#it just strikes me as odd how they keep mentioning their son being single

[cuntwrap--supreme]

So the owners at my new job are flat earthers who don't think women should have autonomy. Which explains so much of why the wife, when showing me how to do stuff, kept referring to her husband for basic things and why she had this "I'm being held hostage" vibe. Today, I found out that, through whatever fundy religion they're a part of, they won't let their son be on his own until he's married. Last night, his mother kept asking me if I had a boyfriend, what I look for in a man, etc., and had mentioned at some point that her son (3 years older than me) is also single... And everyone else working there is a man, and I always put "female" on job apps so I don't not get chosen for employment. So I'm, like, wondering now if I got hired to date their weird, cringefail son? One of the other employees said it was weird I got hired because they only hire men (I assumed due to their idea that anyone they think is a woman can't make decisions on their own). Weird situation. Weird vibe. But they also let me take food for free and don't make me clock out for breaks, so I'm like.... Do I leave or stay?

[sunder-soul]

𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖛𝖊

❶·❷·❸·❹·❺·❻

Chapter One: There's just something about those Riddle murders that doesn't quite make sense... Wordcount: 2.3k Content warning: language, allusions to bigotry.

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Name: MORFIN GORMLAITH GAUNT

Age: 46

Wand: fir, 10 ¾ inches, dragon heartstring

Residence: Gaunt Estate, Little Hangleton, Yorkshire

Marital status: -

Offense charge: three counts of murder in the primary degree

Date of charged offense: 1st July, 1943

Offense Detail: prisoner entered the residence of the Riddle family (Muggle, IM-00) and inflicting the Killing Curse (UC-001-1717) upon the three members of the Riddle family present; Thomas Riddle (63), Mary Riddle (60), and their son Tom Riddle (37). Use of the Killing Curse has been confirmed by Prior Incantato (see report DMLE-619-1951-BLE, SA: Robert Odgen).

Date of Testimony: 3rd July, 1943

Prisoner plea: guilty

Sentence: Azkaban, 360 years

Date of Sentence: 3rd July, 1943

You frown.

It’s very late, the candle your desk is barely a stub, the little flame hovering nervously on the surface of a broad pool of wax, and you’ve been copying over these stupid reports to the new, tamper-proof parchment forms for seven hours now – but something is extremely odd about these dates.

“McCollin,” you say slowly. “Did you work this case?”

“Hmm?” McCollin doesn’t look up at the desk beside you, head resting heavily on one hand and his spine curled into a perfect and truly concerning C-shape over his own stack of files. He looks close to passing out right there and then, salt-and-pepper hair a little greasy, scruffy five o’clock shadow, eyes bleary and shadowed.

“Gaunt,” you read, “1943. You were working with Odgen then, right?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I remember that nutter.”

“What happened?”

“Guy was from one of those ancient pure-blooded clans, you know, one of the real fanatical ones, inbreeding and liquidated assets and all,” McCollin yawns, dragging his hand down his face and smearing ink across his whiskered cheek. “Hated Muggles like nobody’s business."

“Yeah he killed three Muggles, right?” you peer at the report.

McCollin nods at the form he's copying. “Went off the deep end one day. Walked right up to their house and murdered ‘em. When they brought him in he was ranting and raving about how they’d had it coming for years.”

“He was arrested, charged, and sentenced within three days,” you say slowly.

He finally looks up at you. “So?”

“That’s the fasted processing I’ve ever seen.”

“The guy admitted to it, kiddo,” McCollin says in deadpan, “he had snakes nailed to his door and his family tree was basically a Christmas wreath.”

“Yeah, but… what made he snap?”

He laughs again, shaking his head despondently as he returns to his form. “You got a lot to learn.”

His tone wants to be fond but it just strikes you as patronising, especially considering the amount of times people have said that exact same stupid line to you. It’s like half the bloody department think being Muggle-born makes you incapable of understanding the subtle and unique intricacies of wizarding culture – as if bigotry and supremacists and assholes are exclusive to the magical world. “What?” you say a little too defensively.

“Families like that… guys like that… they’re not right in the head. Hate Muggles just to hate ‘em, reckon they’re all that’s wrong with the world. Honestly it’s a miracle he didn’t do it sooner.”

You look back down at the report, suspicions anything but assuaged. “Yeah,” you say quietly, “it is.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“Did you ever watch Gaunt’s testimony?”

“You’re still going on about that?” McCollin drawls, heaving the towering box of finished files up a bit as he heads for the lifts.

“I looked him up in Records and the memory’s only available with supervisor permission,” you push, following him quickly. “If you signed me off then I could get Owler to –”

He slams the button and stares at the little golden arrow above the elevator grate slowly sliding towards the basement floor. “And why in Merlin’s name do you want to watch the Gaunt trial?”

You slip your hands into the pockets of your purple Ministry robes. “I’m interested.”

“Interested,” he echoes, shooting you a look. “Is that so?”

“He was processed in three days, McCollin. If it was that obvious he was guilty, it must have been one hell of a trial.”

“It was,” he scoffs as the lift dings and the grate grinds to a noisy open. “Fine, but only if you finish Johan’s quota by five.”

The triumph is impossible to keep off your face and McCollin rolls his eyes at your immediate glee. “I’m on it,” you grin, spinning around and racing back to your desk to get started.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“Merlin’s beard,” McCollin mutters, shaking his head at the stack of completed transcripts. “I gotta hold stuff over your head more often.”

“Just sign the slip, McCollin,” you smirk.

He sighs and grabs the quill from your hand, and you hold your breath as he scribbles his initials on the slip. “You’re obsessed,” he drawls.

You seize the slip and round on the lift, heart racing with excitement. “I’m interested.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

The trial is absolutely insane.

Morfin Gaunt looks like a Witch Weekly cartoon caricature of a fanatical blood-purist and he rambles in a manic-edged, ceaseless torrent about how much he enjoyed murdering the Riddles as the Wizengamot mutters and blithers disapprovingly for about three hours – but something catches your attention right near the end. Something you can’t help but ask Owler about the second the memory ends and you’re thrown back into the Records Room.

“Who’s Merope?”

Owler’s sallow face looks about as thrilled at your question as he was at your request for the memory in the first place. “Merope Gaunt,” he says in a flat, nasally voice, waving his wand at the Pensieve and sending the memory swirling back into its phial.

“Merope Gaunt?”

Owler’s thin, anaemic lips downturn even more. “His sister.”

You stare at him. It is not at all what you’d expected. “And why did he call his sister a mud-soused, scumsucking slut?”

“Ask your supervisor.”

“He seemed to be saying he killed those people because of Merope, why on earth would his sister be why he –”

“I keep the records, I don’t conduct the investigations,” Owler interrupts with not inconsiderable disdain. “Now if you could please –”

“Did they bring Merope in for testimony?”

Owler gives your continuing presence a very dirty look. “No.”

“Why not?”

He pushes the door to the Records room open and stares at you.

You try to hold your ground but Owler is unrelenting, and you're forced to step past him with a curt sigh. “Right, well, good afternoon, Owler, thanks for –”

The door slams shut behind you.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“Get what you wanted?” McCollin smirks as you collapse stony-faced into your chair.

“I forgot how impressively unpleasant it is to talk to Owler,” you mutter, resting your head in your hands. “Did you know about Merope?”

“Merope?”

“Yeah, Morfin’s sister.”

“Didn’t know he had one,” McCollin says disinterestedly.

“He was saying some stuff that made it sound like she’s why he killed those Muggles.”

“Uh huh.”

You lift your head, giving him an incredulous look. “He said she’s why he murdered three people, McCollin. How does that not interest you?”

McCollin throws down his quill and sighs sharply. “Look kiddo, the guy’s rotting in Azkaban, he admitted to the murders, they found the curses in his wand, and he had a memory of the whole thing. What exactly are you hoping to achieve here?”

You can barely believe it. “Why isn’t Merope Gaunt mentioned in any of his trial documents?” you say sharply.

“Either she wasn't relevant to the proceedings, or she's dead, or he made her up,” McCollin shrugs, “like I said, the guy went off the deep end.”

“But why doesn’t it say –”

“Just drop it,” he sighs impatiently, “you have work to do, and I won’t have you wasting clocked time on some case from nearly a decade ago.”

“Come on, McCollin, can’t you admit that it’s weird that –”

“I said drop it,” he says sharply, “don’t make me be the big mean supervisor here, you know I hate it.”

You glare at him. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth.

It’s almost too easy to pull Morfin’s old file from where it’s still sitting in the refuse pile and subtly charm a copy of it that evening.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

Merope Gaunt, as far as you can tell, fucking vanished off the face of the earth in 1925.

There’s nothing, no addresses, no marriage or death notice, no registered Floo connections, no DRC calls for gnomes or doxies or even the odd kappa, not a single trace of her after Morfin and their father Marvolo had a stint in Azkaban for assaulting Bob Odgen back in the 20s.

It seems like the second they were locked up, she scarpered.

You sit back in the Archives Hall and let out a long breath, flipping the folder shut dejectedly. Morfin’s file is a thick wad of anti-Muggle hate crimes rivalled only by his father’s, and closer inspection had revealed that the Gaunt family estate sat a cool twenty minutes' walk from Riddle House where the murders had occurred. If Morfin had lived so close to some of the Muggles he hated so much, he’d been sitting on a clear motive for murder for years.

So why suddenly snap?

What had pushed him over the edge?

Why did he cite Merope in his deranged testimony?

Why talk about her in that way?

Where the hell did she go?

There are endless questions and zero answers. Plus, you kind of get the feeling that if McCollin saw you hunched in the Archives after-hours trying to find those answers, you’d get your pay docked.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

That night, you sit bolt upright in bed with a surge of electric realisation.

Mud-soused… scumsucker…

You’ve heard that language before. You’ve processed about four hundred case files of harassment with that language.

“Idiot,” you breathe, smacking your forehead and falling back onto your pillows with a thump. “Idiot, of course…”

Because that’s the way Pure-blood extremists talk about witches and wizards who've fallen in love with Muggles.

Suddenly, you have a pretty good idea where Merope might have disappeared to the moment her blood-obsessed brother and father were out of the picture, and a pretty good idea of where you might be able to look to find her. Because you’ve been looking in the wrong place.

You’ve been looking for her in the wizarding world.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“I have the craziest news for you,” you grin, slamming a silver Sickle on the counter and taking your seat at the bar.

“You say that twice a month,” Mori grumbles, setting your drink down and sliding the coin into his huge, calloused hand.

“It’s true twice a month.”

“It’s true half as much as you think.”

“I found her.”

Mori’s dark brows raise. It makes his gruff face look slightly less intimidating. “The lady from that old case you're into?”

“Yeah,” you beam, seizing your drink and leaning forward. “Started going through marriage certificates, and –”

“You’re telling me that your big-shot Ministry intern arse has been working this thing for a month and you didn’t even check marriage certificates?”

“Not Muggle ones,” you smirk.

Mori takes a glass off the bar and starts to clean it as he peers at you. “Go on.”

“She married the same guy her brother murdered, Mori,” you breathe, glancing around to make sure none of the shady denizens of Moribund’s are listening – it’s not like the bar's regular patrons are so welcoming to your big-shot Ministry intern arse on the best of days considering you’re half-way down Knockturn Alley in the dead of night. “They fucking ran away together!”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Mori mutters.

“Exactly!”

“What are you going to do about it?”

You shrug, taking a sip of your drink and feeling supremely pleased with yourself.

“What, you spent that much time investigating this thing for no reason?”

“Nah,” you say quietly, lips still in a smile. “I have a feeling there’s more to it than this. I still have to find out what happened to her after they got married and her brother murdered his new in-laws.”

“And what’s this guy’s name again?”

You give him a dry look. “You know I can’t tell you names, Mori, I’m pushing the bounds of my contract telling you this much already.”

He shrugs his massive shoulders, casting a wary look around the dark bar. “If you’re looking for people who might know a thing or two about murderers and Muggle-haters, you’ve come to the right place.”

“I’m here to talk to you, Mori, not the murderers and Muggle-haters.”

“You’re here to drink cheap and rant to someone who won’t rat you out to your boss,” he growls.

You give him another grin. “Cheers to that.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

You find Merope’s name in a record tome of an old church parish almost by accident. There’s barely any information there, just one name on a huge list of those buried in the pauper’s graveyard less than ten blocks from where you’re sat amongst the looming shelves of the Muggle public archives at that exact moment.

But there is something.

It says she died in a place called 'Wool’s Orphanage' on New Year’s Eve in 1926. It’s not hard to guess why she might have been there, and how she probably died.

Merope Gaunt had a child.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

❶·❷·❸·❹·❺·❻

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[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

DOUBT MAKES THE STRONG WEAK ; PART 8 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.5k SUMMARY: From concussions to destruction, you find yourself developing an odd trust in the last two people you would even begin to have faith in and when the apocalypse seems unavoidable, you discover that there may be more to the mystery of the universe. A/N: Well, this chapter is long. And mainly pertains around the theme of 'doubt'. A lot more of Sylvie stuff and Loki just having heart eyes the whole time. I love this chapter and I can’t wait to write more as the story ends. Please tell me what you love, hate, anything (maybe theories lol). Thank you for showing so much love. gif from this gifset by @kamalaskhans WARNINGS: Swearing. Apocalypse. Injuries. Blood. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

You were once a fighter.

Hunter E-87 was the name you once knew, hollered through different fields and dimensions in time and space. You fought for what you thought was right, pledging allegiance to a cosmic establishment that held all power to a single timeline and never questioned the works of the Time-Keepers. The Sacred Timeline is indeed sacrosanct, too important, too valuable to interfere. You fight in the name of the single thread of time, the bark of a tree, forbidden to bare branches of a potential multiverse. You fight because the thought of alternate timelines used to scare you. Yet, if alternate universes were meant to be, the lives you took and destroyed are now in the grasp of your bloody hands. You hold the responsibility of the death of the innocent, taking part in mass genocide.

But promises must be kept.

The thought constantly haunts you in your sleep. You have dreams of death, war, destruction, and famine from across the universe. People seem to glide like specters in the world built by your imagination and mind. You have seen a lot, more than any being in the universe should, but no one talks about the aftermath of witnessing the tragedy of the universe as time goes on and on. No one talks about what it does to the mind. Music from cassettes and the wonder of human space exploration were distractions to cope with the grinding hole in you and the fact you might be turning truly crazy.

Sometimes, you would like to be human—Fewer problems and less time to live.

You blame the sickening and bizarre vivid images that come and go whenever you close your eyes as a symptom of being a hunter. The others are stronger than you. Well, they act like they are. Becoming an analyst made you sleep better but there was always doubt. Sakaar made you doubt.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

“You startin’ to have doubts?”

Green eyes. They watch you with curiosity with a hint of amusement. You hear yourself hum. “Would it be bad if I said yes?”

He laughs. It’s mighty. “Yeah. Definitely bad.”

A beat of silence. You feel your eyes start to sting. “I couldn’t even tell my mom.” A laugh escapes your lips despite the hurt you feel in your chest. “Did you tell anyone? Your wife?”

You see him now, blonde hair slicked back and deep-set eyes. He shakes his head. “Nope. Not even my wife.”

“She’ll be proud, you know.”

“I know...So will your mom. Jesus, you’re gonna be the first woman on—”

Wake up.

“—Is she dead?”

The voice is familiar. It pulls you back to reality but right now, your eyes are too heavy. Doubt is the first emotion that waves through your brain before the process of pain can even occur—uncertain if you are dead or alive.

You can’t feel your limbs, they are too weak.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

Maybe, you are dead.

“This is your fault! You’re the one who swung that sword of yours to her head! You’re careless—”

Sword...Sword...Careless? You remember a train, a fight.

“Oh, I’m the one who’s careless? You’re the one who’s drunk!”

Drunk...Who was drunk?

Then, your voice echoes in your head, images of a certain brunette with a deep frown. He called you a mewling quim. You quoted Hávamál. You then left him and wandered through the other cabins of the train. He blew his cover. He got you into a fight.

Loki. Loki Laufeyson.

Son of a bitch.

Your eyes are wide open now. All you see are the faces of Loki and Sylvie, looming over you. Just two floating heads. Then, the pain arrives, coursing through the entire back of your head. You wince in immediate reaction and the floating heads turn to you in an instant.

What a way to wake up from a concussion.

You remember everything now, but you certainly don’t recall being on the outside of the train. Must have gotten thrown out. The thought angers you, irritation practically boiling to the brim. Yet, it’s your fault. You hadn't thought to babysit the very person you wish were dead. As your palm grips onto the dirt beneath, muscling all strength left to lift yourself. Your head feels light and heavy all at once. Not good.

“Are you alright?” is the question that flies from Loki’s lips, tinged with an emotion you never knew he had for another but himself—worry. Whether selfless or selfish, you wish to ignore the complexity of Loki’s reactions and possible change in character, especially towards you. Ever since you stepped foot on Lamentis, all you felt was pain. You have never been injured so much within the last few hours than in your entire life and weirdly, you feel fine.

Sylvie is quick to stand, watching the two of you work in tandem. His grip finds the curve of your shoulders as you stick your hand out to grip him by the bicep. At your touch, you notice how his arm stiffens ever so slightly. You don’t say anything.

Some things about Loki are best left unknown and unanswered.

Today is filled with a lot of getting off the ground in the most unceremonious way possible.

A deep exhale leaves your lips, wisps of your hair drifting with the brutal breeze from your nostrils. Beads of sweat trail along the curve of your forehead and the back of your neck. Some entangled with the strands of your hair. Your hands feel clammy and dirty but you run them to push your hair back and away from your face anyway.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, pulling yourself away from his touch.

You finally get a good look at the two. Loki looks like complete shit but Sylvie manages to maintain the regalness to the locks of her hair despite her opposing overall behavior. It’s the Asgardian blood coursing through her veins. You cannot hide your ancestors' blood. It’s hard to believe the two are the same—one being. Yet, it's believable when you’re angry at the two of them.

The two messed up your career, that’s why.

Unbothered and uncivilized. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.

As your eyes shift along the train tracks that meander along a gorge with steep rocky walls that leer above it, you catch sight of a spark by your feet, glinting under the iridescent sky.

It’s the TemPad, shattered into pieces; you recognize the color gold of its border.

Your eyes grow wide, mouth agape. You don’t even feel angry anymore, it’s more than that. You stick out your hand to gesture towards the destroyed device, “Is that—Is that the TemPad?” you ask as your other hand lifts to hold the side of your head. “Or am I just seeing things from the concussion?”

Sylvie is the one to speak. “It’s not the concussion.”

You suddenly feel like you’re burning.

If it were possible, you could have instantly killed him with a look.

“You. You killed us!” you step closer to him and for a moment, Loki doesn’t exactly know what to do. “So, it’s my fault then? You were the one who left me alone in the lounge.” are the words that leave his lips. Completely useless. Trying to diffuse the tension is the exact opposite of what he does.

His silver tongue isn’t so shiny and silver anymore.

You don’t pull your blow this time. Your palm strikes his cheek, rocking his head to the side. Your hand is oddly soft. Loki winces and you stand your ground. “You’re a jerk and an asshole. You’ve probably been called that for all your life and yet, here you are. Still, the most insensitive and pathetic man I’ve ever met,” you articulate your words with frustration and rage. You don’t raise your voice like before, it’s low and frightfully intimidating. “And I’m not your babysitter.”

—

Battles, ruination, and fracas gave a sense of familiarity to Sylvie in a time of an impending apocalypse. When worlds end, benevolence is resolute. The tragedy of the end of lost souls—afraid to die. But as daunting as the apocalypse is, the beauty of their souls finally returning to the universe protrudes amongst the debris and misery.

She sees herself in the two of you, as much as she doesn’t identify as a Loki anymore, and her hatred towards the TVA. You have a temper and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

You’re mysterious in an almost enchanting way and possibly significant as you seemed to be at first glance. Sylvie is highly curious about you.

You don’t stray too far from the group, only to find rest by the edge of a pit made by a crashing meteor. You sit with your back turned against the very two beings you distrust as you watch the border where the bustling city of Shuroo is based. Your guard is down and you don’t care at this point. Everyone is about to die anyway.

Sylvie’s gaze finds Loki who seems to be only watching the back of your still figure, eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to her. Possibly regret? Sylvie doesn’t know what regret looks like. But fear and anger, she feels it radiating from you. She knows it. Something tells her you’re not solely angry at her and Loki.

She finds herself drifting closer to you. You don’t move. She cautiously settles beside you. “You’re not hiding a knife somewhere, aren’t you?”

You merely scoff, caressing your head, “You’re the one to say.”

Sylvie blinks. Fair enough.

Silence. Sylvie’s eyes shift to the handkerchief tied around your arm, stained with blood. “How’s the arm?”

You hum. “Surprisingly, fine.”

Oh, Sylvie knows it’s fine. She knows what Loki did. She decides not to mention the scratch she made across your cheek.

“Did the slap make you feel better?”

The question is hinted at near sarcasm, but genuinely, she wants to know.

“Yes, it did. You should try it sometime.”

She simply hums. “I would have but you beat me to it.”

A turn of your lips as they curve into a small smile. Sylvie watches with an odd sense of satisfaction. “You know, I’m still mad at you. For what you did to me.” Your words are slow. You find yourself swallowing. “But it’s nothing compared to what the TVA did to you.”

Empathy. Is this what empathy feels like? The moment when someone finally understands what it’s like to be alone for so long. Your lives are different but they reflect in certain ways. You have had your fair share of living in constant fear and constantly running. Sylvie finds herself wanting to tell you that she hadn’t simply pushed you into Sakaar. When it’s a mission, things are never accidental. She always has a plan.

Yet, she chooses not to say anything.

You speak again but merely whisper, fidgeting with your fingers, “Before Sakaar—did you enchant me?”

It's as if you're reading her mind.

“Are you seeing things?”

After a pause, the fidgeting stops.

“I’ve seen things all my life, images. Brief and insignificant. But ever since I was in Sakaar, it’s gotten a lot harder to differentiate a dream and a memory.”

“That’s because they aren’t dreams.”

Your hardened gaze finds hers for a brief moment, nearly growing wide at her words but in an instant, your guard is up once you hear the shuffling of feet behind you where Loki lingers. The subject is dropped immediately. He meets Sylvie’s gaze, the two share a knowing look.

Your anger is provoked and well deserved and yet, the last thing he wants is to be your enemy. Loki doesn’t know why. He has lived a life full of them.

You’re different.

He stills, wondering if you’re going to lash out at him again but when he notices your slow breaths, he decides to sit next to you anyway, awkward glances to you in his periphery. A deep sigh escapes his lips, fiddling with his fingers. “What now?”

Sylvie is the one to answer. “I don’t know. You broke the TemPad.”

“Well—”

“And that planet is about to crash into us.”

Loki looks up at the nearing planet of Lamentis. He blinks. “Well, yes, but—”

“Yes, but what?”

“Well, the entire moon is destroyed, right?”

Sylvie is trying to suppress your growing annoyance. “Yep. And everyone on it is killed.”

But Loki pesters on. “Including us.”

She raises her voice. “Yes, including us.” Loki glances at you momentarily. A pause. He furrows his brows in thought.

“What about the ark?”

“The ark never leaves because it's destroyed.”

Suddenly, an epiphany, his eyes light up. He turns to you and Sylvie, “Never had us on it.”

You suddenly scoff at his words. “Are you suggesting we hijack the ark and make sure it gets off this moon?” You turn to him to only spot a vague smile playing upon his lips. He nods in return. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Agent.”

You merely blink, watching the way his eyes shift across your face. First, you’re struck with uncertainty. It’s a risk, a huge one but you know, risks are meant to be uncertain. Risks are also vital in success. Hesitation, doubt—they make you weak. This time, you want to be strong. Strong enough for one last push to save your life.

“Okay.” is what you say, your expression reflecting his.

For the first time, since he took your hand in Sakaar, you’re starting to trust him.

—

The walk to Shuroo seemed endless. You trail behind the two, feeling like you’re about to suffocate.

“—To preserve the connection, I have to create a fantasy from their memories.”

Loki and Sylvie had been conversing about the science and functions of enchantment in a rather surprisingly calm manner. Loki hums, amused by her elucidation. “And you call me a magician.”

Her expression is unchanged as she continues to trudge alongside Loki, ignoring his previous statement. “That young soldier from the TVA, her mind was messed up. Everything clouded. I had to pull a memory from hundreds of years prior...before she even fought for them.”

Loki halts abruptly in his step, hand flying to grab Sylvie’s arm. “What? What'd you say? Before she joined the TVA?”

Sylvie blinks. “Yeah. She was just a regular person on Earth.”

His mind starts to reel, face muddled with confusion. “I was told that everyone who works for the TVA was created by the Time-Keepers.”

“That's ridiculous. They're all variants, just like us. Including her.” Sylvie gestures discreetly to you who has stopped to take a breather, hands on your hips as you blink up to the sky.

You, Mobius, all of them. All variants.

“They don't know that. She doesn’t know that.” he breathes a terrified expression.

Sylvie looks at you from afar. You’re now looking at them with a bewildered expression. “What?” you call out, voice echoing through the wide area, in a somewhat defensive tone.

She turns to Loki once more, voice nearly faltering. “I have a feeling she already knows it.”

—

Loki doesn’t realize the unfamiliarity of hopelessness. Throughout his life, he was constantly surrounded by those with unfaltering determination—His brother, family, friends who were warriors, The Avengers.

Never was it known that he would see it burning in your eyes as they reflect the growing fire of the Ark, crumbling down, tongues of fire engulfing it whole before you. His heart burns with it as Shuroo falls quiet—only the sounds of the metallic crashing of the disintegrating parts of the ship falling from above and the screams of the rich and deemed worthy to live. Every Lamentian still alive held their breath, a moment's silence for their lives must end. Everything must end.

So close yet so far.

Sylvie is gone by the minute as the city starts to descend in terror and panic. He stands behind your still form, just watching your only chance of making it out, swallowed by its own billowing smoke. He reaches out for you, tugging you by the sleeve. “We should leave,” he says with a sudden sense to protect you. There isn’t much to do at this point. It doesn't matter if you are hit by the falling pieces of the Ark because you are all going to die anyway.

But he considers it a gesture, as insignificant and small it is. The least he could do is to distract you from the end, whether for a mere second or minutes.

“I know things haven’t been the best between us and I concede I bring out the worst in you, but I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You turn to Loki with his sudden words. He watches the way your expression softens so gracefully, face adorned with gashes and wounds. Your mouth twitches as you respond with a gentle voice. “I forgive you.”

Three words. Very powerful words.

His heart skips a beat.

You find Sylvie at the brink of the city, sitting on a stretched slab of rock amongst the dirt, watching the horizon where the planet starts to meet the moon. Loki still has his hand around your arm, but you don’t complain. It’s your only source of support at the moment. It’s an unconscious move, but everything about it feels right when the two of you settle beside her, shoulders brushing against each other. It only makes sense to want to feel the nearness, the closeness of another as the light at the end of the tunnel begins to dim.

It’s impending. It’s scary.

“I remember Asgard.”

Sylvie’s voice trembles, her eyes are somber.

“Not much, but I remember. My home, my people, my life. Then, the TVA showed up, erased my reality, and took me, prisoner. I was just a child.”

You turn to her, guilt bubbling in your chest, but you don’t say anything. You let her speak. It’s only right.

“I escaped.” she breathes, blinking the brimming tears in her eyes away. ”Stole a TemPad and I ran for a long, long time, which really sucked. Everywhere and every-when I went, it caused a Nexus event.”

Sylvie turns to you with a melancholic gaze. “The universe wants to break free, so it manifests chaos. Like me being born the Goddess of Mischief. But to you and the TVA, I’m not supposed to exist.”

For so long, you hadn’t realized the consequences of your work at the TVA. You believed you were right. That erasing, resetting realities were meant to be. You cannot comprehend how it only occurred to you to question the authority of the Time-Keepers over time itself after Sakaar. All those years of being ignorant and selfish. You hadn’t realized. You never did.

But now you know.

Sylvie continues, gaze shifting away from you. “I figured out where to hide. And so that's where I grew up, the ends of a thousand worlds. Now...that's where I'll die.”

Then, silence. It sits heavily between the three of you.

“The universe—isn’t she beautiful?” Your voice is soft, eyes trained on the horizon—a fleet of asteroids, they reflect the end. But they seem to dance to the silence of the apocalypse, drifting across the stratosphere, lining the firmament. Loki’s gaze shifts to you, training on every curve of your face and the tears slipping down your cheeks. He agrees, the universe is beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

“She brings turmoil, agony, and destruction but in all her flaws, there’s beauty in her very existence.”

Your hands find Sylvie and Loki’s hands, holding on to them tightly as you fight the wavering of your voice.

“You...Both of you might be the epitome of chaos but you must know that you have such beautiful souls. All of us, we're her children...and if she is beautiful, so are we. And the Universe is always right. If she created you then we are wrong.”

Sylvie’s face is soft. Loki squeezes your hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should have known from the start...that the TVA was lying to all of us. I should have questioned. I should have doubted—”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” she says, smiling with saddened eyes.

You laugh. You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe, it’s because you know you are a part of the problem anyway, even if you were just doing your job.

You find Loki’s gaze that’s already on you. You sigh and speak through a whisper. “I’m sorry for slapping you.”

His lips curve into a grin, eyes crinkling like your own. “It was well deserved, but I forgive you.”

Fingers entangled with the hands of two unlikely people, you finally realize what it truly feels like to not be alone. To be in the company of someone you want to be with.

“Now long now.” Those three words leave the very lips of Sylvie and your chest feels like it’s about to collapse.

You never knew you were afraid of death, yet here you are—terrified.

The ground shakes beneath you. It’s dark and there’s fire everywhere. A meteor collides to the ground just across the way, it sends smoke billowing to its surroundings faster than you can blink.

Even in the last seconds of your life, you have doubts remaining. What if the universe isn’t always right?

Then, through the growing dust, you see a spark, like lightning. A glint of a figure, standing before you. White, pure, and serene. You’re standing now, staring ahead. Sylvie and Loki cease to exist in your mind as they gaze at you with bewilderment. They anxiously call you by your name but you don’t hear it. There’s only silence now, you don’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

A voice, she speaks with dignity. A voice so familiar.

“Doubt makes the strong weak, my child.”

Then, you hear it. A soft hum—a Time Door glows warmth amid your impending death.

Suddenly, she’s gone.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

@the-maroon-panda

@kashasenpai

@nyxrae

@johnmurphys-sass

[saturnsstufff]

The Blade and The Crow

warnings: mentions of death

   Immortals are painted so delicately high in stories. Each brush stroke gently and precisely placed, placed without flaw. Immortal's either see Mortal's as a soft malleable child, open and willing to learn, yet desperately in need of guidance. Or they see them as fools, not cautious enough with their limited time.

   When the Angel Of Death saw Mortal's he saw them as pure Fools. Too stupid and naïve in the understanding of God's, and Immortals. What made him turn his nose up the most however was their lacking in interest. They didn't want to learn, or understand the unnatural order. Mortals shunned the forbidden knowledge, to Phil- someone who loved to learn, someone who soaked information up seamlessly, he couldn't understand their uninterest.

   Philza was young however, he was still new to this... power. No matter how long Immortals live their is always a beginning. A start to their story, a single hushed word, maybe written, thought, or spoken, sometimes even screamed, whether gloriously or in sin. sometimes their beginnings aren't wrote or even spoke of, sometimes they are painted, mostly because words cannot begin to explain.

   When Phil started becoming Devine, he honestly didn't think much about it, frankly he didn't even understand it was happening. He was a teen, young, a bit of a lady killer if you asked around, but entirely he was kind and quite generous. His parents focused on raising a kind son, the type any girl could bring hoe to her parents and be proud of. Truthfully, between his never ending manners and his strive for hard work, it was hard to not be proud of him, or at least acknowledge he was striving for the stars. 

   Phil's story started Hushed, soft, gentle even. Like a slow morning. The sun slowly leaving it's hidden spot. Shining and blossoming out to something much larger, sometimes more threatening. Just like that Sunrise, no matter how small and frail he was, by the end of eons Phil would become something more threatening, and terrifying. Some wouldn't even know he was born a child, for every story and legend taken down described him as a immortal elder who flew trough eons as a blood thirsty, torn man.

   However, about his teens he started to notice his aging slowing down dramatically. His mother would always play it off as having a young baby face. The common thing any mother would tell her child. “Oh it’s just your youth showing, no need to worry”, “It’s just a baby face, your father had it too” all things he was told. He believed it too, after all, was he supposed to look into it?

   Sadly this odd aging became more apparent with every new year. By Nineteen he roughly looked about fifteen, when he turned twenty, he similarly looked the same. Because of this oddity he found himself staying home, or keeping away from the public more and more, not wishing to be ridiculed or looked at as a medical mystery. 

   He tried to grow close to some at least, some girls still lingered to his kindness. That was until they looked like a older woman carrying a child around on her arm. After being left  so many times, Phil couldn't help but draw back, and subconsciously shut himself down on seeking out a possible partner. After all, who wanted to bee seen with a child?

   When he matured into his thirties, he moved into a cottage by himself. He lied to his mother about the reasoning, telling her he wanted to explore the world more, grow up and experience it all. He knew his father wouldn't need help around the house anymore so it was perfect timing for the excuse. However, deep down he knew he was only leaving because he didn't want the village people to see a thirty-year old looking like a nineteen year old.

   After his departure he only came back for two things. His Father’s and his Mother’s Funeral. He would always kick himself in the future when he looked back on his mothers death. He couldn't stay through her whole service, not because of the tears he shed, but because of the lingering comments the villagers made. They didn't recognize Phil, thus they assumed he never showed. So instead of whispering saddened through's about her missing child, they down talked him. They cursed his “absence”, they wished Ill on him, they hoped he suffered for it.

   When Phil thinks back on this, he always remembers this as the first time he felt something deep within him stir.

   For every word, every curse... Every ill will... 

He wished it back tenfold. 

   “Shame their boy didn't show, I thought he was so kind”

   ‘Shame you don't open your eyes’

   “Don't you think he would at least show? I mean its a funeral, its not like he had anyone else.”

   ‘I don't see anyone at your funeral, not with how you keep both faces upturned’

   “I hope he remembers missing his mothers death, I hope it stays with him forever”

   ‘rot in hell’ 

   He knew most of his anger was from grief, he knew he shouldn't take it out on the others, it wasn't the right thing to do. 

   But that didn't stop him from doing it anyway.

   He should have been about a hundred now. he was easily old, yet he looked no older than twenty. He couldn't explain it, but that didn't stop him from living, he still kept going day to day.

   After a few more he left the pew, no longer waiting to hear what else they had to say about his absence.

   After he hit three digit numbers, he started to change drastically...

   He met a woman on his One hundred, and fiftieth birthday, and Oh would he always remember her. She never gave her name, yet Phil trusted her with his whole heart. 

   She came to him when he was out late hunting. The night was cold, the first snowfall hadn't been long ago, so as Phil prowled the woods his breath came out in puff’s, the cloud showing his shaky breath. At first he thought he was seeing things, shadows moving too swiftly for a pure animal. He would see one on his left, then swiftly from behind him, then to his right. it was enough to drive anyone insane at the thought.

   Pushing aside his fear, he drew the sting of his bow back, assuming a black bear had taken interest into his loneliness, prowling alongside him, waiting to send him back to his mothers grave in bits. Phil was wise enough to know the situation of “You or Me, we both cant leave” So before the bear could strike he pulled the arrow back, tucking the nock against the corner of his lip, the fletching brushing his cheek in the process, giving contrast to the cold night. With the arrow ready, he waited for the sound of movement. 

   When he herd the wind pass by his ear in a swift breeze, he released a breath and turned, releasing the arrow from his grip, letting the arrow pierce the air, waiting for the sound of a hit.

But it didn't come.

   Instead, when he turned to see his kill, he saw a kind woman looking down at him. She was tall, yet beautiful in every point, wings of gold glittered under the moonlight, acting like a natural halo behind her. Her face was hidden by her black veil, black curls kissing her cheeks as they fell over her shoulder. Not only was Phil stunned, but he was left speechless when he saw her holding his arrow, the arrow he shot in hopes to end animal.

   “Well hello there little one”

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 5

din/reader

i want to say a massive thank you for everybody who’s supported the content creator strike, it’s really important to draw attention to the issues we face and hopefully it’ll mean that engagement goes up and people will start respecting creators more 💛 as always, a massive thank you to @brothersdrxke for drifting with me on this

MASTERLIST

word count: 3.4k

warnings: probably some swears, poetic allusions to smut, din experiences emotion, 18+ no babies thanks

You don’t see Din for years, but he never fully leaves your mind.

Green Squadron gets pulled every which way across the galaxy, and you follow your orders. From the outer atmosphere above Scarif, to the Battle of Yavin, to some Outer Rim planet you barely spent a day on where the white ground turns red with every footstep. You see more stars than you ever thought possible. Mercifully, the endless missions and drills leave you little time to wonder what the Mandalorian might be up to in your absence. 

You’re not thinking about him under hails of blaster fire and explosives, nor while you duck and weave through smoke and flame to cover your teammates in the air. But he comes to you in the small hours, hours you spend trying to sleep, hours you spend wishing you were tucked up close against his side. You still claw through your memory for his smell, long since disappeared from the blanket you keep with you. Metallic and warm and home.

You’ve not used that word to describe anything for a long time, but it feels right.

Still, you live. Life in the Rebellion keeps you busy. Between meetings and missions and drills, you barely have enough time to eat, or sleep, or think some days. You’re grateful for that. The people around you are just as engrossed by war, but they don’t seem to let it get in the way. There’s love and light and laughter and you let it engulf you when you can. Nights spent in the rec rooms on your assigned cruiser, playing games of sabacc or keeping friends steady on barstools at the tiny cantina. People don’t stop living, so neither do you. Shara and Kes had married as soon as he was between missions, not long after she’d held your hand in a death grip at the prospect of her possible pregnancy. And you’re the first to hold their little boy when he comes, a week earlier than expected and furious, screaming into the galaxy. Life is good. But it’s missing something.

You try to live, at least. You freely give out smiles and stories and time, but you can never bring yourself to take it further. They always lean in close and you keep the distance. Break eye contact. You can’t do it. It’s not right. To do that to him. Even through the radio silence, even through the way you feel him just out of reach. You’re always kind about it, and nobody ever takes it badly, eyes soft as you apologise and tell them you’re spoken for. He hasn’t, but you are. That’s how it’ll always be.

He creeps into your dreams until he’s always there, his arms the only thing you can think of in the moments before you sleep.

Somewhere outside, you’re always outside with him. And there’s no armour or uniforms or obligations, just you and him and the sky as it turns a soft shade of pink. He’s not wearing his helmet, something you know as solidly as you know how to fly, but you can never quite stretch up to see his face. You don’t mind. You don’t mind because in this reality, he loves you. He tells you he loves you, over and over, and that’s enough. It doesn’t last long. The clouds roll in, dark and heavy, and Din’s warmth disappears from beneath you. Instead, you’re swallowed into the black as Captain Antilles tells you to suit up and move out. You don’t know where you’re going, but the weight sitting in the pit of your stomach makes you certain you’re not coming back.

You wake up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, and try to bring your heart rate down. Other pilots in the barracks are fast asleep around you, breathing in unison. Except one.

“You have a lot of those,” Shara whispers, the rest of the squadron still snoring, “Bad dreams, I mean.”

“Did you get a holo today?” You don’t want to talk about your dream. The fear still courses through you, it seemed so real. Missions are getting more and more dicey as each side gets more and more desperate, it’s not clear who’s winning anymore. If anybody. You can count on one hand the number of pilots who’ve come back completely unscathed in the last few months.

“He’s talking properly now, I swear every time I see him he’s bigger.” She’s trying not to cry, and you have the good grace not to mention it. Being away from her son for this long leeches at Shara’s spirit. Little Poe is safe and happy and being doted on by a relative of Kes’s, far away from the Empire’s reach. But sleep escapes her most nights, replaced by the pain of watching him grow from a distance, and the very real threat that she won’t get to see him grow up at all. You stretch your arm out across the narrow gap between your bunks and find her hand in the darkness. It’s all either of you have.

“We’re flying out to the Endor system in 36 hours. The second Death Star is mid-production, not operational, we’ll hit it before it’s done.” There’s none of the sarcastic warmth you’ve come to expect from your team commander over the years, this is it. The final stand. The noise of the cruiser’s hangar fades away as your brain switches to fight mode and you process your orders. The end of the Empire, or the Rebellion. Three possible outcomes: you win and live, you win and die, or you lose and die. The Empire will not leave survivors. Like any good pilot, you pretend that the odds don’t scare you.

You’re going to lose people. Friends, colleagues, strangers will fall, but that’s the risk you run in the Rebellion. Every single person would lay down their life at a moment’s notice if it meant the chance of success. You’re the best you’ve ever been, a veritable armoury of skills that would make your sixteen year old self faint. If it was down to just you, you’d make it out of any dogfight no doubt about it. You have no fear when you’re in the air. But it’s not just you, is it? It’s Shara, and Green Squadron, and the Rebellion at large. If any of them go down, there’s no question that you’ll follow.

You’re fumbling through your pack the moment you realise you’ve made it back to the barracks, alone, the solitude is far too rare and you’re not about to waste it worrying. You’ve pressed the talk button and brought the comm up to your mouth before you’ve even figured out what you want to say. Hopes that he’ll answer, or hear you at all, aren’t exactly high. But you’re desperate enough to give it a go.

“I’m going to the inn at Mos Espa. The one from before? I’ll click when I’m there, if you’re around.” You don’t tell him that it’s because you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. And you love him, even if he doesn’t know. And you’re selfish, ultimately. You just hope he can’t tell you’re trying not to cry.

“-if you’re around.”

Your voice echoes around the cockpit of the Razor Crest, and Din tries to ignore the way it ties his stomach in knots. He misses you, so much more than he thought he would. It’s like there’s a space inside him where only you fit, like his lungs threaten to collapse without you.

He should pretend that he didn’t get the message, like the way he pretends that he doesn’t keep the long-range comm pinned to the control board of the Crest, like the way he pretends he doesn’t think about getting in touch with you every second of every day. It’s the first time he’s heard from you in a while and there’s a new bounty puck burning a hole in his pocket and he really shouldn’t be thinking about going. Except there’s something in your voice that he can’t quite work out. He doesn’t want to go so far as to call it fear, but he can’t sit there wondering. He can’t sit there as if he hasn’t missed you.

So, Din powers up the Razor Crest, and locks in the coordinates for Mos Espa.

You hadn’t even needed to ask Shara to cover for you, she offered the second the word Mando slipped out. You’ve held her through nights where all she can do is miss Kes, she understands the pain you feel every time you spot the comm in your pack. You’d asked her once if she thought you were being silly, pining over a man whose face you’ve never seen. She’d only told you to shut up, that he’s clearly not just some guy you sleep with when the opportunity arises.

“You don’t lose sleep over dick, Lieutenant.”  

And she’s right, even if you’re afraid to put any other word to it.

The room hasn’t changed, although you’re not sure why some part of you had expected it to. The desk and chair are still in the same place, the bedding still a faded red, even the light in the ceiling has the same tattered lampshade. You stand by the small window, watching people’s shadows grow long as the day comes to an end. Still no word, no sign, nothing from Din.

The suns set, and he’s not here. He’s not coming. You hate how much you want to see him, just once, before you have to leave. You’re about to curl up on top of the bedcovers and sleep, until two knocks on the door echo loud and clear.

You look rough. Din doesn’t want that to be the first thing he thinks about you when he opens the door, but he can’t deny it. Your shoulders sag with exhaustion, stress, and there’s that fear he didn’t want to admit to hearing before. It’s not him you’re afraid of, but somehow he knows you won’t even acknowledge it.

“Been a while.” Years. It’s been years and that’s the first thing he can think of to say?

He’s here and now you can barely move. You spent so long preparing yourself for him not to show that you have no idea how to react now that he has. It feels like you’re walking through cobwebs.

“Yeah, it- it has been.” This is really not how you envisioned this would go. But he’s right, it has been a while. Maybe the more hopeful part of your heart wanted you to just pick up where you left off, but you’re not even exactly sure where that would be.

Din makes the decision for you. He strips his armour slowly, setting it on the desk in the same way he did the last time you stayed here, and never once takes his eyes off of you. You can feel it, like he thinks you’ll disappear if he looks away. Maybe you will.

Your jacket is already draped over the back of the chair, the night not yet cold enough to warrant more than your tattered t-shirt. It’s the one you wear under your flight suit. You’d left your old blanket on your bed back on the cruiser, you need his scent on this instead. You need to keep him with you when you take to the skies, just in case.

He steps closer to you, helmet still in place, until he’s all you can see. The cold metal presses down firm against your forehead, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels right. In any other context, it might scare you.

“I need you.” You can’t keep the tremble out of your voice, only hoping it makes you sound desperately horny rather than terrified. Your hands knot themselves in the thick fabric of the flight suit over his chest and he just holds you there for a moment. Bare hands skim your back, reaching up underneath your shirt to find your skin. They freeze when he finds a symmetrical set of scars. The marks feel old, settled, but still carry a heat that feels more recent than the ones he’s used to feeling.

“Prod, I think the medic said it was. Don’t recommend that.” Your half-hearted laugh travels up his fingertips.

Din’s mind flashes back to years ago, to the crime syndicate he slaughtered, the ones who’d treated torture like it was dinner and a show. The rebel pilots he’d freed-

“We had the bantha-prod on the other one yesterday. Oh, the screaming.”

He decides it probably wasn’t you, the galaxy is a big place and there’s more wannabe crime lords than womp rats. The chances of you being the second pilot are slim, and if one group was using bantha-prods on prisoners there’s no doubt there would be more. They’re convenient, easy to get your hands on, and pack a decent punch. He lets his fingers rest on each of the pronged scars for a moment, and leaves it at that.

You keep your forehead pressed to the helmet and let Din strip the layers between you, breaking only when he leans back to lift the old t-shirt over your head and your eyes slip shut against the dim moonlight. You can’t see much with them open but you need to feel him, all of him, and you know he trusts you not to look. Your mind is reeling so much that you don’t even hear him slip the helmet off, you don't register that he’s bared himself to you as much as you’re bared to him until he’s pressing you down against the threadbare blankets.

It’s there that you let him consume you, take over every square inch of your skin until you belong to him completely. Just for this isolated moment, as if the war doesn’t exist. And you revel in it, you lose yourself and let him guide you through it all. Committing his every touch, every kiss, every breath to your memory. This is what you’ll think of when you go down tomorrow. You’ll think of him and the tight feeling in your heart when he kisses you and you’ll remember that he took care of you. Even when you can’t get your hands to stop shaking.

You’re in your head, he can tell. But Din knows you, far better than either of you are willing to admit, and he knows you won’t tell him. So he throws everything he is into it. Into this time with you, no idea when he’ll get to be with you again. If ever. And for once, the fear for his creed is silent. He pulls you into him until it’s impossible to tell that you’re not one single being. You need this, clearly, and his heart is so firmly in your hands that he’ll give it to you. He’ll put everything on hold for you, every time.

You’re the first one to rise from the bed, barely having caught your breath before you’re rummaging for your clothes on the floor with your eyes still clenched shut, and that’s when Din knows something’s definitely wrong. He can hear your hands shake as you pull your t-shirt back over your head.

“Hey,” He leans forward to catch your elbow, but you shrug his fingers away, “What’s wrong?”

“I have to get back to base.” Is the only explanation you offer. Din huffs and the sound makes you flinch, too sharp in the dark, as he pulls you back to the scratchy sheets. Your hands find his broad chest and you take a second to focus on his breathing, on the way his ribs expand, until you can find the right words.

“Cyar’ika.”

“I think I’m dying tomorrow.”

He says nothing. You don’t expect him to. What are you supposed to say when somebody tells you they’re going to die?

“Din, I-”

He surges up to kiss you, breathing you in and surrounding you until he is all you know. All you ever want to know.

“Tell me when you live.” He whispers, pulling his lips away just enough to speak, and hopes you’re tired enough to forget the way you promise as you tuck yourself back into his chest. He can’t let you say the words, he knows he’ll never leave if you do.

It doesn’t take much convincing to get you to stay. A few hours, he says. He’ll wake you up when you need to go, he says. You know he will, he’s never given you a reason not to trust his word. And you let yourself relax into him, curling into his side and wondering what would happen if he didn’t wake you up. What if you just stayed here, the two of you in this room, for the rest of forever? It’s a nice enough thought to clear your mind and let sleep take over.

You wake before he does, hours before the suns are meant to rise and you know it’s time to go. It hurts, to think about leaving Din here in this bed to wake up alone. Like the last time. You hope he’s not too upset with you as you fumble blindly for the rest of your abandoned clothes.

While he has seen far too much cruelty, and been far too kind to you to deserve this, you leave him sleeping. Better for him to wake at dawn and be angry with you than to wake now and convince you not to go. You know he would. You’ve never much believed in the Force, or love for that matter, but every path you’ve ever taken has led you straight back to him. That’s got to count for something.

But love isn’t something you get to have. You’re not foolish enough to convince yourself that it is. Although, if anything in the galaxy could come close, it would be Din. You leave your heart behind with him, tucked up close beside his in the tangled sheets. He’ll keep it safe, you can trust him, of that you’re certain.

“You ready?” Shara’s trying her best to sound upbeat, and you have to hand it to her. It’s difficult not to feel like this is the end, hers is the first smile you’ve seen all day.

“I think we both know the answer to that.” You reply as you tug her into a hug. You squeeze each other almost uncomfortably tightly, but part of you feels like it might be the last chance you get to hold your best friend. She’ll feel every ounce of love you have for her, even if you crack each other’s ribs. Your matching dark green flight suits feel far too new, too starched and solid, for the firefight you know is coming.

“You smell like boy.” She mumbles into your shoulder and you huff out a laugh.

“I’ll see you after.” You say when she pulls back. Neither of you are sure you’re right.

But you are. The comms fill with cheers as you watch the second Death Star crumble, the remnants of the fleet around you falling. And you can breathe. Your work, the Rebellion’s work, is far from over but this? This is everything you’ve been working towards for years. It’s hard not to feel relieved for just a moment. You catch Shara as she zips by, following her down to Endor’s surface.

You’ve barely unclipped the safety belts before she’s wrestling you out of the cockpit and down to the forest floor. You land in a heap of laughter, maybe a few tears, and wait for the adrenaline to settle.

“We did it!” Shara’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it as you clasp her cheeks in your hands and hold her there. You’re both swept up into somebody’s arms only a moment later, Kes Dameron’s booming laugh filling your ears, and you let the joy wash over you. You’ve gotten through the worst of it with this, your little found family of rebels, intact. If only it wasn’t so glaringly obvious that someone is missing.

Later into the night, you pull yourself away from the party, slipping down a ladder from the treehouses and making your way to the ships. It takes a moment to remember exactly where your A-Wing is, and another to dig around in your pack to find it, but you breathe a sigh of relief as your fingers close around the comm. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever will come.

“I made it.”

There’s a second, a click from the comm, and then another.

Din finally lets the tears fall, and he can breathe again.

As though the man on the other end thought better of what he was going to say. The party still rages above your head, and you try not to let it get to you.

-

TAGLIST (lmk if you want on or off):

@brothersdrxke @remmysbounty @aq-vetina @1800-fight-me @mandos-co @kesskirata @sarahjkl82-blog @firstofficerwiggles @keeper0fthestars @wille-zarr @rebloogggs @thevoiceinyourheadx​ @plants-are-better-than-humans @schreibsuchtis 

[uhhhhyandere]

If you're still doing requests how about omegaverse with omega Light and alpha m!reader who's a kickboxer. The reader's and Light's families are close and have high expectations of the two eventually marrying in the future, but the reader has no interest in being tied down and focused solely in his training and career. Lately he's noticed that some of his belongings have gone missing, like an old shirt or his boxing gloves, strangely enough the medication to help control his ruts keep (1/2)

running out quick, but writes it off as him being absentminded. One day he's forced to visit Light at his house and catches his scent forcing the reader into a rut, mating with Light all the while unaware they're under surveillance by the task force but Light finds this highly amusing. Now with mating bite and possibly pregnant, Light is tied to the reader no matter what now. (2/2)

we ain't gonna talk about how this has been sitting in my inbox for more than a year and ain't gonna talk about how i’ve almost had it done for more than a year, then forgot until i was digging through my drafts. no comment. i stink. i know, okay?!?!?!?!?!? AAAAHHH but i had fun finishing it so that’s what matters!! 

6.6k words m!reader x light :) 

warnings: smut! light is a.bottom and that's a hill i’ll die on.

Sweat, blood, and tears. It’s all you’ve ever known, and it’s all you’ve come to love and live for. The adrenaline of the ring, the quick, decisive movements, the thrill of winning, and the lessons learned from losing, it all accelerates your pulse and excites your nerves. Hard work never daunted you. You’ve learned to keep pushing, to run when you can’t walk, to fight when you’re knocked down, and to do whatever it took to come out on top. Your alpha blood craved the victory.

5am runs followed by strength training, then workouts after school was a routine you forced into your system. With your lifestyle, however, there was no other option. Strength. Flexibility. Reflexes. You needed everything to be successful. At the forefront of that “everything,” was commitment. There were things you had to miss because of training: family dinners, parties, club meetings, and more you’ve gotten an earful about for missing, but at least your family understood that boxing was your livelihood, no matter how much they were against it. It wasn’t some hobby you were going to drop when you got older. You wanted to make a career out of it, to be able to fight until you have to retire. 

Of course, that was the plan. There were things, expectations, that naturally got in the way. It wasn’t ideal when your only son wanted to be a boxer of all things. How dangerous, risky, a dream you only have as a child. Well, fuck them, you said. Your dream was going to be your reality, and you couldn’t care less who or what stood in the way. Hard work perseveres in the end. You just had to focus. To get distracted by anything was the risk of losing that future. 

The Yagami’s were a prime risk of losing that future. Your families were intertwined from before you were even born. Friends through their years of schooling and beyond. They married in the same year, moved into houses on the same block, and, of course, had their oldest child in the same year. It was like clockwork from there on out, a script to be naturally followed through the course of time. It only helped all the better when you were born an alpha and Light an omega. 

Light’s and your baby pictures were taken together. Vacations were taken together. Chief Yagami pulled strings at school so you were put into the same class, assigned the same tutor, put in the same prep course, and the same private academy. At that point, you were almost sure your parents wanted to be there when you two undoubtedly mate. Your paths were carved to be identical, linked to the very end, yet so you saw them as so incredibly different. 

However, you and Light were fundamentally different people. He was not a friend you chose, but someone who’s just been there. A constant, a tick on the back of your neck that left you with no choice but to live with its existence. You’ve come to accept the reality that he’s going to be there for the near future, the far future if your parents had anything to say about it. They and the Yagami’s had a matching plan, but while they were audibly planning your wedding, you were conniving a scheme of your own. 

The Koyanagi Invitational. Held at the beginning of January, this tournament-style invitational welcomes only the best of the best in fighters from all over Japan. The winners almost always see themselves on the international stage. It’s a nationally televised program, and you were only one win away from securing your spot in round one after your championship match for your region coming up soon. 

Your time is always dedicated to your passion, but now more than ever. Your trainer, an alum of the invitational himself, has allotted the time you desired to train in the gym at the expense of his other lessons. The trade-off was after your championship, you had to find another place for the time it will take to make up all the canceled lessons with the clients you were replacing for the time being, which shouldn’t be hard to do if—when you win the regional championship. Therefore, your time was acutely cut short for academics, social events, and everything else that was not training, but those were the sacrifices you warned everyone you would be making to come this far and reach even farther. You were not even keeping track of Kira at this point. Even that was on the backburner. What? Were they going to kill you for missing dinner with the Yagami’s for the third time this week? 

“Y/N,” your name was called. Through the surging endorphins of your body, you were able to feel good enough to answer the call from your father from the sweat you were yet to shower off. You’d rather reek on the way home rather than use the gym showers. Dropping your bag from your shoulder, you rub the muscle there as you approach the full table. “You were supposed to be home forty-five minutes ago.” You sighed, dropping your hands back to your sides. “Yeah, sorry, dad. Lost track of time. Coach was fixing my style again. Swarmer has always been good for me, I think. Just refining it.” You didn’t miss the shared look between your parents. 

“Well, it’s a good thing we scheduled this later because we knew you’d do this,” your mother says, low heat in her voice. “Get cleaned up and be down here in no more than ten minutes.” Biting your tongue, you nodded, making eye contact with Light as you turned to grab your bag and follow her request. “You could at least put jeans on.” You weren’t even down the hallway when your mother spoke again. This time, you were not being civil for the company’s sake and didn’t bother concealing your groan.  

“It’s not like we have company over.” The Yagami’s were over for dinner or you were over there at least four times a week. It would be odder to have dinner with just three instead of seven (or five, if you missed due to training or Soichiro because of the Kira case) people around the table. You pulled out the chair they left for you beside Light and lowered yourself into it, immediately taking another drink of water from the gallon water bottle you lugged around. “Or, at least, no one new.”  

“Y/N—,”

“No, he’s quite right. There’s no need to dress up for us. We’re practically family already.” Mrs. Yagami, your savior, laughed. “Light just always does,” which is wildly true. Light had a tendency to always look presentable and put-together no matter where the setting was. Late-night study sessions and other in-house cases were the only occasions you would see him clad in anything comfortable. Then, there was you, in your sweats at all times except when you were forced into your uniform at school. 

Luckily enough, the comparison game was not thrown between the two of you too often. It wasn’t necessary when your parents were convinced you would mate and live the rest of your lives together. An unspoken truth that simmered in the air whenever you all got together. 

“How is your training going anyway, Y/N?” Soichiro was an odd sight at the table anymore. The Kira case was an equivalent time commitment to your championship training, (except he gets paid to almost die. You get into fights willingly) and it was more and more late nights on the investigation team.

Especially now, of all times, with the dead FBI agents from the United States the news mentioned one morning, he was busier than ever. 

“Gets harder and harder, Mr. Yagami. Though, I’m keeping up. With the championship on the seventh, I can’t afford not to. The guy’s a monster from what I’ve heard. Tomorrow we’re watching his match from the semi’s.” Your mother cleared her throat. 

“Soichiro, sorry. We just prefer not to talk about business at the dinner table. Our son has a tendency to talk about fighting at all hours of the day, so we cherish this time where we don’t have to hear about it.” Ignoring her blatancy, you took another drink. 

“Well, I like to hear about it.” It was Light who spoke up. “It’s his passion, with all due respect. Do you not see it when his eyes light up when he describes his feelings or explains his regime? He’s someone with an innate gift he wants to pursue. Not to mention the strength he possesses to live this lifestyle. If anything, you should be proud to hear him talk about it, the time he dedicates. It’s nothing short of awe-striking, what he can do.” Your skin feeling unbearably hot, you blinked a few times and hoped to hide from the admirable line of defense Light brought up for you. Peeking from your pit of embarrassment, you met his eyes, bright and unabashed, and you smiled a silent thank you to him. He, without moving a single facial feature, accepted it. 

Instead of seeing the literal meaning of his words, you knew your parents saw the underlying tone of them. Their son being stood up for by Light Yagami. It must mean Light cared for him. Another step towards the future they have been quietly planning, so they smiled, and you wondered if Light saw through it just as easily as you did. 

He and you never sat down and had a conversation about your parents’ expectations. Whether it was reluctance or the pure awkwardness of it all, it never came up when you were together. It didn’t matter, though, because if you could avoid it, which you could easily with your training, you would. At all costs. You did not have the time for that and would not for anytime soon. 

After dinner, Light and you were pushed to do the dishes, as you always were if you were present. He washed, and you dried and put them away. In the midst of the sink running and the clinking of dishes, you found yourself with the desire to properly thank him outside of the small look you gave him before, but thought twice, three times about it at risk of looking too thankful and soft. “Just say it,” he spoke instead. 

“What?”  

“You look like you have something to say. You’ve glanced at me twenty-three times in the past seven minutes.” Despite the small grin on his face, you still couldn’t help but consider saying “it’s nothing,” which he would undoubtedly disbelieve, and let it blow over. Knowing him, though, he would twist it out of your system anyway, like a lawyer rinsing the truth in a cross-examination. 

“Just—uh thanks, man. For before.” Light laughed, scrubbing in the curve of a bowl. 

“You don’t have to thank me for something like that. You’re the type of person society needs, and to have someone talk down at you for being excited about your dreams is wrong. I was only doing the right thing, and I’d do it again.” You avoided his gaze as he explained, suddenly invested in drying the utensils one-by-one. 

“Well, yeah, means a lot.” 

Was Light’s smell always so nice? Yes, you weren’t going to fool yourself that this was the first time you’ve noticed. You’ve been nearby during one of his heats, and you remember nearly falling out into your own primal senses because of it. If it weren’t for your own reluctant self-control, you’re not sure where that night would have gone to. You’ve managed to deduce his smell to be some sort of chestnut, brown sugar mix. Intoxicating, but undeniably would foster an unwarranted reaction from you if you were too close during those times. 

Not to mention that you’ve noticed Light’s good looks sporadically throughout the past. While he plays tennis, focuses on a particularly confusing calculus problem, biting his lip and twiddling the pencil between his digits, or just smiles at you from across the hall at school, you’ve acknowledged it, but never let it grow to anything else. You didn’t want to. Sure, he was handsome, but you had a million other things to focus on than to be tied down by any sort of relationship. Besides, if worse comes the worse, your self-control is unmatched from your countless hours of training. No single individual could sway you from your path.

“It’s really nothing. Like I said, don’t mention it.” And you didn’t plan on it. Light stayed to finish up homework as well as teach you a good two-thirds of the material before telling you he was heading out on his short walk home after you returned from a quick bathroom break. It was getting close to the bedtime that enabled you to get your full eight hours before 5am.

The closer the championship came, the less you saw of people. You ate breakfast and left earlier, came to school right from the gym, (yes, you resigned yourself to shower in the disgusting stalls) went back to the gym after school, and got home later. It gave you less time to do homework or hang out with anyone that wasn’t your trainer. Good thing you had your good friend Light who insisted it was fine to stay late in your room and catch you up on what you were behind in. 

It only made sense, then, with your exponentially increasing schedule that things started to become hectic. Of course, you were missing more of what you usually missed, but most recently you’ve begun to misplace things. A t-shirt you knew you had in the drawer, your go-to nighttime sweatshirt, a pair of shorts. You figured some might be at the gym or dropped in your transit from one place to another, but your sweatshirt never left your house and you sure as hell never left it in the hamper to get washed. 

It was just your busy schedule, you and your parents agreed. You needed to step back and relax if you were beginning to lose things. Plus, you were hardly sleeping with your anxiety building for the coming fight and the late nights you were practically forcing Light to pull with you.

“You don’t have to do this with me all the time,” you mentioned one night. “If I’m messing with your schedule or anything, I know it’s probably super inconvenient for you to do this so often. I never asked—.”

“You didn’t have to,” he answered. “It’s no trouble. I offered, after all. It’s not like I see you much outside of these sessions anyway. Even at school, you seem to always be in a hurry. I’m actually pretty worried about you. How much sleep are you getting? Are you eating enough? Drinking?” You waved him off. 

“You know I always do. I have to eat and drink enough to do this in the first place. I don’t carry a gallon bottle around for the gains, after all.”  

“And your sleep?” You glanced towards your window. 

“Needs work these days.” A small whack resounded off your temple. Surprised, you watched the weapon be flipped between the assaulter’s fingers in front of you. “What was that for?” 

“Don’t be stupid. I get you want to work hard for your match coming up but killing yourself with all this hard work and no rest will undoubtedly lead to your defeat. It’s common sense. You should know that more than anyone.” You set your pen on the desk, the fatigue weighing your eyes down. “Even your dark circles are even showing.” You relaxed your shoulders. “You don’t have to put up your tough guy front with me.”  

“You don’t have to put up your perfect student façade either.” You paused. “Sorry. Uncalled for. You’re right, as usual. I love it though. I want to be the best, and this guy I’m coming up against? He’s a maniac. This is the first tournament he hasn’t gone below the belt or spit on an opponent. Who knows when he’ll start, though? I have to be quick. This fight cannot last long, or this guy will injure me. I can’t afford that if I’m moving on to Koyanagi.” You laughed. “You’re really right. You know I’ve been losing stuff left and right? Old shirt here, that black sweatshirt I wear all the time? Gone. No idea. Some tape in my bag. It’s like some leprechaun is stealing my stuff.” 

“They’ll turn up. Maybe if you get a proper night’s sleep tomorrow and train only in the afternoon, you’ll remember where you left them.” You groaned, stretching in your spot and allowing yourself to slouch against the wall you leaned against and to shut your eyes. “Hey, at least finish this last problem and sleep in your bed.” 

“Don’t want to. I’ll sleep right here.” 

And you did, because Light Yagami was too weak to lift you up.

A sore back and neck now healed, you found yourself wrapping your hands for the long-awaited match in the locker room. Heart already beginning to pound, you tried to find solace in the silence around you, but all you could hear was the rhythm against your ribs. 

“You ready, kid?” Your coach asked from the entranceway. “Two minutes.” You nodded, reaching into your bag and finding odd space in there. No fucking way. Though your old boxing gloves were present, your current ones were not. God, another thing my dumbass lost. There was no time to sit and shit on yourself. I just lost the fucking match for myself, damn it! You didn’t think about it long before you exited the locker room and into the blur of voices and music on the other side. Your opponent stood on the other side of the room, taller and wider than yourself. “Size ain’t nothing kid. Put your confidence into work too here. Don’t forget the mental part of the fight, ya hear me?” 

You didn’t. In the crowd, you saw your family and the Yagami’s looking either nervous or excited. The camera crews around swung cameras across the area of the mat. As your name was announced and you entered the ring, the lights began to move around you. The crowd cheered and yelled in excitement. Your coach encouraged you from behind you.

Sweat, blood, and tears. It is what has gotten you this far, and it will continue to bring you higher. You did not train and work to lose right where you should be beginning. As your opponent entered from the other corner, the familiar sense of adrenaline rushed your veins. Yes, you could do this. 

Ten  

Nine 

Eight 

Seven

Six 

Five

Four 

Three 

Two 

One 

K.O.

You woke up in your bed the next morning. A white ceiling, white walls beeping a steady heartbeat around you. Then, it all came coming back. The elbow, all the dirty moves used against you pounded in your skin. Out of everything, your head ached the most. Tiny explosions cascaded your brain as you rolled your head along your pillow. 

“You’re awake!” It was your father. “Your mother’s worried sick. That stupid asshole. Why they didn’t disqualify him after the first dirty hit, I’ll never know, but you had a fair fight.” You squinted through the migraine.

“…Did I win?”

“From a DQ, yeah. Hardly counts, and I’m sure you hardly feel like it. The guy was a nutcase. The kind that takes out their aggression through the sport rather than respecting it. You’re gonna be out for the count for a while, you know that, right? Grade three concussion. You’re going to have to take a break. Me and your trainer already called every gym around and put you on the blacklist—,”

“But dad—,”

“Nope, I’m not going to hear it. You are not allowed to even think about working out or training. We are going to keep our eyes on you at all times because we all know how you think and what you’re going to try to pull. Recovery is the most important part of an injury. If you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll never get better in time for the invitational. Got it?” You guffawed. 

“You can’t keep eyes on me at all times.” 

“Not me, personally, but there is someone with a similar schedule to you that you happen to go to school with and happens to live around the block.” You glared at the man. 

“You recruited Light into helping you, didn’t you?” He shrugged and took the steps forward to stand at the foot of the bed. 

“It’s more so he volunteered. He knows just as well as the rest of us you need to be watched or you’ll train at some faraway gym or secluded area. It’s for your best interest. You’ll go to school with him and he’ll take you back to their place until we get home—.”

“I don’t need a goddamned babysitter,” you bit out. 

“On the contrary, would you not sneak off to train despite your condition?” You shook your head. You were in no condition to be having an argument, yet you stood your ground. 

“It’s the lack of trust for me.”

“Yeah, we don’t. Not when it comes to putting your health first. Light was even telling us about how you’re behind in school too. With a concussion, you’ll need help anyway. Discussion over.” If your headache could get any worse, you were pretty sure it would have. 

Not that you thought that he was kidding, but you weren’t expecting the doorbell to ring so early as you brushed your teeth, a towel wrapped around your waist from your shower. Spitting quickly, you left wet footprints across the wood floor as you approached the door. 

“By god,” you muttered, opening the door. “You really were enlisted, huh?” Light shrugged. 

“Well, by the looks of it, you didn’t go out earlier to work out than usual in order to look like you didn’t, unless you’re showering from a quick one between when your parents left for work and I got here.” You rolled your eyes, opening the door wider and stepping aside to allow him room to enter.

“Funny. No, I just got up. Guy really did me in one, and you don’t actually have to listen to my parents. You know I’m not going to go do anything that can put my recovery at risk.” He slid his bag off his shoulder and set it on the couch. 

“I know you, and the second you don’t wake up in pain, you’re gone. Sitting back and doing nothing kills you, after all. I don’t need to have known you my entire life to tell you that.” The side of your lip quirked. 

“Yeah, whatever. Let me get some clothes on,” you turned around and returned to the bathroom. Putting on the folded clothes you left in the corner, you grabbed your bag from your bedroom and met with the boy digging into his bag. “Ready, babysitter? I’m going to call you that all day, by the way. No matter who we’re with.”

“Great. I can’t wait.” …

It wasn’t so bad, having a sitter. You mean, you were with Light when you weren’t training, anyway. Going to his house every day after school was even normal, mind the odd words being thrown around the school by the observers. No one confronted you about it, which came as no surprise. Who was going to confront a boxer about those kinds of rumors? 

Light didn’t seem to mind, either. As one of the top bachelors of the whole school, you were sure he had to be aware of them. Just like your parents’ desired future for the two of you, you never spoke of it. Perhaps he was as nervous to bring it up as you were, or at least as reluctant. Still, nothing would change. If he would not speak of it, neither would you.

You never suspected, however, for that dam of silence to ever break in either of you. …

It was nearing the end of your recovery when the only thing between you and getting back in the ring was a doctor’s okay. Your parents and the Yagami’s were going out for a “night on the town,” quote-on-quote. Sayu was at a sleepover, and your parents ordered you to make your way over to Yagami household. 

“It’s getting close to you being cleared. No point in ruining it now, Y/N. Just go. You probably have work he has to teach you anyway.” You glared at your parents as they stood adamant. “Go. We will have him drag you there.” “As if he could,” you muttered.

“Let me in!” Two minutes of knocking, you resigned to lifting up the third rock from the right and grabbing the key from the underside. After you broke in three times in a week at age seven, you would think they’d change the key’s location. 

You set your possible overnight bag on the couch. On the main floor, it was quiet, which wasn’t all surprising. Light has been spending more time in his bedroom than ever. That was saying a lot, itself, because he was always in there in the first place. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting you. You grinned.

Footsteps light, you tiptoed up the stairs and turned the corner. There were small noises coming from the other side of his door that you could hear from the far side of the hall. As you creep closer, you couldn’t necessarily distinguish what the noises were. Nonetheless, it was clue enough he was too preoccupied to notice the huge scare you’re about to give him. 

Hand on the doorknob, you turned it and screamed as you entered.

Though, turns out you were the one that got more scared. Not in fright, but of shock. Light, however, remained composed as ever despite the position you caught him in.

His smell overpowered the room. You nearly were kicked back from it. Back bent upwards off the bed, his mouth agape with small guttural moans and breathless gasps escaping it, all while his hand worked every so slowly stroking his cock. His other hand fisted what you recognized as your lost sweatshirt covering his nose and mouth. Above the material, his eyes were trained on yours, head rolled to the side as his motion continued. 

“Jesu—what? Is that my…” Looking around the slightly torn up room, you recognized t-shirts, tape, and even your current pair of boxing gloves lying around the room or on his bed. “I-I don’t…” His fist threw the sweatshirt to the side as the hand came down hard on the bed. 

“You don’t—mmh—what? Get it? I know you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer at times, but you can put this together, can’t—uh—you?” His grin grew wider and more wicked as he took in your reaction. “I’ll say, you have an unspeakable amount of willpower, but I think—ah—I’ve had enough of it.” 

“What do you mean? Did—did you plan this?! To trigger my fucking—ugh.” He rolled his eyes. Whether it was from pleasure or annoyance, you couldn’t tell, and your mind wasn’t really in a state to think about it under the current conditions. 

He had you trapped. His smell corrupted the very air around you and seeped into your skin. It was overpowering. You could feel your rut, your ever so clandestine, rut-stained self, emerging from its thick chains. You couldn’t even take a step backward or turn to open the unlocked door. All of your nerves screamed at you to take him. To make him scream so that all he could say, all he could even think about, was you, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Because this isn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want to be linked with him outside of your parents’ desire for you and him to be wed one day. This was the path to that future, the future that distracted you from your goal.

Light shifted to stand above your lack and bent form that was on its last legs before the rut would take over. A hand softly stroked your head, as a parent would stroke a child’s, and set itself under your chin. It nudged upwards, forcing your gaze to his. At such close vicinity, the scent, his scent, him, it was all you could perceive. 

“You really are the worst. The epitome of holding yourself—your desires—back. I know you don’t want what our parents want. I know the thought of something tearing you from your dream kills you. I know that you think that this,” he motioned between the two of you, “would be the exact definition of a distraction, so you’ve pushed it all down. Never acknowledging its existence. Well, do you acknowledge it now?” 

You didn’t answer. You were nervous about what would come out of your mouth if anything did. Your willpower would die with the next exhale you took. Annoyed with your last stand, he dragged his hand from your neck to your shoulder and shoved your weak state down so you were on your knees. He leaned down so his breath ghosted over your lips.

“You really put on a show for me, you know. Answering the door with only your towel on back then. Deep down, I think you want this too. Deep down, you know that this was bound to happen. Just like your pain in a fight, you ignore it. You’re not a complicated individual to figure out. Just give in. What’s the harm in letting someone else take the reins for once?” He stared down at you, you felt it, but you refused to meet it, choking on shallow breathes in order not to inhale his scent too much. You remained silent, using your leftover strength to power onto your two feet. 

“Not going to talk? Fine. Your mouth could—,” you didn’t even allow him the time to finish the sentence or pull through on what you knew was going to be his statement as you rushed to shove him rough enough to force him to fall on his ass on the floor next to the bed. He looked up at you from his seated position, eyes wide and excited. You seemed more shocked than him and took a step backward towards the door. His eyes, yellowed and urgent, followed your movements. 

Swallowing, you willed yourself to extend your hand down as a form of apology: one you were unable to voice in current conditions. Light’s hand, soft and delicate, grasped is softly at first, allowing you to lift him to stand just over the bed, then squeezed, brought his other hand to your forearm. and tugged your unsuspecting form onto the bed with him, so you unwillingly straddled his legs. 

He was quick to surge upward and lock his arms around your neck. Meeting his lips was kissing the devil himself: everything about it was all-consuming, hot, wrong. Light did not start out slow, just as he was with everything else. With guns blazing, his tongue tore open your lips and invaded your now open maw with vigor and power your conscious self could not meet. He brought his hands to your ass and tugged you forward to push your bodies tight together. Breaking only to breathe and begin to force your shirt up your abdomen with his cold fingers. You helped. God, you shouldn’t have, but your clothes were getting so hot. As soon as the article was off, Light latched to your neck, teeth quick to bite. You gasped, tilting your head back to reveal more skin to him. He brought his hand up and tugged on your hair, eliciting another groan from your lips. 

“For someone who abhorred the thought of us together, you seem to be enjoying yourself.” His mouth continued down your form, biting the skin, and then licking the newly affected area. By now, you could feel your length suffocating even under the looseness of sweatpants. The undeniable urge for relief, for him, the one who was adjusting you to stand in front of him. An obvious, wordless request to rid yourself of your confines. “Go on. I’m waiting,” he said, leaning back to show his nude-self off. His cock glistening with a delightful mix of slick and precum. Inviting. Warning. Waiting. Jesus, you needed your fucking pants off! 

Hurrying to get your legs bare, you allowed your own slick to make its first drops onto the floor. Light did not make any moves, only locking his eyes onto yours. A silent argument, but you were in no mood to trifle in such affairs with your mind clouded. Surging forward, you would have been able to straddle him once more would it not be for his hand solidly placed on your abdomen. “I said, I’m waiting, you sex-craved beast. Tell me how much you need this. How much you want to be mine. To follow the path carved for you with me. I have enough here to get me through my heat, but you don’t get ruts too often, do you?” Why and how this twig held so much authority, you would never know. 

“Just let me—,”

“Let you?” He laughed. “Do you think you’re the one in charge here? What? You think because you’re physically stronger, because you’re an alpha, that you get dominance here?” His eyes, though yellow, spoke true on his words. They demanded compliance. “Now, be a good boy, and beg to fuck me. Beg to stick your cock inside me.” To stress his point, he ground upwards ever so slightly. You hissed at the contact. 

“God, please just let me—please just—fuck. Light, I need to fuck you. I need to take you, to mate you, to—fuck—I want you to scream for me, and only me. I want your throat raw from how loud and how much you scream for me.” You gripped the headboard above him while your other hand trailed down his lithe body coated in sweat until it reached his hole. His slick dripped from there due to his heat so that your finger slipped right in. Light moaned. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Please,” you slipped a second, then the third digit in. Light’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as his back arched to meet the thrust of your fingers. 

“Shit, it feels so good, Y/N, alpha. Go on. Mate me. Be mine forever just as I’d be yours.” You adjusted yourself to settle comfortably between his legs and used your hands to lift them, bending him in half to expose himself to you. You hissed as his first squeeze around you before you continued to sink in. Shared moans filled the room as you cursed out for each other. “Yes, feel how tight I am for you, how your cock was meant for me.” Heat shot through every nerve fiber of your being, and you did not bother to begin your thrust languidly. Instead, you rushed to build to a quick, pounding pace. Your rut pushing you to go deeper, and faster as he tightened around your length. Your hips met his groan with an audible smack, and, at a certain angle, Light cried out. “What are you… waiting for…? Bite… me. Claim me, you beast.” 

You could barely hear his words through your focus, your feeling, and, after a short while, even Light could not manage words. Only gasps, moans, and a few small screams escaped his lips and you sought your release. Closer, and closer, and closer… fuck. You ground your pelvis into his. 

“Shit, I’m gonna—oh, fuck,” you whispered, a quiet worship into the air as you allowed yourself to empty within him. You pulled out slowly, watching small amounts of liquid viscously drool out. Light’s skin was flushed deeply red, sweat glistening off his skin, and cock red, pulsing, and heavy against his torso. His labored breaths from his wide, open mouth forced his stomach to rapidly grow and shrink before he quickly regained himself and focused his eyes on you.

“What? Do you think I’m done with you?” He smirked, still breathing heavily, chest rising and falling. “Come here.” You let his legs go to allow him to surge forward and capture your lips with his own. “I’m still rock hard. Why don’t you do down there and do something about it, hm?” Light supported his point by guiding your hand to grasp his cock. “Go on.” 

His scent was all-consuming. Your nose trailing the skin of his cock as it followed your tongue up and down his length. You swirled your tongue around this head while your hand worked the base of his cock. “Eyes on me, alpha. Eyes on your omega, now.” Yellowed eyes dared you to look away. “Go on, and take me in.” Light gasped as you swallowed him. “Fuck, fuck, yeah. Now, suck. Yes. Just like that. Bob your head—just like,” he grasped your head and guided your movements, “that, yes. Damn, you’re a terribly slow study with math, but fuck, you learn to suck cock quickly.”

You followed his instructions, hand lightly teasing his balls, mouth taking him deep then pulling back, until you began to move on your own volition. “Oh, yes. I’m gonna- fuck. You better fucking swallow all of me. I don’t want to see a single drop on the bed.” Light watched with sick delight as you struggled to take his spend in. He was quick to reach down when you retracted your mouth, sealing your jaw shut with his hand until he saw your adam’s apple bob. “Oh, good boy. Now,” ignoring your painfully—once again—hard cock, he pulled you back up, “claim me. Bite me, alpha. Do it.” 

“N-no, I can’t.” 

“You can and you will. Go ahead.” Light moved his locks and stretched his neck out to you. There was nothing more you wanted to do than sink your teeth into the smooth stretch, to have your scent follow him as he walked around the school every day. “Bite me, Y/N. Do it now,” and you did. Light howled in pleasure as copper filled your mouth. You licked the raw skin before sinking you teeth in deeper and sucking what you can. 

“Light,” you pulled back, eyes blown wide. “I—,” he shushed you by tightly gripping your cock with a wide smile. 

“It all worked perfectly,” he said, beginning to stroke your length in tandem with his words. “I thought replacing your gloves would cause you to lose, to grieve, to stay here, but when I heard of your opponent and talked with him just a bit before your match, angering him about what kind of person you were, I had to. I had to.” You bit your bottom lip, unable to articulate words as he picked up his pace, tightened and loosened his grip, and brought in his other hand. “It hurt to see you injured, but I had to what had to be done. I needed you to make me yours. You don’t belong with anyone else besides me. Your dreams, your work ethic, your body, your mind, they’re all mine, and now, with this,” he motions to the raw, bloodied skin of his neck, “my plan has come to fruition beautifully. It’s like the universe deemed it so.” Your breathing escalated. His thumb moved to tease the head of your cock. “You’re all,” he laughed, “fucking mine.” 

He met your lips the same time your release spilled into the open air. “Now,” he leaned back, “let’s keep going, hm?”

[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

Soulmate September - Day 14

Day 14 - The first words you hear your soulmate speak are written on your arm. 

Pairing(s): Familial Moxiety, Romantic Dukexiety, Romantic Logince, Romantic Moceit, Familial Roceit, Familial Dukeceit

TWs: swearing, fight mention [not graphic really just a heads up], panic attacks, childhood trauma mention, neglectful parents mention  

--

Patton knew he had to prepare for the day he met his soulmate. It was literally written into him - in such faded, gentle text too - just how much his soulmate needed love and reassurance;

“I’m sorry, I understand if you don’t want me anymore.”

The second they’d appeared on his 18th birthday, Pat dedicated himself to being the best soulmate possible; he taught himself every form of comfort and reaffirming technique he could find, he prepared his home to be as comfortable and safe as possible, and he even went the extra mile of buying soothing scented candles and a variety of calming teas.

When it came to his destined partner, Patton spared no expense. 

Only, no matter what he did, Patton couldn’t seem to cut it when it came to romance. Not that he didn’t feel attraction to the men he approached - lord knows he could feel his heart racing in hopeful anticipation every time - but none were his soulmate. They were always either polite in their rejection or just outright dismissive of him when his words didn’t match their soulmarks.

By his late 20s, Patton decided that he would instead pursue his second greatest dream; adopting a child. 

Ever since Pat was a teenager, the idea of being a parent had been something he’d dreamed of. Just he, his soulmate, and their child. But since time was marching on without any luck finding his cosmic match, Patton decided he would rather be a happy single pappy than spend his days entirely alone. 

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t beyond nervous once the process had begun. Even though he’d checked his financial stability, even though he’d sacrificed his comfy home office room to make way for a child’s room, Patton still worried that it all wouldn’t be enough. Or perhaps the idea of being rejected even by the child he hoped to adopt was just too much for him. Either way, he sat behind the wheel of his car and took a deep breath. The agency had invited him to one of their bonding events to meet the child they thought would best suit him, and Patton truly hoped that he would make a good impression.

Locking the car behind him, Patton approached the sign in table; the warm summer breeze made it the perfect day for an outdoor sports day event. The smell of the food stalls and fresh fruit mixed with the scent of grass, which helped calm Patton’s nerves as assigned social worker, Emile, waved him over.

“Patton, excellent timing!”, he beamed, looking towards someone hiding behind his back, “It’s alright, Virgil, this nice man is the one who’d like to be your dad!”

Patton watched as a young boy cautiously peeked out from behind Emile. His dark fluffy hair hid his eyes a little, but Patton could still see him observing his every movement. Despite the heat, the boy wore an oversized child’s black hoodie that still dwarfed his frail frame and left him with a case of sweater paws. It took the boy a minute to fully emerge and nervously offer Patton a hand to shake. Aww, so formal! Patton crouched down and gently shook his hand,

“Hi, kiddo! It’s great to meet you- oh!”

The boy scrambled back behind Emile and Patton gave the man a worried glance. Emile shook his head reassuringly, “Don’t worry, Virgil’s just been through a lot, he’s been excited to meet you, I promise!”

Patton wasn’t entirely reassured, but he needed to trust Emile’s judgement! So, he went with Emile and Virgil to get their numbers for the events. In that time, Patton learned a great deal about Virgil from Emile; the lad was selectively mute - a defense mechanism he’d picked up from living with neglectful parents who were quick to snap at him - but that didn’t bother Patton in the slightest. As long as Virgil was comfy to just show instead of telling, Patton didn’t mind! It became apparent from his shy mini-conversations with Emile that Virgil loved Disney, especially the darker, spookier movies. 

Most of all though, Patton found that he and Virgil were really warming up to one another. They’d tried a number of different events from playing frisbee, to soccer, to a number of parent-child oriented races, and despite Virgil not saying a word the entire time, it was clear by the boy’s bright smile and joyous laughter that it was going well.

They took a break and Patton treated Virgil to an ice cream as a treat. 

“So, are you having fun, Virgil?”

The boy nodded shyly, but he looked a lot less anxious than he had that morning. Virgil used one of his little hoodie paws to push the hair out of his eyes for a second, letting Patton see that they were both different colours; green and brown. Patton had a small moment of doubt strike him; Virgil really did look rather different compared to him, with paler skin, pronounced freckles, and dark hair and eyes that didn’t match his own. Would Virgil just have a hard time if Patton adopted him?

No, he couldn’t think like that. He needed to believe he was going to be the best parent Virgil could ask for!

Patton turned toward Virgil just in time to see the young boy drop his ice cream. Confused, Pat went to ask what was wrong when Virgil’s hand grasped his shirt. The strong grip and sound of panicked breathing alerted him to what was up; a panic attack. Emile had warned him that Virgil experienced them, but it took him a moment to realise what’d set the poor boy off. Just in front of where they sat, a young couple had begun arguing rather intensely, right within Virgil’s eyeline. 

Thinking fast, Patton pat Virgil’s hair and gently reminded him, “It’s okay, Virgil. You’re gonna be alright, I’m here.”

Virgil shakily looked up at Patton, the look on the poor kid’s face broke his heart on the spot. 

“Can you count five things you can see, Virgil?”, he softly prompted.

Virgil found it hard to answer, but he raised a hand to point to Patton, who gave a smile, “That’s one. You got this, kiddo, just four more...”

It took a little bit of work, but Virgil managed to calm down, finally breathing easier as he clung to Patton’s arm. Patton was about to get up to get Virgil some water, assuring him “I’ll be right back-”, when Virgil made a small whining noise. Confused, Pat stayed to be sure he was okay and was stunned as the young lad finally uttered, quietly,

“I’m sorry,”, he sniffled, ”I understand if you don’t want me anymore..”

Of all the contexts Patton had imagined he’d hear his soul phrase, he hadn’t expected it to be in regards to the son he would adopt, but if fate was telling him that what he needed was to be a father, then who was he to argue? He talked to Emile about adopting Virgil as soon as possible and eventually welcomed the young lad into his home.

--

Patton twirled around the kitchen, excitedly mixing pancake batter; sure, they both knew what Virgil’s soul mark would likely say; “Hi, kiddo! It’s great to meet you- oh!”. He recalled their meeting like it was just yesterday, not twelve whole years ago now. A blossom of pride bloomed in Patton’s chest, Virgil had grown into a sweet, sensible, if a little paranoid young man. Pat had been worried at first about his fatherly abilities, but the slew of “Best Dad” gifts he’d received every father’s day without fail reassured him that he was doing alright.

“Morning, Popstar.”, Virgil yawned as he dragged himself into the kitchen, the ribbon he tied around his arm still in place. It was a tradition for Patton’s family to keep their soulmarks a surprise until the morning and thankfully Virgil hadn’t minded despite things being more obvious.

“Morning, kiddo!”, Patton beamed, pouring out a bunch of small pancakes into the pan, “Sleep well?”

Virgil nodded, looking from Patton to the ribbon, “... Can I-”

“Of course!”, Patton smiled, “Sorry I couldn’t be more creative with-”

“What the fuck?!”

“Language!”

“Shit, sorry-”

Virgil took a second to recalibrate as Patton sat at the table, “Look.”

Pat watched as Virgil turned his arm towards him, expecting to see his own words, but instead he read, “How dare you!?”.

“How… Dad, how’s that possible?!”, Virgil asked, perplexed.

Saying Pat was stunned was putting it lightly. How could their marks differ!? Unless..

Patton rolled his sweater sleeve up and gasped upon seeing new writing;

“Well, I was totally expecting that.”

Patton didn’t know whether to celebrate or not; he’d spent the last twelve years coming to terms with the fact he wouldn’t likely have a romantic soulmate, but now in much bolder text than his son’s had been, he had a new message.

Virgil on the other hand was absolutely caught between excitement and panic.

“HOLYSHITHOLYSHITHOLYSHIT-”

“Language!”

“Sorry!!”, Virgil wheezed, still wrapping his head around things, “I have a soulmate!! I mean, a romantic soulmate!! Holy sh- damn!!!”, he corrected at the last minute. Both father and son were so shocked that neither one noticed the pancakes were burning until the smoke detector went off…

--

That morning, Virgil arrived at school with a nervous churning in his stomach. The idea of talking to other people still scared him, but even more scary was the idea of meeting his soulmate. There were many boys in his year he hoped it could be, but they all surely wouldn’t be paired with him. Who would want a soulmate like him anyway?...

Virgil shook his head, trying not to think of the worst outcomes when he collided with another student. Instinctively, he apologised, “Shit! Sorry!”

The boy, clad in a white and red letterman jacket paired with a crimson face mask scoffed, “How dare you!-”

They locked eyes for a second and - in perfect sync - checked their soulmarks. Virgil locked eyes with his soulmate, noting the smile lines appearing at the corners. 

“Well! This sure is an odd meeting but it’s good to see you, fair soulmate!”

He sounded insufferable, but Virgil loved it. He smirked and accepted the hand up his soulmate offered. 

“Thanks, Shakespeare. What’s your name?”, he asked, nervously letting go of the offered hand, “I’m Virgil.”

The boy reached out to take the hand once again, and despite wearing a face mask, pressed a kiss to Virgil’s knuckles through the fabric. “Roman. At your service, my prince.”

Ugh, he’s so cheesy. Perfect.

The rest of the day, the two met up to talk about their interests, both gladly noting a love of My Chemical Romance. As the day came to an end, Virgil wasn’t able to catch his soulmate before his father came to pick him up, but he was so delighted that he all but threw himself into the car to tell Patton about his day. Patton was so happy for Virgil, he sprung for a pizza and the two of them spent the night watching movies until late while Virgil enthusiastically talked about his soulmate long into the night.

--

Patton wasn’t sure what he expected when he turned up at the school’s office, but his son sitting there with a bruised eye and several bandages covering his cheeks and knuckles wasn’t it.

As soon as Virgil clocked Patton, he saw the kid slump in disappointment with himself. Well that won’t do. He sat down next to Virgil and put an arm around his son, “What happened, kiddo? If someone’s picking on you, you can tell me-”

“My soulmate did this.”, Virgil spat quietly, bringing his knees up to his chest with a groan of pain; whether it was from putting his bruised cheek on top of his knee, or the emotional pain, Pat wasn’t sure. But having your soulmate do something so cruel!? Why!?

“Virgil.. What happened?”

Virgil whined in his throat but eventually relented and explained the situation to Patton…

He’d entered the hallway after lunch, not having seen Roman all day until he spotted him talking with a tall, serious looking boy wearing dark blue glasses. Virgil made his way over, only to feel his heart sink as Roman kissed the taller boy’s cheek as he left for class. What the hell!? Feeling hurt, Virgil shook with each step on the way to Roman,

“Roman!?”

The boy turned to him, “Yes? What do you want-?”

“Are you kidding me!?”, Virgil couldn’t help the outburst, “We’ve been soulmates for less than a day and you’re cheating on me already!?”

Man, Roman really wasn’t tooting his own horn yesterday; his confused face looked almost real.

“Who-?? What in the name of Heather Chandler are you talking about!?”

“Are...Are you messing with me?! I just saw you kiss that guy!”

“Yeah?! He’s my soulmate!?”, Roman sounded angry which only made Virgil angrier.

“But you’re MY soulmate?! You-!! You spent all of yesterday with me, you asshole!!” 

He wasn’t sure if the tightness in his heart was betrayal or a panic attack oncoming, but Virgil couldn’t fight the tears threatening his eyes. Roman furrowed his brow, having the audacity to look concerned for him.

“Look, I don’t know who you are but maybe you’ve got the wrong person-”, he went to put a hand on Virgil’s shoulder to calm him down, but Virgil slapped it away angrily.

“Don’t you DARE try that shit with me! It was you- You know what, fuck you! Go enjoy your little cheating buddy, I’m done with this soulmates shit!!!”

He turned to leave when Roman went to grab his sleeve in frustration, “Hey, don’t-”

Virgil didn’t remember pushing Roman that hard, but the next thing he knew, the stronger boy was holding his nose that’d hit the wall with a little bloody splat from the impact. Oh dear. The little remaining colour in Virgil’s face drained as he realised he’d have to escape or risk a fight with a guy who looked like he could drop him in one punch.

But his stupid body wouldn’t move in time. 

“.... And then we got into a fight in the hallway, then the principal came along and-!”

Patton wrapped his arm around Virgil’s shoulders, gently soothing the poor kid.

“It’s alright, kiddo, I’ll talk to your principal and do what I can, okay?”

Virgil nodded, clearly still anxious, but as the principal’s door opened and Roman stepped out looking like he’d been six rounds with a tennis ball launcher. He’d never admit it out loud, but Patton was secretly impressed with how much of a fight Virgil must’ve put up. Roman’s glare found Virgil while he sat as far opposite he and his father as possible, muttering under his breath,

“I can’t believe I have to put up with this travesty-”

Enraged, Virgil hissed at him, “When are you gonna stop pretending you don’t recognise me!? Just admit you’re a cheating asshole!”

“Oh for the love of-!”

Removing his letterman and rolling the sleeve of his maroon shirt and all but shoved his forearm into Virgil’s face. To Virgil’s horror, it had changed, “Falsehood, this is physics.”.

“... That…. That’s not...”

“Not what?! Not the right soulmark!? How surprising! It’s almost like I told you hundreds of times I wasn’t your goddamn soulmate, you violent lying heathen!”

“I’m not lying!!”, Virgil protested, his frantic stare looking between both Patton and Roman, “It really did say something else yesterday-”

“Your deception is so blatant, it’s laughable.” 

They all turned in time to see a figure Virgil recognised all too reluctantly. The boy Roman had kissed earlier had arrived, meeting Virgil’s form with a scrutinising gaze that held nothing but contempt. 

“Roman was absent yesterday.”, he explained, “I have the texts he sent me in advance to prove as such.”

Virgil hated his condescending tone almost as much as he hated how much his stomach clenched in pain seeing the adoring smile on Roman’s face.

“Thank god you kept them, Logan.”, Roman sighed, “Otherwise this lying ruffian would-”

“That’s enough!”

Even Logan flinched at Patton’s outburst. There was only so much he could take, but calling his son, his pride and joy, a ruffian!? A liar!? That was too far. 

“I dunno whats going on here,”, he began, voice firm and scolding, unmistakably a fatherly tone, “But I know my son, and there’s no reason for Virgil to lie about this. Honestly, you both look like smart boys, what reason would Virgil have for being so persistent?”

Roman and Logan shared a glance, the latter stoic as ever while the former tried to explain the discrepancy away, “He… Perhaps he’s delusional...”

Patton wasn’t amused. 

“Try again.”

Virgil was stunned to hear his father sound so stern, unable to keep the smirk of pride off of his face.

“Then he-! He must be doing it for attention-!”

“Virgil?“, Patton asked, not missing a beat and unbreaking with the eye contact with Roman.

“Yeah, Popstar?”

“You said it was just you and Roman when you confronted him and when you ran into him the first time, right?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been for attention, surely.”, Patton explained, “If anything, it’s shaping up to look more like you were really playing a mean trick on Virgil..”

Roman shuffled uncomfortably, causing Logan to butt in to try and defend his soulmate, “If you will kindly refrain from badgering Roman, I would like to point out that Roman is not the type to attempt this kind of mean spirited prank. Also, you are being rather biased in your opinion-”

“And you’re not?”, Patton retorted, “I don’t mean any offense, Logan, right?”

Logan nodded.

“Well, Logan, you’re Roman’s soulmate, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Then you’re also biased. So what’s the difference?”

The flabbergasted look on Logan’s face was priceless to Virgil who looked to his father like he was a God among men. His dad is so COOL. Just then, the principal opened the office door, 

“Sorry to interrupt but like, Virgil, I’ll need to talk to your father now.”

Oof, there goes that fleeting serotonin. Patton nodded and got up, ruffling Virgil’s hair, “Try not to get into another fight in the meantime, okay kiddo?”

Virgil avoided looking at Roman or Logan, “.... No promises.”

For a good few minutes, the three of them sat in silence, Virgil hiding in his hoodie like a lifeline to avoid looking at his soulmate-but-not-anymore. Just hearing them quietly talk to each other so softly and affectionately made him want to be sick. Why did the soulmark change? Could Roman really have just been playing a shitty trick on him? As much as he hated to admit it, every time Roman looked his way now, Virgil could tell that the guy felt awful. Whether it was guilt over a joke too far or for Virgil being so convinced and turning out to be wrong, the emo had no idea.

Virgil’s brain tuned into the conversation between the two boys across from him, catching the tail end of an unrelated conversation.

“Oh, Roman, I didn’t see Remus this morning, would you mind returning the book I borrowed last week back to him?”

“Don’t bother, he’ll be here pretty soon anyway.”, Roman groaned and slumped in his seat, “He’s at the dentist but dad should be bringing him along-”

“Hold up.”, Virgil finally spoke up, cursing how rough his voice sounded as the two looked his way, “Sorry but um, did you just say you have a brother?”

“Yeah?”, Roman crossed his arms, trying to seem pissed still.

“Does he happen to look like you?“

“No shit, we’re twi-”

From the mutual horrified look they each gave the other, they had both figured out the problem just as a man walked into the office in a rather expensive looking business suit followed by what could only be described as a near perfect clone of Roman; only instead of Roman’s signature reds, golds, and whites, the chaotic looking boy sported a mix of blacks, silvers, and greens. Without either of them having to say another word, their theory was confirmed as Roman’s twin, Remus, grinned brightly, “VIRGIL~!!!!”, making a beeline for the stunned emo.

Virgil didn’t have a second to think as Remus scooped him into a hug. Yeowch, what a grip. 

“Dude, my ribs-”

“Whoop, my bad- Hey what the fuck!?��, Remus put Virgil down in time to realise he was covered in bruises, “Who did it?! They’re a deadman, just say the word, Virge-”

The man from before cleared his throat, “Remus, please do keep us all in the dark. You know I enjoy being confused.”

Remus turned to the man just as Patton’s father walked out of the office into the commotion and gestured to Virgil like he was the holy grail itself, 

“Dad, he’s my soulmate!! It’s kinda a long story, but since Roman was out sick, I figured “Hey why not see if I could be Roman for a day?!” but then I met Virge here and I had to keep up the Roman shtick, but then I wanted him to see me without all the Roman getup but by then I couldn’t find him again!”, he turned to Virgil apologetic but no less chaotic, “I wanted to say something before but I figured you’d think I was super crazy!”

Both parents were rather stunned to say the least.

“Well, I was totally expecting that.”, Janus murmured.

“Yeah, me neither.”, Patton agreed.

Both men turned to each other, ignoring their respective sons at the moment in favour of sharing a surprised glance. Patton couldn’t help but note how handsome the man was; beautiful piercing green eyes, tanned skin with patches of vitiligo, honey brown hair that stayed tucked neatly under his bowler hat. If Patton had known his soulmate would look this handsome, he’d have worn more than just his grey cardigan, blue polo shirt, and khaki shorts. However, the handsome man didn’t seem to mind, if the affectionate smirk he sported was any indication. He took Patton’s hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing it softly,

“Janus King,”, he uttered with a silky voice that set Patton’s heart aflutter, “Had I known my soulmate was so breathtaking, I’d have sought you out sooner.”

Patton’s face flushed bright red. He needed to take a second before he could answer, “Pa...Patton Sanders.”, he smiled bashfully, “I ought to be careful, I guess. I don’t wanna go to jail for theft.” 

It wasn’t his best joke, but Janus’ shoulders heaved in a silent chuckle, “Don’t worry, I wold be happy to defend you in court-”

“Uuugh, get a room.”, both twins groaned in unison; Roman still leaning on Logan while Remus was peppering Virgil with kisses.

Their father affectionately flipped them the bird while Patton shyly rubbed the back of his neck. Through the silence, the headmaster cleared his throat, “Like, I wanna go home sometime today, so like, if you all have your shit sorted then that’s great. Now go. Shoo.”

They didn’t need to be told twice; the ragtag group all made their way home once Janus and Patton had exchanged details and finally pried Remus off of his overwhelmed but adoring soulmate.

-----

Day 14, and I’m stll gonna try and get this all done, juST WATCH MEEEE

Fun stuff I wanted to include but couldn’t find the time to put in:

- Logan’s soulmark was “Why do you have those [science textbooks]? This is History right?”

- As you can guess, they met when Roman came to the wrong class and noticed Logan whipping out the Physics textbooks

- The reason fate made Patton adopt Virgil first was because without Virgil, Patton would’ve never crossed paths with his soulmate

- While Virgil is adopted, Janus used a surrogate and wasn’t expecting twins but he’s no less delighted to be their father. Even if they’re little shits.

- Probably obvious but the headmaster is Remy because heck it I love him.

@tsshipmonth2020

Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account   @cateye-glasses   @fandomsofrandom

[skylar102]

Soulmate prompt: Everyone has heterochromia, one eye is your natural color, the other is your soulmate’s natural color. Once you meet all eyes return to natural color. How is the life of a Shadowhunter with one hazel eye and one golden eye? ~

Well I tell you this took weeks to figure out, I really mean I had no idea how I wanted them to meet so I came up with this canon divergence. I hope you enjoy! ^_^

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

When you are born, you have two separate eye colors. One that is yours and one that is of your soulmate. Your eyes will stay that way until you meet your soulmate and your eyes return to their natural color. You don’t know what eye is your true color which makes the moment you meet your soulmate even more exciting.

Alec stares at his reflection in his bathroom at the Institute. His hair is neatly styled and he’s wearing one of his better formal attire. 

Alec sighs as he looks at his one cat eye in the mirror. Twenty-four years of living with his soulmate’s eye and he still has a difficult time seeing his reflection. It’s not his soulmate’s fault, Alec would never blame him for what he was naturally born with.  It’s the Clave’s fault that downworlder’s are viewed in such a harsh light. If this is how Alec is treated as a Shadowhunter for having a cat eye, he can hardly imagine the discrimination that his soulmate had to go through. That’s why he’s started the Downworld Cabinet, to let the downworlder’s of New York know that the Institute has their back. 

He adjusts the collar of his button-up for the tenth time. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous about this first meeting. He’s been in correspondence with the leaders of the New York Downworld for weeks now making sure that everything is ready to go for this gathering. 

He’s known Maia for as long as he can remember. She’s been his friend ever since his siblings have been dragging him to Hunter’s Moon to “let loose” and he sat at the bar chatting her up every night. Her saying yes to this was a given, knowing how much he wants to make the downworld feel safe in this city they call home. 

Raphael was a bit more difficult getting him to agree to come to the meeting. Of course, Alec mentioned that the meeting would take place after dark or if Raphael had requested it, in a windowless room and hire a warlock to portal him there. He didn’t know why the vampire had such issues with him. 

At first, he thought it was because of his eye from the few times they worked together taking down illegal dens. Alec would sometimes catch him staring at the eye with a blank expression. He eventually agreed because of Izzy. The vampire had taken a liking to his sister more than him but he wasn’t going to look too closely into why that was.

The seelies were a struggle to get an answer out of. Their queen loved to create trouble and inconveniences out of nothing so getting them to agree was tiring and took longer than necessary. He will forever thank Raziel that they are sending Meliorn to be their representative for this meeting. He and Alec have a respectable relationship if you could call it that.

Last but not least the mysterious High Warlock of Brooklyn, Magnus Bane. Since becoming Head a year ago, Alec has not once interacted with the man. All of their correspondence has been through either fire message, texting, or calling. Alec had tried to suggest email once and Magnus had gagged on the line over the phone. Alec thought it was a tad dramatic but the noise had gotten a laugh out of him. Alec also saw this as the perfect reason to have Magnus look over the Institute’s wards. Two birds, one stone kind of situation. Thankfully Magnus agreed.

He’s taken out of his thoughts but a loud knock on his door.

“Hurry up, Hermano!” Izzy’s muffled voice says. “They’re going to be here any minute!”

“I’ll be right out.” One last look in the mirror, a slight adjustment to the cuffs on his suit and he opens the door. Izzy looks him up and down, clearly judging his appearance as if she wasn’t the one to pick the outfit.

“You look great, Alec,” she settles on. She steps forward to adjust his lapels before making her way out of the room with Alec in tow. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, easily catching up to her strides. “Has the room been prepared?”

“Yes, for the millionth time, everything is ready.” Izzy rolls of her eyes. “You didn’t spend the last week locked away in your office planning out everything just for it to go wrong.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “I just want this to go right.”

“And it will. Alec, they wouldn’t have shown up if they didn’t believe this cabinet meeting could lead to something better,” she reasons as they turn the corner leading to the meeting room. 

“There’s no one else who could pull this off but you, Alec,” Izzy praises. “I guarantee that none of these leaders would be here if it was our mother.”

That picture gets a laugh out of him. He can barely imagine any of them being in the same room as their mother. Though he does know that Magnus would gladly go toe to toe with Maryse. He’s witnessed that first hand when Magnus came by the institute when he was younger. He wasn’t able to see the man, but his words were loud enough that a ten-year-old Alec heard them from his room late one night. It’s how he’s been able to stand up to his mother now.

Of course, he hasn’t told Magnus that. The High Warlock would never let him hear the end of it if it was discovered that it was thanks to him that Alec was able to take the Institute from his parents and create this cabinet.

Alec steps into the meeting room and is blown away by the decor. Banners of each faction hang on the wall behind the round table. Each chair looks the same, no difference in material or texture. It looks equal.

“Izzy this is beautiful,” he compliments, wrapping his sister in a hug. “This is really happening.”

“It is,” she laughs. 

Footsteps approach behind them. Jace is standing at the entryway with a big grin on his face.

“They’ve arrived,” he announces.

“Thank you, Jace.” Alec nods his head towards his brother. Izzy helps adjust his suit for one last time before they both approach the door. 

Maia is the first one to enter. Her matched eyes widen at the sight of the room. 

“Ms. Roberts,” Alec announces. “Thank you for coming.”

Maia snorts at the introduction. “I bet you rehearsed that in your bathroom.”

“Of course not,” Alec denies, he nods towards his sister. “I rehearsed it with Izzy.”

Maia and Izzy laugh at the joke. Izzy loops her arm around her soulmate’s, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She leads Maia to the table while Alec remains at the door. He might as well let the two have a few minutes alone before this meeting begins.

Meliorn is the next to arrive. He is escorted by a single guard which strikes him odd since Meliorn is the leader of the Seelie Queens Royal Guardsmen. His confusion must be visible by the smirk he receives.

“Meliorn,” Alec greets. “Thank you for agreeing to come and represent your people.”

“Of course, Mr. Lightwood,” Meliorn bows his head, “and apologies for the plus one. They will be staying out in the hall while the meeting is going on, but my Queen requested that I bring company in case this was a rouse.”

“That’s alright, though I would have hoped the queen had more confidence in me.”

“Oh she most certainly does,” Meliorn cryptically says. “She’s very interested in the Nephilim who’s fighting against his own people.”

“Of course, she is,” Alec chuckles. “Always the curious one.”

That gets a real smile out of the Seelie, both knowing what Alec truly meant by the words. The Seelie Queen always liked to shove her nose where it didn’t belong and this was only the start. Alec wonders, as time passes, if the Queen herself will show up to one of these meetings. The thought along makes his body shiver with dread at the thought of her mind games and cryptic answer during a meeting that not only has Maia and Raphael but Magnus as well.

Meliorn nods to his guard and they go to stand against the wall opposite of the double doors leading to the meeting room.

“If there is anything you would like while you wait for the meeting to adjourn, please let my sister, Isabelle know,” he says. The guard looks at him with curious eyes before a smile appears, acknowledging his words.

“I will keep that in mind,” they say. “Thank you, Mr. Lightwood.”

Alec smiles back and turns towards the next guest to arrive. 

Raphael has a scowl on his face as he approaches Alec. It took a while for Alec not to be offended by that look as it seemed to be the man’s permanent expression, but it is looking particularly more loathsome tonight.

“Raphael,” Alec greets, holding out his hand. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Raphael states, rolling his eyes. “Our mutual friend was very adamant that I go to this and show appreciation for the effort you are putting forth.”

“I see,” Alec says, there’s a smirk on his face. “Magnus must have some good dirt on you to get you to come then.”

Raphael’s scowl turns into a small smile, the kind of smile that Alec knows will make his life hell during this meeting. He’s only seen that smile twice before in the times that he’s interacted with the vampire. Once when they were about to go into an illegal den and the second time when he asked Alec about Izzy. 

Though as much as they give each other flak, Alec likes to think there is a mutual respect between them the people they lead. Since Camille was taken out of the picture, meaning arrested and locked away in the Gard, the tension between the werewolves and vampires has decreased immensely. 

“I’d be careful what you say at this meeting, Lightwood,” Raphael warns. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think the Head of the Institute has favorites.”

Alec feels his cheeks red but keeps his face neutral. While it is not well known that Alec has developed a small crush on the High Warlock. It’s kind of hard to keep it a secret from the man Magnus practically raised like a son. Especially when Alec has not so subtly asked about the man when he visited the DuMort not too long ago. 

Raphael gives him a once over and heads towards the table. Three down, one more to go.

Alec looks down at his watch and sees that the meeting is supposed to start in five minutes and the High Warlock has yet to arrive. He taps his foot on the tiled floor deciding if he should wait for Magnus or get the meeting started. He looks back at the table and sees that everyone is already seated and looking at him. He lets out a sigh and makes his way towards the round table.

“Magnus running late?” Maia snickers as Alec sits down.

“It would seem so,” Alec sighs. “I would wait for him, but knowing him. He’s probably going to be as he states ‘fashionably late’.”

Maia snorts at the comment while Raphael rolls is eyes. Meliorn just smiles at them for their reactions. It warms his soul that they all feel comfortable inside the Institute. It took a lot of work this past year to get the Institute to get used to seeing downworlder’s inside its walls and make sure that everyone felt welcome.

It was a mess of people requesting transfers and patrol changes, but Alec took it all. What surprised him was the number of people requesting to come here. Alec was sure that he would lose a lot of shadowhunters with the changes he was making, that it would be a while before those numbers rose again. At first, a few people requested a transfer to New York and by the end of the first month, he had more people coming in than out. Jace and Izzy made fun of him because of the smug look he had that entire week. 

Alec starts the meeting with a discussion about any issues the others were having in the past months. Any issues with shadowhunters or downworlders alike. Though Alec doesn’t want to intervene in downworld issues, he still wants them to know that if its a situation the shadowhunters could help with, he was willing to send his best people to assist.

About 20 minutes later the doors to the room burst open and a man wearing the most beautiful outfit storms in. Alec pauses mid-sentence to take in the man.

“Dios mio,” sighs Raphael.

“Sorry I’m late everyone or should I say I’m not late you are all early?” Magnus jokes as he approaches the table. His head is still down looking at his outfit, fixing it up where he can.

“You do know how to make an entrance Magnus,” Meliorn comments, looking back and forth between Alec and Magnus like he’s waiting for something. Raphael does the same but more subtly.

“Yes, well what can I say? I love being fashionably late,” Magnus trails off as he lifts his head and makes eye contact with Alec.

Alec feels his voice gets stuck in his throat as he takes in Magnus’ eyes.

One cat eye and one hazel.

Alec feels the change and sees it at the same time. His left eye shifts to a normal pupil shape while he watches Magnus’ hazel eye disappear into another cat eye. Something in Alec’s chest fills and he finally feels whole. Like the missing piece of a puzzle was found and locked into place.

Silence fills the room, everyone holding their breaths as they watch the Head of the New York Institute and the High Warlock of Brooklyn stare at each other in wonder.

“Oh.”

[realisaonum]

book meme

thank you, jen @det395​ !! i feel like this meme got away from me a bit, but no shame! i love talking about books and writing so onward ~under the cut~

1- how many books are too many books in a series? 

mhmmmmm i guess it depends on the objective of the series, right? is the plan to have x number of books in the series and if so, when we finally get to the end will it be satisfying considering all the books we’ve read leading up to it? OR is the objective of the premise / characters just to exist doing whatever? both can be done well. i would say a lot rides on how much i trust the author.

2- what do you think about cliffhangers?

so this is meant for cliffhangers in a series like between books? i don’t really care if there’s a cliffhanger as long as i have the next book sitting right next to me. otherwise uh, only if the wait between books is tolerable, because at that point you need to know that the author can clear this mess up, right? there’s this other thing, like you know how if the entire series was already written, then they might release the books a month apart or a quarter apart - that could be alright too. but years in between? not especially a fan. is anyone a fan?

3- hardback or paperback?

jen, you and me are complete opposites here. paperbacks stress me out. i will go out of my way to buy a used hardcover if given the choice. of course, there are some publications i don’t mind in paperback —thinking poetry and super indie books that don’t have a hardcover release OR books where the spines are thin enough they won’t break and i won’t be holding them long enough for them to wear. hardcovers are sturdy and i don’t have to worry i’ll accidentally bend the cover in some damaging way. I am invested in keeping my books nice to the point that i create covers for my books out of kraft paper or brown grocery bags while i am reading them. this is something i started when i was in college and didn’t want these books i was hoping to probably resell get thrashed coming in and out of my bag for all these classes. My home library is probs more half and half paperback/hardcover but if given a choice usually it’s hardcover.

4- least favourite book?

i think it’s good to at least attempt to meet a book on its level. there are lots of books i didn’t like, but i wasn’t meeting them on their level and i know that so we’re ignoring those. i do however have a shelf on my goodreads dedicated to books that i have beef with so i’ll just go off on two of them.....

tana french’s the likeness for being plagiaristic shit. it is essentially poorly concealed alternate universe OC insert fic of the secret history. you’ve got french’s dublin murder squad folks and then this group they are investigating who bear a STRIKING resemblance to the greek students in tsh 🤔. this would be one thing. it is pretty well acknowledged that nothing is original and there are enough changes to The Likeness that MAYBE i could let it slide if not for this other thing: french’s book, the likeness, has lines that are just basically reworded quotes from the secret history and french positions these lines so they are said by the counterpart (essentially same!) character that gave them original life in tsh. i cannot stress this enough: you can HEAR how similar the sentences are and their core intent is always the same. it’s thinly veiled theft! it astounds me that French hasn’t been sued frankly. it is one thing to want to capture some of the genius that tartt’s debut novel holds, but it is completely lazy and disgusting theft to go about it in the way French did with this book. and YES the secret history was published before french’s book. if i could stomach how fucking goddamn boring the likeness was to read it a second time and cite every one of these offenses i would, but that’s yet a third strike against it—it’s too boring to be worth it. 

T. Kingfisher’s second book of the Clocktuar War duology : The Wonder Engine. this is a book that i feel violated the contract between writer and reader. the first book feels almost like a YA book. the stakes while described as very high are treated, as actions unfold, as very low. nothing truly irreparable happens until the climax of the second book and the fallout of that action is so off-tone of everything that came before i felt deeply betrayed. no, like, completely betrayed as in it ruined the rest of my afternoon, i am still viscerally angry eight months later, and i will never trust this author again. sure, maybe none of those actions that led to the climax were out-of-character, but there was nothing NOTHING in the proceeding action that even came close to that level of consequence. it’s a pity because right up till that point i was having a really good time. the entire vibe of the rising action to the climax of book one all the way through the rising action of book two was just a quippy fun version of roadtrip/quest - it felt like a comfort read. the abrupt tone shift had all the subtlety of dropping a graphically, brutal murder into Blue’s Clues. you don’t do that - this is a basic tenet of a writer / reader relationship. i’m not touching this bitch’s shit again.

5- Love Triangle, yes or no?

not so much. i like jen before me will scream ‘just be poly.’ love triangles that lead into poly relationships? yes, awesome will be glad i read. but i am at a stage in my life where your standard will-they-won’t-they-love-triangle is just fucking pointlessly frustrating to me. an example: i read a Nic Stone’s book Odd One Out a couple years ago and something about the synopsis or the hype made me think that it would resolve the love triangle that way, so when that did not happen i was incredibly frustrated and immediately wanted to resell the book. it’s the potential of the thing. stone’s book could have been the perfect vehicle for opening up the concept of polyamory to a ya audience but instead just really squandered that potential with weak floundering — in my opinion!

6- the most recent book you just couldn’t finish

uhhhhh i’ve got two and i’m not sure i’ve entirely given up quite yet buuuuuuuut 

fucking dune. i got really pissed off with this book. So just…setting aside the whole vaguing at a pedophilically inclined queer coded villain - it’s done so poorly, that it's almost funny? like it doesn’t (as of half way through) actually have any consequence on…anything at all and is tacked on like an afterthought to the end of his scenes. honestly it all could just be cut out entirely with no recourse to the larger story. So my actual beef with this book is the pacing is ATROCIOUS. like yo, not only do you expect me to give a shit about these Atreides cunts, when we just met them and we spend the same amount of time with them IF NOT MORE with the antagonist? but you also expect me to believe Paul was able to just convince the leader of the Arrakis people —the leader of an entire planet!!— with a single fucking sentence??? yeah, not so much. it was not set up for me to believe that Paul could do that! maybe if Kynes hadn’t died immediately after—or at least not died at that moment? baring the fact I thought he was by far the most interesting character, IF he had been convinced by Paul in that scene, it would have been great to see some actual work done around that - with a transfer or a liaise of power between Kynes and Paul and the Fremen. By not having any substantive scene that does it - it begs the question of what the fuck was the point of the character in the first place? unplumbed potential!!! over all there seem to be some key scenes missing to get the reader to where the narrative expects us to be? but the choices made of the characters we spend time with and the moments we see with them, the benefit to the larger story…is not always there. hey herbert, these words you have written aren’t doing what you want them to?? i feel like i should finish it but i reaaaaallly don’t want to :) the only thing i can say is it looks like from the trailer, villeneueve is giving space to these moments so that the viewer can foster a genuine connection with the characters? radical concept.

our lady of perpetual hunger - i started this one optimistically bc i like chef memoirs, but i am at the point where she has just given birth to her son and honestly DON’T CARE. i still haven’t officially given up on it yet since i actually fucking bought it like a dope. i certainly would not have if i knew how much NOT about working the line this was gonna be

7- book you are currently reading

Aside from the failures mentioned above, I am working on the second book in B. Catling’s Vorrh trilogy, The Erstwhile. Also very close to finally finishing Iain Sinclair’s The Last London - there’s a review of his work from the LA Times that goes “One of Sinclair’s greatest skills has always been his ability to take diverse if not chaotic source material and refashion it in a way that sometimes seems downright alchemical” which captures some of the wonder I experience when reading his work. His style and how he creates atmosphere and setting is just unique and astounding.

8- last book you recommended to someone

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Before that I told my brother to read Eat a Peach, as we both love Anthony Bourdain and David Chang talks about him a bit here, plus it’s just a fucking great book. any book that gives insight into Chang’s methodology and paradigm is worth a shot.

9- oldest book you read

I think it might have to be Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night (which apparently according to wiki premiered on the stage a whole four months before Hamlet so that’s what we’re going with) and if plays don’t count, I don’t care. I think they count and that’s what we’re going with.

10- the most recent book you read ?

Given the previous question, the most recently published book, right? It’s gotta be the one I just finished: The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic - Revised and Expanded edt., which like just came out this summer. I watched Jessica Hopper’s promo zoom, curtesy of my local indie bookstore, and went ahead and bought it. This was a great decision! It was just what I needed to read these last couple of weeks. i love there’s lots of short pieces that made the read quick and the fact that it’s non-fiction so there was no pressure of a plot or the emotional weight of character investment when I had a lot of big stressors dragging me down irl -it was such a relief. Hopper’s criticism is fun to read and there’s some real art in her appreciation of music here.

11- favourite author?

These are the top in a kind of order but not really: Donna Tartt, Jeff VanderMeer, Megan Whalen Turner, Flannery O’Conner, Chuck Palahniuk, Anthony Bourdain

Other faves very much worth mentioning: Emily O’Neill, Richard Siken, Brandon Sanderson, Warren Ellis, Nathan Englander, Stephen King, Eddie Huang, Carl Hiaassen, Anne Carson, and Iain Sinclair.

12- buying books or borrowing books?

Depends on if my library has it, of course! I nearly always see if my library has a copy first if i have never read it or the author before. If i’ve read the book before or trust the author, I’ll buy it. Like I’ll straight out buy new stuff from Jeff VanderMeer even though with him it’s either this-hits-exactly-and-is-my-new-fave or i-really-disliked-this-but-admire-the-boundaries-you’re-pushing-my-dude - so it’s always a gamble but a worthy one.

12- a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love

a little life (just bc it's torture porn elevated to art doesn’t negate the fact that it’s torture porn. Yanagihara’s project here is repugnant and the fact that this book is lauded as moving lgbt fiction makes my skin crawl)

sharp objects (good writing, compelling story, BUT typographical scarification doesn't work like that - i am not going to get into it but i know from first hand experience how Flynn described it is not accurate)

nesbø’s the snowman (what kinda dumbass detective would think THAT when a woman finds her missing father’s corpse? absolute idiocy - so obviously reverse engineered with that end in mind)

the raven cycle (fuck ronan lynch to start and then fuck him to end as well - there’s some other stuff but mostly he’s a total CUNT and if i don’t say that once a day i have probably died)

14 - bookmarks or dogears?

Bookmarks and sticky notes. Then I can place it pointing directly to the paragraph I last stopped on.

15- The book you can always reread?

This is my question because I reread all the time. ALL THE TIME. Books I reread often: The Secret History, Medium Raw (especially chapter 17 The Fury), Crooked Kingdom, The Violent Bear It Away, and The Goldfinch. Every year like clockwork (since it came out apparently) I will reread Stephen King’s The Outsider.

Other books I feel the urge to reread: VanderMeer’s Acceptance, Englander’s Dinner at the Center of the Earth, Frazier’s Nightwoods, Fresh Off the Boat, the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, the Peter Grant Series (which is queued up for another go here soon I think), any of the stories from A Good Man is Hard to Find, Sanderson’s Wax and Wayne Mistborn books, simon vs the homosapiens’ agenda, and there are two of Alan Morinis’ books on Mussar that I am technically always revisiting—when i need a reminder, i’ll jump around and read specific sections to get centered again.

16- can you read while listening to music?

Yes, but only ambient or near ambient (only usually one track on repeat) or a soundtrack I am extremely familiar with. No new music. I do usually need some audio stimulation or my mind will wander terribly.

17- one POV or multi POV?

Multi pov can certainly be done well (looking at the soc duaology and VanderMeer’s Acceptance) but working a multi-pov means there are more plates spinning, it’s more of a challenge, and some authors pull it off better than others.

18- do you read book in one sitting or in multiple days?

I don’t really do this anymore. that might have something to do with me picking up thicker books? but also i have a full time job now and let’s be real the book has to be hella good if i don’t want to put it down. the last book i attempted to shotgun was the final installment of my favorite series and it still took me two days so....i can get through a lot of books but none of them are ever in one sitting anymore.

19- who to tag:

@sybilius​ @mouth-rainboy​ @iwonderifthatisart​ @phereinnike​ @magnificentmoose​ @wambsgangs​ @moriarteaparty​ and anyone else if you feel so inclined!

Bonus Question: What’s on your to-read shelf? 

As for me, I am excited about one i just picked up, Danforth’s Plain Bad Heroines, which i might start tomorrow and I will be taking Paul Madonna’s Come to Light on my trip to see my brother this coming weekend. 

[collecting-stories]

Invisible Strings - John B Routledge

Request: Hi welcome back!!! I hope you are doing well ❤️ I am literally so obsessed with Folklore I would die for anything John B/Folklore. Maybe invisible string or peace?❤️

A/N: Okay so I had this finished and then re-wrote it this afternoon so hopefully it’s good...god I actually haven’t written Outer Banks in like a month. 

The TS Anthology Series | Outer Banks Masterlist

✰...one single thread of gold tied me to you✰

_ . ◦ ⭐︎:*.☾.*:⭐︎◦∙._

“I always forget that this is still here.” You mused, running your fingers over the carved part of the baseboard. 

John B looked over from the box he was packing, old dishware that had been given to his mom and dad when they were first married, stashed away in the house for a time that never came. It would go to the thrift shop tomorrow morning along with other, now useless items that littered the small house. On Monday you would call the realty office on the island and inquire about putting the place up for sale. John B had seen an apartment for rent, beach side, closer to Figure Eight, nicer than the Chateau and he’d suggested it as a starter apartment, something small that you both could afford.  

“Where was it going to go?” He teased, walking over to you. He pressed his legs against your back and you leaned your head to look up at him.  

“You could’ve painted over it.”

❖

The year that you turned ten your mom got re-married and your step-father decided to relocate the family to Tennessee where his new job would be. You cried for days over the prospect of leaving the Outer Banks but it wasn’t your decision, all you could do in the end was pack your belongings and move. In what little defiance you were awarded as a ten-year-old you climbed underneath the bed and carved your name into the baseboard. You thought about including some ominous request, perhaps a clumsily drawn ‘help me’ but decided against it at the last moment. Your mom was much more excited to be moving into what she claimed was a nice, big, house in Tennessee with your soon to be ‘new dad’. A step-up from the shoebox shack that you’d been getting by in. 

The house was sold almost immediately to a man and his young son, downsizing after his wife left them with next to nothing. Two bedrooms was all he needed and the view of the marsh was better than he expected to get in his financial state. His son was unbothered either way, sure they were moving but that only meant they were in a new house. He would still go to the same school and see the same people. Though he rode his bike passed his old house often that first year, wishing he could walk up the front steps and go through the door and everything would be the same.  

The carving remained unseen until he was thirteen. His best friend JJ was trying to flip off the bed when he fell against it, pushing it away from the wall. His head landed next to the baseboard. While most kids might’ve cried from the possible concussion JJ just rolled onto his stomach to get a better look at the wall and the writing engraved in it.

“Look.” He reached up to smack John B’s arm and pointed at the name carved into the wood, “you got a ghost.”

“It’s not a ghost you moron,” John B laughed once he’d seen the carving for himself, “probably the girl who used to live here.” He’d lived with pink walls, stenciled with butterflies for a year and a half before Big John finally caved and spent some of his money on paint instead of alcohol.  

After that John B found an odd sense of comfort in the carving. Sometimes he did his homework laying on the ground with your name staring back at him. A sort of imaginary friend he was too old to have. And when Big John disappeared at sea John B pulled the blankets off the bed and laid with his head at the baseboard, crying alone in his room while his uncle watched TV, oblivious to his nephew’s heartache.  

That same year, while they were still combing the shoreline for any sign of Big John’s boat, you and your mom arrived back in North Carolina. You were 16 and she was heartbroken, disillusioned with love and taking every opportunity to caution you against it too. You ignored most of her bitterness, concerned only with the new house and the new life that you were expected to settle into. The cottage style home was so close to the Outer Banks that you could see the island in the distance on the other side of the bay. Your mom talked about fresh starts and got a job working for the Department of Child Services. 

It was the year you heard John B Routledge’s name for the first time. She’d come in from work every day that summer and curse about the delinquent teen. It was her greatest source of reassurance that you didn’t hang around wayward teenagers who, though still grieving the loss of their father, unsure of their place in the world now that they were alone, were expected to move on from that. 

“Placing him with a family is going to be hell. No one is going to want to put out the effort for two years...I’m sure he’ll skip town the second he turns 18.” She would bitch over a bottle of white wine. 

“He could stay here?” It was a pointless suggestion. Your mother would likely strangle him in his sleep if he lived with you. 

“Absolutely not! I’m not a charity.” She had taken up social work only so her psychology degree wouldn’t be wasted but you thought maybe some people did belong behind a desk, in a cubicle, somewhere. Certainly not caring for children.  

Either way you weren’t too bothered to listen to those stories. You liked the thought of John B Routledge. He was like some character in a book, too good to be true. His story sounded sad but he didn’t. His life wasn’t a boring repetition of school and work and friends you didn’t particularly like. He was above all that. Like a Jesse Tuck, young forever, stuck on some magical island that you could see but never be a part of again.  

After graduation that all changed, just as life was starting to change. You got a job working in a beach front surf shop on the island. It was your first big strike out into the unknown and your mom was less than thrilled that you would be living in the Outer Banks until college started in the fall. But you’d saved enough to rent space and someone had listed a room available online. The ad boasted lots of outdoor area and featured a picture of a hammock and a VW bus behind it.  

“How do you know that it’s not some ploy to traffic young women and take them overseas or down to Mexico?” Your mom had pestered you as you dragged your suitcase out of the house to meet the Uber that would take you to the ferry. Away from boring hopefully. At least for a summer.  

“I‘ll let you know if I end up overseas.”  

“This isn’t funny!”  

“You’re being ridiculous mom, I already texted with the kid who owns the house, he’s like my age.” You replied. Someone named John had texted you after you emailed about the room. He seemed nice, he was funny, no red flags had gone up in your mind. The name hadn’t even occurred to you. It’d been a few months since you’d heard any mention of your mother’s tormentor.  

It was JJ’s idea to lease the room. The two needed extra money and working the docks or waiting tables or mowing lawns hadn’t cut it. JJ had two jobs to support his half of the rent and John B was working all kinds of hours when JJ suggested that they split it three ways.  

“Get a renter in here, it’s perfect.”  

“Yeah okay,” John B agreed because he wanted to keep his dad’s house and that seemed like the most logical way to go about it.  

You weren’t what he was expecting when you arrived. Having never rented before he’d spent more time making sure you could afford payments than he had finding out any details about you at all. But you stepped out of the car regardless and the immediate sense of nostalgia hit you like a wave. You didn’t mention that you used to live here and John B was too focused on getting through the tour of the shack that he didn’t even register the name you gave him.  

“This’ll be your room.”  

And just like that you were in each other’s space. Like two timelines fusing together, one of you had swerved and tangled your lives into a mess of summer and shameless flirting and parties on the beach. You realized early on that this John was your infamous John B Routledge, teenage outlaw, sadder in real life than you ever gave him the range for. You liked talking to him late at night when JJ was already passed out or lingering close to him at parties. Everyone, his friends and your new, adopted friends, knew that there was something there but none of them realized how deep it ran. Even you didn’t.  

It wasn’t until August of that summer, when John B was out and you were left in the Chateau by yourself, that you had wandered into his bedroom and pushed the bed away from the wall. There on the baseboard was the first of a million signs, the first place in your parallel timelines where your stories overlapped. The bed had knicked the wall enough times that the writing almost blended in with the other scratches but you could see your name clearly when you knelt down.

“What’re you doing in my room?” John B’s voice caught you by surprise and you turned too quickly, falling over, killing whatever tension might’ve arose from finding you supposedly snooping in his space. He cracked a smile and went to offer you a hand up.  

“Sorry, I-” you let him pull you to your feet, his skin warm against yours, “I wanted to see if it was still here.”

“What?” He looked rightfully confused.  

“I...carved that.”

“That was you?”

And somehow it was just a question of who had vandalized his bedroom but who had been there when he was fourteen and got so angry at his dad that he had slammed the door and jammed the lock. When he was sixteen, crying for days because his dad was missing and no one could tell him anything. When he was eighteen and all his friends were graduating from high school but he had failed out so terribly that his only options were repeat or get a GED. When you pulled up outside for the first time that summer and something in him just seemed to make sense, like all those loose puzzle pieces had figured out their pattern.  

❖

“What’s the matter?” John B asked, fitting the last box of donations into the Twinkie. You had followed him outside but you were just standing on the steps, staring out toward the jetty.  

It’d been four years of moving you in and out of dorm rooms, returning each time to this house. Four years of navigating dating when you already lived together, kicking JJ out when he interrupted nights you were supposed to have alone, avoiding every visit your mom ever made after she realized that the boy you were living with was the same one who’d caused her so much trouble years earlier. It was every argument, every holiday, every movie marathon, every stupid party, every lazy sunday...You’d spent ten years in that house without a friend in the world and John B had spent another eight trying to keep his head above water only to realize that what you had both needed all along was each other.

“Let’s not sell.”

“You wanna live here?” John B asked, sounding a little more surprised than he should’ve been. The apartment was everything he knew he was supposed to want but really he just wanted to stay in the Chateau with you.  

“We already live here.”

“Yeah but...Heyward said there are a lot of repairs that need to be done. Electrical stuff, plumbing, new water heater, new windows, the floor needs to be-”

“John B.” You stopped him short, walking the rest of the way down the steps to meet him in the yard.

“What?”

“Live in our house with me? Forever?” You asked, watching the smile that blossomed at your words.

“Okay.”

-

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[kcrabb88]

I wrote a little non-spoilery piece in my Sailing by Orion’s Star verse last night, and thought I would share it here. Featuring Arthur, everyone’s favorite dreamboat bisexual navigator <3 This is set sometime in the early Kingston years, not too long after Frantz moves to Jamaica. 

Arthur releases a breath as he steps into his bedroom, a familiar Jamaican rain pattering hard against his window.

“Frantz fell asleep easier than usual,” he says to Chantal, who sits on the stool in front of his vanity undoing her long braid. “I think the weather helped.”

A fond, featherlight smile slips onto Chantal’s face, the one that always lets Arthur know she’s thinking of their boy.

“He always has one more interesting thing to say.” Chantal picks up the brush, starting in on her hair. “He’s been that way since he strung his first sentence together.”

A heaviness sits in Arthur’s chest as it always does at the mention of Frantz’s earliest years, when his visits, by warrant of the distance between here and England, were infrequent, and letters had to do most of the work. Frantz was not quite 3 when he moved to Jamaica, but still, he longs for how much he missed of those first two years. How much he missed with both of them.

“Here.” He stills Chantal’s hand, his fingertips touching hers as he slides the brush out of her hand. “Let me. Start from the ends, right?”

A second smile, a different smile, slides across Chantal’s lips, slower and with just a hint of a smirk, like she’s waiting for him to tell a joke, or say something terribly sappy.

That smile is reserved for him.

He brushes gently in just the way she taught him while he stayed with her in the final weeks of her pregnancy—the decision to go to her made his parents furious, and he nearly lost his new position with East India for it, but he wouldn’t give up that time for the world.

“Thank you,” he says, meeting Chantal’s eyes in the mirror. “For coming here. I know you prefer it when we come to you. If anyone says a single cruel thing to you…”

“You’ll have a word with them,” she finishes, that slow-growing smile wider now. “I know. I don’t care what people say.”

She does care, he knows. Not in the way that she believes the insults flung her way, but they hurt, nonetheless, the sting of hatred and condescension wrapped up in every single one. Insults telling her she is less than he is. Threats of the sort he has never had to experience. He takes her hand, tugging it toward him and putting a kiss on the palm.

“I care what they say to you.”

She keeps his hand as they go to the bed, sliding beneath the covers but not yet blowing out the candles. Their fingers intertwine as they lay side by side, and Arthur thinks that no lightning strike, nor God himself, could make him let go.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers, her breath warm against his skin as she tucks her head beneath his chin. “That you couldn’t be with us very much, in those early years. You were going to leave it all behind for us, and I told you not to. I told you not to throw away the access you had for an education for Frantz, for his security, as much as it can exist. I wanted you with us, my love, but I hope you don’t begrudge me that.”

“No,” he says, oh-so-gently, pulling away slightly so he can look at her. “Never.”

None of this is her fault. None of it’s his. His family and the world is to blame, and as soon as his father and his power over his inheritance is dead, as soon as Frantz is fully educated, he will finally take the chance that has been denied him, and live with Chantal full-time. He will have enough money then, and Frantz enough security, to do so.

As much security as he can have, anyway.

It is unkind, to wish for his father’s demise, but his father has been unkind to him his whole life. He has not spoken of these plans to anyone but Chantal, not even to Michel, who will not brook such news well, despite the lack of a fixed date. Knowing his father, Arthur supposes the man might live to a ripe old age.

He wonders if he can last until then. He wonders if he can bear East India, and their practices.

He kisses Chantal to emphasize his point, her lips meeting his with a sort of earnest passion, shy at first and then growing deeper.

“Rene is a dear,” Chantal muses after they break apart, tucking her head back beneath his neck. “And smart—it’s not easy for just anyone to keep up with Frantz.”

Arthur chuckles, a well of fondness swelling in his chest. “I do love that boy. He and Frantz are just inseparable, and I could not be more pleased by it.”

He is possessed, for a moment, by an urge to go down to Frantz’s room and hug his son just once more, but he resists, having just gotten him off to sleep.

“I liked Astra very much, as well,” Chantal continues.

“She liked you.”

“How can you tell?”

Arthur laughs again. “I know Astra Delacroix, and she doesn’t like just anyone. Most people can’t tell when she’s putting on an act, but I can. And she wasn’t, today.”

Michel’s name rests between them, unsaid, and Arthur isn’t sure what to make of that. Chantal is the only person in the world who knows that he was once in love with Michel. She understands, better than anyone, how much Michel’s friendship means to him even if that old infatuation has gone. How deep their bond runs. But things have never been easy between them, not because Chantal holds some kind of jealousy—she needn’t besides—but because Michel is always so strange around her. Not rude, not even disapproving, exactly, just….odd.

“Michel seemed well,” she says diplomatically. “Though he seems….perhaps more tense than I recall him being when we met before.”

Arthur sighs. “He is. About everything. The Governor’s doing, I have no doubt.”

A beat passes, and Chantal scoots closer as Arthur’s arm wraps around her waist.

“You can’t make his choices for him, you know,” she tells him, still very kind. “He has to make them for himself.”

“I know.” He slides his ankle between hers, feeling the rhythm of her breaths. “I know I can’t.”

They fall asleep not long after, and sometime in the night when the storm reaches its peak, Frantz comes in, making himself comfortable between them beneath the covers.

This, Arthur is certain, is something he could get used to.

[winter-turtle]

House Of Wolves - Chapter 2 - Winterturtle - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own]

Tony being human disaster.

Chapter 2: Endeavors And Disasters

The moving came as a surprise to Peter. Stark just showed up a few hours after dropping him off in his cell and then took him here. Instead of the dull grey, the walls here were white, not to mention without stains of suspicious origin like when Peter’s family was forced to squat somewhere and there was an actual bathroom this time. The only downside was that there was no door, but it was still a whole separate room.

Privacy.

Peter kept thinking about the interrogation session ever since it ended. It’s been hours and he couldn’t figure out what had possessed him to reveal his name, but he saw no real harm in it.

For all the world knew, the Parker family’s been dead for years. There was nothing in their name; no bank accounts, no cards, no phone numbers, so they really couldn’t link anything to them. Not even his parents’ clients didn’t know their real names as there was always different name per client. Only codenames remained the same.

And hey! For all the Avengers knew, he could have taken an advantage of a missing family’s identity-

The door opened, pulling Peter out of his musing.

“What the- why are you on the floor?”

Peter lazily blinked. “The mattress is too soft. I feel like I’m about to sink,” he replied flatly to very concerned-looking Stark.

“Uh, yeah, right,” the man rubbed the back of his neck in the same manner like Peter did when he was about to get sensory overload, “we can get a harder mattress if that’s what you prefer. Just please don’t sleep on the floor.”

Funny. Peter was used to sleeping on the floor. Though he preferred sleeping curled in the corner, sticking to the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if his spider part was responsible for that particular habit, but he felt the safest there.

Unfortunately, the option to sleep on the ceiling was taken away from him.

“What do you want?” Peter asked, not getting up from his spot. It was time for breakfast and yet he didn’t see any plate in the man’s hands. So, that’s how it was gonna be. Interrogation without-

Stark pointed to the hall behind him with his thumb. “Breakfast. Let’s go.”

Wait, what?

Peter sat up, confused. “Where?”

“The magic place where food is usually prepared and eaten, also known as,” he drummed his fingers in the air in dramatic pause, “the kitchen.”

“Why?”

The mechanic threw his head back. “Do you want to eat or not?”

Peter did, so he obliged.

Expecting the familiar force to pull his wrists behind his back, Peter put on his best defiant face. But nothing happened. Instead, Stark motioned for him to leave the room. Peter did and still nothing happened.

Were the bracelets faulty or something?

“Well, are you coming?”

“Didn’t you forget something?”

“Hmm, nope, I don’t think so,” Stark said as he walked, not waiting for the boy.

“Why isn’t he concerned about leaving me unrestrained?”Peter thought, going for light jog to catch up, confusion painting his features.

Pleasant smell wafted through the air the closer they got to the kitchen. Peter’s expression shifted into badly concealed curiosity. He sniffed the air once, twice, concluding that whatever was being made there, it smelled good enough to make his mouth water.

They entered and Peter could swear he saw several flashes of shocked expressions coming from the Avenger seated at the table before Stark had the chance to announce their presence. Rogers, standing in front of the stove, was the first one to break out from the stupor. He plastered his typical patriotic smile on his face. “Good morning, Peter.”

Peter gave him an unimpressed look in return. Stark motioned with his hand at the table, his hand barely missing Peter’s back.

His instincts briefly took over, making him stiffen in anticipation of the pain and ready to fight.

Peter, shoulders falling in relief when no touch came, took the nearest free chair, which was between Wilson and Barton. Barnes was opposite of him, looking at him in the way that kind of reminded Peter of the looks Stark sometimes gave him. “What?” he snapped.

Barnes’ expression shifted, this time into one that Peter recognized. Guilt. “Nothing. Sorry,” he mumbled, quickly averting his gaze.

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Peter kept staring at the man until Rogers placed a plate in front of him. “Here you go.”

All words died on his tongue, his eyes comically wide when he looked down. He hoped nobody noticed, but holy shit.In front of him laid nicely stacked perfectly round pancakes. And those were no regular pancakes.

They were chocolate chip!

His mouth began to water even more. Peter was basically an acid when it came to sweets. Chocolate was a rarity in his life. He only got it for special occasions like his birthday or if he did exceptionally well on a mission, or when he managed to find enough loose coins on the streets.

Peter dug right in. The heavenly taste of the chocolate spread across the tongue, the fluffy texture making it feel like he was chewing on a cloud. Hands down, these were the best pancakes he’s ever eaten. Honestly, they were so good it could make him start to consider switching the sides.

Kidding. He would never betray his parents. But the pancakes were still good.

“Do you like them?” Rogers asked.

Peter’s head snapped up, his stuffed cheeks dusting pink once he registered amused looks of the Avengers. “Yeah,” he forced out around the food before swallowing, “they’re alright. Thanks, Rogers.” Because he got some manners after all.

The man winced. “Just call me Steve, son.”

“Sure thing. Let me try again then. Thanks, Call-Me-Steve.”

Barton snorted, choking on the food in the process. Romanov slapped his back while, her mutter of the word ‘dumbass’almost drowned out by others’ laughter.

“Ah, you little shit,” Stark said as he wiped a tear from his eye, “I like you. Want some more pancakes?”

Peter shrugged, but mentally cheered. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” And sooner than he thought, he made it through another plate. Then he was offered another refill and then one more.

But… there was something odd to the taste. Something Peter couldn’t quite place, but it made his mouth a bit tingly. In the end, he just wrote it off as not being used to that much sugar and who knew what kind of special and expensive ingredients they could afford to buy.

He was halfway through the fourth serving when the questions started.

“Damn, do you have a bottomless pit instead of your stomach or something?” Stark asked. “I swear I’ve never seen someone keeping up with Rogers and Barnes when it comes to eating.”

Peter briefly considered pros and cons of telling the truth. Last time he gave them a piece of information about himself, he got an upgrade in accommodation. Maybe he’ll get another upgrade after this? Well… it was worth a try. “No, just fast metabolism.”

“How much food do you need?” Romanov asked.

Peter snorted. “More than a single sandwich.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Rogers asked.

Peter straightened his back and put on his most serious expression. “Hi, I’m Captain America. Whether you’re a student, or a soldier, there’s one thing that will always give you an edge,” he paused, one corner of his mouth rising slightly, “a hot lunch. You don’t have to be injected with secret government super soldier serum to have strong bones and muscles. A well-balanced diet is one of the best ways to keep your body healthy. The food pyramid will help you find the balance,” he finished with a mock salute before shoving another piece of pancake into his mouth. “You didn’t ask.”

Rogers grimaced. “They still show those?”

“Don’t know,” Peter shrugged. “I never went to school, but they’re all on the internet. But listen to me, Call-Me-Steve, what I’m trying to say is: save your PSAs for someone else, ‘cuz they sure as hell won’t work on me.”

Barnes chuckled, nudging Roger with his elbow. “What did you get roped into?”

“Okay, but am I the only one who finds it weird that he has the whole thing memorized?” Rhodes piped in.

“No, but I have different question,” Barton said as he leaned towards Peter, looking at him intently. Peter braced himself. Here it was. The questioning.

“What did Tony do to make you talk in just one sitting?”

Peter blinked twice. That was… surprisingly petty. “He’s… annoying. Don’t take me wrong, you’re annoying too, but he’s special brand of annoying.”

“Geez, thanks kid. I take that as a compliment.”

“So, you did it to shut him up?”

“Yep.”

As it turned out, four plates were his limit. Peter released long, satisfied sigh. Wow. He didn’t remember the last time his stomach felt so full. He only got to eat that much before missions to ensure he was in top condition, which-

Peter frowned. Now come to think of it, he got no extra food before this mission.

“Kid… that’s called abuse.”

That was- no. No!

“…hurting their own children is not something normal parents do.”

There was no way they wanted to… get rid of him. No, they were just waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Same as they came for you in the past three weeks?”

Yeah, that had to be it. So, shoving away the statements that wormed their way under his skin and getting rid of that train of thoughts, Peter focused on the pleasant feeling of his full stomach.

It would be better if the strange tingling left though. It stubbornly lingered in his mouth even after two glasses of water. Oh well. He would trade the slight discomfort for full stomach anytime.

He was led back to his room when the Avengers started to clean the table. He didn’t mind, strangely.

Maybe… maybe they weren’t so bad after all.

Peter’s stomach churned. He wrote it off as being full after such a long time.

“See?” Tony held his head high, the proud feeling radiating off of him. “It worked.”

So early and he was already on a good track. The change of the room and good food – plus the new mattress, but that one had yet to arrive – were only the beginning. He just returned from the gym where he was putting everything that could be used as a weapon away. He assumed the kid would appreciate some physical activity after weeks of confinement.

“He wasn’t even his usual rude self! Well, for the most part. I think he was just cranky because he was hungry.”

“Don’t celebrate in advance,” Natasha warned, “or you’ll jinx it.”

“Me? Jinx it? Please,” Tony rolled his eyes. “I’m practically a lucky charm of this team. Seriously, what could go wrong?”

“Boss,” Friday’s voice came from the speaker, interrupting his boasting. “Peter has been throwing up for the past ten minutes.”

“You were saying?” Rhodey deadpanned after a moment of dead silence.

“Shut up.”

There was no sign of the kid or the pancakes when he opened the door to the kid’s room/cell. “Peter?” Tony called out. A dry heave coming from the bathroom prompted him to move.

The sight that greeted him made his expression fall instantly. The poor kid was hunched over the toilet, shaking like a leaf, his face pale and sweat plastering his messy curls to his forehead. “Oh, kiddo,” Tony said sadly. He kneeled next to the boy, placed his hand on Peter’s back and began to rub soothing circles on his back.

The kid tensed. “Don’t touch—” Another round of his stomach turning itself inside out cut off the threat.

Tony grimaced. Well, there were those pancakes. Reluctantly, he let go, hoping that his presence alone would be enough to provide at least some comfort. After what could have been three minutes, the heaving stopped.

“You assholes poisoned me,” the kid accused weakly.

“What? No, no, no,” Tony was quick to deny, “you were there with us, we all ate the same thing and we’re alright. There was no way someone poisoned you. Why would we ruin Cap’s famous chocolate chip and mint pancakes and made you sick?”

“Mint?! You- bleh.”

And the heaving was back. Honestly, Tony wondered how the kid managed to bring something up after he’s been praying to the porcelain goddess for so long. But… mint? “What’s up with mint?”

The sound of Clint smacking his forehead echoed in the small bathroom. “Spiders don’t like mint. Laura uses it to keep the little buggers out,” he added when the team sent him questioning looks. “And he ate four plates of those pancakes.”

“Leave,” the kid rasped out.

“Kid, I don’t think—”

“Leave!” Peter said more forcefully before he shoved his head into the toilet once more.

Tony, although reluctantly, stood up. “Okay.”

“Tones,” Rhodey let out soft protest.

“It’s no use now,” he mouthed. “Come on,” Tony said and ushered his teammates out, throwing concerned looks over his shoulder the whole time.

“I didn’t know he couldn’t eat mint,” Steve said once they were back in the hallway, his head bowed down.

“Neither did we, Steve,” Sam patted Steve’s shoulder, “neither did we.”

“I didn’t do that on purpose.”

“We know.”

Peter laid curled into a pathetic ball on the floor. The moment his stomach had nothing left to expel, he splashed his face with cold water and dragged himself as far away from the lingering smell as he could, which wasn’t exactly far. He rested his head on a pillow he’s pulled off the bed and he was here, breathing through waves of cramps.

Stupid.

He was so stupid, thinking that the group of heroes wasn’t that bad. Just look where that got him. His parents always said that he was too optimistic, too gullible and trusting. Ingesting mint used to be a punishment for him, although it’s been so long since there was a need to use it that he forgot how horrible it made him feel.

It was only when his stomach was painfully cramping that he realized that the tingly feeling in his mouth wasn’t because of the sugar, but because of the mint. It happened every time he brushed his teeth, though in much smaller extent, so he was used to it.

Peter released shaky breath, closed his eyes and buried his face further into the pillow. Sleep always helped, so that’s what he planned to do.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed to hate him because Stark walked in in that same moment, carrying a steaming bowl of something and an apologetic expression on his face.

“Hey,” he greeted softly.

“You again?”

Peter was tired. He wanted to rest. He didn’t have any energy left to argue with the billionaire.

“Kid, look. We had no idea this would happen, but I’m sorry anyway.” When Peter didn’t reply, he continued. “You said you have fast metabolism and there’s literally nothing in your stomach to give you energy. You’re also most likely dehydrated. So, here,” he said and approached the sad heap. “I got you home-made chicken broth to replenish those electrolytes and rehydrate you.”

“Electrolytes that you made me lose,” Peter gritted through his teeth. “Don’t want it.”

“Kid, please—”

Peter shot the man weak glare. “Go away.” Another wave of cramps hit his stomach, making him curl into even tighter ball, barely swallowing down a whimper.

If there was something the boy hated the most, it was showing weakness in front of an enemy.

He was aware of Stark’s eyes on him. The man sighed, then placed the ceramic bowl within Peter’s reach. “I will leave it here in case you change your mind.”

The lock clicked after that, leaving him alone at last. He dragged his eyes to the bowl and just watched the steam dance above it. It smelled great. But no, he couldn’t…

Or could he?

What if it was really just an accident? True, he never told them and he didn’t think they had any way of knowing either. So, maybe… just a sip… but he shouldn’t… was it really a good idea?

He hated these conflicting feelings.

Ah, to hell with it! If he threw up again, it’ll be his own damn fault this time.

Carefully, Peter uncurled himself, leaned his back on the wall, reached for the bowl and blew on it before taking a sip. The rich flavor combined with the warmth of the broth spreading through his body made him relax immediately and soothed his stomach.

When he deemed himself full enough, he put the bowl down, and curled back so he faced the bed. Watching the single forgotten dust bunny in the corner, he fell asleep.

Later, when Tony went to collect the almost empty bowl, he got on one knee and threw the blanket over Peter’s sleeping form. Watching the steady rise and fall of the kid’s chest, he carefully moved his hand towards the kid’s head and e began to run his fingers through the brown curls.

The action elicited a reaction, although not unpleasant.

The kid sighed in content and subconsciously leaned into the touch, making Tony smile. It was enough to givie him a confidence boost.

He could do it.

The day his stomach was turning inside out, Peter was left mostly alone. He slept through most of the day anyway, though when he woke up, he was confused about the blanket on him. He didn’t remember covering himself before falling asleep, which meant that someone, and he had a pretty good hunch who, did it for him. He found that weird.

Because why would anyone bother with making sure he was comfy? Back home, if he fell asleep without the blanket, he slept without the blanket. Simple as that.

Oddly, some part of him was… touched by the gesture. It was like something stirred in his soul. Something… something warm.

Sure, the thought of an enemy in the same room as him while he was vulnerable got him on edge, but at least he didn’t wake up cold.

The next day, he refused to leave the room. All attempts to coax him out fell flat. They were back to delivering the meals to him. Thankfully, there were no more sandwiches.

Yesterday, Stark brought him a book. Peter decided not to accept the gift/peace offering, but the boredom eventually won and he found himself reading it. He almost laughed when he spotted the knife on the book’s cover and actually barked out a laugh when he saw that the title.

Should they be giving him a book that was calledThe Knife Of Never Letting Go? Peter didn’t think so.

Though he quickly found himself rooting for Todd to get away from his hometown’s army and reach safety.

And now they were today, back at the coaxing.

“So, uh,” Stark squirmed under Peter gaze. It was strange to see otherwise confident man to act like this. “Do you want to go to the gym? To get some movement? Only if you feel up to it, that is.”

Peter, as much as he hated to admit it, didn’t think about the offer for too long. He would kill to get some actual movement. Those few squats and push-ups he could do in the privacy of the bathroom were nothing compared to his usual training regime. Plus, he didn’t want to get through the book too quickly since he wasn’t sure whether he would get another one.

“You’ll like it there,” Stark, obviously relieved, kept on babbling as he walked ahead of the boy.

Peter was baffled by the man’s decision of repeatedly exposing his back to him. It would be so easy to jump at him, even without his powers, and snap his neck and nobody would be able to do anything about it.

“I think you will be able to use the equipment our two super grandpas.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

But… Peter found himself not wanting to.

Why was Stark being so… so nice? There had to be some ulterior mo-

A sudden stabbing pain in his wrists had him stop dead in his tracks, tiny yelp escaping past his lips. Squinting, he brough his wrists up to his face to look at the bracelets.

A faint numbness began to spread from underneath them. A second later, a wave of lightheadedness washed over Peter’s whole body, making his limbs feel weak and his eyelids heavy in the process. He realized far too late what was happening.

“Oh, motherfu—”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence as his knees buckled. The world turned black just before he hit the floor.

“Come on, kiddo, open those Bambi eyes of yours,” Tony said as he frantically patted Peter’s cheek. How could he be so stupid?No, really. How? He was the one who designed the bracelets. He knew all about the functions included.

So just exactly how did he forget about the fail-safe?

The fail-safe that was specifically designed to inject quick acting sedatives into their wearer in case of an escape. Once they crossed a certain point – bam! It’s a night-night for at least an hour. More that enough time to collect the escapee.

“Man, how did you forget about the fail-safe?” Sam asked from where he was hovering over the duo on the ground, knowing he wouldn’t be much of an use in their current situation. He offered to spare with the kid in case he wanted to since Tony didn’t want neither super soldier sparring with now-average teen, though he doubted that Barnes would say yes if asked and fighting with Natasha could be interpreted wrongly after the horrific revelation.

“I don’t know, I just forgot,” Tony forced through his teeth before he resumed the patting. “Wakey-wakey, spider-baby, nap time’s over.” Lordy, he’s really done it now. Peter didn’t as much as stir.

Tony tapped Peter’s cheek a tad stronger. He hoped the action along with the kid’s fast metabolism will rouse him soon enough.

The minutes felt like the whole eternity, but finally, Peter began to stir.

“Pete? You with us?”

The kid looked painfully young as opened his bleary eyes, blinking several times to get rid of the hazy fog that was without a doubt shrouding his mind. “Wha…”

Tony’s shoulders fell with relieved exhale. “Oh, thank God. You okay?”

He didn’t know why he asked that. It was obvious that the kid was in fact not okay if his weak attempts to sit up were anything to go by. Tony put his hand on Peter’s back and gave him the boost, mindful to be as gentle as possible. One of the points to spark the change in the kid was to introduce him to a concept that not every touch had to be painful.

A concept that was no doubt alien to him.

“Don’t t—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t touch me, I know,” Tony said as he put his hands up in surrender, but remained in vicinity in case the kid toppled over.

The whole process kind of reminded him of helping an overturned turtle.

“What the hell was that?” Peter asked, some of his usual snappiness returning.

“It was an accident, I swear! This was legitimately my bad. I,” Tony inhaled, “forgot to disable the fail-safe. I’m sorry.”

“A lot of accidents seem to happen ‘round you.”

Tony shrugged, wincing in the process. “What can I say? I’m very accident prone.”

Peter weakly smiled, mischief sparking in his eyes. “For a genius, you sure are a dumbass.”

“Thanks,” Tony deadpanned, “Once again, I take that as a compliment. But look,” he lifted up his watch brought up the menu and with a few presses changed the functions, “now you can roam the building all you want.”

The kid rolled his eyes, clearly not believing him, before making an attempt to stand up. He didn’t get too far before he, as Tony predicted, toppled over; right into Tony’s waiting arms.

See? Like helping overturned turtle. Drunk overturned turtle, but turtle nonetheless.

“Take it easy,” Tony said gently.

Peter pushed him away. “I’m fine. Let’s go to the gym.”

Much to Peter’s annoyance, he was deemed unfit to do any exercise after he struggled to remain on his feet. The process of getting to the common room was tedious and slow, mostly because he refused to accept help from either of the men.

He did pretty well with the wall alone, thank you very much.

With the gym out of the question, the movie night he learned was planned for later got turned into movie marathon. The group of heroes were milling around, busy with final preparations, while Peter nestled himself into the corner of a L-shaped couch, his slouched posture and displeased look radiating clear ‘don’t approach me’ message.

“I think,” Rogers said as he was reading something from his notebook, “Star Wars. I’ve been meaning to cross it off my list for a while now.”

“Finally!” Wilson muttered.

Peter tuned out the rest of the argument about how Rogers always took forever to pick when it was his turn and Rogers defending himself until a bowl of something white but nicely smelling was placed on his lap. “What’s that?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Popcorn,” Romanov said as she sat down with her own bowl.

“People usually eat that while watching movies,” Barton explained, smirking slightly.

“Wait, you,” Barnes joined in, awkwardly casual, “know what movies are, right?”

Stark sat down next to him “Ignore those idiots. They’re just teasing.”

Peter scowled, and for some reason unknown to him, switched to defense immediately. “You know, you all sure expose your backs to me a lot. I don’t think you realize how easy it would be for me to snap either of your necks.”

“Would it really?” Romanov asked, watching him sharply.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Peter replied, matter-of-factly.

Heavy silence settled over the room, all eyes on Peter as he popped a piece of popcorn in his mouth, tiny smile pulling at his lips.

Stark exhaled, quiet and shaky. “Fri, play the movie.”

Peter’s smugness soon turned into wide-eyed wonder as the movie enthralled him. He leaned forward whenever a lightsaber appeared on the screen and held his breath when the rebels were making the trench runs on the Death Star. His disappointment when the credits rolled was short-lived though. He learned there were several other movies, and since they were doing a marathon, another one was put on.

They were halfway through the third, or sixth, movie when Peter’s head lolled forward. The impromptu nap had to mess with him more than he thought, but he couldn’t fall asleep yet! He had to see how the story ended. When his head felt too heavy, he leaned it on the headrest and through sheer willpower, he kept his eyes opened.

It was only when the final shot of celebrating rebels turned into final credits he left them fall shut.

Peter was out like a light in an instant.

“He looks so innocent when he’s like this,” Bucky whispered.

“Hmm,” Clint hummed, his eyes sad. “It’s hard to imagine that someone like him killed someone. Do you think he really did it?”

Steve shrugged. “He admitted to it, didn’t he?” He turned to Tony. “I think it’s time—”

“To get him to bed?” Tony cut him off, “Yeah, I agree.”

“Tony—”

“I’ve still got a little over a week, don’t I?” he snapped. “I didn’t take you for one to throw the towel in the ring when it came to someone. Not after Germany. Not after Siberia.”

Just as Tony expected, the reminder of the events made the man clam up. Call him a douche, but if playing dirty would get Steve off the kid’s back, then so be it!

Without another word, he bent down and carefully gathered sleeping spider-kid into his arms. Peter nuzzled himself closer and grabbed a fistful of Tony’s shirt, making tiny but involuntary smile appear on Tony’s face.

“Tones,” Rhodey grinned, “you’ve got a giant spider on you.”

Tony, grateful for the ice-breaker, rolled his eyes. “Hardy-har,” he said under his breath as he left the room.

[sorceress-coffee]

Mudslinging

AO3 Link Phase 2 Chapter 20

River’s P.O.V.

Spirit rallies lead by Coach Lawrence were something else. Jim, Toby, Eemeli, and I sat near the back of the bleachers as Coach tried to spell out ‘Arcadia’ as our Mole mascot ran around him.

Toby was entranced by the mascot while Jim was going over his latest Gunmar themed nightmare. “And his eye is glowing. And then, the dream just keeps reminding me that I’m completely way out of my league,” Jim exclaimed, trying to explain why he was freaking out to Toby and Eemeli since I heard everything earlier this morning. “Right? Tobes,” Jim huffed, realizing Toby was intently staring at the mascot.

I snickered at the boys, knowing the look toby was giving the mole mascot. I nudged Eemeli, nodding towards the mascot. “Here we go.”

“Who is that masked mole?” Toby asked, “You ever wonder?” He directed to Jim, eyes never leaving the dancing mole.

Jim rolled his eyes, turning to face Toby. “You didn’t a word I said just then, did you?”

Toby nodded with a grin, “Sure, I did. You had no problems sneaking into the Darklands when it was to save Claire’s brother,” Jim nodded along, as Toby recounted everything he was freaking out over, “but now that Kanjigar says you’ve got to face Gunmar, you’re having nightmares about him and are freaking out that you’re way out of your league.” Toby threw his hands up before punching Jim’s arm lightly. “I can multi-task, Jimbo.”

Jim smiled, shaking his head as he looked at the mole again. “It’s Bill Aronstein.”

“Bill moved to Wisconsin.” Toby huffed out, gesturing as the mole ran from one side of the basketball court to the other. “This is someone else’s artistry.” Leaning forward as he mused, “Someone with feminine wiles.”

Jim groaned, throwing his hands out, clipping my head in the process. “Sorry River. What feminine wiles, Tobes? How do you even know that it’s a girl under there?”

I rolled my eyes, rubbing the back of my head as Eemeli and I turned to face the boys. “It could be anyone Tobes.”

“Uh, trust me, dudes. I know women, and that is all woman under there.” Toby huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

My right brow rose in disbelief as I eyed Toby, “Really?”

“You don’t count,” Toby glared, waving a finger in my face, “When it comes to HUMAN women, I know women.”

I raised my hands in defeat as Eemeli fought to contain his laughter, shoulders shaking as we turned back to focus on the announcements. Coach Lawrence dismissing the mole mascot as they trip, knocking into him. He announced that the principle was out with the flu and that Spring Fling was coming up.

I groaned at the mention of the dance, “Good thing we don’t have to do anything. The last thing any of us need is another distraction.” I huffed out, leaning back against Jim’s knees.

“School dance? Not excited to go?” Eemeli teased, enjoying normal school activities now that the school was mostly changeling free.

“River’s never been to one, apparently social settings that require human interaction are a cause to hide at home playing video games. Doesn’t even give anyone a chance to ask her.” Toby snickered, remembering last year’s Spring Fling disaster.

“We don’t talk about that,” I growled out, whacking his shin. As Coach announced the girls nominated by the staff for Spring Fling Queen. Looks like it was Shannon, Darci, and Mary this year. I was surprised Claire was listed, but at least she’d be able to focus on possibly going to the Darklands.

Steve was announced as the first candidate for Spring Fling King. I rolled my eyes as he was Coach’s pick. Sitting up as Eli’s name was called, I whistled, cheering for my friend while the other students tried to tease him. Glaring down the students that tried to bully him.

The last name sent our little group into shock as Coach announced, “and finally, Jim Lake Junior!”

Toby had stopped dead in his tracts as he was reassuring Jim that we’d all be able to focus a hundred percent on training. Jim’s face fell in horror as his name was called. “What?” He cried out, not wanting anything to do with Spring Fling.

“So much for a hundred percent,” Eemeli chuckled, sitting back as the students launched out of their seats while cheering.

I groaned, leaning my head back on Jim’s lap, staring up at him, “You’re screwed,” I smirked, teasing him. “You could always drop out.” My head snapped to Steve as I heard him insulting Eli. glaring down at him, I leaned over to Eemeli, “How bad would it be if I blasted him with daylight?” I asked irritated.

“You’d risk exposing magic and Troll-kind to humans, but I’d be down to hide a body.” A feral grin split his face, like the one he had at the battle for the Bridge.

“Good to know,” I huffed, barely paying attention to Coach’s explanation about themes and contests.

“How am I going to find time to,” Jim began to panic as Toby grabbed him by the jacket.

“That’s not what’s important, Jimbo!” He grinned, bouncing with excitement. “Here’s what is: You’ve got a chance to be king of the school!” He raised Jim’s arm in mock victory before gasping out, “You know what that means? That would make me a duke.” Toby jumped up as the gym had cleared, now chanting “Jim Lake for Spring King!”

The rest of the school day went by without incident, Jim trying to block the thought of having to compete for Spring King. During chemistry and trig I helped Eli design a theme for his campaign, he wanted something fun and high energy, so we came up with the 1980s. All I could think of was neon, big hair, and loud music when I thought about the 80s.s

I split off from Eli as the boys, Claire, and I headed to Trollmarket, Jim, and I had to be in the forge together so he could train in the void. I refused to go one time and had to awkwardly explain to Stuart that I was Narcoleptic since I had been ripped out of my body in the middle of his store.

I sat down in the forge as Jim and I were pulled into the void. Ignoring Kanjigar and the other Trollhunters I flashed up to Deya’s statue. She hasn’t spoken since the first time we were pulled in here, but she was comforting to be around. The other Trollhunters insisted on pretending I wasn’t in the void while they trained Jim. Kanjigar and I still seemed to be at odds, whether it was due to my outburst, being involved with Draal, or my blood, he didn’t seem to keen on my constant presence.

“Bets on how long Jim’s going to take this round of beatings?” I asked Deya’s statue, nodding to myself as I watched Kanjigar and the spirit orbs bash into Jim as he tried to defend himself. “I give 2 hours, 3 tops.”

Deya’s eyes glowed, letting me know she heard and was watching over the sparring.

I sighed leaning back as the sparring continued, glaring daggers as Kanjigar began to fight dirty. My magic flared up, causing Deya to let out a laugh as Jim was knocked over well into their training.

Kanjigar leaned over Jim, sword held to his throat. “Blinkous and my son have trained you well, in the art of single combat” He sighed, as the spirit orbs continue to pelt Jim while he was down. “But rarely will your enemies do the courtesy of striking one at a time.”

I flicked my wrist out, sending a small blast of Daylight for Kanjigar, causing him to jump back from Jim as I flashed from perch to his side. “You think Jim’s allies will just stand to the side?” I snarled, pulling Midnight into the void.

Kanjigar snarled, swinging Daylight for my head. I stared him down as the blade stopped before cutting through me, refusing to move further. I smirked, activating Midnight quickly. I hooked the blade on Kanjigar’s horn, pumping as much magic as I could in the void into the lance, throwing Kanjigar across the arena similar to when Draal and I sparred.

Jim groaned, sitting up as I offered my hand. Helping him to his feet quickly as Kanjigar recovered. He paused to look over Daylight before turning to Jim and me both. “It seems the impure has decided to join your training.”

I growled, Midnight glowing brightly as my irritation slipped into the weapon. Jim put an arm in front of me, keeping me back. “You made your point. We’re not exactly ready to face Gunmar. Even with my friends, I’m not strong enough.” I opened my mouth to argue with Jim, but he cut me off quickly. “You’re still recovering. The only reason you can use this much magic here is that your body is in the forge.” Jim reasoned. Wincing, I allowed Midnight to disappear. Gritting my teeth tight, I knew Jim was right. I couldn’t fight like this outside of the Void, not yet.

Kanjigar watched the exchange, letting out a sigh, he turned to Deya’s statue, her eyes glowing softly, letting us know she was watching. “You must be prepared to face Gunmar. We needed to be hard on you because neither of you would listen to us. You had to see for yourselves.” Kanjigar turned to Jim. “You hold back when you know your opponent, and thus I can’t gauge your abilities until you learn to stop pulling your punches.”

Turning to me, Kanjigar sighed softly, a glint of guilt flashed across his eyes. “You are too willing to jump into a fight, even at the cost of your own life.” He pulled the memory of me pushing Toby in front of me the first night Bular chased us down, shifting to the first time I used magic to protect Jim. Blasting myself of the Forge wall when I though Draal would drop Jim into the Abyss. Each reckless decision, every injury that should have killed me. The woods when Nomura attacked. My fight with Eemeli, overloading my magic to knock Nomura off Draal, almost getting pulled into the Darklands, spending the last of my energy to heal Draal. “If not for my son, and your friends, you wouldn’t be standing here now, Merlin’s heir or not.”

I frowned watching as the memories surround us, magic flaring more and more as each one passed by. Frowning at my lack of reaction, Kanjigar dismissed the memories. “If you continue to act recklessly, there will come a day when they won’t be able to save you. What will Draal do then?” He asked causing me to flinch back, snapping my head to look up at him.

“River,” This was the first time he called me by my name, “you are Merlin’s heir, and even as a trained wizard, Merlin is not invincible.” Kanjigar turned, looking over the statues. “Gunmar is death, and if you face him in the Darklands, you both must be prepared, your friends included if you drag them into your fight.”

“There’s no way to kill Gunmar!” The other Trollhunter statues hissed out, the only quiet statue being Deya. The voices began to argue on whether Gunmar was invincible or not.

Jim frowned looking over the statues, “What do they mean?” He asked Kanjigar, knowing that only he would give us a straight answer.

Kanjigar held up his spirit version of Daylight, letting it float between him and us. “That sword of yours has fought him many times but has never killed him.” He supplied, “Your weapon and armor were created with a singular purpose in mind,” he sighed, gesturing to Jim “to protect your world,” he then held his out to me, “and ours.” Turning from us as the Void slowly began to fade, Kanjigar left us with a final thought, “Don’t forsake that solemn mission to save one human child and lose your lives in the process.”

We returned to the Forge, Draal keeping an eye on my body while I was away. “Jim,” He spoke, making sure I was fine as he helped me up. “Did you see my father?”

Jim sighed as the armor fell, “I did,” he began walking past Draal and me, not hearing the hidden question.

Draal sighed, following Jim’s movements, “Did he speak of me?”

Jim flinched, thinking over what Kanjigar hold told me. “Yeah. He wished the Soothscryer could let you in, but, you know, the rules are the rules.”

Draal shook his head, blowing steam from his nose at Jim’s obvious lie. “It’s alright, Trollhunter.” I winced, thinking back to the memory of Kanjigar pushing Draal away. “You do not have to lie to protect my feelings.”

I grasped Draal’s arms, nuzzling under his chin in comfort, “He did speak of you, but it was more of a warning.”

Draal returned the gesture, frowning as I mentioned a warning, “What is it with elders warning you?” He asked, referring to Ms. Kamaria’s warning on my birthing day.

“He said my recklessness would get me killed one day. My friends wouldn’t be able to save me, and that he didn’t know what you would do if that happened. I think he’s been goading me into fights this entire time.” I huffed, taking this warning to heart.

Draal hummed, unused to his father caring showing that he cared. “Any other news?”

Jim sighed approaching us, “He said we can’t kill Gunmar. I would only be leading my friends to their deaths.”

Draal snarled, “Too bad. I was looking forward to proving him wrong.” He nuzzled his nose against my cheek, smiling. “About more than Gunmar.”

Jim smiled at Draal’s declaration. He had been having issues with how the Trollhunter council had been treating me since his Void training started. “So was I.”

Arrrgh came running into the Forge, stopping short as he saw that Jim and I were no longer in the Void.

“What’s going Arrrgh?” I asked, worried about his panic.

“Blinky,” was all he got out as he turned, running back to Trollmarket.

Jim, Draal, and I took off running after him quickly, worried about could happen to Blinky that would cause Arrrgh to panic.

“Of course, it’s there!” Blinky cheered as we entered the library. Books were scattered from one endo the library to the other. Claire, Toby, and Eemeli sitting awkwardly on piles of books as they watched Blinky pace back and forth. “It’s true!” He grinned, running further into the library.

“How long has he been like this?” Jim asked Arrrgh, watching anxiously as Blinky began pacing again.

“Long time,” Arrrgh sighed, following the six-eyed troll.

“Decaf?” I asked Jim, noticing the stone mugs littering the room along with the books.

“Yeah,” Jim nodded, eyeing the number of caffeinated drinks, “may you should switch to decaf.”

Blinky rushed over to us, reading through an ancient book, “According to legend, only one scholar, the Dishonorable Bodus, uncovered a method of wound Gunmar.” He informed us, heading further into the library again, peering through piles and shelves.

Jim and exchanged a confused glance, the words of the elder Trollhunters racing through our minds. “The Trollhunters just told us there wasn’t any way to kill him,” Jim spoke, following Blinky as Arrrgh, Draal, and I began sifting through the scattered books. “How do you do it?”

Blinky turned, walking backward as he spoke to Jim. “No one knows. Gunmar had Bodus and his students hunted down and dispatched in a most unpleasant manner.”

Eemeli winced at the mention of hunting, raising his hand slightly, “Yeah, my bad.”

I sighed, lightly whacking his head with a book I picked up to skim. “You do know you don’t have to tell us about every job?”

Eemeli shrugged, “And have it come back to bite me in the ass? No thanks.” He pouted, snatching the book before I could whack him again.

“Yes,” Blinky cleared his throat, gaining our attention again. “Here in this book, ‘The Final Testament of Bodus’ – the last surviving copy of his work!” He cried out, waving said book around. “This is the key!”

Slamming the book down, he gave us all a blank stare, “And I’m going to burn it.”

We all jolted forward, Arrrgh dropping the book he was looking at, “Long time!” He cried out as we sprung into action, trying to stop Blinky from destroying our only lead to defeating Gunmar.

Blinky quickly set the book ablaze, causing Jim to rush for it, “Blinky, no! What are you doing?!” He cried out, trying to grab the burning book, “That book might tell us the” Blinky held us back, using all four-arms as he interrupted Jim.

“Bodus was being hunted! He knew he had to keep it secret!” He explained quickly, trying to stop us from putting out the fire.

Toby tried to throw water on the fired but couldn’t get past Blinky’s arms. Eemeli stopped trying to get past Blinky, understanding his explanation.

I paused, watching the burning book, “It’s not written in the book, it’s IN the book.” I said, grasping why Blinky needed to burn it. Draal looked at me confused, my explanation giving no more clues than Blinky.

“Burn, baby! Burn!” Blinky yelled, cackling as the book turned to ash.

“No!” Claire yelled, throwing a tarp over the fire, putting out the flame.

Toby ran to the pile of ash in disbelief, “Did Blinky just destroy our only chance at getting Gunmar?”

“Or my baby brother!” Claire frowned, staring at the ashes.

Blinky quickly approached, “You don’t understand.” He stated, pulling Claire and Toby from the ashes so he could deal with them. “Bodus hid the secret WITHIN the book.” He sighed, as other than Eemeli and I, the others thought blinky was off his rocker.

He blew the ashes from the table, script now etched where the book had been. “It’s a message!” Claire grinned, leaning over to get a better view.

Blinky cheered as we piled closer to see the message, “I’m so glad that worked.”

“What does it say?” Jim asked, unable to read Trollish.

Blinky began reading off the hidden words. “In darkest tide, when Daylight darest wane, the Myrddin Wylt obscured a Shadow’s bane.”

“Wylt? Like River?” Toby asked, referring to my last name, given by my mother.

“It’s an ancient name of Merlin.” Claire chimed in, the obviousness of my name causing Eemeli to snicker. “Shouldn’t someone be taking a picture of this or something?” She asked, causing Toby to pull out his phone.

“Three forces elemental thou must seek.” Blinky continued, reading the script carefully. “In marshland, caverns deep, and mountain’s peak. Where worthy perish, ye will prevail in night and eclipse all who quarry with thy might.” He finished reading off.

Toby grunted, looking around the group, “Anyone else freaked out a little bit by this evil perish poem?

Jim shook his head quickly, looking over the etching, “No. It said we can prevail! We can win!”

“Merlin hid a Shadow’s bane.” I spoke up, “Does that mean Gunmar’s bane?”

“It’s referencing a weapon in insurmountable power,” Blinky explained, heading over to the furthest shelves in his library. “Formed by three forces unhallowed,” He trailed off, pulling three books from the shelves. “Of course! It must be the Triumbric Stones!” He grinned, rushing back with the books he pulled. “Three shards of legend tied to Gunmar’s lifeblood, lost to the age.”

Jim and I grinned, both thinking the same thing, “If we seek out these stones,” He began.

“We kill Gunmar,” I finished, grinning.

“Blinky, you mad man, you did it!” Jim cried, hope returning now that we had a lead on how to defeat Gunmar.

Toby jumped up, excited, “We make the weapon and wham! Gunmar is done-mar!” He laughed with Jim.

Arrrgh frowned warning Toby as he ran off to inspect the books. “Caution.”

“Indeed!” Blinky grinned as we drew closer, looking over the pictures of the stones. “The Triumbric Stones have been hidden for centuries, but if I can decipher this text, Master Jim, then you shall,”

“Eclipse all who quarry with thy might,” Clair recited.

We now had a lead, one Gunmar had tried to destroy. That alone gave us hope that finding these stones was the key to defeating him.

Angor Rot’s P.O.V.

I met with the Changeling, Stricklander, at a cliffside overlooking a village that appeared to be set aflame.

“This is what the world has become, Angor Rot.” The Changeling smirked as I drew closer.

“This village,” I began to ask.

“It’s called ‘Arcadia Oaks’.” The Changeling interrupted.

“It’s on fire?” I finally got out, confused as to why the humans weren’t trampling through the forest in a panic.

“No. Those are called lights.” Stricklander explained, “Something known as electricity. You’ll come to enjoy it, along with indoor plumbing.” He smirked, holding out a cup similar to the one he was drinking from. “So many advances since you’ve been away.”

I sneered at the cup, looking over the village again. “The bridge to Gunmar is under this, Arcadia?”

Stricklander growled at the mention of Killahead Bridge. “The Bridge will be spoken of no longer. Gunmar had his chance to rule. Now it’s my turn.” He smirked, heading to the edge of the cliff.

I leaned against the ‘car’ the Changeling arrived in, “Your turn for what?” I asked, annoyed.

“Revenge and insurance.” He stated, explaining further after a moment, “In this town, there is a boy and this boy fancies a girl, a girl whose brother is being held in the Darklands. If the boy saved the child from the changeling nursery, he’ll want to save them all. And it is my job to watch over my half-breed brethren, and not let that happen.” He turned, determined to keep he changelings safe.

I rolled my eyes, watching the lights in the village, “But how could a fleshbag even contemplate such a feat?” I asked, starting to thing this Changeling was mad.

Stricklander smirked, “This boy is the Trollhunter.” At my shocked expression, his smirk grew, “It’s a long story. However, you should know he is related to Merlin’s heir, she resides in Arcadia as well.”

My eyes widened; Merlin’s heir could only mean one person.

“The moral of the story is that you should never underestimate them.” Strickler snarled, “They already managed to kill the son of Gunmar.” He smirked, brushing his coat off, “Obviously, I could deal with him myself, but a man of my esteemed stature in this community can’t do anything without arousing unwanted suspicion.”

“You’re afraid of fleshbag children,” I sneered, stalking towards the changeling.

“I am not!” He defended, “I’m merely,” the end of the shadow staff cut him off as I drew close.

“He bested Bular and you are afraid,” I stated, “That is why you require Angor Rot.” I grinned, backing him to the edge of the cliffs.

Glaring, the changeling shoved the Inferna Copula in my face, causing to back up a step. “Just remember who’s in charge here.” He snarled, “I bear the ring. You answer to me. When the children are finished, you will have your freedom.”

“A human Trollhunter, I have never hunted such game,” I smirked, circling Stricklander, “And Merlin’ heir? You protect your Changeling brothers and sisters, yet you would have me dispatch of her?” I sneered; it was obvious this Changeling had no idea what he was truly dealing with.

Stricklander’s eyes grew wide at the new information as I neared the cliff edge. “I will kill them, but I will do it on my own terms.” I snarled, leaping from the edge and into the village of lights below. Might as well let the Pale Lady’s child dwell on this startling information.

I quickly followed the scent of the amulet to a group of buildings near the woods. Two building reeked of its stench, but the scent of magic was stronger in the one where a lone adult female took residence. I perched atop the second building to watch the house, pulling flesh from my body to carve while I waited.

The female was pacing the house for hours when two fleshbags rode up on a smaller ‘car.’ The female smelled strongly of magic, Daylight to be precise. So, this was Lady Ganieda’s offspring. From what the Eldritch Queen had spoken, I expected her to be less, fleshy.

I examined the male fleshbag as they entered the house. Both teens quickly getting into an argument with the female adult. She didn’t know. I sneered; this could be useful for the hunt.

The Trollhunter head up the stairs with Merlin’s heir, however when they reached their quarters, Merlin’s heir vanished.

Standing quickly, I surveyed the area, checking to see if she had somehow spotted me. I caught sight of movement in the windows near the ground. It seemed this is where Merlin’s heir truly resided. Fitting she would be drawn underground.

Grinning as the house settled down for the night, I blew off the final shavings from the stone flesh I had been carving. It was time to see just how these two defeated the Son of Gunmar.

River’s P.O.V.

Arguing with mom had just felt wrong. Draal had heard the entire argument from the basement and set up the nest for a movie night, something we occasionally did when I couldn’t leave the house due to mom and I could sleep. So far, Draal had found talking llamas and space pirates to be his favorite animated movie subjects.

We stayed curled up in the nest into the early hours of the morning. When I finally decided to head up to get ready, mom continued her silent treatment, ignoring Jim and me as best as she could while she left.

“This isn’t going well.” Jim sighed as Draal came up, seeing us off in the garages for school, Eemeli picking us up for the day.

“Dr. Lake still not talking to you?” Eemeli asked, seeing mine and Jim’s expressions as Toby slide into the back seat with Jim.

“Worse,” I groaned, waving to Draal as Eemeli took off. “We got in a fight last night, neither of us could come up with a new alibi, she’s so mad.”

“There’s not much we can do about it, she’ll be in more danger if we tell her anything,” Jim frowned, staring out the window.

“With Strickler gone, that’s one less threat to her that we have to deal with.” I perked up slightly, thankful we would have to get rid of mom’s changeling boyfriend.

Eemeli tried to crack a joke about Dr. Lake and Ganieda both having a thing for Changelings, though it only received a snort from me and a huff swallowed chuckle from Tobes. Today was not going very well, and it was only the beginning of school.

The students we quickly filed into the auditorium as Coach Lawrence called for Spring Fling Announcements.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Toby asked Jim as we entered.

“I wear this every day, Tobes. What else would I be wearing?” Jim asked, not seeing the problem.

“Theme announcements,” I stated as we looked for seats in the bleachers.

“In a few minutes, you’re selling everyone your theme for the school dance,” Toby explained, heading back to our usual area.

“Tobes, look, I’d love to be Spring King. Who wouldn’t?” Jim said, gesturing to the students slowly entering the gym, glaring at me when I raised my hand, opting out of his statement. “I’m just a little preoccupied right now with not getting killed!” He exclaimed, trying to get it through Toby’s head.

“There are fates worse than death, Jimbo,” Toby argued, slipping towards the break in the bleachers, letting out a yelp of panic. Jim grabbed his collar, pulling him back to our seats quickly. “In high school, anyway.” He continued without issue.

“Is he always like this?” Eemeli asked, confused by how bothered Toby was to almost falling off of the bleachers.

“In a word? Yes,” I stated, crossing my arms, completely disagreeing with Toby on this one.

Toby jumped onto the seat of the bleacher, grinning wide as he gestured over the room. “This is our chance to get the school to finally recognize how cool we are.”

“We?” Jim asked, not keeping up with Toby’s brain.

“If you become Spring King, it’ll open a whole new bracket of women.” Toby continued his explanation causing me to roll my eyes. This was not going to end well. “I’m talking cheerleaders, senior cheerleaders. Dare I dream? Community college dropouts!”

“Who tend to be over 18, therefore, not in your current age bracket,” I tried to reason, knowing it would go in one ear and out the other.

Toby rolled his eyes, jumping over to the next set of bleachers, “If you don’t want to do it for us, Jimbo, do it for me.” He requested, switching on his best puppy eyes. “I’ve always felt like I was destined to be a duke.

“He’s serious, isn’t he?” Eemeli asked, astonish at Toby’s train of thought. “Fine,” Jim rolled his eyes, giving in to Toby. “I’ll try to throw some kind of costume together, okay?” Toby cheered in excitement, finally taking his seat. “River? Think you could help?”

“Hang with an over-excited Tobes or watch your train wreck front row?” I smirked, following Jim out, “I’ll go with the train wreck.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. You helped Eli, right? What’s he doing?” Jim asked as we headed into the history classroom.

“Roaring 80s,” I chuckled, looking over the posters and books stashed in the class, “Ren fair?” I asked, holding up an old poster of Camelot.

“Ironic, but no.” He huffed “Ugh! The things I do for Toby. Where am I supposed to find a costume?”

“Just saying, you could pull a ‘Romeo and Juliet’ audition with your armor again,” shrugged, leaning against the windows.

“Maybe I should just be stapler-man,” Jim joked, pausing next to me as something outside caught his attention. “What is that?”

I turned quickly, catching sight of shadows moving across the soccer field, something walking into the shade of the trees. “If it’s a weird thing, it’s a Troll thing.” I sighed.

We ignored Coach Lawrence’s announcement as we quickly ran outside to find whatever we had seen from the classroom.

Surveying the field, Jim and I cautiously approached center the center where a fresh pile of dirt was patted down. Jim glanced over it, deciding to pay it no mind as we drew closer to the trees. The ground began to shake snapping our attention back to the center of the field as rock, grass, and mud combined into a large creature.

The creature attacked, slamming its fist into the ground where Jim had stood. We ran to the trees trying to gain some sort of cover. Eri popping her head out of my hoodie to see what the noise was all about. “I think now would be a good time for armor!” She hissed to Jim and me.

Nodding, I pushed as little magic as possible into the belt, my armor taking form quickly. Jim, still panicking over almost getting crushed, tried talking to the creature first. “Um, hi. I know we just met, but what are you?” He called out from behind a tree.

The creature swung, tossing Jim from the trees to the opposite side of the field.

“Jim!” I yelled, eyes glowing as I flashed to him, checking him over for injuries. “I don’t think it wants to talk.” I scolded, helping him up from the mud.

“It can’t think for itself, let alone talk!” Eri snapped,’ curling around my bicep, using her ice breath to spray the creature. “It’s a golem! Someone had to put it here!”

“Alright! I get it. Strong, silent type.” Jim huffed out, quickly donning his armor, Daylight at the ready.

Ran in different directions, letting the golem chase one of us, then the other, watching its movements carefully as we tore across the soccer field.

The golem clipped Jim, sending him face-first into the dirt. “Alright,” Jim ground out, spitting up grass. “You wanna fight dirty?” He summoned Daylight, standing off with the golem for as he looked for an opening.

I caught sighed of a Troll in the tree line watching us, he seemed to be amused at our struggle with the golem. His smirk grew as his eyes locked with mine, nodding back to Jim and Golem.

I turned to see that each limb Jim cut off grew back quickly using the field to generate its limbs. The golem grabbed Jim, tossing him into the air and kicking him into the goal net. Snarling I took off after the golem, flashing above it, I activated Midnight, concentrating on only using small bursts of magic, I quickly shot off a blast of blue fire, taking out part of its torso, revealing a small stone doll.

Jim untangled himself from the net as I landed behind the golem, watching it regenerate, “My sword and your magic isn’t working. Any ideas?” He asked as we dodged a muddy fist.

“There’s some kind of idol hidden in its chest,” I called to Jim.

“Go high!” He directed, rushing the Golem.

I smirked, flashing up to its fast, eyes and sclera glowing bright blue as I unleased a larger blast of magic, revealing the stone doll. Jim used the momentum of the golems last swing to propel himself to the totem, cutting swiftly and destroying it.

Once the totem was destroyed, the golem exploded, knocking Jim and I back, dousing us from head to toe in mud.

“So much for a costume,” Jim wheezed, catching his breath as his and my armor deactivated.

“I hate golems.” Eri sneered, slithering back into the pocked of my mud-covered hoodie, absorbing the left-over energy from my last attack.

A quick laugh left my lungs as observed the tree line, “Did you see the troll?” I asked, unable to spot him in the shadows.

“Yeah, I did.” He groaned, standing up, helping me to my feet. “We gotta go, I think I’m going to just drop from the contest.”

“Good idea,” I sighed, trying to wipe the mud off of myself as we headed into the gym, tracking it in with us as we gained everyone’s attention.

“What’s going on here?” Coached asked, disgusted by the mud we were tracking in.

“Looks like you’ve been digging in the dirt, Lakes. What the heck is that supposed to be?” Steve sneered, backing down as I got in his face, wiping the mud from my hand on her Hawaiian shirt.

“Look at that, now we match.” I huffed, staying behind with Eli and Steve as Jim headed to Coach.

“He looks like a mole!” Eli cheered out; this caused the students to collectively lose it in the bleachers. Everyone freaking out over ‘Mole Mania,’ as Toby declared it. Our mole mascot breaking out in dance, excited that our school would be represented in Jim’s theme.

“Mole mania isn’t even a theme!” Steve complained, snapping his jaw as I raised my other mud-covered hand. Eri decided to pop her tiny head out, flicking her tongue in annoyance at Steve. Upon seeing her, Steve took off towards the bleachers, trying to get away from the ‘Danger Noodle!’

Eli paused in his cheering to marvel over Eri, completely calm about the little snake as Jim joined us. “Mole Mania! Great idea Jim!” He congratulated Jim.

Jim laughed, poking the top of Eri’s head, “Had a little surprise help. River said you were doing the 1980s?” He asked as Coach began to announce that we had a temporary replacement for the Principal.

“Please welcome Principal Strickler!” Coach turned, motioning behind the boys and me.

I quickly pulled away from Eli, feeling my eyes burn at the shock of Coach’s announcement. I carefully pulled my hood up, watching as Strickler walked past us, pausing briefly at the sight of my hood before taking the mic from Coach Lawrence.

“What is he doing here?” Jim asked, glaring art Strickler’s back.

Strickler glanced back to our group, allowing eyes to shift before turning to address the students. “I’m very glad to be back and excited to get started. But let it be known, with me in charge, things are going to change.”

When Deya said 'change was coming,' I don’t think she meant this.

[agent-barnes40]

Watching The Empire Strikes back

The old sounding theme

Didn’t Mark Hamill get into an accident before filming this one?

What is up with the Dalek looking probes?

Mark Hamill looks so young.

He sounds so young.

Bruh, Luke wtf?

Y’all I fucking see it! I paused it at 4:27 and for a moment thought that Han was being played by Adam Driver. I definitely see the resemblance now.

Rip Chewie’s original actor

Wheretf is Leia?

There she is.

SPACE MOM LOOKS SO YOUNG

Rip Carrie Fisher while we’re here

Damn, Carrie talks so quietly during this scene.

Damn, Leia’s sass is amazing.

Leia hiding her feelings. Are we positive that Leia wouldn’t be an awesome Gen-Z?

Everyone walking in-between Leia and Han as they fight, iconic!

The angry “YOU COULD USE A GOOD KISS!” Sounds so much like Ben/Kylo. It’s nuts.

Above scene is at 6:27.

3P0! R2!

“OH SWITCH OFF!”

Han looks feral, that’s all I’m saying.

Han’s concern for Luke and Leia warms my heart.

“Between ourselves, I think Master Luke is in conciderable danger.”

“That’s right. My friends right out in it.”

Han, admit it, you’re attached to Luke.

“Then I’ll see you in hell.”

Damn Han.

Ya’ll I forgot that most of the “cgi” was stop motion in these first three.

The old force theme.

Rancor? Thingy is cool.

R2 willing to freeze for his Skywalker master makes me want to cry.

R2 DONT SOUND SAD!

Are we close to shoving Luke into a tauntaun yet?

The rebellion people being concerned for Leia’s worry over Luke and Han while C3P0 just walks up.

Leia closing the doors to the base and Chewie looks so sad.

I’m legit about to cry. They mimicked Chewies cry from this to put into TROS when they tell Poe, Finn and Chewie that Leia’s dead.

Shelby is joining me in my watch of Star Wars.

We’re shoving Luke into a tauntaun now!

Obi-Wan absolutely dissing Qui-Gon.

Glad to know the Tauntaun died of the cold,

Han wielding the lightsaber!

They’re so happy to have found Luke and Han

The bacta tank

Luke is like, WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED WHILE I WAS ABOUT TO GET EATEN!?

The iconic Laserbrain scene.

Chewie laughing and Han looks so betrayed.

NERF HERDER!

Have I mentioned I love Leia?

The sad look on Han’s face when Leia calls him scruffy.

Luke’s like PLEASE DONT GET ME IN THIS!

I forgot Luke and Leia kiss!

3P0 casually mentioning that it isn’t a rebellion signal

Oop, here comes Anakin “So, do you like my plan?” Vader Skywalker.

The Falcon absolutely wreaking Han.

Han and Luke silently communicating.

Vader’s egg.

Vader casually killing someone while talking.

Have I mentioned I love Leia?

The stop motion is amazing.

THE AT-AT!

3P0 casually reminding R2 to be safe.

Luke trying to save his friend

Han running back for Leia.

Han catching 3P0.

Anthony Daniel’s autotune.

The very old sounding theme.

Luke gets his dumbass traits from Anakin.

Carries scream.

Where in the hell is the scene where 3P0 rips the warning on a door?

R2 being worried about Luke.

“Take Evasive action!” Almost dies.

The scene where Han is on the pole and his ass is on display, thank god Harrison Ford got paid for that.

Leia trying to fly falcon shows that she’s a Skywalker and has that natural ability to fly.

Had to switch over to my computer.

“Never tell me the odds!”

Oof, Dagobah.

Here comes the green dwarf who drinks coke every day.

Luke’s X-wing.

R2 falling into the water

R2 scream

Yoda should show up soon.

Vader’s egg.

Anakin’s crusty head.

Han catching Leia

Leia getting pissed

Han flirting

Here comes Yoda, the coke drinker.

Yoda’s so damn high. I’m meaning weed type of high

R2 getting beat by Yoda.

You know for a fact Yoda was beating R2 because he remembers Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker’s way too damn modified Astromech.

How the fuck is Frank Oz still alive?

3P0 wants his husband.

Oop, here comes the kiss scene with Han and Leia.

Han calling Leia by her first name for the first time.

“Scoundrel?”

“I happen to like nice men.”

Finally!

Fucking 3P0!

Han looks so vulnerable.

Oop Palpatine.

Vader’s egg.

Ian McDiarmid has been playing Palpatine since 1980.

Anakin learning that Luke Skywalker is his son and having to pick between killing him and wanting to finish raising Luke. It’s quite sad actually.

R2 getting drenched scares me.

Luke hiding his distaste for Yoda’s food.

Yoda and Obi-Wan talking.

I’m gonna be honest, I hate Yoda. He’s an old man who is doesn’t want change until literally episode 8. He may have taught Luke something but Luke had to learn the way of the force by himself.

Also, Yoda scares me.

Have I mentioned that I love Leia?

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

C3P0 yelling at the Mynock.

Leia faceplanting into the Falcon.

“I am not a committee!”

I don’t like the Luke/Yoda training scene.

The only thing that I believe that Yoda taught look was to absolutely fear his connection with the force.

The whole under the tree Luke/Vader “fight” was to allude to “hey, Vader is this Anakin guy we keep talking about.”

Is that Boba I see?

The light speed fail x2.

“Shut up!”

I don’t like this Luke/Yoda training scene either.

“No! Try not. Do or do not. There is no try.”

Unpopular opinion: Palpatine should’ve killed Yoda.

The soft flute force theme.

Bruh, I forgot Han landed the Falcon on Vader’s ship.

Leia turning 3P0 off.

“He’s a card player, gambler, scoundrel. You’d like him.

“Thanks.”

You can see Anthony Daniels or his stand in breathing in the 3P0 outfit.

Boba following them.

Again, I hate each and every single Yoda/Luke training scene.

“Han. Leia!”

Yoda constantly belittling Luke’s compassion for his friends that he sees as his family. This is why I don’t like Yoda.

The landing on cloud city.

I forgot how much Cloud city looks like Corucant.

Lando Calrissian

Han pointing to himself, *me?*

Lando Calrissian.

“What have you done to my ship?”

“Your ship? Hey, remember, you lost her to me fair and square.”

They are literal children and I love it.

Lando immediately flirting.

Also, what the fuck was George Lucas thinking on letting 5ft something men get chest to chest with Carrie and try to intimidate her with their height whilst trying to flirt with her?

Wtf was he thinking! Carrie Fisher is 4ft something and I feel bad for her.

“She’s the fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy.”

Chewie going to look for C3P0.

The soft force theme.

The force theme turning to the imperial march.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, you let 12-year old Ahsoka Tano on a battlefield with Anakin fucking Skywalker, the man who stared General Grevious in the face and basically told him to fuck off, and you’re not letting Anakin’s literal son go save his sister and future brother in law! So shut the fuck up dead guy and let Luke save his friends.

Yoda can go die for all I care. I forgot how much of an asshole he is.

God, I fucking hate Yoda.

Leia’s Bespin outfit.

Leia worried over 3P0 is the sweetest thing. This shows just how great of a mom she’ll be.

“I don’t trust Lando.”

Have I said that I appreciate how pretty Harrison Ford is?

Yo! Mandalorian!

Also, chewie finding C3P0!

Leia covering her body when she realizes Lando is watching her is something I thought I’d never relate to but whelp, here we are.

Lando Calrissian is very creepy actually in how he treats Leia every chance he can get.

Han’s ready to punch him.

“Would you join me for a refreshment?”

“No!” I never realized how protective Chewie is of Leia until this scene. Chewbacca immediately is ready to rip Lando apart.

“Having a problem with your droid?”

Han immediately realizes how vulnerable Leia can get when C3P0 is involved and when people she’s intimidated by. Han drew away Lando’s attention on 3P0 to him.

Han drank his appreciating women juice.

Is Boba wearing a death watch thingy on his shoulder?

Leia looks so damn scared.

Han grabbing Leia’s hand tighter to protect her.

Chewie trying to work on C3P0.

The imperial march.

Han’s super pale. “I feel terrible.”

Leia’s vulnerable and even though Han’s hurting he jumps in to protect her and how angry Leia gets, that’s when everyone knows that Leia’s feeling and anger is her protection emotion.

Honestly, I’m ready to skip the rest of Lando’s scenes.

Carbonite.

Okay so when Vader tells the Troopers to put Han into the carbon freezer, Chewbacca attacks, if you notice, Vader just lets him. It’s not because, “hey let’s not anger the Wookiee more.” It’s because according to a scene in The Clone Wars animated TV show, Chewbacca saved Anakin’s padawan, Ahsoka. I like to think Vader was finally paying his debt to the Shriwook for saving Ahsoka.

Han calming down Chewie by telling him to look after Leia.

Han and Leia’s second kiss

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Leia looks so damn sad and scared.

Chewie literally pulling Leia into his body to try and lessen the pain she was in.

The fact that Luke doesn’t realize that it’s Han.

Luke slowly realizing that he didn’t see Han with Leia and Chewie.

The only lightsaber fight between Luke and a Vader that I remember.

I’m not gonna comment on Chewie chocking Lando.

That force jump.

The biggest plot twist in cinematic history, according to the Internet, is about to happen.

R2 getting electrocuted

R2 going to fix his husband.

Oop, Luke’s hands about to get cut off.

Mark Hamill’s scream.

“Luke, there is no escape. Don’t make me destroy you. Luke, you do not yet realize your importance. You have only begun to discover your power. Join me, and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy.”

“I’ll never join you!”

“If you only knew the power of the dark side. Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father.”

“He told me enough. He told me you killed him.”

“No. I am your father.”

“No, no, that’s not true. That’s impossible!”

“Search your feelings. You know it to be true.”

The iconic “Noooo.”

“Luke. You can destroy the emperor. He has foreseen this. It is your destiny. Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son. Come with me. It is the only way.”

Skywalker men are such idiots and always are so dramatic.

The poor film editor, having to make it look like Luke is falling and is just playing with the footage they got of Mark Hamill writhing around.

And here we see just how powerful Leia and Luke are.

“Leia. Hear me. Leia”

“Luke.”

Luke’s just swinging his legs.

Light speed fail x3

“Luke.”

“Father.”

“Come with me.”

“Ben. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Luke, it’s your destiny.”

Mark Hamill is such a talented actor

Welp, Anakin’s gonna kill everyone.

“May the Force be with you.”

Luke’s fake hand.

The chills I get during the ending music.

And that was The Empire Strikes Back. All in all a good classic.

[dallanebbia]

blooming (1/6);

fandom: bnha pairing: kacchako; bakugou katsuki x uraraka ochako word count: 3129 warnings: mentions of violence inspiration: [link] synopsis: 

Ochako doesn’t understand much about the world outside the limits of her village, but she does know this: She loves her family, and at the end of the day, she’ll do anything to keep them safe – even if it means sacrificing herself to do it.

When she runs away to join the army in her father’s place, the only thing she leaves behind is an untouched cup of tea, and a whispered apology nobody is awake to hear.

(or, in which an attempt is made to write a kacchako mulan au)

parts: [1] [2] [3] || AO3: [link]

“娘は壊れ物.” – Japanese proverb (transl. "Daughters are fragile.")

__

Ochako doesn’t understand much about the world outside the limits of her village, but there are some things she does know, even as she pretends to be oblivious.

She knows that the butcher lowers his prices for the richest families, in exchange for a monthly barrel of wine that he hides from his wife. She knows that the elderly lady who begs in the market isn’t actually homeless, but dresses like she is and lives in the next village over, rubbing dirt on her cheeks every morning. She knows that her mother hasn’t given up on trying to find her a husband, even after three different matchmakers deem her hopeless.

Ochako knows that the shogun needs men to full the ranks of his army, to fight in a war against a madman. She understands that a daughter is supposed to bring her family honor through marriage, while a son is meant to earn his in battle. And she knows, as her father tries and fails to run through long-forgotten katas with his nodachi, that if her father goes to war, he isn't coming back.

She’s never wanted to be a hero like her father, left old and broken from defending the shogun and his country – but while Ochako doesn’t understand much about the world, she does know this.

She loves her family. She wants more than anything to see them happy and healthy, and at the end of the day, she’ll do anything to keep them safe – even if it means sacrificing herself to do it.

Ochako steals the conscription papers from the bedside table. She binds her breasts and cuts her hair and takes her father’s swords, running away to join the army, and the only thing she leaves behind is an untouched cup of tea with a whispered apology nobody is awake to hear.  

__ 

 When Ochako arrives at the training grounds, one thing is abundantly clear – this place isn’t meant to produce soldiers. The men she sees as she settles into the camp are boisterous and cheerful and carefree, the types of people who see battle as a game and not a fight for survival, and it’s very clear that whoever is in charge is being set up to fail.

By the look on Captain Bakugou’s face on their first day of training, he’s in complete agreement.

He’s also the most physically stunning man she’s ever seen in her life, and it takes everything in her to pretend like her face isn’t on fire when he carelessly sheds his shirt to expose carved muscles and sharp hipbones and miles of smooth, golden skin.

She keeps her eyes on his face and tries to ignore how her ears are burning.

It helps that his personality has all the charm and charisma of a dead rat. The man is crude and impatient, a permanent scowl fixed on his face as he has each recruit spar with him one on one. There’s no mercy as he knocks each and every one of his opponents out of the ring with bruises and injuries of various degrees, a mocking sneer twisting across his mouth as he goes.

Ochako is shaking in her boots when her name is called up.

Bakugou looks decidedly unimpressed at the way she nearly trips over her own feet and falls on her face before stepping into the marked boundary of the sparring ring. His eyes are drifting to run over the remaining recruits that are waiting their turns, and she’s angry and embarrassed that he’s writing her off so easily.

“Hey!” she yells, and Bakugou’s gaze snaps back towards her, “don’t look away from me!”

She grits her teeth at his answering sneer. “Why the fuck would I pay attention to a waste of space?”

Something hot burns in her chest at his words – it feels an awful lot like rage.

Family, honor and duty. The words echo in her head as she runs over the past twenty-odd fights, short as they were. She slides a foot back, settling into a low crouch as determination coils in her stomach.  

“Hajime!”

Ochako doesn’t give him the time to think, springing forward, and she can see the way his eyes widen at the initiative. She has the bare bones of a plan in her head, half-formed and relying on chance more than skill, but maybe it’s enough.

When she’s within range, Bakugou leads with his fist, body thrown into the movement with full commitment, and her heart leaps as she smoothly dodges the punch, ducking to the side and sliding into his space to try and sweep his legs out from under him and strike at the underside of his jaw. She catches him in the cheek, a rabbit-quick punch that doesn’t seem to do much damage, but she’s too slow to react to the kick to her leg, her knee crumpling beneath her as she hits the dirt with a gasp.

It’s only by luck that Ochako sees the boot hurtling towards her face, and she scrambles away just before Bakugou’s foot comes down in what would have been a nasty curb stomp.

She gapes at the cloud of dust that rises from the impact, scrambling to her feet and putting distance between them as narrowed red eyes turn to meet her gaze. It’s just as violent as some of the other attacks he’d made during other spars, and it’s obvious that he wasn’t expecting it to actually land, but as he turns to her again, there’s a marked difference in his expression and stance.

Now, his sneer is tinged with a curious edge, red eyes flashing in interest. He doesn’t look even a little winded, but Ochako is panting hard from a mix of pure willpower and adrenaline.

“Tch.” Bakugou flexes his jaw, testing the movement. “You actually hit me.”

She grits her teeth. “There’s more where that came from!”

He scoffs, but his focus is entirely on her now as he rushes in first. He’s leading with his fists again, but this time, when he goes for the punch Ochako tightens her core and lets it land, wheezing as pain explodes in her stomach. Her feet skid back, bracing against the force, and she pushes through the pain, using his outstretched arm to pull him towards the elbow she aims at his nose.

The hit is deflected with a palm strike that sends her off balance, a kick to her back sending her to the ground. As Bakugou closes the short distance between them, the fine, loose texture of the earth below her palms gives her an idea.

It's playing dirty, but Ochako doesn’t really care as she flips over and tosses two handfuls of dirt into Bakugou’s face.

“Motherfucker, you bi – !” The fine particles give her precious few seconds as Bakugou scrubs at his eyes, and she tries to dart in close to land a hit. Unfortunately, it takes her too long; by the time she manages to land a sweeping kick that knocks him down, he’s already recovered enough to lunge at her in an all-out tackle that ends with her wrists twisted behind her and his weight bearing down on her back.

“Tch, that was almost halfway decent.” The rough growl does nothing to hide the smirk in his voice, and when she tries wiggling out of his hold, he only puts more pressure on her wrists. “Tap out, or I’m gonna start breaking shit.”

Ochako grits her teeth, stubbornness holding out for a moment before she slumps. “… I yield.”

She gasps in relief as her arms are released, the weight on her back disappearing. Her arms flop at her sides into the dirt, exhaustion finally hitting her, and all she wants to do is not move for the foreseeable future.

“Oi. Round face.” She flinches as a foot nudges into her side roughly. “Get the fuck up, I’ve got other extras to beat to the ground before the day is done.”

Ochako takes a deep breath, then slowly clambers to her feet, wincing as the tenderness of her stomach from tanking that earlier punch. Bakugou is already looking at his next opponent, eyes fixed on a tall redhead whose biceps look like they’re bigger than her own head, but something makes Ochako call out to him.

“My name,” she says through gritted teeth, and he pauses to look back at her over his shoulder, “is Uraraka.”

Bakugou studies her for a moment, eyes unreadable, and as he turns away, scoffs, “Whatever, round face.”

__ 

Days pass. Ochako aches on her good days, and can barely move on others. Bakugou is a harsh taskmaster who has a takes-no-prisoners attitude that drives every single recruit into the ground, and now she knows that she was right about him being set up to fail.

The man that arrives a week into training is a smug, obnoxious little prick from the shogun’s court, a noble looks like he had weaseled his way into his advisor position through nepotism and money. Lord Monoma sneers at all the recruits like they’re dumb animals rather than people, and for some reason has it out for Ochako in particular, snidely pointing out how she lags behind the other men during training exercises and her overall slow improvement.

The only consolation is that Bakugou hates Monoma more than anyone else, and actively works to make the man’s life as miserable as possible. One ‘accidental’ fire keeps the insufferable man away from the training grounds for a solid week, and Ochako has to hold herself back from crying in relief. Some of the other men have no self-preservation and actually try to hug Bakugou, which earns them extra laps and chores as punishment.

There are some moments of brightness that shine through the monotony of the days, but for the most part it’s not easy, being here. She’s the smallest and shortest one in the camp, the one with the lowest stamina and the least energy to spare, and more often than not it takes her twice as long to finish endurance exercises or obstacle courses because she just doesn’t have the physical strength to keep up. She does well in spars, using her father’s teachings to turn her opponent’s size and strength against them, but at the end of the day, she’s a woman pretending to be a man, and there is only so much she can do on her own before the frustration at her lack of progress starts to eat away at her. Some days, she feels like she's breaking through her slump, but on others it feels like she's the dead weight who's moments away from being cast off.

It's during one of these days that Bakugou is waiting for her as she comes back from her exercises one night, the rest of the men having finished hours earlier. In his hands are two heavy weights, cloth straps looped through the holes in the center of each disk, and he unceremoniously drops them into her arms.

“Get the arrow by sunrise,” he says, pointing upward, and Ochako follows his hand until she sees an arrow embedded into to the wood of a training post that’s thicker than the circle of her arms and as tall as a century old pine. “If you can’t, don’t bother showing up for training.”

He doesn’t look back even as panicked questions start spilling from her mouth, ducking into his tent and leaving her alone in the darkness. Her arms already heavy and worn from the day’s training, the arrow looks like it’s miles away, and Ochako looks down at the weights with a growing sense of hopelessness until she sees it.

There are words embossed into each disk. It’s a full moon and the characters are easy to read, but Ochako still traces the raised strokes slowly. Discipline and strength. She thinks of her father’s swords, tucked in her tent, and the horimono engraved on each blade. Peonies – bravery and honor.

Ochako looks up at the post, eyes observing the knots and cracks in the old wood. She then ties the weights to her torso, wraps her hands in strips torn from her shirt, and starts climbing.

__ 

Two hours from sunrise, Ochako approaches the commander’s tent, illuminated from within by the light of a candle. When she’s given the permission to enter, she’s finds herself staring directly at Monoma of all people, sitting on the opposite side of the tent. At the sight of her, he looks like he’s just swallowed an entire yuzu fruit whole.  

“Well?” Bakugou doesn’t even glance in her direction, eyes focused on the scroll in his lap. One hand is flipping a knife between broad fingers, the other holding a half-eaten pear, and here in the soft candlelight he’s softened by the shadows cast along his sharp features. The loose shirt he wears does little to hide the broadness of his shoulders or chest, and abruptly, Ochako feels a tiny flutter bloom beneath her breastbone.

Oh. Oh, no.

No, no, no, no, no.

She’s delirious, she decides. She’s exhausted and sleep-deprived and confused by the feelings that are stirring in her chest, and Ochako blames all of that on what she does next.

“One arrow, Captain,” Ochako says, and stakes the arrow, head first, into the map spread across the table in front of her, “as promised.”

Something in her revels in the way Monoma jumps in surprise, wide-eyed, and her ears burn as Bakugo barks out a sharp laugh. She pulls the two weights off her back, dropping them in a neat pile at her feet.

“What was it you said? Fragile?” Bakugou’s expression is full of unholy glee, and Monoma looks like he can’t decide if he wants to punch Bakugou in the face or stab him. “A deal’s a deal, fuckface. Get your arrow and your shitty ass out of my damn camp.”

Monoma grinds his teeth and stands with all the grace of a sore loser, sweeping out of the tent without a word.

Silence falls. It takes Ochako a few embarrassingly long moments to process what she's just heard, still confused as hell, but then decides that she can’t be bothered to be polite about it.

“I’m fragile?” Offended, Ochako looks down at herself, where her raw hands are bleeding through makeshift bandages. She can see the dips of her abdominals showing through her shirt. “… wait, you bet on me?!”

“The shitty bastard did.” She barely reacts fast enough to catch the pear that nearly brains her in the forehead, fumbling with it for a moment before it lands awkwardly between her elbow and her chest, and Bakugou just smirks when she shoots him a glare.

“There’s nothing fragile about you, round face.” Stunned, her mouth falls open, and there's something else in Bakugou's expression that she can't name. “Now get outta my tent.”

She knows, logically, that it’s not meant to imply or mean anything – still, heat floods her face to the point where Bakugou notices, by the way his eyes narrow. Before he can say anything else, she decides to cut her losses and squeaks out a goodbye before rushing out and making a beeline for her own tent.

Family, duty and honor. Ochako is here for her father, nothing more and nothing less. She scrubs herself down the best she can, collapses on her sleeping mat, and pretends like the rapid-fire beat of her heart is nothing more than excess adrenaline, burning itself away.

__

The arrow doesn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t mean anything, but something shifts in Ochako, after. It’s odd, breaking through a plateau that has held her back for so long; her body doesn’t feel any different and she’s still waking with sore muscles and aching limbs. The real difference is those five words, spoken with a conviction that Ochako herself doesn’t know if she quite agrees with – but something in her burns whenever she remembers the way Bakugou looked at her after saying it. She wants to prove that he’s right.

There’s nothing fragile about you.

She runs faster and farther, pushing until she’s leading the endurance runs rather than trailing them. She spars with the other men, beats them all one by one – and then she trains with Bakugou. In the beginning, he knocks her on her ass every time, but slowly, each bout between them lasts longer and longer. She learns to hit harder and fight smarter, until she finally manages to pin him down after weeks of eating dirt.

“Gotcha.” She’s panting, pressing down on him as hard as she can manage, and bares her teeth in a vicious, proud smile. Below her, he’s catching his breath, recovering from the way she slammed his head into the dirt seconds earlier. “Yield?”

“… whatever,” he says, empty of all his usual aggression and rage, and Ochako is suddenly distinctly aware of the position she’s in. Her hands are pressing his wrists into the ground at his sides, the bulk of her weight on his hips to prevent him from flipping her – and Ochako swallows when something in Bakugou’s eyes darken.

“Oi, you getting up anytime soon, round face?” His voice is low and rough, and it sends heat pooling dizzily in her stomach. Ochako scrambles off of him, babbling her apologies, but this one moment becomes the spark that ignites the fire burning through her body late at night, when she's alone in her tent and too tired to stop herself from dreaming.

They all start the same way – hand to hand combat, one on one training with Bakugou that transitions into grappling and wrestling. She’s strong, but he can easily overpower her nine times out of ten, and it’s so easy to imagine him holding her down with his hands and hips and thighs.

Sometimes, she fights back – struggles against him until she wriggles free and pins him too.

Sometimes, she leans up to press her mouth to his, and Bakugou bears down on her with all the tempestuous rage of a storm, intent on devouring her whole.

Sometimes, she lies there and lets Bakugou wraps a careful hand to her neck. His thumb presses into the underside of her jaw, tilting her chin up so he can mouth at the skin of her fluttering pulse as she arches into his touch, begging him for more.

Those are the worst to wake up to, her body trembling and aching with longing, and she has to press her fingers to the cold metal of her father’s swords to bring her back to her senses.

Still, she spars with Bakugou – and the dreams don’t stop.

[nerddface]

The Fight & The Fall

Characters: Eret, Son of Eret , Reader

Warnings: Nothing :)

Word count: 2600 whew

Notes: this is v late and has a v bad cheesy title. Shoutout to Men in Tights for the reference ;)

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Eret wasn’t even on Y/N’s radar. She had bigger priorities than this new human member of their team, like figuring out how they were going to integrate another dragon with her incredibly sensitive scaredy-cat of a dragon. Muds was small for a Stormcutter, only slightly more than half the size of her cousin, Cloudjumper, and somewhat dim in comparison, as well. The sharp, innate ability of Stormcutters to distinguish between friend and foe was duller in this poor creature, and it took some doing to earn her trust. Because of her size (or lack thereof), she was meticulous about knowing who was in her surroundings. She knew where every other dragon in a formation was, and attacked just about anything out of place. It took several weeks, quick reflexes, and dozens of treats to teach her a new strategy, and that was just with the original five, familiar dragons. The momentary addition of Heather back on the Edge hadn’t gone well, and Y/N and Muds were grounded most of her stay. Just looking at Eret’s loud, brash Rumblehorn gave her a headache.

Muds, of course, didn’t like him, either.  She had a particularly difficult time understanding the shift between “Strange-Hostile-Person-Whom-We’ve-Never-Met” to “Eret-Now-A-Friend-Of-Dragons”. Stoick had visited infrequently with Skullcrusher before, so they were essentially starting from square one. Stormfly, bless her, had done her best to show the younger dragon that the new additions to their team were not threats, but poor Muds just hadn’t grasped the concept yet. Y/N kept Muds and herself at a distance from them, only exchanging short words with Eret over supper to remain civil. He seemed to keep his distance, as well, perhaps not fond of being the odd one out as the new guy, not to mention Ruffnut would hardly leave him alone. Y/N knew too well what the twins’ attention meant, in any capacity, and she couldn’t blame Eret for being scarce.

Hiccup, apparently, had had more than enough of both of their reclusive habits and had called them to the arena at the crack of dawn. He stood now with his arms crossed over his chest, one hand gripping a leather-bound notebook and a stick of charcoal, considering both of them across the sizeable distance they’d put between each other.

“Closer.”

A glance over at Eret revealed to Y/N he was just as confused as she was. “What?”

“We’re here to acclimatize Muds to Skullcrusher, and, by extent, the two of you. That’s not going to happen if you’re standing an ocean apart. A step closer won’t kill you.”

Y/N frowned, but took a step forward. Muds followed close at her back, her head swiveling and the end of her tail flicking as she tried to make sense of the two across the stone from her.

Eret followed, Skullcrusher rumbled up behind him, and Muds chittered.

“I have an idea.” Hiccup leveled both of them with his I-mean-business look. “It should work if both of you cooperate.”

Y/N shrugged. ”Yeah.” Eret also nodded his agreement.

“Great. It’s pretty simple. Eret, Muds is comfortable with Y/N, and the smell of Y/N. I want you to wear her cloak, and Y/N can re-introduce you slowly. Muds may be a little easier to convince that you’re friendly if you smell friendly.”

Surprisingly, it worked. By working gradually, with plenty of gentle assurances and praise on Y/N’s part, Eret could stroke both of Muds’ sides from nose to tail, and Skullcrusher could make a full, slow circle around her at a moderate pace, even without Y/N’s scent draped over them.

“Great,” their leader conceded after about an hour of exercises. “We’ll pick back up tomorrow morning. Y/N, I’d recommend giving Muds a good break.”

Eret handed Y/N her cloak back, and their hands brushed momentarily. She threw it over her shoulders, catching a hint of his scent still clinging to the material. For some reason, it made her strangely nervous. She decided she was not a fan.

“Wonderful. Great lesson. Bye, Hiccup, bye, Emmet.”

Eret didn’t have enough time to process what she’d said and correct her before she was swinging herself into her saddle and taking to the air.

Hiccup sighed and scribbled something in his notebook, leaving them in momentary silence, save for the skittering of dragon claws on the stone as Toothless tracked circles around a disinterested Skullcrusher.

“Sort of quiet, isn’t she?” Eret commented, watching her and Muds leave the arena behind. Hiccup tried unsuccessfully to stifle a chortling laugh, and the newest rider turned to him with a frown.

“What?”

“Y/N is anything but quiet. We thought the same thing, at first, but don’t let it fool you. She’s got a tongue sharp enough to cut off that fluffy braid of yours.”

“Really?” He paused before asking further, “Why doesn’t she speak to me?”

Hiccup shrugged. “Sometimes I’m not sure if her or her dragon is more wary of strangers. I guess neither of them-- ahem-- quite like you.”

Eret’s brow creased further as he looked back up to see Muds’ tail flick around a sea stack and out of sight.

~

With the dragon bonding underway, the others tried to help the two humans in the equation, in their own way. The twins tried their “T’n’T” (Tried-and-True Tightrope) Method, which thankfully did not involve any explosives. Despite having worked on Dagur and Mala previously, it wasn’t the best approach for Eret and Y/N. The newcomer tumbled off before any semblance of a match could begin, while Y/N, long-accustomed to wave-riding on dragons, balanced atop the swinging tightrope cooly, examining her nails as Eret spat dirt out of his mouth.

Fighlegs tried meditating. It seemed to work-- until he realized the reason they hadn’t been making sarcastic jabs at each other was because they had both fallen asleep.

Astrid just shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll get over each other.”

Snotlout was the last to assist, and had led them both to an open patch of beach on the far side of the island.

“Hiccup is wrong,” he announced as Hookfang found a comfortable spot to nap. “He’s great with dragons, but people are my speciality. I know what you two need.”

Y/N and Eret both stared, silently, waiting for him to continue. He shifted his weight and sighed. “Listen. In the Jorgenson household, we handle things the old fashioned way. The correct way. The only way. No dragons, no ‘talking it out’ or whatever soggy garbage.”

He gestured to behind Y/N with a wave of his arm. “Astrid, if you would.” Y/N turned to see the blonde atop Stormfly, who was coaxing Muds down the beach. Her dragon was, albeit a little cautiously, following at a steady pace. She could play with the Nadder for hours if she was allowed. Y/N frowned and quirked a brow but let it happen.

“Never expect another favor like this, Snotlout,” Astrid called over her shoulder, jabbing a finger at him.

“Yeah, yeah, screw you, Snotlout, I get it, just take the Stormcutter somewhere else. Far away.”

As Muds got further away down the beach, the viking produced a chicken wing from the bag slung across his shoulders.

“You too, big guy.” He waved it before Skullcrusher’s nose until it caught his attention, then slung the chicken and the bag as far as he could, into the trees. The Rumblehorn chased it, rumbling happily, and leaving the humans alone.

Snotlout picked up a large stick from the ground and began tracing a large circle in the sand around them. “Sometimes,” he explained, “You’ve just gotta throw a couple punches. Really brings people together.”

“What, exactly,” Eret questioned, peering over Y/N’s shoulder as Snotlout completed his ring, “are you suggesting?”

Snotlout bonked the stick on the top of Eret’s head. “Fight.”

Y/N snorted, sparing a glance to Eret, who seemed just as apprehensive. “Sorry?”

“Sparring,” Snotlout assured. “Nothing serious. Just to get to know one another.”

“What do I win?” Y/N asked, crossing her arms across her chest. Eret scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Uh, the thrill of victory? Eternal bragging rights? My praise?” Snotlout tossed his stick aside and waved a hand dismissively. “Now get to it. That chicken isn’t going to last forever, and I will not be responsible for that dragon when he comes back.”

When Y/N looked over to Eret, she found his gaze already on her, one brow raised, as if he were asking her agreement to continue. She heaved a short breath.

“Why not? Not like you could do much damage anyway, Egret.”

The comment was sharp, but her voice wasn’t, and a smile tugged at her mouth as she planted her feet shoulder-width apart and balled her fists.

“You’ll see what Eret, son of Eret, is capable of. I’ve taken on whole crews single-handedly!” Eret struck first, feigning to the left before striking at her with his right fist. She missed it with plenty of room to spare. She kept up her defense, knocking half-hearted blows away with ease.

“Oh, please!” she exclaimed. “Are you throwing fists, or flowers?”

Eret’s stance widened and he pulled his fists closer before lunging forward with more force. Y/N had to compensate heavily on her right foot to get out of the way in time, and attempted a feint to the left to get her balance back. It wasn’t very convincing, and he almost got her to trip up before she got her feet right under her, still trying to find an opening in his defense.

He laughed sharply as she dodged another meaty fist. “All bark, but no bite, are you?”

Y/N chuckled breathlessly, and dropped close to the ground and changed her tactics. She swiped a leg out, trying to catch his heel. He jumped over it, but that was what she wanted; she balanced herself on her palms and swung herself around, slamming her other leg into his ankles just as they touched the ground.

He lost his footing and hit the sand with a heavy thud, but recovered quickly, and rolled to avoid her pinning him down. He used his momentum to swing an arm at her head as he got back to his feet. She ducked beneath it and managed a sharp jab to his ribs before he twisted out of her reach.

Eret’s hair was disheveled from his momentary grounding, and his face was flush with effort. Y/N was struck, for a moment, by the glimmer in his eyes and the flash of his teeth. The tattoo on his chin distorted slightly as he frowned with concentration, When did his face get to be that handsome? She was so lost in this moment of admiration that she didn’t catch his palm coming to box at her ear. The sharp blow shook her head out of its bizarre little mood and back into the fight, but as she caught his calf mid-kick she found her breath trembling like the muscle beneath her fingertips.

If Eret noticed her mind was elsewhere, he didn’t ease up on her, and pressed his offense forward, pushing her to the edge of the ring. She was back on strict defense, deflecting blows and dancing out of the way of his rapid punches.

He tried a kick at her at the same time she made a move to duck under his range of fire and strike at his abdomen. Her right leg hooked with his left, and her shoulder collided with his hip, sending them both to the sand. They ended up in a tangled heap, winded both from the fight and the fall.

Eret groaned, and Y/N felt it more than she heard it. He struggled to brace himself up, but only got to his elbows before wincing. His hiss of breath sounded sharply in her ear, and she was sure he could feel the same pain that was blooming in her shoulders. She shifted the knee that had buried in his side, and he lifted his heavy chest off of hers. One of his hands had trapped her bicep above her head, and a thigh was snug between hers.

She cracked her eyes open through the ringing in her head, and met his. She sucked in a breath, of either shock or something else she didn’t know-- the scent of leather and the sea filled her head, and the space between them superheated in an instant. Was it just her imagination, or did she see the same expression of hesitant wonderment in his face? She couldn’t be sure that he had leaned forward just a hair, but she was sure that her heart rate took another spike.

The world seemed to grind to a halt around them, until Snotlout kicked Eret’s thigh. “Round’s over! I didn’t need you two to get that close.”

Eret scrambled off of her, and offered a hand to help her up. Y/N accepted it, hoping he couldn’t tell her hands were getting clammy. She very pointedly studied the sand around them as Snotlout sighed.

“Eret landed top of the pile, so he wins, but really, we all win, don’t we?” He slung his arms around both of their shoulders, yanking them down to the same height. “Would you consider you to be friends, now?  Wouldn’t you say that sparring match was just what you needed?”

Y/N wriggled away, but her sneer was breaking into a smile. “Not to your credit, Snotlout.”

“Nonsense. Another rift mended by the expertise of one Snotlout Jorgenson!” He released Eret but ground a fist into his bicep with a grin. “My dad will be so excited to hear that it worked!” He climbed into his dragon’s saddle and jerked his horns. “Let’s go do the family name proud, Hookfang! Have fun being friends! And don’t worry, you can thank me later!”

The pair of troublemakers took off, leaving Eret and Y/N in relative peace. Distantly, Skullcrusher was rumbling through the brush and crunching on bones, but they still had a good minute or so before he returned. Muds was likely still scampering about with Stormfly somewhere out of earshot.

Y/N cleared her throat, trying to regain the confidence that had until just recently come so easy to her. “Well, Amit. Since you won, I guess it’s only fair that you pick your prize.”

He mulled it over for a moment, hoping the blush that flared up on his face was still hidden under the pretense of exertion. Half of those thoughts did not have any right to be in his head at that moment. He schooled his voice into steadiness before speaking. “You... could help me with the training arena? I’m on cleaning duty this week.”

Y/N shrugged. “Sure. Maybe I could get some dusting done with that little brush back here.” She ruffled the spiky end of his hair, and he laughed.

“Bad idea. Dust makes me sneeze.”

“We’ll figure something out, Achoo, son of A-sneeze. We may need a lot of water. You could use a bath, anyway.”

She was joking, but he was suddenly trying to remember the last time he’d washed. “Really?”

Her laugh lifted his chest and the corners of his lips. Her eyes sparkled as her gaze sidled over his face. “No, Eric. You’re fine.”

“It’s Eret.”

“I know, Aaron.”

Eret sighed, but didn’t complain. For her favor, he could take a couple new names. And maybe... one day she’d be saying his name right.