and seeing his face opens you up.

The amount of smiling both of you have done today is obscene—it really is destroying your Bad Bitch persona— but you can’t stop your mouth from turning up, cheeks pushing your eyes almost closed. The good news is Namjoon looks just about the same as he ushers you into the same apartment you’ve visited a million times before.

Once you stop smiling, the anxiety that follows you into new situations starts to pool out from your stomach. You clench your hands together and squeeze, knowing what you want to do with them, but not sure if you should.

“Hi,” he says, stirring the quiet. He reaches his hand out to you, fingers spread in invitation. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and link your fingers with his. It feels weird, but good to squeeze his hand instead of your own.

He leads you over to the couch. He sits first and then you, making sure that there’s a respectable amount of space between you.

Both of you are facing forward, only chancing glances at each other every so often. The awkward silence between you stretches until you can’t take it anymore; feeling like it’s your fault, or rather your duty, to fill the silence.

“So,” you say and trail off. A strong start. “You said we should talk, and I think that’s a good idea.”

He nods but doesn’t add anything.

“It’s kind of strange, right? We’re transitioning from one thing that we’ve been for a really long time, into another, so it’s weird?” He uses his other hand to play with your intwined fingers while you speak, and it distracts you from your nerves. “It feels like it’s happening really fast and like I got so comfortable with the idea of us being more than best friends so quickly and that’s the weird part?” You kind of hate that everything is coming out like a question. You want to say things with certainty, but, fuck, if it wasn’t difficult.

“I think it would help me to know what you’re thinking about all of this,” you finish.

Your hands jostle between you as he shifts his body to look at you. His eyes like magnets, pulling you to mirror his posture; leg tucked under you and fully facing each other.

“It’s weird, but I like it.” It’s your turn to nod, communicating that you feel the same and want him to continue. “I think it’s something that I’ve spent more time thinking about than you. I was fine with how things were, but I’d hoped that we could be more for a while.”

You held his gaze for as long as you could before staring down at both of your hands. Yours almost completely dwarfed by his; long, inked, and beautiful. You think about yesterday, when you were high and tracing his tattoos and how you had no idea that less than 24 hours later you would be holding his hand without needing an excuse.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He asks as you bring his hand up to your lips.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t- “you stop because you were going to say that you didn’t know he felt this way, but you’re not sure if that’s true and that just makes you feel worse. You start again. “I’m sorry that I didn’t do anything about it. I’m not sure that I didn’t know that you had feelings, you know? And I’m even more sorry that I ignored the way I feel about you for so long. And I’m scared, but I can’t ignore this,” you shake your tangled hands between you. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth quickly, smiling as he draws back. “I have to apologize for doing the same thing then. I didn’t know your feelings for sure and we’ve always been really close, so it was hard. I had to convince myself that every touch and smile and moment that we got too close was just how we were as friends. But I’m not sure that I didn’t know that you had feelings, either. I think we’re both afraid of the same thing. That things will change; that we’ll be different with each other and we won’t work.

I can’t say that won’t happen because nothing is certain, but I know you and I know us. I think we’ll be okay.”

“God, I really like you.”

Namjoon laughs happily and somehow over the next few moments manhandles you onto his lap. Your arms come naturally around his shoulders just as his go around your waist.

The kiss that comes next feels more reckless than the mini make-out session in Siren’s. You know from the moment he teases your mouth open and slides his tongue in to taste you that you’re his. Every swipe of his tongue feels like a brand making you melt into him.

You break the searing kiss to scoot forward in his lap, pressing yourself against him hip to chest. You wiggle and wish that you could help the gasp that escapes you when you feel him. He’s not even fully hard and you already know that he’s going to be a lot for you to handle. The thought of him inside you, stretching you to your limit, filling you up like you deserve, makes you shy.

You tuck your face into the curve of his neck to hide your rising blush and the want in your eyes.

“Talk to me, baby. What’s going through that head of yours?” He asks, mouth pressed to the top of your head.

You groan and move your hips to try and make it clear what’s going through your head, so you don’t have to say it out loud. The feeling of your underwear moving uncomfortably against your slick folds sending another round of blood to your already heated cheeks. You’re so worked up already and it’s embarrassing. Which seems to be the fucking theme of your life right now. But his hands on your hips tighten, stopping all movement.

You whine and try to move, but his grip is strong. Flitting thoughts of him holding you down with the same strength in his tattooed arms are enough to make you try again for any friction.

And again, he stops you.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I need you to talk to me.”

You lean back and see the tension on his face, the softness that’s usually there, sharpened and dark. A look that you’re not familiar with. You’re struck by how fast this is going. How quickly you went from oblivious to this moment, dry humping your best friend (your boyfriend?).

You feel needy, the unbridled want coursing through you and the ocean in your panties is evidence enough of that but is it too soon to make this jump from platonic to…decidedly not platonic?

Namjoon waits in silence for you to speak. Always handling you with care.

You frame his face with your hands, rubbing the apples of his cheeks with your thumbs. “I’m scared that if we talk about what we’re about to do, we’ll realize that we’re going too fast.”

“Are we?” he asks with real concern, pushing you further down his hips, away from his heat.

“I don’t know,” you say, pouting. For fuck’s sake. You don’t want to have to dissect every move you two make. It doesn’t feel wrong, just weird. “I know that I want you, but if it’s too soon, I can wait until it’s not so odd.” And as much as you don’t want to, you know that you will because, “You’re worth waiting for, Joonie.”

He hugs you and it’s nice. It feels comfortable; not sexually charged, but beautiful. You can feel yourself calming down, the moment of intense need fading into something softer.

“I do want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. I just- I feel like this is a big step and maybe we should think about it.”

You sigh and kiss him quickly twice before hoping off his lap. “Okay, do you want to watch a movie?”

He smiles and agrees easily.

You shift in your seat and remember the slick between your thighs. “Pick a movie while I change?”

“Sure. Any requests?”

“Not Leon,” he scoffs, and you feel the familiarity of your dynamic. You slip into his room and rifle through his drawers for a pair of sweatpants and band t-shirt before going to his bathroom to clean yourself up.

When you emerge, clean and comfy, the main menu for Howl’s Moving Castle is pulled up on the TV. Namjoon is lying across the couch on his side with enough space for you to be little spoon. You feel giddy at his choice of movie, your favorite, and his choice of position. Even though sex is not on the table tonight, you feel the thoughtful intimacy in his deliberateness.

“Hey baby,” he says when he notices you watching him. You marvel at how quickly he fell into calling you the pet name and how quickly you’ve taken to hearing it. Maybe you should pick one for him, too.

You press play and the subtitle button until you see brackets down at the bottom explaining that title music is playing. It’s how Joon likes to watch movies and you’ve watched enough movies with him at this point to prefer it as well.

He pats the empty space in front of him and you go, pushing yourself against him in a different way that still had your heart soaring. You put your head on his bicep and he cages you in, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and the other around your middle so there’s no danger of you falling off. You shove your legs back to tangle with his and settle in.

Neither one of you says anything until Namjoon says, “that’s my girl,” in synch with Howl and you shiver. You had never been quiet about your crush on Howl or about how hot you found those words.

You turn your head slightly and glare at him. “Are you trying to seduce me with the greatest movie of all time?”

He honest to god smirks and says, “I’ve always wanted to say it to you. And now you are my girl, so I’m not not going to say it.”

“Oh.” He watches you fidget and turn pink.

“Cute,” he says, kisses your burning cheek.

masterlist

a/n: Kim Namjoon cured my two year long writer’s block.