#it needn't be hard! it can just be seeking out what you like!

[meadowlarkx]

every day i see good and fun posts and like them to rb later and by the time later arrives reblogs have been turned off :(

[relmint]

Hello! wanted to ask you something, so I have realized that in jttw, Wukong always turns to Guanyin when he needs help and she also comforts him when he feels sad, and it seems that Wukong trusts her and respects her a lot, it is like a relationship between a younger brother and an older sister. (correct me if I'm wrong, sorry I'm just getting started and it's a lot of things) but shouldn't Wukong be mad that she was the one who gave tripitaka the circlet in the first place? Does Wukong know this? why does he trust her if she was the one who gave tripitaka the circlet in the first place? Pd: I love your art! <3 have a good day

Before I start, I would like to say that I have not finished reading the book myself, so some of my interpretations may seem off :0 For folks who are more knowledgeable than me, feel free to add on and share what you think as well! Now, let’s begin!

Yup! I also see them as having a younger bro and older sis bond :0 Also Wukong did grow mad when he learned it was Guan Yin who taught Tripitaka the magic! 

From Anthony C. Yu's translation, page 320, Chapter 14:

"I wouldn't dare strike you," said Pilgrim, "but let me ask you something. Who taught you this magic?" "It was an old woman," said Tripitaka, "who imparted it to me a few moments ago." Growing very angry, Pilgrim said, "You needn't say anything more! The old woman had to be that Guanshiyin! Why did she want me to suffer like this? I'm going to South Sea to beat her up!"

Wukong also chewed Guan Yin out for her tricks the next time they met on page 327, Chapter 15:

The Bodhisattva and the Guardian soon arrived at the Serpent Coil Mountain. They stopped the hallowed clouds in midair and saw Pilgrim Sun down below, shouting abuses at the bank of the stream. The Bodhisattva asked the Guardian to fetch him. Lowering his clouds, the Guardian went past Tripitaka and headed

straight for the edge of the stream, saying to Pilgrim, “The Bodhisattva has arrived.” When Pilgrim heard this, he jumped quickly into the air and yelled at her: “You, so-called Teacher of the Seven Buddhas and the Founder of the Faith of Mercy! Why did you have to use your tricks to harm me?”

“You impudent stableman, ignorant red-buttocks!” said the Bodhisattva. “I went to considerable effort to find a scripture pilgrim, whom I carefully instructed to save your life. Instead of thanking me, you are finding fault with me!” “You saved me all right!” said Pilgrim. “If you truly wanted to deliver me, you should have allowed me to have a little fun with no strings attached. When you met me the other day above the ocean, you could have chastened me with a few words, telling me to serve the Tang Monk with diligence, and that would have been enough. Why did you have to give him a flower cap, and have him deceive me into wearing it so that I would suffer? Now the fillet has taken root on old Monkey’s head. And you even taught him this so-called ‘Tight-Fillet Spell,’ which he recites again and again, causing endless pain in my head! You haven’t harmed me, indeed!” The Bodhisattva laughed and said, “O, Monkey! You are neither attentive to admonition nor willing to seek the fruit of truth. If you are not restrained like this, you’ll probably mock the authority of Heaven again without regard for good or ill. If you create troubles as you did before, who will be able to control you? It’s only through this bit of adversity that you will be willing to enter our gate of Yoga.” 

“All right,” said Pilgrim, “I’ll consider the matter my hard luck. But why did you take that condemned dragon and send him here so that he could become a spirit and swallow my master’s horse? It’s your fault, you know, if you allow an evildoer to perpetrate his villainies some more!”

As you can see, Sun Wukong and the Bodhisattva were not off to a great start. Guan Yin gave Sun Wukong the fillet to ensure he kept his promise of bringing the Tang Monk to India, attaining enlightenment in the process. From my point of view, the purpose of the journey was not only to introduce Buddhism to China but for the pilgrims to redeem themselves as well. It's basically like community service lmao. In the beginning, Sun Wukong was not very committed to maintaining his deal with the Bodhisattva, running away when Tripitaka scolded him for killing the 6 robbers. Sun Wukong does come back after having tea with his bestie the Dragon King, and to ensure Sun Wukong won't change his mind Guan Yin decided to give Tripitaka the fillet. In the beginning, you could justify why the fillet was needed. You can't deny that Sun Wukong was a dangerous warlord, managing to outmatch the might of Heaven itself (Absolute king, he wrecked those guys in Heaven <3). It seems reasonable how the Bodhisattva would think of the fillet as a necessary item to keep Sun Wukong in check. Sun Wukong, along with being overpowered, is seen to be impulsive and rash. That makes for a dangerous combination. But as the story progresses, you can see how Tripitaka overuses the fillet (Tripitaka sucks at being a teacher). I think the Bodhisattva was not aware of this. Or at least, not aware that Tripitaka used the fillet to such a degree. She is not omniscient, as proven by how Sun Wukong has to go to her to fill her in on all the tea. 

I think I have to also mention corporal punishment. Corporal punishment is a common thing in a lot of countries back then, especially in East Asia! This way of disciplining was the norm. It was universally accepted, so there was a big chance people didn’t really think of the fillet as such a big deal. Confucianism is deeply embedded in Chinese culture, and it puts great importance on filial piety and good behavior. Teachers and parents are granted a lot of authority in this philosophy. If it’s for the sake of discipline, then corporal punishment is justified (obviously this is a damaging and flawed way of thinking but that’s just how it was in ancient times. Luckily, values are changing and people are becoming more aware!). Unfortunately, Sun Wukong and a lot of others r probably not aware that this was actual abuse. ….I think I digressed and I am sorry if I did but back to Wukong and Guan Yin! The way I see their relationship, it’s…complicated. In the beginning, their relationship was def strained. Wukong was mad at Guan Yin for the fillet. As for Guan Yin’s feelings towards the monkey, I think she genuinely wanted Wukong to succeed. She def disapproved of Sun Wukong’s rambunctious nature, but time and time again we see her offer her assistance throughout the pilgrim’s journey. Because of this she probably grew fond of the monkey, and Sun Wukong to her. I mean, she lets Sun Wukong crash at her place and allows him to vent his feelings to her. She is also stern whenever Sun Wukong’s resolve for the journey falters. She wants Wukong to stay on track. I think she genuinely wants Wukong to attain his merit, achieve enlightenment, and succeed. Isn’t that why she became a Bodhisattva? To help people? But this is just my interpretation! Also out of pure fun and brain rot, I want to share this song that reminds me of Sun Wukong and Guan Yin <3 

Also, I just wanna say one of my fav interactions between them is when they worked together to save Tripitaka from Black Wind Demon! I loved their light bickering <33 I personally think Chapter 17 was when Wukong and Guan Yin’s relationship became better and they started opening up to one another :> Also aahh thank you so much for liking my art! Sorry for the long ramble XD I hope you have a cool day anon! 

[argetcross]

Astarion looks over Wyll's contract, a missing BG3 scene

[The camp in Baldur's Gate. Nighttime has fallen and everyone is in their tents. To Wyll's surprise, Astarion saunters over.]

Astarion: The Blade of Frontiers. Come on already. Hand it over.

Wyll: Hello to you too, Astarion. I assume you don't mean hand over this bowl of stew because, as you can see, Gale outdid himself and it's quite gone.

Astarion: Not the stew, your contract. Since it's clear from that escapade in the towers that someone should take a look at that Infernal scrap of paper.

Wyll: Oh. Oh!

Astarion: It wasn't my idea, you know. Our fearless leader wants me to take a look, since, for some reason, being raised on the suckling tit of Baldur's Gate high society has made you both terrible at reading basic contract law. And if that gods-damned cambion shows her face again demanding more addendums, you ought to be prepared.

Wyll: Yes, well. You make a fair point. Mizora's been getting the drop on me for a long time now. Once, just once, I'd like to turn the tables on her.

Narrator: Normally infernal contracts are hard to get a hold of. What devil would allow you to look twice at your soul signed away? But a tip from Karlach and a sizable donation to a local diabolist wins you a plain text copy of what signed away your soul seven long years ago.

Astarion: ...and you'll want to be careful of this clause in particular. There's two ways to interpret the word and I trust you know devils well enough now to always pick the disagreeable version.

Narrator: The parchment containing a version of your infernal contract is now dripping with so much red ink that it looks as if it was bleeding. Seems like the vampire was as good at understanding law as he was breaking it.

Wyll: Color me impressed, Astarion. And here I thought you got your magisterial position the way most do in this city, through bribery.

Astarion: Oh, I most certainly did. And infernal law is hardly my expertise, but you don't have to be an expert to see how this contract was a terrible idea. Really, what were you thinking, agreeing to this?

Wyll: You heard the story. Tiamat, the Cult of the Dragon, no matter what else came after, that, I won't regret that.

Astarion: Oh yes, you saved the city from Keres's loony cousins. Raising the god of dragons from the Hells, just so they could juice up their magical bloodline in eternal draconic servitude. Pfah, and I thought vampires were obsessed with blood.

Wyll: Wait. What? Those cultists were part of her family?

Astarion: Ah. She didn't tell you, did she? ...Well, before you start begging for her forgiveness, I have it on good authority they were quite evil and corrupt. So really, you probably did her a favor! Saved her some trouble of pruning her own family tree. She probably would have cried the whole way though and honestly, that takes all the fun out of killing your own family members.

Wyll: ...I see. That's quite a lot to take in. I suppose I ought to talk to her later about it. But you know, Astarion, I was wrong about you.

Astarion: Hmm? Are you going to tell me you're just now realizing how smart and handsome I am?

Wyll: You're a good man. I know you were worried for me in your own way. Even if, for some reason, it galls you to admit it.

Astarion: And I told you, I was simply sent by my meddlesome darling. Practically ordered. You know how high handed she can get sometimes. All my bad influence, I'm sure, ha-ha!

Wyll: Alright, I won't push the point. But you know, you needn't hide behind the others. After all, Keres had already told me to seek you out myself and I quote, "I can tell he wants to help, but he'll be happier if you ask him yourself, instead of me butting my nose in again."

Astarion: Ah, well, that is— You know, we'll make a liar of you yet. Because I do believe that counts as "pushing the point".

Wyll: Fair enough. But truly. Thank you, Astarion.

[gildinbainas]

Antony & Atem: First Meeting

:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆ || → @battermyheart

Atem sat below deck of his ship, feet curled within the chair that was his makeshift throne. The ship was docked at port near the Nile, his chosen place to meet with the one who saw fit to march soldiers near Kemet's borders. He couldn't be bothered meeting him on a field of battle just yet, for it was inevitable that these soldiers had come quite ill prepared. Atem had noted the battering rams and catapults while spies didn't see too many instances of oil. That meant these soldiers had no intention of simply burning his lands to the ground. They likely wished for control of the city and of course the resources within. Not that Atem could blame them. From what he had heard about the activities of Rome these days, they had quite the expensive appetite for games and debauchery. But Atem had no intention of letting himself be the proprietor of Roman whims. They would have to invade someone else to pay for their expensive bad habits.

❝Marcus Antonius, my lord.❞

Dark eyes looked up as the Roman soldier was escorted by medjai below deck of his ship. This Roman seemed rather unnerved that his own escorts had been forced to stay behind, but he needn't worry too much. As agreed, no blood would be shed this day and Atem was a man of his word. This day was all about negotiations and an attempt to implore reason before the sun rose on the 'morrow. Nothing more than that unless the soldier chose not to cooperate.

Atem uncurled slender, bronze legs from beneath him and finally stood, sliding dainty feet within jeweled sandals that rested before his chair. A long gown of red covered the golden chest plate protecting his chest while his arms were adorned with various arm cuffs, bangles and temporary tattoos. He looked upon his guest who stood taller than he. At barely five feet, he intimidated few in stature alone. However, he was certain this one knew rather well that it wasn't wise to underestimate the throne of Egypt. There was a reason it was still standing after all this time and Atem had no intention of letting it fall during his reign.

❝So you are the one seeking entry into my kingdom uninvited.❞

The Pharaoh walked forward towards a silver tray that held two silver chalices. He poured wine into both, extending one chalice to his guest. After taking a few sips of his own, if only to let his guest know that it wasn't laced with poison, Atem sat on one of the pillows nearby motioning for his guest to do the same.

❝Prey tell Antony, what it is that you seek that has you acting in such haste? This is your chance to explain yourself so consider this meeting an act of kindness. Despite what you have been told, I can be quite reasonable when I choose to be.❞

Which was the truth in comparison to his cousin. Priest Seto was the first to favor simply burning them all to the ground from the start, but Atem knew that his father had dealings with Rome for a time. It was best to hear them out first before destroying a potential beneficial relationship on both sides. There was always a benefit to friendship if one looked hard enough.

[delusionaid]

@svnsworn sent:

It is rare that the Tsaritsa leaves her ice palace in the frozen heart of Snezhnaya, but rumors abound of a man from Kaenri'ah roaming the breadth of Teyvat, and she simply couldn't hold back her intrigue. Of course, she highly doubts that it would be the love that she lost in the Cataclysm five hundred years ago, the love that turned her soul cold and shifted her gaze towards the ruin of Celestia. And yet, as she follows the lead she has been given, there is a part of her that...hopes. Alas, when she finds the man, it is not the one she seeks. A foolish notion, and one that once would have found her disappointed; now, however, she is simply angry with herself for even the brief moment of hope. That has been extinguished so long ago. But, while she's here, outside of her home and eyeing a blonde masked man, she may as well say hello. "Who would have thought that even I would stumble across someone with the Kaenri'ah curse," she says, stepping into his line of sight, white hair and tawny skin bright beneath a sun much harsher than that what pierces the skies at home. She didn't stumble upon him, but he needn't know that. Given how hard he can be to find, she imagines he already knows that her words are steeped in lies. "Truly, it is an honor to meet one of the survivors." Sarcasm, mockery; just as the world has seen fit to mock her, so, too, do her words drip the subtle poison of her pain.

Her presence is felt; like a beacon of magic not native to this land (much like him) she stands out in a way only few in Teyvat do. As such there is no need to ask what she is - or who, for that matter. Their paths have crossed before in a time nearly forgotten to the world and all those who didn't witness it, but even if the Bough Keeper was granted relief from all the memories that weigh on his mind he would likely recognize her. A queen in her own name, a leader among leaders, an adversary in title but ostensibly not in action.

Her hair sways in the mild breeze that curls around them almost lovingly but loses its warmth between them, where a cold radiates from her like the reverse of standing near a well-lit hearth. It is an inhuman cold, the kind that seeps through clothes and skin but doesn't cut the way a winter's storm might.

"I care not if you rejoice in my punishment," Dainsleif says as he meets her gaze, both calm and piercing like a crisp winter's morning. There is a cold in his own eyes, a rigidity that's come with passing time and passing grief, and he doesn't back down from looking right at her. Her choice of words seems deliberate and they do nothing to soften the knight's posture or heart for her. Though he was willing to see her as something other than those he deems responsible for the calamity that befell his homeland, he still senses her discountenance and finds its twin in his own response to her.

"I see you take me for a fool - an even greater one than that by your side." The Jester; a man as entangled in history and yet nearly as invisible as Dainsleif himself - what was it that drove him to the Tsaritsa's arms back then? What is it that guides his schemes and thoughts now? Revenge? Redemption? A truth not yet revealed? "We are the ones who are chained by our past and banned from our future - but why do you linger? What do you seek that isn't long lost to this world?"

[resolutepath]

The box left by the Fontanian courier is... big. Yet it is surprisingly light for its size, and there is a curious metallic rattle from within whenever it is jostled.

Upon opening, another box is revealed to lie inside, though this one is comprised of wood and metal, with an ornate filigree pattern upon its lid, bearing a likeness of a bird of prey in flight. A single crimson envelope sits upon the lid, bearing the name of the Winery's master in a script that should by now be familiar.

Diluc, I hope this arrives in time - if not, forgive the delay. Finding the time to work on private projects isn't always easy, as I'm sure you'll understand well enough. It saddens me that I can't be there to see you open this in person, but the work never stops. I'll have to make it up to you the next time I can take some time off. Give my best wishes to Adelinde and the others. Please let them treat you to something special today. I know it's not the easiest of days for you, but you have many people who love you and want to spoil you just a little. Let them. Sigewinne did want to send a cupcake with this parcel, but I managed to convince her it was a bad idea. You'll thank me later, when you actually taste one for yourself. Don't work yourself too hard tonight. Wriothesley P.S. Oh, and... it responds to voice. I could only program a few commands with my limited skills, but... it will fly, at least.

Inside the wooden box is a clockwork bird of prey - a hawk, specifically - made of shining crimson and silver metal pieces. Should Diluc speak, the hawk's eyes will blaze red, and its wings will stretch in preparation for flight. And, should Diluc look closely at its construction, he would see the small stamp of a three-headed wolf upon its clockwork heart.

The call from Adelinde regarding the package had taken longer than usual for Diluc to register. Unearthing himself from the piles of work he was hiding behind, distracting himself as the day dragged on around him, Diluc staggers to the lower floor of the Dawn Winery, seeking her out, stopping short when he sees the size of the package that is sitting in the entrance way. He approaches slowly, hearing the odd sounds that it makes when Connor and Tunner shift it so it sits more centrally.

His brow furrows, clearly not expecting anything, cautious as he approaches the package. Though he needn't be so worried. Drawing back the packaging reveals the most intricate and detailed wooden box, atop it a letter written in familiar script that has Diluc offering a short, but reassuring, nod towards Adelinde and scooping up the box, taking it up to his study. There he lets himself sink into his chair and opens the letter with meticulous care, smiling as he sees the familiar script of his distant lover. He may not be close, but the words narrow the distance, and it is a balm to what is otherwise a horrific day for him. He cannot help but recognise the thread of fondness in the letter and the undertones of concern, it seems his lover does know him as well as he alludes to, able to discern that without prompt, Diluc would allow the day to pass away in bad memories and the taste of ash in his mouth.

Perhaps, at least, a cup of tea with Adelinde and Elzer can be managed.

He even manages a soft chuckle at the comments about Sigewinne's culinary skills and he resolves to dive more deeply into this matter the next time he sees the other. It sounds like there are a few stories to tell.

Once it is read, he folds the letter carefully and returns to the box, admiring the dedication that has been put into creating the ornate design before he opens it carefully. A hitched breath marks his surprise as he sees what sits within, crimson eyes softening as he runs a gentle finger over a mechanical wing.

"Wriothesley..." he breathes, and watches as the eye glows and the wings stretch, enamoured with the beautiful design. He cannot take his gaze from it, studying every inch of the intricate craft work, surprised that his lover holds such a detailed skill. In his studies, he makes note of the internal mark, feeling a pang of sadness that he cannot thank the other in person for his stunning gift.

"Perhaps a trip is in order..." he murmurs, returning to his seat and placing his treasured gift upon the surface of his desk, of only so that he might fetch ink and paper. There he begins to scribe, etching his missive down, forgetting the piles of work that surround him. They are no longer a needed distraction for he has something much better to occupy his time, weaving his words together to offer both his gratitude and his affections towards the man who has asked him to not wallow in his sorrows, a feat made easier as he thinks of him in his kingdom below the waves.

Every so often he pauses in his writing, gaze drawn towards the metal creature upon his desk and a small, fleeting smile creeps onto his lips. It is not the joyous celebration that Wriothesley might wish for him, but for Diluc, this is a step out of the shadow of grief that has clung like a stubborn cloak to his shoulders since that day. A feat few others have ever convinced him to attempt.

Even into the evening, Diluc's mood does not dip so ferociously, aided by the letter that he holds in his breast pocket and the drifting gaze to his gift whenever he feels that slip approaching. It won't work forever, but it is enough to see him through till the dawn comes and the day is behind him for another year.

[xaviermattthews]

It was never a hard task to convince Bowie and Dayne to get on stage and play alongside them -- not when they had been doing it for almost half their lives now -- but X's only groomzilla moment in the short run up to the day had been in the practicing for that very moment.

( And only because he didn't feel like his Californian drummer and his Massachusettsan guitarist were feeling the country classic the way he wanted them to. )

That worry needn't have been one then, not when Dayne started plucking right on cue when the word Jackson left Van's mouth, elongating the intro slightly so X could do an appropriate amount of enthusiastic hollering for the way she commanded the stage and enraptured their guests.

"You tell 'em what else we been talking 'bout, baby," X says into his mic as Bowie comes in with the drums perfectly, those familiar with the song more than aware of what he's alluding to and he can already see the Texans on their feet when his Uncle Ernest led his mother's wife Deb onto the dance floor to show everyone else how a Texas two step was done as X started singing.

"We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout," He winks in Van's direction as he removes the mic from the stand as the lyrics leaving him circle back and he hears it echoed back to him in that familiar twang that would always feel like home no matter how long it's been since he's been back to Texas, "We've been talking 'bout Jackson ever since the fire went out."

Ever the showman, X embodies the married playboy that he would never be that existed within the reality of the song in his own way, departing the stage as he seeks out the only woman present who he thinks might have wanted a dance with him that day as much as his wife.

"I'm going to Jackson, I'm gonna mess around."

His mother's hand is in his the moment he offers it, her sat alone had been a deliberate request to his uncle just before they had taken the stage, his late father's brother all too happy to oblige him.

Some of his earliest memories -- and his happiest ones too -- had been Johnny Cash tunes playing in their Houston kitchen on a Saturday morning when his pancakes were always just a little overdone because Darren had insisted on taking Addie for a spin like their kitchen floor was one meant for dancing instead.

Jackson was always in the Saturday rotation because it had been his dad's favorite.

Addie remembered the steps as well as X remembered Darren's and he knew he didn't have to worry about any toes being stepped on when he holds his hand up so she could give one of those signature spins while his head turns back towards his wife on stage, a grin on his face like he's throwing her back a challenge, "Yeah, I'm going to Jackson, look out Jackson town."

@vanessagable

"You don't need to know which April," Van tells him in a light voice and a gentle pat to his chest that implies that he doesn't need to worry his pretty little head about it.

She'd always had a hard time walking away from something that was just right and the dress had fit her like a glove when she had impulsively tried it on. She'd had a feeling that it would be good to keep on hand -- for a groom who could never keep his hands off her.

"I'll let ya have wife for forever, but I'd just still like to be baby sometimes," she tells him with a smile -- the word one of her favorites when it's leaving his lips because she knows it's just about her.

(Or, at the moment, a reference to things that they want in the future.)

Her gaze is captured by the ring on his finger as he brings it to eye level to rest on his chest, the very vision of it bringing another grin to her face that stays there as he croons to her about how time can be a torture but also something that heals.

(Just over an hour of being his wife had quickly erased all the damage of being someone else's for ten years.)

"You better be saving your voice, husband, you've got a performance coming up."

***

"We wanna hear all of your voices belting tunes real soon but you're gonna have to do us an indulgence first," Van announces to the guests on the microphone of the makeshift stage of their backyard, allowing X and the other band members the chance to collect their instruments and make sure they were turned right.

"One of the first conversations Xavier had when we met was about how we were both raised on country music. Though his had a bit of 'everything's bigger in Texas' sound while my taste came right out of the swamps. But we've been doing some talking about what we wanted the first song we sang as man and wife to be and we decided that it should be for y'all and it should be a taste of where we started out. So now that I've got my very own 'man in black' --" Van chuckles into the mic, looking over at X in his suit as Dayne starts the opening riff.

"We'll be singing 'Jackson' for you fine people tonight."

@xaviermattthews

[myuni-moon]

[event requests are now closed]

warnings: yandere content, yandere cult stuff, mentions of violence

the cards have given you the answers you seek, and everything has been set in motion. here are the themes present in your reading.

Xiao

[XVII - The Star] ; How do they react around your ex/s?

his reaction on your ex depends if he has knowledge about them. unlike the archons, who can somewhat observe you in your world, he has no such privileges. let's say he learns of your ex through a passing remark or a carefully placed comment about how they hurt you or something along those lines. he doesn't react negatively, only continuing to do what you ask but with more fervor since you needn't on such unimportant things. if by chance, your ex get's isekai'd into their world, xiao is ready to put them out of their misery the moment they step foot into liyue. he wouldn't even tell you of their existence; don't trifle yourself with unnecessary people, your grace. just let him take care of it.

Albedo

[XVII - The Star] ; How do they react around your ex/s?

albedo does not care for such people (if he can call them that). he'd rather just dedicate his time for you like the good worshipper he is. but oh, you have a request? you want your ex... gone? well, he's the reason you're even in their world, surely getting that ex yours as well wouldn't be so hard. he does what you ask of him, methodically and with great focus. when your ex eventually emerges from whatever contraption or device he's used to get them into teyvat, he begins with his next task. maybe your ex would like to help with his newest experiment up in dragonspine? you'll surely be happy to find out that the garbage you call your ex is finally contributing something to society.

Baal

[XVII - The Star] ; How do they react around your ex/s?

just knowing you dislike someone is enough for her to dislike them too. as an archon and prior to your transmigration, she could somewhat see into your world and tap into much of your electronic devices. at some point, baal saw how you broke up with your ex, and it greatly angers her. how can scum like that think of hurting you like that! they will surely pay for their sins. if your ex ever makes it to inazuma or if baal finds a way to fuck them over in the other world, she'll make sure they won't escape from her wrath. she'll ruin their life and ingrain it into their heads just how sorry they should be for their mistakes and transgressions. and don't worry your pretty little head over it. just enjoy yourself to your hearts content in her domain. she'll be back soon~

[bellarkeselection]

Mind Resisted

Request from @sessa23 The reader tries learning to resist mind control and goes to Charles and asks if he can use his powers (very first X-Men request)

Tags - just ask to be added

@makeshift-prime

@rosie-posie08

Being able to resist someone reading your mind was hard when you had only one Telepath around you. The school he'd created is fairly new so there aren't many students yet. Charles and I quickly became best friends when he first opened the school, so I trust him more than anyone. Slowly raising my hand I knocked on his office stepping inside seeing him sitting at his desk with paperwork scattered about in front of him. "Y/n, what can I do for you?" A smile on his face as he spoke.

"Charles I uh - I need your help - with my powers." He uses the joystick on his chair to move forward to be in front of me staring up. "What is it this time love. The mind resistance or the dragon fire?" He questioned taking my right hand in his freehand. I'd been gifted with not only the ability to create fire like a dragon could but also the ability to block a Telepath from controlling my mind, without using a helmet like Erik does.

Raising my freehand hand I tap my temple and he simply nods as I eyeball a fire extinguisher in the corner of the room. "I had one brought in after our last training session. You needn't worry about it. So how do you want me to help with your mind situation?" He rolls backwards a little being able to look at me directly. "Try and control my mind, Charles." I blurt out seeing him bite his lip in worry. The last time he tried it caused me pain because I was trying to hard to block him out.

Placing two fingers to his temple he stares deeply into my eyes. A lump gets stuck in my throat with my heart rate increasing. Please work this time. If Charles can't help someone like me then what happens when there's someone stronger that seeks his help. Charles clears his throat lowering his hand but showing a straight face making me concerned. "It didn't work did it?" He shakes his head parting his lips in shock eyeing me up and down.

"Oh it worked. I couldn't see anything. Except something else I found has peaked my interest." Playing with the end of my shirt I croaked out in nervousness. "What is that Professor?" What on earth could it be. He takes both my hands in his lightly smiling. "Y/n my friend, I have misunderstood your mutations all along up until this point. Well, at least one of them. You're mind works like mine does with an extra power locked inside." I trailed off still in confusion. "Charles, I'm not following you..."

He raises his right hand tapping his temple finally giving me the answer. "You're a Telepath that can read other people's minds freely but if they try you can block them out." I sighed in relief finally getting an answer from my best friend. "So, what do we do now?" He brushes some hair that fell in his blue eyes filled with hope. "Y/n my dear friend we'll do what we've been doing. Training until we master our abilities. As your best friend I promise I'll teach you everything I know." Bending down to be his level I gently throw my arms around his neck and his go around my waist hearing me mumble into his hair. "You're a great friend, Charles thank you."

Comment and reblog 😊

[funkymbtifiction]

G'day Charity. I've been thinking about loops as a way to confirm type. Is there always a strong conflict between middle functions?

I would say initially (while learning to use that function), but then there's harmony and balance, because it evens everything out. A F becomes less easily insulted and more logical, a T becomes more in touch with their emotions, a S develops longer term thinking, an N finds grounding to balance out their ideas.

Would it be correct to understand healthy types as resisting their tertiary development because it conflicts with auxiliary function which is more natural to them?

A healthy person is a well-rounded person without an imbalance -- so they need to integrate all their functions as best they can (obviously, the inferior one is always going to be weak). Extroverts can have more trouble developing their second function than their third, because of a tendency to loop in attention-seeking ways; they often have to learn to introspect; introverts have no choice but to develop an extroverted function.

And then maybe looping is considered a form of 'giving in' to tertiary control for unhealthy types.

Looping is indeed a way to 'avoid' and skips over an important function (thinkers become too emotional or attention-seeking, feelers become too cold or direct).

For example, I'm toying with being an ENTP because I can relate to being somewhat resentful of a constant pull towards Fe when all I want to do is highlight inconsistencies, especially in what other people say. But since i am hyper-aware of what will cause conflict and what won't have the support of the consensus, I don't express it but it ultimately frustrates what i think is my Ti. Do other types have a similar problem? 

A 9, huh? Well, you are ahead of other ENTPs if you care about what people feel, because people will like and respond to you better. Some ENTPs have to learn the hard way to care about how they make other people feel. There are nice ways to highlight inconsistencies -- you needn't sacrifice accuracy just to keep everyone happy if you can find polite ways to point out problems.

Yes, other types struggle between their middle functions. I am in almost a constant quandary between what I know is objectively useful (Te) and what I want to do (Fi). Fi usually wins out, except when I bear down on Te to get things done that have to be done.

[riotseas]

Cid's tears are of many things—love, fear, gratitude. He cries for Clive, something he hasn't done in a long time, especially not for someone else. He weeps, silently now as he tries to figure out just what to do.

It's hard for him to put into words, to show in a way that wasn't full of sacrificials and acts of service when the night is young. But Clive has completely and utterly changed his life. He restrung every damn string that sewed his limbs and heart together, without breaking a sweat, without realizing it himself.

That was how he was. Clive was so human it was hard to look at, but then he goes and does things like this that make Cid wonder if he was but a figment of his imagination all along. An otherworldly being that belonged elsewhere, that was only tethered to this earth via Cid's selfishness.

Maybe he was, yet Clive cries as though he can stay. So he believes him.

An unfamiliar companion makes its way, seeping into Cid's bones-helplessness. Never one to be so pessimistic, the feeling is so foreign he gets dizzy trying to make sense of it all.

Clive is talking. He's talking, breathing, saying something that the tears blur and Cid can't hear. He can't hear, he doesn't want to hear because he isn't being told what he wants to. It's awfully childish, unbecoming of someone his age but it's not fair. Why is he saying these things?

Stop saying these things.

❝ What ? ❞ Cid says, after an eternity.

He stares, almost at Clive, in his direction but he can't really be sure. Then he throws himself Cid's way, the same as he, and he doesn't understand. Nauseous, he swallows the bile threatening to come up. It burns, kickstarts his heart and the blood in his ears ebbs away. All that's left is Clive in his arms.

There's fingers at his back; real, genuine, and the only thing worth for Cid to beg the Gods for. He's cursed at them, used their names in vain and still foolishly decides to beg for forgiveness. They won't, nor can't, it doesn't matter which—it's not for him, not really. He preaches for Clive because that's who matters, who can decide whether or not Cid is worthy, something he hasn't been in a long time.

Slowly, desperately, he reaches to thread his fingers through Clive's hair. Dark and ashy, but soft like the light of the sun. He combs through it, presses his cheek against his head and breathes in the smell of fire. It's almost boyish, in a way; simpler times where they needn't worry about such trivial matters.

❝ You beg for my love, yet think I'd be better off without yours ? ❞

Cid trembles as he talks. It hurts—everything hurts in ways he never thought possible. Could he ever hope to be redeemed? Is dedication what they seek? The will to fight could only ever have a chance at surviving if Clive is there with him, what's the point if he's not?

❝ You say I wouldn't have this pain, but I would. You act like it's some—some obligation, a burden to love you and it's not. ❞

He tightens his hold on Clive the longer he talks. Cid cries, voice breaking with every word. Was this failure? Was that why it stung so bad? Had he failed Clive?

❝ You have... ❞ He shakes, swallowing a yell. ❝ no right to tell me anything. Not when you—you walk into my life just to try and leave. Like I wouldn't follow you to the ends of the fucking earth. ❞

The uncertainty of Clive's fate is one he hadn't truly considered until now. He'd always felt there was a place ready for him once this was all said and done; a place they could come home to. But it feels so out of reach now, a fantasy he spent so long chasing he forgot it wasn't real.

He doesn't understand. Less so, now.

Now, he whispers, breathes into the cusp of Clive's ear, muffled by his skin.

❝ Don't do this to me. ❞

Cid wants to forget, he doesn't want to think about the inevitable.

❝ Don't leave when I still have so much left to give you. ❞

Stop.

The simple demand makes anything else he was about to say catch in his throat and all that comes out now is a pained sound, awful and devastating as it catches in his throat. A choked sob. Has he lost Cid for good? Did he tell him stop because he doesn't want to hear anymore?

Clive's preparing himself for the inevitable end of what they have. This beautiful love that he never let himself dream of before meeting Cid, overwhelming wonderful love, is going to vanish because of his mistake. Because of what he's done.

What was that saying?

It's better to have loved and loss than never to have loved at all.

But Clive doesn't want to lose. He doesn't want to lose the love of his life because of one stupid mistake. Before Cid, Clive has never put any thought into soulmates but Cid feels like his and right now his soul is crying out at the thought of losing it's puzzle piece.

But instead of stumbling back and taking off, Cid smooths thumbs over sore shoulders and Clive isn't sure if that is good or worse. If Cid doesn't want him anymore, he wants the bandaid ripped off, no matter how much it may hurt.

You've always been my Clive.

Oh how he wants to whine and throw himself at Cid's feet for even the slightest hint of forgiveness. He wants to be worthy of being Cid's, even when he feels like he's not worthy at all. Like right now.

You won't get rid of me that easily.

For a second, there is a flicker of hope in those blue eyes that this can be saved, that he can salvage their relationship and earn the love Cid has for him back. But then Cid speaks again and that hope only turns into pure and utter sadness. The tears flow fast, no longer able to hold them back.

It's not fair. Not at all.

How could he hurt Cid like this? How could he possibly hurt him when he has vowed to love and protect Cid for as long as he shall live?

It isn't his goal to die, not anymore, even if he knows by the end of this it's a real possibility and there are days where he feels like dying. Moments like now where all he can think about is how better of everyone would be if he was dead. But he's not actively seeking dying. Not intentionally, at least. Even if he's careless with his life sometimes, he's not seeking that end.

Though, Clive understands why it must feel like he is.

"I-It's not fair. Nothing about this is fair. You'd be better off without me." Don't leave me. "You wouldn't have this pain." But I will. "I feel like I keep saying it so much that it is losing it's meaning but I am sorry." Please don't leave me, Cid.

He wants to lie to Cid and reassure him that there is nothing to worry about and Ultima's essence in side of him will die with him, along with the rest of the magic in the world, but Clive can not be certain.

He should have thought about that before taking this power. This power and guilt that is eating him from the inside out. At the time, he'd thought it was worth it in order to protect others he loved. Now, he feels like he's sold his soul.

"I-I don't know." How could he lie to Cid? He wants to but he's never been good at lying to him. "I assume so....it's as if this is like an eikon and with Ultima's demise, it's possible it will go away but.....I can't be certain."

He falters for a moment, taking in a deep breath. On the exhale he suddenly throws himself at Cid this time around, arms wrapping around him, face burying against his chest as fingers curl around the fabric on his back.

"Forgive me. I will beg if I must. If that is what you need to keep loving me, I will beg you and try to earn - to be worthy of - your love and trust for an eternity."

Just don't leave me. I cannot do this without you.

[starsuh]

do re mi | myg

featuring. min yoongi x reader | 3.2k

summary. while teaching you how to play piano, min yoongi realizes that his dumbass might have feelings for you after all.

genre. fluff | f2l | roommate!au | mutual pining

warnings. a quarter-life crisis and a soft make-out scene at the end

Amongst Min Yoongi's many talents, his sixth sense of knowing when something was bothering you was the one that most oft caught you off guard. Whether it was the intensity in which you slammed a door shut, or the way in which you didn't choose to annoy the fuck out him like you did every other day of the week; he would notice each time. It was only clockwork that he tentatively wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you had collapsed against the couch with perceptible chagrin.

"What's up?" he asked, a simple question that often entailed a more than complicated answer. Peering down at your tightened features, he awkwardly patted your shoulder as if to make known that silence would be just as valid of a reply.

You ran your hands through your face. "I don't know,” you said. If you did, you would've told him, just as you told him everything. Though the pair of you had began as merely two people who happened to be roommates because there were no other affordable options, spending months watching Netflix with another person tends to lead to friendship — even best-friendship, though neither of you had established such a title. It was the kind of friendship that needn't clarification, rather it was just another unequivocal fact amongst many.

After kicking off your shoes (Yoongi would scold you for that in a less emotionally-turbulent time), you pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them in a ball-like manner. "It's really fucking lame but I’m just realizing some things,” he nodded, prompting you to continue. "I'm scared of the future, I think. I mean, everyone is, but when our prof was talking about internships and shit earlier I kind of freaked out then decided that hiding in the bathroom was the best option.”

In his gaze was a reassurance so intent that you had to look away lest you become ensnared in it. He oft had that effect, increasingly so throughout the past few weeks. "What about it?"

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a deep breath. “I think I know what I want to do, but then I see other people, people like you, who are so passionate about their place on Earth that to not do that thing would be a fate worse than death. Like, I love the path that I’m on but there’s always a voice that’s telling me I’m gonna fuck something up and regret everything.” You played with the loose threads of your top, pulling at the offending stitching. You laughed. “This is so stupid. I guess I’m just realizing that I might not be cut out for it.”

His sudden silence filled the room so heavily that you began to wonder if you shouldn’t have said anything at all. Gears turned behind the messy black mop atop his head that hung over his eyes; a face similar to the one he makes when contemplating a new track he had produced, seeking for each of its flaws and corresponding solutions.

It was so sudden when he reached down to grab your hand that you almost jumped. An inch away from falling onto his chest with the sudden upwards tug, you steeled yourself. "I'll show you something," he said to which you replied with a questioning stare. "It'll just be a sec, c'mon."

You allowed him to drag you to his bedroom, though not without glaring at the back of his head and whining. "Your room smells like Cheetos and day-old boxers."

He rolled his eyes. "I cleaned it this morning, so shut up."

He pushed the door closed with his hip, never once letting go of your hand until he unceremoniously shoved you towards the left end of the keyboard bench. You wiped the accumulated hand sweat against the rough fabric of your jeans, both thankful yet forlorn that he had let go. His was a comfort rarely given and you craved his affection the way one did with a cat that ignored those around it.

He reached down to plug the extension into the socket. "Can I play you something?"

You blinked, unsure if the nervous tone laced in the question was figment or reality. “What?”

He gave you a blank stare though it didn’t distract you from the way his hands fidgeted in his lap. “I said, can I play you something? Something I wrote?”

Impatient, he didn’t give you a second glance or a moment to reply before his hands flew across the board, pulling melodies out of the nooks and crannies of its black and white keys. Through every note, he told you of emotion, of love, of heartbreak and melancholy. You don't think you had ever understood what music was until then. It was more than his expertise, though he was quite the expert; it was the way his eyes closed at certain shrills and the way his shoulders hunched at others, the way he slammed harder into the keys and at other parts softer. He played like a poet. A writer. And you refused to be someone who didn't appreciate it for what it was: a story told to you.

The slight smirk gracing his soft features told you that he found amusing the way your mouth gaped open in shock. You’d only ever heard the distant echoes of his sound from behind closed doors as you walked past.

Yoongi had never played for you before, was even shocked that he was able to now, knowing that your mere presence in close proximity provided quite the distraction.

When he stopped, the air almost rang in its silence, as if you had forgotten what the world sounded like without his music in it. The hush blanket laid across the room felt bare and vulnerable. You understood now more than ever why he locked himself within the confines of his space in all hours of the day. If you could live in his symphonies, you would.

"Wow.” Because what else could be said? "That was... Yoongi, you're amazing."

His smirk remained, though as more of a mask to hide softer feelings behind. "Must've been if you're complimenting me for once.”

"Because you already have a ginormous ego."

He began playing once more. This time, a slow and deceptively simple melody. The chords were arrows tightly strung that flew through the air in wisps of smoke. To you, its warmth was paralleled to the feeling of his own beside you, his arm occasionally brushing yours as he reached to play a few lower keys.

"I think you're taking it too seriously," he said. "The future, I mean."

Your brows furrowed. "I kind of have to, dude."

He rolled his eyes but kept playing, occasionally glancing at you as he did so. "What I mean is," he pressed softly against the keys in the left end of the piano, their tenor notes filling your ears. "You need to calm down. Like this," the already soft melody slowed. "You know what you want, don't you? Why are you hesitating?"

You stilled, the feeling of being both caught and scolded grounding you in time. Your eyes focused on his hands to avoid the feeling of his analyzing gaze on the side of your face. “There are things I want to accomplish but there’s also things I want to have,” you groaned in exasperation. “I don’t know if I should choose the former or the latter but they’re so entangled that I can’t even tell which is which anymore.”

"Some things are only difficult if you think they're difficult." He looked down at the keys. "Like playing the piano, everyone knows that learning it is hard but something like this-" he played three chords in succession. "-sounds simple, right?" He continued to play those same chords until they blended together in a single melodious breeze. "But when I was a kid, learning piano was the bane of my twelve year old existence. I hated it so much because my impatient ass wanted to be good without trying. So, in true dumbass fashion, I quit taking lessons after two weeks."

You tilted your head towards him. “How did you learn then?"

“Well, I realized I was being a huge pussy and went back." Shaking his head before the glaze of the memory could wash over, he nodded towards you. Grabbing your hand, he placed them over the keys. “Can I teach you a chord?”

Your heart spiked in one fell swoop. “What? And embarrass myself in front of the music god himself?"

He laughed and it lit up his eyes brighter than the screen of his laptop that he had forgotten to shut off, still on the League of Legends home screen. “I told you, it's only hard if you think it is."

Too flustered to argue, you could only watch as he directed your fingers towards the correct keys until three were stretched towards their respective positions. C Major. You wondered if he could hear the rapid pace of your heart through the vibrations on your skin from where his larger hand rested atop your own. You could only pray to any god who would listen that he didn’t.

Among the numerous feelings that bubbled beneath your chest, the sudden pinch of ice that struck your nerves as he lifted his palm away from yours was one that you were the most unsure of. Filing that thought away for later, you focused on the most important task at hand: avoiding looking like an idiot in front of Min Yoongi.

Before you could retreat, your hands pressed down.

A sudden burst of sound filled the silence that you hadn't realized had grown so deafening. Your eyes widened as if you hadn't expected the chord to occur despite Yoongi's administrations, like trying to guess a passcode and getting it correct in a miraculous feat of luck. The now fading sound was not like anything you were expecting, though you knew even monkeys could do what you had just done. It was an actual piece of the puzzle that was music rather than the CD case or paper bag that had come with it.

Likened to an excited pup, you looked towards him for praise or assurance that you had done it right only to catch his already grinning countenance at your widened eyes.

For the next half hour he taught you two other basic chords, never failing to correct you in such a patient manner that your heart rose and fell with each glance and soft appraisal.

"But sometimes," he grinned. "Sometimes you need to stop thinking."

Your brows furrowed, though you didn’t need more than a few seconds to understand his cryptic wording before you yelped, almost flying off your seat at the abrupt disruption of the peace.

He began smashing his hands against the piano, creating the worst orchestra your ears had ever had the pleasure to hear. Overcoming the shock, both of yours laughs bubbled out, drowned by the keyboard speakers. Without a second thought, you joined, key smashing against the lower end. Together, you created an ear-grating masterpiece of cacophonous noise and piercing melody, yet it was still one of the most beautiful things you’d ever heard.

Yoongi began cheering your name like the greatest hypeman in existence as you gave the most effortful performance of your life, hands pressing against the first keys you saw to the last. You didn't know what you were doing but it didn't matter, not when he was smiling with his gums on full display as you went with your gut for the first time in years. Yoongi, the boy whose hands crafted magic, whose words changed you, whose music moved you. Yoongi, who looked at you and saw past your forced pretensions and society-enforced perceptions.

You laughed until your lungs ached for air, having not even realized that your whole body leant against his as you tried to catch your breath.

"Oh my god, I think my ears are broken," you covered them, finally dragging your hands away from the keys.

His grin widened. “You're a quick learner."

“Is this the part where I say that it's because you're a good teacher?"

“Only if you're polite, which we know you aren't." He hadn't stopped smiling and you had never felt prouder of any accomplishment in your entire life. “Was I able to distract you?"

You laughed, bringing your hands back to your lap to fiddle with them. He's seen you wear the same ramen-stained hoodie three days in a row with hair just as ratty yet you had never more felt exposed. “I’d say yes but I think I’ve exceeded my Yoongi compliment limit for the day."

"And here I was thinking that that compliment limit was zero."

"Hey," you playfully knocked against his shoulder. "I always say your breakfast is good."

He knocked against you back, his eyes turnt to half-moons. "That's because you want to brainwash me into cooking for you everyday with half-assed compliments."

"Or maybe," you lightly leaned against his hoodie-covered shoulder. "It's because I like eating breakfast with you."

He paused, and a grin that could only be described as shy graced his features. He tapped against the keyboard but didn't press hard enough to allow a sound to be let out.

"I trust you," he said in the silence. "That you can follow your heart. Even if that sounds corny as fuck, I really believe it."

You smiled, something you've been doing more and more often with him around. "I'll try," you said, watching as he contemplated his next words with a bite of his bottom lip. Giving him time, you glanced back at the piano. "Is it really that simple?" You pressed on a key.

He finally looked up. "I think so," he played the key beside the one you had just pressed, the side of it touching yours. "Even if it doesn't sound right to other people, who's to say that random key smashing isn't music? When you think you're supposed to play a certain way, that's when you hesitate. Even when you fuck up a piece," he pressed another key. "Regretting it doesn't stop the echo."

He began to play another soft melody, leaving you just as entranced as you were the first time he did.

“I’m a hypocrite, though,” he closed his eyes, lightly scoffing. “Giving you advice that I can’t even take.”

Your voice came out in a whisper. “Why?”

“Because...” He took a deep breath, hands leaving the keyboard as he fully turned to you. “I like you," he said it like it were a fact you should've already known. “I... I like you. A lot. I can't remember when you stopped being my annoying roommate who'd hog the fridge space and became the annoying roommate who I couldn't stop writing songs about. Before I could even realize and stop myself, today’s me kept looking forward to tomorrow’s you. I’d be a hypocrite to tell you to stop hesitating about the things in your life while I spent every second of every day wondering whether I should tell you my feelings and ruin our friendship.”

For if there was anything Yoongi knew more than most was that love was fucking stupid. It caused people to be irrational, selfless, and weak-hearted, yet why did he want to forget the stupidity that came with it whenever you walked into the kitchen for breakfast, hair messy and shirt tousled?

Love was fucking stupid. But maybe he could be an idiot if it meant that you'd be stupid for him too.

“I know you don't feel the same way but I just needed to tell-" you kissed him before he could finish what was sure to be a sentence so ridiculous that even the most astute of linguists would be left baffled. He was Min Yoongi. The boy who spent all day locked in his room making music and playing games with his friends. The roommate who'd wake up early just to cook you breakfast. The friend who knew you better than you knew yourself. The man who you'd found yourself falling for with every gummy smile. Yoongi. It had always been Yoongi.

And he was kissing you back.

His lips were as warm as the hands that carefully wrapped around your hips, gently pulling you closer to him. He kissed the way he played, soft and thoughtful.

Pulling away, he whispered your name slowly, prolonging each letter as if to savor them. Never before had your name ever felt so wonderful a one. His forehead pressed against yours, eyes flickering between yours in disbelief. The hand around your waist tightened as if in fear that at any moment you might say that you hadn't meant to give him what had to be the best moment of his life -- that you had actually accidentally fallen on him and he had simply been mistaken.

"You're an idiot," you laughed. "I've liked you since the first time you've cooked me breakfast if the heart eyes I gave you each time weren't already a dead giveaway."

He shuffled in his seat. "You have low standards then," he said. "Or are in desperate search for a house-husband."

You smiled, your nose brushing against his. "Maybe, a bit of both."

He leaned away from you, eyes lit up in a euphoria that didn't hinder from his nervous cadence. "Actually, that song I played for you? Earlier?” You’d never seen him blush before. “I, maybe, composed it thinking of you.”

"A personal chef, jester, and composer? I think I'm winning."

His nose crinkled. "You know you can still back out, right?"

"You're acting as if I'd even want to."

"Stupid songs like that... I suck at love yet I still want to give you everything," he whispered, voice hoarse. "But my everything will still only amount to that."

"If that's your everything,” your hands interlocked with his. “Then your everything is more than enough."

"I like you," he murmured the confession between your lips as if it were clandestine, the urge to say it a million times more bubbling up from his chest. Though stronger than his urge to say it was his urge to hear you say it back.

Your lips met his completely. Perfectly. "I like you, too."

Pulling away once more you couldn't help but laugh at the reddened color of his cheeks and ears. Cutting away at the awkward and still unsure tension, he inched backwards with a startlingly loud clap of his hands. "Now that that's settled, can we go back to making out? This corny shit is so awkward."

"I can't believe I like you," you groaned but kissed him back anyway.

While there was nothing in your life that you could be sure of, you knew that the man whose smile could light up the entire city of Seoul would be there for you for every step, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 28

First time reader click here

TWs/SUMMARY: Hulk interaction Hulk interaction Hulk interaction. Plot is thickening. Feelings. Operation Baby Thief! A wild Coulson appears. Lokireader besties <3 There's just a lot going on.

Bruce hulked out within minutes of my confession.

As I stood in the middle of the common room, partially hidden behind Loki and scrunching the fabric of my hoodie, I had no choice but to observe the reactions of various Avengers to the fact someone might have... Predictably, Sam, Tony and Stephen looked like kicked puppies. I trusted Loki to handle that part. Steve, Bucky and Natasha had murder on their mind and Thor, Pietro just stared at me, aghast.

I noticed the tinge of green before anybody else, perhaps, because I'd been used to automatically seek comfort from Bruce. My interactions with Hulk, however brief and few and in-between, were positive. As much as they could be with a someone's alter-ego that possessed the emotional intelligence of a twelve year old. So I could safely say that what startled me was the noise of Bruce transforming and not the Hulk himself.

The Hulk growled, zeroing in on me - I remembered of Loki, who stood frozen, and their mutual disregard. The decision was prompt - I stepped out from behind the Asgardian, waving shyly at the large green creature. He was LARGE. Like, I could comfortably sit on one of his shoulders.

"Hey, Hulk. I'm alright, don't worry big guy," I took unhurried steps towards the agitated creature. He seemed to be satisfied with my statement, giving me another once over and growling quietly in the back of his throat. An idea struck me: "Wanna get out of here? The gym has more space, we can sit and talk there."

The stares I was getting were downright incredulous. Here I was, an average human being, fearlessly making my way over to the destruction machine that was the Hulk. I knew he wouldn't hurt me - on purpose.

"No," He growled. "We find bad man. Then Hulk smash." The green creature raised, I had to admit, valid points.

"It's going to be pretty boring though. We have to sort through the security footage, then probably traffic cams, then hold Steve back from going in there in Terminator mode..." I listed off all the logical steps of the investigation until I reached the Hulk. My neck was going to get a crick in it from tilting it so I could see his face. "I'd rather..." I didn't get to finish my sentence as I was suddenly picked up. One large hand gently cradled me to Hulk's chest, akin to a kitten, the other hand landing right under my butt.

I heard a collective exhale from the team, acutely aware of the way they were eyeing me and Hulk.

"Boring," The green creature agreed. His face briefly contorted in what I perceived to be an intense thought process. "Necessary." The word had to come from Bruce; it slipped out with difficulty off the Hulk's tongue, stiff.

"Not you too, big guy," I giggled-slash-groaned, giving a playful slap to the hand wrapped around me. "Fine. Let's get this over with." I looked around in search of a spot for Hulk to park his butt somewhere. The ceiling was barely tall enough for him to comfortably stand.

I needn't have worried as he simply sat down cross-legged right where he stood, still holding me to his chest. "Now," He announced, looking expectantly at Tony.

The engineer chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Yeah, you're right, big guy. Let's find this sonuvabitch." Tense snorts and sounds of agreement filled the room, drowning out the noise of Tony tapping on his keyboard and communicating with Friday.

I poked Hulk in one green, large finger. "Maybe I could sit on your shoulder?"

He nodded, letting me crawl all over his green, hard chest and arms to sit on the large expanse of his left shoulder. It was comfortable as far as shoulders go; inwardly, I squeed like a mad woman. I was friends with the Hulk and I was sitting on his shoulder! Lost in my fangirling, I absentmindedly began messing with his dark hair, only noticing it when satisfied rumbling started coming from his chest. The Hulk was... Purring?

"Puny Banner upset," Hulk declared shortly after the team found the man who drugged me and started tracking his movements. It wasn't someone who'd been invited to the party, which meant there was a serious security breach - it was all hands on deck kind of situation.

"Yeah, I can understand that. I'm pretty upset too, the hangover I got was terrible, I threw up in Loki's apartment," I said, frowning. "And my boys are going to mope now," I rolled my eyes.

"Banner says he will talk with them," Hulk replied, placing hand over my legs. "Hulk will help Banner."

I couldn't help it, I snorted. "Gonna smash some common sense into them?" He grinned at me, too mischievous for someone who was described to be a mindless destruction machine. "I think they're beyond that."

"I can hear you two talking shit about me and I do not appreciate it," Tony piped up suddenly, shooting us a hurt look. To be fair, his shoulders looked considerably less tense and the cloud over his face had dissipated by a little bit. Me and Hulk managed to erase at least some of the guilt away. I think. Stephen, however, still remained frowning and closed-off.

"You're stupid, Tony." Hulk answered, sounding a little bit smug. I gaped at the exchange together with Natasha and Steve. It seemed like Hulk's sense of... Humor was a novelty.

"Hey, don't pick on my dumbass white boys," I chastised the green... Man, side-eyeing him. "Only I can pick on them. If someone else does it, I'mma throw hands if I have to."

"Puny," Hulk replied petulantly, poking me with a finger, making me sway in my spot. I rolled my eyes fondly, settling in to mess with his hair again for the sake of having something to do with my hands. The brief exchange helped to get my overactive brain off the case but the tranquility didn't last very long.

Natasha and Bucky left to interrogate the guards responsible for the security breach, Loki shooting me an apologetic look and following the two. I smiled back, knowing the Asgardian wasn't fully comfortable being around the Hulk due to his previous experiences with the big guy.

"Wait, hold on. That guy. I know that guy." As an array of faces appeared on the large screen, a familiar pair of mismatched eyes stared at me from it. Hulk tensed under me and the team turned towards me expectantly as I shrunk slightly under their combined gaze. "The one with anisocoria - with the weird eyes. He works at a coffee shop near my school, actually he only started working recently, few months ago. He tried to flirt with me but Peter said he felt weird about the guy so I stopped going to that café." I explained the situation as eloquently as I could, seeing Clint's eyes widen at my story.

"Are you sure?" Stephen Strange raised an eyebrow. "Because that man is a mercenary that we have been looking for months."

I felt my heart skip a beat. "A what now?" My ears were ringing. Hulk growled quietly under me, evidently sensing my distress.

"A hired man," Clint typed on his phone rapidly. "Mostly sells not-so-harmless trinkets on the black market. Hydra, AIM, you name it. Anything for the highest bidder." Clint muttered. "I'm calling Peter, maybe he can tell us something more. This is an Avengers level threat." The Hawk's jaw was firm and his face was hard.

"Already on it," Tony looked shaken. I understood him - someone like that had invaded his tower, his home. Hell, I myself felt like someone had spit right in my soul. It was my home, too, to some extent.

"Let me down please, Tony needs a hug," I whispered to the Hulk, who begrudgingly did as I requested. I padded over to Tony, wrapping myself around him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He always was my comfort; expensive cologne and motor oil filled my senses as my arms clutched at his chest from behind. I didn't expect reprocitation - Tony wasn't the one for emotional vulnerability.

"He could have gotten you," He whispered, almost inaudibly, fingers shaking where they typed rapid-fire commands.

"Bold of you to assume I would have gone down without a fight," I answered as calmly as I could. "He is either dumb, or reckless or has nothing to lose. Planning a coup in the middle of your tower..."

"Or he's showing us that he can just do that," Clint supplied unhelpfully. "The guard who let him in just has been found dead and his family is missing. Natasha texted, she's calling in SHIELD. This is now Operation Baby Thief."

I couldn't help the snort that escaped my lips. "Baby Thief, really?"

"Nobody's stealing Princess," Tony barked, finally turning his head and pressing a sloppy kiss to my cheek. "Not if I have to do anything with it."

"I will make sure the pathetic mortal scum never walks," Thor finally piped up, voice low. In the distance, the harsh noise of thunder and pouring rain echoed through the city.

I frowned but withdrew from Tony, finally feeling well enough to do something. My hands itched to help and as appealing as snuggling with Hulk appeared, my brain had gone straight into overdrive. "Should we take a blood sample to find out what he dosed me with? It's not Roofies, and the hangover is too shitty for it to be anything like Ecstasy." I mused out loud, pacing in the small space between the Hulk and the nearest wall.

"That is a sensible idea," Doctor Strange piped up, giving me an appreciative look. "We'll wait for Romanoff," One angry look at his own scarred, shaking hands, Stephen went back to the book he was reading. He needed a hug, too, I decided.

"Puny Banner will do it," Hulk suddenly announced, reaching out for me.

I obliged, giving the green giant a hug. "Maybe we can go play in Central Park once it's warmer, whatcha think?" I looked up at him, brain just so full of different things. Ideas bounced off one another like ping pong balls.

The Hulk grinned and... Well, I didn't see the transformation, my eyes shut themselves as soon as I felt the flesh under my palms begin to shrink and expand. It wasn't that I was afraid, rather, the feeling was so bizarre that my racing brain had to automatically shut down in fears of being overstimulated.

"Hi," Bruce supplied meekly, an adorable blush staining his cheeks. I didn't resist the urge to kiss and hold him close, and we stood there with him holding up his pants with one hand and clutching my hoodie with the other until Tony cleared his throat.

"You good, Brucie-bear?" The engineer gave a distracted smile towards us, not taking his eyes off the keyboard.

"Yes, Tones," The scientist replied easily, adding with a frown: "I'm glad me and Hulk finally agree on something." With that, he departed in the search of normal pants and the tools needed to acquire my blood sample.

I gave it without much fuss, waving to Bucky, Natasha and Loki that had returned with a middle-aged, balding man in tow. The shared look of amusement between Steve and Bucky and the man's starry-eyed look towards the Captain let me deduce it was one Agent Coulson, the very same man Tony couldn't stop telling stories about, the one with the Captain America trading cards.

So, mayhaps, me taking place in Stephen's lap while Bruce filled up three whole vials full of my blood wasn't exactly the smartest way to go about it. Tony found it amusing, Steve was shaking his head in fond annoyance and Stephen himself struggled to maintain his indifference, yet, the blush betrayed him.

"Agent, what brings you to our humble abode?" Tony snorted, seeing the man raise an eyebrow at the display of affection.

"Operation Baby Thief," Coulson replied with a sigh. "I see the Baby is secure. Keep it that way." Oh, the man was cheeky. I liked him already.

"The Baby has a Tony, a Sorcerer Supreme and a Hulk," I retorted haughtily. "And a functional brain. Fuck that guy."

"Indeed," Coulson snorted. "Tell me, what do you know about the Hamptons incident?"

I blanched, immediately tensing. Bruce withdrew the needle and pressed a bandage over the wound, running gentle fingers over my arm. Everybody must've noticed my surprise, turning to me with their faces full of expectation. Stephen's touch was calming, slightly trembling at the nape of my neck.

"Not much, to be honest. I was about thirteen when it happened and my mother tried to hide it from me," I chewed on my lip, looking away. "What I managed to find out is that there was a robbery that resulted in two deaths, my father being one of the suspects because he was high as hell on coke and he was found sleeping in the same room as the open gun safe," I recalled the memories of mother angrily screaming at dad, calling her law firm colleagues late at night. "I don't need a law degree to know the evidence was flimsy. Dad got a drug charge, his buddies got the same and both the killer and the gun were never found." I exhaled loudly, tapping my foot on the floor, supressing the need to pace.

Coulson nodded, opening a thin manila folder and producing an image of a small, wooden box with carvings that looked like runes on it. "Have you seen this object?"

I felt my blood run cold, my vision swam. "Yes," I swallowed dryly. "That's my end-of-the-world box. I buried it in my grandparents' backyard two years ago."

"End of the world?" Coulson asked, alarmed. "Did you open it?"

"No," I shook my head negative. "I found it in my room at one point and every time I looked at it, it felt... Wrong. Like it was a glitch in a computer game. I couldn't sleep, so I stuck it in my closet and that gave me terrible nightmares and sleep paralysis. I took it with me when I went to visit Gramps and buried it three feet deep under the cherry tree." My hands were shaking once again; I had forgotten about the box but my body remembered the primal, untameable terror that I experienced in it's proximity. At fourteen years old, I just thought I had an overactive imagination or something, too many horror movies, hormonal storms.

"That is a magical artifact," Stephen's voice was quiet and concerned. "A very dangerous, destructive at that. How long were you in it's presence?"

"About nine months, give or take."

"And you didn't open it once, not even a little bit?" Tony had caught on the trend, almost a hysterical edge to his voice.

"No, and I think I know why," I looked to the side. "I saw Wanda on the TV, and, like, magic was confirmed to be real, so I guess I was sure whatever is in there, it wasn't good. During that time, my parents told me I was sleepwalking but I can't remember any of it. I might have wanted to get that box to someone of your... Specialty," I briefly messed with the sleeve of Stephen's shirt, exhaling loudly when his hand grasped mine and held it with care. "I think that box messed with my head... Because I swear that I had no recollection of it until you brought it up," I realized suddenly, my eyes shooting up in blind panic. What else have I forgotten?!

"That is astonishing," Loki's baritone exclaimed. "Nine months is a long time to resist the pull of such a strong artifact." My best friend stated with a great deal of respect.

People in the room started talking all at once. Stephen and Tony declared I needed to get checked out by a professional - Tony meaning s doctor and Stephen meaning a healer of the magical kind; Bruce scooted over and pulled my frozen body in a solid hug; Steve and Bucky planned out to get the box from my grandparents' house, debating whether to take Loki or Thor with them; the SHIELD part of the team discussing the intel and further plans to catch the rogue mercenary.

The door opened quietly.

"Hi everybody, hello Mr. Stark," Peter was disheveled, his ratty backpack in one hand and an enormous sandwich in another. "Got here as fast as I could. What's up?"

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95

[thewidowsghost]

The Unknown Muggleborn - Chapter 13

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

3rd Person POV

It was Quirrell.

"I knew it!" (Y/n) gasps, her right hand tightening around her wand in her pocket.

Quirrell smiles. His face isn't twitching at all.

"Me," he says calmly, then his gaze fixes behind (Y/n) where Harry had just walked through the black flames. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you two here, Potter, (L/n)."

"But I though - Snape - "Harry stammers.

"Severus?" Quirrell laughs, and it isn't his usual quivering tremble either, but cold and sharp, making (Y/n) stand taller. "Yes, Severus does seem to type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an over grown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Harry can't take it in so he blurts, "Snape tried to kill (Y/n)!"

"No, no, no. I tried to kill her. Your friend, Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with her. Another few seconds and I'd have got her off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a countercurse, trying to save (L/n)."

"He was trying to save her?" Harry asks, bewildered.

"Of course," says Quirrell coolly. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again. Funny, really . . . he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make himself unpopular . . . and what a waste of time, when after all that, I'm going to kill you both tonight."

Quirrell snaps his fingers. Ropes spring out of thin air and wrap themselves tightly around (Y/n) and Harry.

(Y/n)'s arms were behind her so she pulls the knife carefully out of it's sheath and begins to saw quietly at the thick ropes. This turns out to be quite difficult considering the fact that her hands are bound.

"You're too nosy to live, (L/n)," Quirrell says. "Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew, you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?" (Y/n) asks, a note of surprise in her voice.

"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly," Quirrell complains. "Now, wait quietly, Potter, (L/n). I need to examine this interesting mirror."

It was only then that Harry realizes what is standing beside Quirrell. It is the Mirror of Erised.

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell mutters, tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this . . . but he's in London . . . I'll be far away by the time he gets back."

All Harry can think of doing is to keep Quirrell talking and stop him from concentrating on the mirror.

"I saw you and Snape in the forest - " Harry blurts out.

"Yes," says Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at the back. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me - as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side . . ."

(Y/n)'s breath hitches as she stabs herself in the hand with the knife.

Harry glances over at her and she tells him with her eyes to keep Quirrell distracted.

Quirrell comes back from behind the mirror and stares hungrily into it. "I see the Stone . . . I'm presenting it to my master . . . but where is it?"

Harry struggles against teh robes binding him, but they don't give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention on the mirror.

"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much," Harry says.

"Oh, he does," says Quirrell casually, "heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with you father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead.

"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing - I thought Snape was threatening you . . ."

For the first time, a spasm of fear flits across Quirrell's face. (Y/n) finally cuts herself free from the ropes, and for first time, she tries to shift.

(Y/n) had been working on becoming an Animagus for a couple months now, and this was the first time she tried to shift.

Harry stares at her in shock as she shifts into a large lioness. (Y/n) slinks into the shadows as Harry asks another question.

"You mean he was in the classroom with you?" Harry asks with a gasp.

"He is with me wherever I go," says Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was.There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it. . . . Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivers suddenly."He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me . . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me. . . ."

Quirrell's voice trails away. Harry is remembering his trip to Diagon Alley - how can he have been so stupid? He'd seen Quirrell that very day and talked to him.

Quirrell curse under his breath.

"I don't understand . . . is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

Harry's mind is racing.What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thinks, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see myself finding it — which means I'll see where it's hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I'm up to?

He tries to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes are too tight: he trips and almost falls over. (Y/n), still a lioness, darts over and steadies him before slinking back into the shadows. Quirrell ignores them.

He is still talking to himself, "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And to Harry and (Y/n)'s horror, a voice answers, and the voice seems to come from Quirrell himself. "Use the boy . . . Use the boy . . ."

"Yes - Potter - come here," Quirrell claps his hands once, and ropes binding Harry fall off. "Come here," Quirrell repeats. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry walks towards him, keeping his eyes on (Y/n). I must lie, he thinks desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all.

Quirrell moves close behind him. Harry breathes in the funny smell that seems to come from Quirrell's turban. He closes his eyes, steps in front of the mirror, and opens them again.

Harry sees his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiles at him. It puts it hand into its pocket and pulls out a blood-red stone. It winks and puts the Stone back int its pocket - and as it does so, Harry feels something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow - incredibly - he had gotten the Stone.

"Well?" asks Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry screws up his courage. "I see myself and (Y/n) shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invents. "We — we've won the House Cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell curses again. "Get out of the way," he snaps.

As Harry moves aside, he feels the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?

(Y/n) slinks forward towards Harry, keeping her eyes on Quirrell.

They hadn't moved five paces before a high voice speaks, though Quirrell isn't moving his lips.

"He lies . . . He lies . . . Get the girl . . ."

(Y/n) quickly shifts back into herself, slipping her knife back into its sheath.

Quirrell claps his hands (Y/n) steps forward to stand in front of the mirror.

(Y/n) studies the surface, becoming bewildered when her reflection isn't hers anymore. She sees herself, Harry, Hermione and their parents, the Weasleys and a familiar figure standing behind them, (H/C) haired woman with emerald eyes.

"What do you see?" Quirrell snaps.

"I see my family," (Y/n) murmurs. "My parents, my sister, my friends."

Quirrell lets out a frustrated noise.

The high voice speaks again. "Let me speak to them . . . face-to-face . . ."

"Master, you are not strong enough!" Quirrell answers.

"I have strength enough . . . for this . . ."

(Y/n) and Harry feel as though the Devil's Snare had returned and it is rooting them to the spot. They couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, they watch as Quirrell reaches up and begins to unwrap his turban. The turban falls away. Quirrell's head looks strangely small without it.

Then, he turns, slowly, on the spot.

Harry and (Y/n) would have screamed, but they can't make a sound. Where there should have been the back of Quirrell's head, there is a face, the most terrible face (Y/n) had ever seen. It is chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter . . . (Y/n) (L/n) . . ." it whispers.

(Y/n) takes a step backwards in shock.

"See what I have become?" the face asks. "Mere shadow and vapor . . . I have form only when I can share another's body . . . but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds . . . Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks . . . (Y/n) saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in teh forest . . . and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own . . . Now . . . why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket, Harry?"

So he knows. The feeling sudden surges back into Harry's legs and he stumbles backwards.

"Don't be a fool," snarls the face. "Better save your own life and join me . . . or you'll meet the same end as your parents . . . They died begging me for mercy . . ."

"LIAR!" (Y/n) suddenly shouts, moving back to stand shoulder to shoulder with Harry.

Quirrell is walking backwards towards them, so that Voldemort can still see him. The evil face is now smiling.

"How touching . . ." it hisses. "I always value bravery . . . Yes, boy, girl, your parents were brave . . . I killed your father first Harry. He put up courageous fights . . . but your mothers needn't have died . . . They were trying to protect you two . . . Now give me the Stone, unless you want them to have died in vain."

"NEVER!" Harry yells.

Harry springs towards the flame door, but Voldemort screams "SEIZE THEM!" and the next second, (Y/n) feels Quirrell's hand close on her wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seers across (Y/n)'s scar; her neck feeling as though her head had been chopped off; she yells, struggling with all her might, and to her surprise, Quirrell lets go of her. The pain lessens and she screams at Harry to take the Stone and go.

Harry glances at his friend then sprints through the fire, the Sorcerer's Stone still in his pocket.

(Y/n) looks wildly around to see where Quirrell had gone, and sees him hunched in pain, looking at his fingers - they are blistering before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HER!" shrieks Voldemort again and Quirrell lunges, knocking (Y/n) clean off her feet, landing on top of her, both hands around (Y/n)'s neck. (Y/n)'s scar is almost blinding her with pain, yet she can see Quirrell howling in agony.

"Master, I cannot hold her - my hands - my hands!"

And Quirrell, though pinning (Y/n) to the ground wit her knees, lets go of her neck and stares, bewildered, at his own palms - (Y/n) can see that they look burned, raw, red, and shiny.

"Then kill her, fool, and be done!" screech Voldemort.

Quirrell raises his hand to perform a deadly curse, but (Y/n), by instinct, reaches up and grabs Quirrell's face -

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolls off of her, his face blistering, too, and (Y/n) knows: Quirrell can't touch her bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain - her only chance is to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.

(Y/n) jumps to her feet, catches Quirrell by the arm, and hangs on as tight as she can. Quirrell screams and tries to throw (Y/n) off - the pain in (Y/n) is building - she can't see - he can only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER!" and other voices, maybe in (Y/n)'s own head, crying, "(Y/n)! (Y/n)!"

She feels Quirrell's arm wrenched from her grasp, knows all is lost, and falls into blackness, down . . . down . . . down . . .

Something gold is glinting above her. The Stitch! She tries to catch it, but her arms are too heavy.

She blinks. It isn't the Snitch at all. It is a pair of glasses. How strange.

She blinks again.

The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swims into view above her.

"Good afternoon, (Y/n)," says Dumbledore.

(Y/n) stares at him, the she remembers. "My friends! Are they okay!"

"(Y/n), please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out," Dumbledore says.

(Y/n) swallows and looks around her, then realizes that she's in the hospital wing. She is lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to her is a table piled high with what looks like half a candy shop.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," says Dumbledore, beaming. "What happened down in eh dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat." (Y/n) grins at the words. "No doubt they though it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

"How long have I been in here?" (Y/n) asks.

"Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley, Mr. Harry Potter, and your sister will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried."

"Sir, what happened to the Stone."

"I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to get it. Harry got it to me just before I reached the door. You were doing a very good job keeping Quirrell distracted."

"You got there? You got Hermione's owl?"

"We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London that it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you-"

"It was you?"

"I feared I might be too late."

"You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him distracted from the Stone much longer."

"Not the Stone, you - the effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" asks (Y/n) blankly. "But your friend - Nicolas Flamel -"

"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" says Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best."

"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"

"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die." Dumbledore smiles at the look of amazement on (Y/n)'s face. "To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, tot he well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all —the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."

(Y/n) lies there, lost for words. Dumbledore hums a little and smiles at the ceiling.

"Sir?" asks (Y/n). "I've been thinking . . . Sir - even if the Stone's gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who-"

Call him Voldemort, (Y/n). Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

"Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort's going to try other ways of coming back, isn't he? I mean, he hasn't gone, has he?"

"No, (Y/n), he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share . . . not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, (Y/n), while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

(Y/n) nods, but stops quickly, because it makes his head hurt. Then she says, "Sir, there are some other things I'd like to know, if you can tell me . . . things I want to know the truth about . . ."

"The truth," Dumbledore sighs. "Is it a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

"Well . . . Voldemort said that he only killed mine and Harry's mothers because she tried to stop him from killing us. But why would he want to kill us in the first place?"

Dumbledore sighs very deeply this time.

"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day . . . put it form your mind for now, (Y/n). When you are older . . . I know you hate to hear this . . . when you are ready, you will know."

And (Y/n) knows it is to good to argue. "But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?" she asks.

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign . . . to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed,and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Dumbledore now becomes very interested in a bird out on the windowsill, which gives (Y/n) time to dry her eyes on the sheet.

"And sir, there's one more thing . . ."

"Just the one?"

"How did Harry get the Stone out of the mirror?"

"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes. . . . Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them —but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?" He smiles and pops the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he chokes and says, "Alas! Ear wax!" (Y/n) smiles.

Madam Pomfrey, is very strict, (Y/n) notes a little later that day.

"Just five minutes," (Y/n) pleads.

"Absolutely not."

"You let Professor Dumbledore in . . ."

"Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need to rest.

"I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on, Madam Pomfrey . . ."

"Oh, very well," she gives in. "But five minutes only."

And she lets Harry, Ron, and Hermione in.

"(Y/n)!"

Hermione looks ready to fling her arms around (Y/n), but (Y/n) is slightly glad that Hermione holds herself back as her head is still sore.

Hermione sits down beside (Y/n)'s knees, studying her sister's pale face.

"Oh, (Y/n), we were sure you were going to - Dumbledore was so worried -"

"The whole school's talking about it," says Ron. "What really happened?"

It is one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange than exiting than the wild rumors. (Y/n) and Harry - who adds somethings in as the story progresses - Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were a very good audience; they gasp in all the right places, and when Harry and (Y/n) tell them about what is under Quirrell's turban, Hermione screams out loud.

"So the Stone's gone?" asks Ron finally. "Flamel's just going to die?"

"That's what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that — what was it? —'to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.'"

"I always said he was off his rocker," says Ron, looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero is.

"One good thing did come out of this whole situation though," (Y/n) murmurs with a grin. She glances around to see of Madam Pomfrey was watching, and then she shifts in to lioness quickly before shifting back.

"That's so cool," Hermione whispers excitedly, taking (Y/n)'s hand and squeezing it gently.

"So, what happened to the three of you?" asks (Y/n).

"Well, I got back all right," says Hermione. "I brought Ron around - Harry showed up during that process - and we were dashing up to the entrance hall - he already knew - he just said, '(Y/n)'s gone after him, hasn't she?' and hurtled off to the third floor."

"D'you think he meant you two to do it?" asks Ron. "Sending you Harry's cloak and everything?"

"Well," Hermione explodes, "if he did - I mean to say - that's terrible - you two could have been killed."

"No, it isn't," says Harry thoughtfully. "He's a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give us a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don't think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It's almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. . . ."

"Yeah, Dumbledore's off his rocker, all right," says Ron proudly and (Y/n) laughs. "Listen, you've got to be up for the end-of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by Ravenclaw without you — but the food'll be good."

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustles over. "You've had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT," she says firmly.

After a good night's sleep, (Y/n) feels nearly back to normal, though Hermione had forced (Y/n) to put on her brace - like she needed it.

"I want to go the feast," she tells Madam Pomfrey as she straightens her many candy boxes. "I can, can't I?"

"Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go," she says sniffily, as though in her opinion Professor Dumbledore didn't realize how risky feasts could be.

(Y/n) makes her way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. She had been held up by Madam Pomfrey's fussing about, insisting on giving her one last checkup, so the Great Hall is already full. It is decked out in Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate Slytherin's winning the House Cup for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent covering the wall behind the High Table.

When (Y/n) walks in, there is a sudden hush, and then everybody starts talking loudly at once. She slips into a seat between Fred and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and tries to ignore the fact that people are standing up to look at her.

Fortunately, Dumbledore arrives moments later, the babble dying away. "Another year gone!" Dumbledore says cheerfully. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts. . . Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two."

A storm of cheering and stamping breaks out from the Slytherin table.Harry can see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It is a sickening sight.

"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore. "However, recent events must be taken into account."

The room goes very still, the Slytherins' smiles fade a little.

"Ahem," says Dumbledore, clearing his throat. . "I have a few last-minute points to dish out.Let me see. Yes . . . "First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley . . ."

Ron goes purple in the face; he looks like a radish with a bad sunburn.

". . . for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House thirty points."

Gryffindor cheers nearly raise the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seem to quiver. Percy can be heard telling the other prefects, "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall's giant chess set!"

At last, there is silence again.

"Second - to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House thirty points."

Hermione buries her face in her arms; (Y/n) suspected that she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table are beside themselves, they are eighty points up.

"Third - to Mr. Harry Potter . . ." continues Dumbledore. The room goes deadly silently. ". . . for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house forty-five points."

"Fourth - to Miss (Y/n) (L/n)," the room seems to go even quieter. ". . . for outstanding loyalty and the best potion made this year," (Y/n) flushes at the comment, "I award Gryffindor House fifty-five points."

The din is deafening. Those who can add up while yelling themselves hoarse know that Gryffindor how had four hundred and seventy-two points - exactly the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House Cup - if only Dumbledore had given (Y/n) just one more point.

Dumbledore raises his hand and the room gradually falls silent.

"There are all kinds of courage," says Dumbledore, smiling. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."

Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought some sort of explosion had taken place, so loud is the noise that erupts from the Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stand up to yell and cheer as Neville and (Y/n), white with shock, disappear under a pile of people hugging them. Neville had never won so much as a point from Gryffindor before. Harry, still cheering, nudges Ron in the ribs and points at Malfoy, who couldn't have looked more stunned and horrified if he'd just had the Body-Bind Curse put on him.

"Which means," Dumbledore calls over the storm of applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, "we need a little change of decoration." He claps his hands. In an instant, the green hangings vanish and a towering Gryffindor lion takes its place. Snape is shaking Professor McGonagall's hand, with a horrible, forced smile. When he catches (Y/n)'s eye, however, he gives her a small, genuine smile - shocking the others.

Harry had almost forgotten the exam results are still to come, but come they did. To their great surprise, both he and Ron pass with good marks; (Y/n), of course, had the best grades of the first years, Hermione only behind from (Y/n)'s brilliant Potions grade. Even Neville scrapes through, his good Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but the had passed, too. It is a shame, but as Ron says, you couldn't have everything in life.

And suddenly, their wardrobes are empty, their trunks are packed, Neville's toad is found lurking in a corner of the toilets; notes are handed out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays ("I always hope they'll forget to give us these," says Fred sadly.); Hagrid is there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sale across the lake; they are boarding the Hogwarts Express; talking and laughing as the countryside becomes greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans as they speed past Muggle towns; pulling off their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross station.

It takes a while for them go get off the platform. A wizened old guard is up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and threes so they don't attract attention by all bursting out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.

"You must come and stay this summer," says Ron, "all three of you - I'll send you an owl."

"Thanks," says Harry with a laugh, "I'll need something to look forward to."

People jostle them as they move forward towards the gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them call:

"Bye, Harry!"

"See you, (L/n)!

"Still famous," says Ron, grinning at the two of them.

"I wasn't famous in the first place," (Y/n) says, waving her hand dismissively. "Nobody else knows."

"And not where I'm going, I promise you," adds Harry. He, Ron, Hermione, and (Y/n) pass through the gateway together.

"There he is, Mum, there he is, look!" It is Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, but she isn't pointing at Ron.

"Harry Potter!" she squeals. "Look, Mum! I can see-"

"Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point," Mrs. Weasley smiles down at them. "Busy year?"

"Very," says Harry.

"Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley," (Y/n) says and Mrs. Weasley smiles, as (Y/n) was wearing said sweater.

"Oh, it was nothing, dear," Mrs. Weasley answers.

"Ready, are you?"

It is Vernon Dursley, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him, stands Petunia and Dudley, looking terrified at the very sight of Harry. (Y/n) raises an eyebrow at the man, Marvel's black and white form jumping onto her shoulder.

The others watched, amused, as the two have a sort of staring contest and Vernon finally backs down.

"You must be Harry's family!" says Mrs. Weasley.

"In a manner of speaking," says Uncle Vernon. "Hurry up boy, we haven't got all day." He walks away.

"Hope you have - er - a good holiday," says Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.

"Oh, I will," says Harry, and they are surprised at teh grin that is spreading over his face. "They don't know we're not allowed to use magic at home. I'm going to have a lot of fun withe Dudley this summer . . ." At the words, (Y/n) lets out a laugh.

Harry, smiling, grabs Hedwig's cage and his trunk, follows the Dursleys out to their car.

Someone places a hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder, and she looks up to see her parents standing there, along with a man with dark brown - almost black - hair, a clean shaven face, and dark brown eyes.

(Y/n) waves shyly to the man and he smiles back. "You must be (Y/n)?" he asks, and (Y/n) nods. "Would you minded if we talked?" he asks and (Y/n) looks over at her parents, who nod.

Mr. Granger takes (Y/n)'s trolley and (Y/n) gives Marvel a quick pat on the head before turning towards the man.

"I'm Tony," the man says, and (Y/n) shakes his offered hand. "I've heard from your parents that you're very smart."

(Y/n) flushes a little but nods in agreement.

"How would you like to pick up an internship with me," Tony says and (Y/n) considers it for a moment.

"Where?" she asks after a moment.

"Stark Industries."

Word Count: 5686 words.

So, yeah, it might be a little bit until my next chapter. It strays a little from the HP universe, but I hope that's okay with y'all.

See y'all soon!

Love y'all!

Kaitlynn 😍❤️

[madeofthreads]

Glenn's reading comment earned a middle finger but little argument. It was just their banter. Low blows chased with some form of 'fuck you', this one being non-verbal. Besides, there was some truth in what his brother said. Leif could read... common words. The fancy talk from scholars? Well, he only needed to find 'beasts', 'myth' or 'dragon' scrawled somewhere, how hard could that be?

Then he was offered up a bag. He hesitated to take it. "I best keep close by your side through the village, then we can make a show about me going to the river to wash your sweat stained linens. No one will question what's in the bag then, and no one is going to seek me out in such a mood." It sounded almost childish but Leif believed it would work. Some of their arguments certainly leaned on the side of immaturity.

Perhaps he was thinking too much. Perhaps their plan needn't be so planned. Leif knew that egg was worth far more than its weight in gold, and he knew the nature of desperate starving people. Even the kindest souls that had known them since birth would consider stealing the dragon's egg to ease their own suffering.

"Glenn?" he uttered, when he secured the egg inside the bundle of furs, a hand protectively holding the suddenly weighed-down bag where it hung around his hip. "Thanks."

It was as simple as that. Leif nodded to his brother and walked out their front door. Right. He just had to act normal. His hand hesitantly released the bag, allowing it to sway at his side. He couldn't act as though he were clutching riches.

Normal? Normal... well, he supposed he was a bit of a frigid bastard, not the same warm attitude as his brother. Leif's strides into town became more confident. He didn't spare his brother a glance, barely spared anyone a glance. It felt like all eyes were on him in that moment but people were just going about their day.

What a smartass his brother was. But Leif probably was right... Glenn hadn't seen that nest for himself, it sounded logical, though. A giant dragon would simply crush their egg otherwise.

Same with the Ebbe-problem. As soon as that bastard would hear there was a felled dragon, he'd want all of the 'riches' that came with it. And most likely not for the common folk's betterment... no. That would all go to Ebbe's own power and treasures.

And of course there was the plan now...

Looking a little insulted at first because Glenn had no idea where this was going, he then perched up at it. This could actually work!

Folding his hands and then cracking his knuckles all confident, Glenn smirked wide: "Creating a long and distracting colourful conversation? No problem for me. Now you just have to prove you can actually read."

Passing by Leif, Glenn grabbed one of the bags they had and stuffed furs into it, offering it up for Leif to put the dragon egg inside.

"You take it with you, I guess? We can't just leave it laying around here... I am not the only Ironhand warrior who can do anything they like."

If they had to keep that secret, it was better to be kept close for now.

Glenn himself was already grabbing the shield that marked him as one of Ebbe's to fasten to his back.

"We better go now, when the sun isn't completely gone and we look even more suspicious."

And... they had to find out quick. It had only been a mere touch, but Glenn wouldn't want them to find the egg cold next to the fireplace in the morning, missing that small flutter of life.