#let me just throw down a few lines of prose

[patchworked-lia]

Enough time has passed I can look it over again I'll put our years behind me as a test The memories used to sting like salt in a wound Now they only ache Everywhere I looked I thought of you I missed you and your voice and wondered if you were on the other side of the screen and thinking about me. The more I learned the more the world became larger The distance between ourselves went farther I see you in every person I'm trying to love But not like a thought, more like a trauma that tugs Harder and harder on a leash around my neck that frays You won't go away Still I question if I wanted you as the person you were Or the friendship we managed to make last for a while Don't need to say I was betrayed or broken-hearted Anyone within a ten-foot radius can tell just by looking at me The kinds of things I went though are the kinds of things people can see Hate has festered in the form of frustration since I realized That you and I didn't have some sort of soul tie It was just a matter of the right place and the right time And we were both looking for someone to find I was one of three then one of two and then one But I was the one left standing And I worked the hardest and the longest I held out when you didn't and I hope you hold that to you I don't even need to be your first love I want to be your first mistake Because both of us know more follow Every time you think of me and every time you wake To have confidence in your psyche was a hit to the face But it's the only way that I won't let our time go to waste

[linguisticparadox]

Dr. Kemp's introduction is really fascinating to me, because it sets up not only his personality but also his function in the novel.

A couple of weeks ago, we had his thoughts at seeing Marvel running through the village: '“Another of those fools,” said Dr. Kemp. “Like that ass who ran into me this morning round a corner, with the ‘’Visible Man a-coming, sir!’ I can’t imagine what possesses people. One might think we were in the thirteenth century.”' These are his first words in the book, and they serve as an excellent sum-up of who he is and how he sees the world.

And so far, we might almost agree with him: although we know the Invisible Man is real, the whole story so far has read like a madcap slapstick comedy. Even Marvel, the Invisible Man's special victim, has been portrayed as a silly and rather stupid man in a silly and rather stupid situation, the stuff of modern-day sitcoms.

But then we get a sudden glimpse of the horror of Marvel's situation, and simultaneously we see that Kemp is judging at a distance, and so misjudging: "But those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the abject terror on his perspiring face, being themselves in the open roadway, did not share in the doctor’s contempt." The more perceptive among us might cringe to think of our own reactions to everything that has happened to Marvel so far (and not to spoil anything, but later we will come to feel similarly about the Invisible Man, who so far has mostly just come off as kind of an asshole).

The narrative continues to paint Kemp as a rational man of science, who considers himself superior to the common rabble, with little tidbits thrown in here and there.

This week, he hears shots go off, and seems (or at least pretends) to dismiss them as nonsense, saying, “Who’s letting off revolvers in Burdock? What are the asses at now?” After that, he looks out the window and sees a crowd, which he watches for a few minutes, "during which his mind had travelled into a remote speculation of social conditions of the future." Based on his characterization up to now, we can assume he views this future with rather haughty scorn--"this country is going down the toilet, look at all these idiots," and so on.

Of course, he's more rattled than he seems, especially after the doorbell rings for seemingly no reason. But he manages to lose himself in his work again until the small hours of the morning.

Now, it only comes through in some parts, but the whole narrative is subtly framed as being told by a limited pov third person, who has evidently gathered together news articles and interviews with the various witnesses. We get only a peek at it here, with the line: "Dr. Kemp’s scientific pursuits have made him a very observant man, and as he recrossed the hall, he noticed a dark spot on the linoleum near the mat at the foot of the stairs." The tense at the start of the sentence suggests the image of Dr. Kemp sitting and telling his story, throwing in a moment of preening over his education and scientific prowess. These traits continue to receive attention with lines like "Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices"; and when we are told, "All men, however highly educated, retain some superstitious inklings," we can easily imagine Dr. Kemp rushing to defend his seemingly irrational thoughts to his interviewer.

In short, H.G. Wells tells us, plainly and repeatedly (though with a deft subtlety beneath his compact and engaging prose which characterizes his writing generally), that Dr. Kemp is highly educated, rational and scientific, and that he feels these characteristics place him above the common people.

And this, I think, is a gorgeous setup of Kemp's role in the narrative: to establish that education and rationality do not shield one from falling in with mob mentality and being complicit in the persecution of The Other.* Up to this point, we have had only comic scenes of the Invisible Man causing mayhem and blunt confusion among the simple-minded, straightforward but unimaginative denizens of small towns, the sort of people who needle a man for explanations, not to satisfy any real curiosity, but to gather fodder for gossip and win esteem in their social circles, and who consider it a grave insult when that man, a newcomer wrapped in bandages who just wants to be left alone, denies it to them.

But now, as if to head off any potential feelings of class-based superiority in the (necessarily literate, if not highly educated) audience, we have a well-educated, rational man, who considers himself Above All of That, and who views the situation exactly as we have been led to view it ourselves.

And this man, a stand-in for the rational, high-class, superior-feeling people in the audience, is immediately proven to be wrong. He misjudged the situation because he has only seen it from a distance: and the parallel with the readers, who are learning the story from a fairly removed narrative distance, ought to give us all pause.

*For the record, I think Marvel fits the bill as The Other, or ought to, as he is a homeless drifter. Certainly the Invisible Man expects to have sympathy from him on this basis! Unfortunately for him, Marvel in fact turns out to be much more comfortable among the "locals" than one might assume; and yet, in demanding his aid, the Invisible Man actually isolates and others him from his fellows, so that it becomes a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. But that's a topic for another paper essay rant entirely.

[empressofmankind]

I'm gonna need to know something about or read some of what you have for That A Whole Margarita of a Man cause it sounds very, very appealing

I am so hyped for every last one of your stories so a little sneak peek at any of them would be magnificent !!

It's one of the newest on the list - and one of the few I don't actually have long-form prose (i.e. readable draft content that isn't my story beat steno) for yet. So, I'll tell you a bit about what it is about.

The whole thing arose from me mildly complaining to @tiredemomama about how long it'd been since doing body shots. Aaand we started spitballing about Croc and Shivs doing them? And then a few days later, having let the itch stew a little, I really went to plotting town with @feral-artistry regarding what that would all entail. But the crux of the matter is: it exists because I wanted an excuse to write about them downing body shots off of each other. That's it. That's the plot.

The title is courtesy of @feral-artistry, because as they said:

"That's a lot of ground to cover for a body shot. That's a whole margarita of a man."

I liked it a lot.

A logistic issue, too. Shivs would get drunk so much faster, simply by being lighter weight & downing a larger volume? So we have to just pour a whole bottle of the good whiskey down my girl at some point. To keep things fair. Obviously. No other reasons.

It's set around the same time as 'The House Always Wins' and 'On The First Day of Christmas', i.e. about a near decade before the canon, at Rain Dinners, in Rainbase, Alabaste, when Crocodile and Shivs were a combined force to reckon with.

She's dealing at the high limits lounge, as she did more often at that time, having made the unused table 13 in that pit an absolute hit. Despite the high bet and pot limits, those limits still exist. And the story starts with the fact that they manage to reach it. Shivs jokingly suggests that, instead of breaking the house rules, she can throw in a few body shots.

Croc is good at poker, and he likes it, but he's not necessarily intense about winning - he's not fragile about thát. However. The minute those words leave her mouth? He gets intense about winning. Not because he necessarily wants it. I mean, if he wanted it, he could just suggest it. She'd be down? No need to bank roll a whole table for it. The reason - of course - is that he doesn't want anyone else to gdamn win.

So naturally, the plot demands that he doesn't win.

Zip forward to whomever is unlucky enough to win (with a real chance of winding up both very rich and very dead) finding out that, actually, she meant her taking body shots off of them. Not the other way around. The funny part is that Shivs expected Croc to win too. This was her nefarious plan all along! Her plans are so amazing...

Anyway, now she's stuck doing this with someone else, and unfortunately, not all poker players are as hot as they are smooth? Croc is still mildly upset, but amused in that irritating way of his at her playing herself. After that, this happening leads to bar hanging banter, and body shots in all kinds of increasingly creative ways (I am having a lot of fun with it), and when Croc makes that horny reptile noise down the line, everyone else's flight response kicks in.

Time to clear the house.

The bartenders are drawing straws who has to stay behind, because if they make Croc get his own bottle, all of them are going to suffer. Someone's gotta take one for the team.

It goes all kinds of south from there.

I haven't quite figured out the ending

Thanks for the W.I.P. Round Up ask! This is a ton of fun. I love talking about my content.

[gracesshelves]

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

            Like a few of the blockbuster books and movies we’ve already discussed, I was very excited when I saw The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams on our list. I first read this novel in middle school, when a friend let me borrow her copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which included all five novels in the series. Perhaps I’m being too biased with my ratings, but this book was another five out of five for me. There were a lot of things I’d forgotten; however, I did remember some of the more iconic lines. Having lived in London since I last read this book, I picked up on more of the British-isms and cultural references. Adams’ style of writing is something I aspire to meet. Every line fits well together, each cleverly crafted to create this wonderful flow. His dry humor and witty jabs made me laugh out loud while reading. What struck me the most was the emphasis on improbable versus impossible. Particularly regarding the insane probability of Ford, Arthur, Zaphod, and Trillian knowing each other and ending up in the same place.

The absurdity and heart of this novel makes it easier for the reader to digest the massive amount of information Adams throws at you. Had the tone of the book been overall serious, I’d question more of the ideas he posits. Instead, Adams allows the novel to take on a earnest silliness, which means that I don’t need an explanation for every single fact – although he often expands on his statements. Having the entries in the novel made this an engaging read. Whether they were their own chapters, or just mentioned in the prose, I was desperate for knowledge every time it was offered to me.

Another facet of this book that makes it so memorable is the humor. Particularly, how British it is. From Ford Perfect telling Arthur to get over the destruction of his own planet to poking fun at every single character, it is clear where this author came from. While I have read great scifi pieces by American authors, it hits different coming from a Brit. Arthur’s ability to remain polite in such obscure situations makes him a compelling character, but I love seeing him break down as well.  

Looking at this novel as a self-contained unit, I simultaneously enjoyed and struggled with the non-traditional plot structure. Adams does an excellent job at keeping the past fast, so most of the time you don’t notice that certain beats are skipped. Part of this comes from how short the book is, in my version it is only 143 pages long. That being said, as the first novel in a series of five that follow the same character, I think this works fantastically.

Regarding the discussion of improbable versus impossible, I enjoyed how Adams used this argument as a point of hope in a story where, despite the humor, some messed up stuff happens. I’ve experienced a similar situation where I ran into someone in real life whose writing I had read years ago online. Before that, I would’ve thought moments like that were impossible, but they aren’t. They’re just very very improbable. Rereading this book encouraged me to reflect on those moments and appreciate the chaos of the universe. Sometimes it seems like our lives make no sense, and then moments like those occur and suddenly I am filled with hope.

[glorified-red]

how do you make your writing do poetic? Cause I see my writing and I’m like what is this hot garbage compared to your brilliance?

Here's literally all the top writing advice I've learned in the past two-ish years because I assure you, my writing was also hot garbage, but hot garbage is still smokin hot bbbyy so dont give up

(brief mentions of smut in passing):

Honestly a lot of it comes down to Quantity > Quality and its not something I talk about very often on here. When I first started writing, I posted almost everyday, if not multiple times a week, consistently. I was writing headcanons of anything I could think of and stupid stories I saw on TikTok, I was answering requests the second they got in my inbox.

How I did it? I just wrote. I didn't think about it.

I was writing because it was fun, not because I wanted the writing itself to be good, I just wanted it to be (insert encanto song here). Some of my older fics are terrible, I reread some of the content and I cant make it past the first few paragraphs without cringing, Ive even considered deleting some or completely revising them because of it.

But that'd defeat the point.

I keep those fics (as terrible as they are) so you guys can see that I too, used to suck at writing. I didn't know what a hyphen was or an em dash, let alone an en dash. I didn't know how to properly punctuate AT ALL (future me, an english major, literally dies inside).

I focused a lot on dialogue when I started out, was it OOC? Probably. Did I care? Fuck no. I wrote anything because the more I wrote the better I got.

Unfortunetly overtime I became obssesed with the Quality of my work and since then I've written very little in comparison (rip my inbox being open to requests lmao). Has the quality gone up? Hell yea. But has my motivation and insecurities suffered? Oh fuck yea.

I focused so much on making my narration more poetic that my dialogue talent suffered tremendously. Which is why I'm trying to get back into more random, silly one shots because goddamit quantity > quality.

And you can see this in Nightmare because that was the series where I started getting creative with prose, pacing, and narration. That series was written and is still being written for me and me only (yall get to see it as a little treat). Its my experiment baby where I throw words at the wall and pray they stick, I talk in metaphors and pray to god it makes sense.

Nightmare is my writing exercise journal basically, everything I learn from Nightmare goes into other fics.

You can easily see how much I've grown as a writer and how because Its just one big experiment. Have you read the beginning of that? It fucking sucks, but the last six chapters? Arguably some of my most poetic work.

Big Brother Intuition was the start of me taping into the emotional side of stories and telling a story through internal dialogue and letting everything else slip in between the lines. Again, it was an exercise. The sole purpose of that fic was to challenge myself to write from Tim's POV for the first time and to write something I myself, experienced and to translate feeling and emotions into legible words.

This is when I started to learn the best writing advice I've ever learned to date that I will scream at anyone who lets me proofread their work:

Show. Don't Tell.

This is huge in writing, especially if you want to write something poetic.

"He walked across the carpeted room."

"Static clung to his socks as they dragged across the carpeted room."

In the first line, you're telling the reader whats going on like youre reading from a powerpoint. In the second, you never actually specify that he is walking, but the reader can tell because you show it visually. They can picture it in their head clearly that not only is he walking, but his shoulders are probably slouched because hes dragging his feet.

Did I ever mention the posture of the character? Nope. Did I mention he's tired? Nope. But can you picture it in the subtext without any more information but that line? Yes (assuming you read into things like me but for the sake of argument just say yes).

(this is also where word connotation comes into play but thats a whole other rant)

The reader can vividly picture your story without you having to spell it out for them.

Now bear in mind, you also have to treat your readers like idiots (sorry not sorry guys).

I like to picture the brain as an empty room, a completely blank canvas. Your story should be vivid enough that by the end of it, the reader has the entire room filled with detail.

When you start writing, you plop your character into that empty room. But how is that character interacting with the environment if its just an empty room? Things only get added into the room if the character interacts with it. If the character doesnt, then you're just telling the reader what to imagine.

What's poetic about that?

If you don't describe the setting, your readers will be confused and won't be able to immerse themselves into the story because they'll be too busy trying to figure out where the door is instead of paying attention to anything else. But reading a long paragrpah describing the room in detail is so much more boring than if the character interacts with it themselves.

(Telling the reader theres a dresser by the bed instead of making the character plop their keys on the dresser before climbing into bed)

You have to specify everything your character is doing to the environment around them so the walls turn from white to red, the room suddenly has a bed in it, theres a dresser next to the bed that needs to be sanded down because the character felt a prick on their skin.

Little things like that make your story more entertaining.

Which starts with the five senses.

I did two Five Senses writing challenges ages ago as a way to get used to writing the senses solo, I highly recommend doing the same (in my masterlist :P). Whenever I write smut, pain, comfort, you name it, the only thing going through my head is "What are they feeling, what are they hearing, what are they smelling, etc"

If you can work with the senses, showing will be so much easier to do because senses is how you show things.

"She felt like she was going to cry."

"The rims of her eyes started to burn."

In the first one, youre telling the audience what shes feeling. In the second, youre showing it. The main difference is that I imagined what it feels like to start to cry (that burn) so I could use a more "poetic" approach but really, I'm just showing instead of telling. That's the difference between hot garbage and poetic writing.

I often like to overexplain things to my audience, I pretend that my readers know nothing before starting my fic, whether its a series or a simple oneshot. This way anyone can read any of my work regardless of if they know Damian has a fucking metal spine or not beause who knows niche stuff like that yk? Its a story, make it enjoyable to anyone because they dont need pre-existing knowledge.

Which brings me to THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ABOUT WRITING EVER.

Come here, this is your bread and butter okay?? This shit is what makes your writing glorious:

Whatever you do, do not make the reader hesitate.

If the person reading your work has to pause what theyre doing to reread a sentence because it doesnt make sense?

You've failed as a writer.

If the reader has to pause what theyre doing to look up a word because it doesnt make sense?

You've failed as a writer.

If the reader keeps losing their place in your story because its dragging?

You've failed as a writer.

Harsh? I know.

The entire point of writing is to tell a story well enough that the readers can fully immerse themselves into your story. If they hesitate for any reason, it breaks the immersion and suddenly that arent ✨reading✨ anymore, theyre R E A D I N G

It's boring.

Now this manifests in soooo many ways and I see it in every fic I've proofread. Assume your readers know nothing!!! I mean it!!! If youre detailed enough in your imagery, your reader will be able to imagine the story without having to readjust their visual (I'm looking at you smut writers, I have no clue what position they're in right now and I'm more confused than I am turned on).

I get bored if the paragraph is more than 4 sentences long because its intimidating to look at, its clunky and boring and it doesnt flow AT ALL. This is when readers skim your work to get to dialogue because dialogue is more easily digestible. (but please, make it obvious who's speaking because If I have to reread an entire convo just to figure out who's talking, you're done and Im moving onto the next fic)

Why? Because the punctuation is easy to digest.

Why do you think my paragraphs are so small? Why do you think my narration is sprinkled in between dialogue? Why do you think I switch between dialogue tags and actions?

So I dont lose reader interest (will I still lose some? oh duh, but not nearly as much as I would if I didn't do these things)

You cannot assume your readers know your story the same way you do, you have a specific picture in your head. Do they? Do they even know what they're supposed to be imagining right now?

And thats where the senses come in!!!

See? It all connects.

Do writing exercises, I promise, they actually work. I treat every fic as a writing exercise.

Self Care Day? Dialogue Training.

Exhaust and Exhaustion? Juggling Characters Training.

Petnames? Tense training.

The list goes on and I could explain it all in so much detail but I'll spare you the boredom.

TLDR:

Write anything and write a lot, even if its shitty, because the more you write the more experience you'll get.

Practice with sensory imagery.

Do writing exercises.

Be creative and visual instead of strict and bulletproof esque --- show, dont tell.

Treat your readers like they know nothing and treat them and their attention span like thats the holy grail.

Be creative and literally just have fun and I promise you will see so much growth in your writing.

Please let me know if yall want me to expand on this or to explain anything, my english major brain is literally hardwired for these types of discussions.

[nenyabusiness]

Fic writer questions 🤗 3, 10, 17, 35, 37

Shit, that was fast, thank you!

3: What are some tropes or details that you think are very characteristic of your fics?

I'm always drawn to the enemies-to-lovers ships, so that's a common denominator. Exploring power dynamics too, but that kind of comes with the genre. Something that always finds its way into my fics whether I want it or not is the biased/slightly unreliable narrator. It's such an efficient way to show characterization through the prose itself.

10: How do you decide what to write?

I laughed a little at "decide", because honestly, the process doesn't feel all that voluntary. My brain generally just throws a "what if" scenario at me, and sooner or later, I'll have to write it down. Then there's the "I HAVE TO FIX THIS/MAKE THIS MAKE SENSE" fics, where I'm either unsatisfied and/or confused enough about something that I can't rest until I've come up with a solution. When I write my snippets, it's mostly the final line that comes to me first, and then I have to somehow build my way up to it.

17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

I'm more of a canon divergence kind of gal rather than true AU's, so this one was tricky. I think I'd like to see a modern AU taking place somewhere in Scandinavia (preferably Sweden), written by a Scandinavian. Most modern AU's I've read are based on American culture, which inevitably affects the characterization. It would be interesting to see what modern Scandinavian culture would bring to the table.

35. What aspects of your writing are completely unlike your real life?

Well, first of all, it's in English. Most bilinguals can probably agree that your personality shifts a little when you switch to your second language, and that's definitely the case in my writing too. I'm also a strong believer in EXPLORING PROBLEMATIC DYNAMICS DOES NOT MEAN ENDORSING THEM. My characters do things that I would never accept in real life. I mean, come on, I'm an enemies-to-lovers writer. There's going to be some morally gray components in there. (It's 2023, guys. Ship and let ship. Get over it.)

37. Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

I think I'm going to go with "da capo al fine", a Fire Emblem Three Houses fix-it fic where everybody lives (which is impossible to accomplish in the actual game, no matter which route you take). It consists solely of vignettes, which I've always loved writing. You really have to choose your words with care if you're going to create something meaningful in just a few sentences/paragraphs, and I like the challenge. There's... oh god, there's actually 53 vignettes in this fucker, and together, they create a canon divergence where (almost) everybody lives. I always knew that it wouldn't get much attention, but I'm still pretty damn proud of the "oomph" in some of those vignettes.

[ddarker-dreams]

Yan Diluc, Childe, Kaeya & Zhongli / Darling Saying “I hate you.”

Warnings: Suggestive themes and typical unhealthy yandere behavior. Note: sometimes in life we just gotta suffer,

Diluc had told himself that this was for your own good.

That’s what gave him the ability to rest at night -- while holding the knowledge of all the freedoms he’s taken from you -- that you are safe. There’s air in your lungs, healthy color to your cheeks, and life shining brightly in your eyes. It’d be selfish to ask for anything more, he would reason. This is good enough, is what he’d think, not fully sure if he believed the creed himself. 

Now he knows those words were but a lie to cover a gaping wound in his heart.

He gazes at you now, his hand reaching out, only to stop when you flinch away. The reality that he tried so desperately to push down has risen to the surface, your turmoil not easily ignored. Diluc needs to remain steadfast as he considers hesitation an insult. Certainly, he is low for holding you here against your will, but it’d be that much worse if he started questioning himself. 

“I know,” is the strained answer he arrives at. You hear the pain in his voice, how the words were all but pried from him. “I’ve always known.” 

“Then why?” You plead, exasperation pushing you past the limit. His head is hung low for once, unable to meet your scrutinizing gaze, instead taking an acute interest in the wooden floorboard beneath his feet. 

It brings him back to his childhood, like a kid being scolded for an illogical grievance against their sibling. Your question strikes deep and close to the heart. His answer comes fast, almost robotic, as if he’s practiced it in the mirror countless times.

“For your safety.”

And so you won’t leave like everyone else has.

Exchanging thinly veiled antagonism behind the guise of banter has always thrilled Childe. This game the two of you play, he wouldn’t change it for the world, deriving too much satisfaction in your flustered reactions. Every day is spent thinking about when he’ll get to see you next, what words might bring out the cutest expressions. 

The manner you deliver the line is frigid and he can’t help but be reminded of  Snezhnaya’s climate. For a fleeting moment, it stings, like snowflakes against bare skin. If there’s anything Childe excels at, it’s warding off the cold. He laughs, once, twice, face illuminated with uncanny elation. 

You watch in disbelief as he treats your honest admission as nothing but a joke. There’s nothing you can think to say to describe the frustration that grows in the depths of your soul, Childe’s response encapsulating exactly why you said it in the first place. Half of you considers leaving him where he stands, but you know better, he’d follow after you relentlessly. A Fatui Harbinger’s ability to spot and track their prey cannot be understated.

When his laughter starts to settle down, he speaks. “So the truth comes out, hm?” 

Childe stalks towards you, sporting a wolf-like grin that sends shivers down your spine, every step you take back not enough to increase the space between you two. Eventually, your back hits the wall. Childe takes advantage of your lack of escape, taking your chin in his hand and placing his arm by your head. At that moment, it’s impossible to ignore the looming height difference, though he leans down to look at you closer.

“Hate me all you want,” he hums, his voice dipping lower with each syllable. “But I’m not going anywhere, ever, so keep that in mind. And who knows?”

Childe winks at you.

“Maybe I have a thing for being degraded.”

To be looked at with suspicion is nothing new to Kaeya. Everyone has their own reasons for doing so, whether it be to his cunning nature creating suspicion, or his country of origin. Though, he admits, your reasoning is far more personal than that. After all, his schemes have sent you into a whirlwind of misfortune. 

Kaeya moves back, observing how your chest rises and falls with each labored breath, the way you refuse to look him in the eye. He’s quietly grateful that your former entangled position didn’t grant you the ability to see his face, as shock undoubtedly must’ve crossed over it. Moment’s later, he’s collected, in control of every twitch and crease of his expression. 

“Hm, while I never excelled in my linguistics tutoring, I think I’m familiar enough with the word hate to draw a different conclusion,” Kaeya nods to your discarded clothes on the floor, to which you flush even brighter than before. “Is that what you’d call this? You were throwing yourself at me just a few seconds ago, y’know.” 

He’s getting under your skin on purpose. You know this, seeing the trap he’s laid out without even trying to hide it, yet still fall for it to defend yourself.

“Where else am I supposed to go, when no one even looks me in the eye anymore?” You challenge, wiping the saliva from your lips with the back of your hand. Kaeya hums, considering your inquiry, fingers rubbing circles into your skin as he does so. The contact makes your mind hazy, being deprived of physical contact having done a toll on you. To come to him for comfort is a blow to your pride.

“Your hand could’ve always helped with that, but you still chose mine.” Kaeya smiles, ducking down to press open-mouthed kisses against your neck. You decide not to honor him with any further response. It feeds into his ego and that’s the last thing you want, so you close your eyes and sigh. 

He pauses for a brief moment, not willing to let it go. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’ll always find a way to make time for you.” 

Zhongli places his cup of tea down onto the table, outward reaction schooled and giving nothing away. It’s a pathetic, last-ditch attempt to earn an emotional response, even you know this. From how he whispers archaic prose into your ear about his love and adoration for you, you were expecting at least... something. A frown, furrowed eyebrows, pain in his amber eyes. Anything. 

His visage remains unchanging. You drum your fingers against the table, narrowing your eyes and jutting your bottom lip out. It took you weeks to work up the courage to tell him this! Indignation and embarrassment blossom inside your chest, threatening to suffocate you. Any other time he’s talkative, but for some reason, he’s decided to take some vow of silence now. 

You perk up expectantly when he clears his throat. 

“It was never in the terms of our contract for you to have positive feelings towards me,” Zhongli decides, raising the cup to his lips and blowing. “Though, if I might add, I would personally like it if you did.” 

Maybe it would’ve been better if he stayed silent after all. There’s no validation to be found in his taciturn response, no substance to appease your burning frustration. The word contract sticks out like a sore thumb. Petty as it might be to continue this exchange, you feel vindicated enough to do just that.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the correct term would be marriage, not contract.”

“Are the two not one and the same? You’ve pledged yourself eternally to be my significant other, in the same way a contract binds two parties together.” Zhongli watches how you slide down into your seat dejectedly. Attempting to start an argument with Zhongli was akin to yelling at a brick wall, you decide.

“Don’t act so proud of yourself for swindling my parents into believing you’re an upstanding person.” 

His lips quirk up for the briefest of moments.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the term would be negotiating, not swindling.” 

You leave him to eat his breakfast alone. 

[dethkomic]

Thanks for making the music tutorial! Do you have pointers for making comics and especially when it comes to keeping with it? It's like every time I start, I never finish or I get two pages in and don't continue. Any advice for that? Sorry this isn't totally an art question.

On here and my main I've been getting a lot of asks about comic production and design and art and writing and... boy howdy, so much great stuff I wish I could sit down with each and every one of you guys and talk your ears off about. Never think you have to ask me about one thing or another on here. I love getting asks like these!

So, again, maybe this is owed a longer explanation when I find the time to do so, but I can absolutely give a few pointers right now:

#1 - Do your best to write your ending first. Everyone's going to tell you this, and it's crucial when it comes to a lot of storytelling outlets, be they prose or comics, or as I'm finding out -- even stuff like songs. Write with the knowledge that your ending is there, and you will write confidently. Write without an ending, and you risk not knowing how it all comes together and getting discouraged for feeling way over your head. And that last part is absolutely me, even though I'm getting better at open-ended things... it still happens. Often. Doing this also helps you to figure out what happens along the way, what you can leave out, and the all-important thing that is pacing. Oh! And don't think you have to have every single minute detail of your story figured out. A pretty good feeling for how things wrap up is better than none at all.

#2 - Throw interesting things into your comic at all times. And I don't just mean major plot points. Those are awesome and if you can manage it, do it. But if even if the simple act of including something you really enjoy drawing (I do this a lot with animals and vehicles) gets you to open up your drawing pad and start making a new page of comic art, then the day is won! And about that bit with the major plot points...

#3 - Don't save your good ideas for later. If you have a good idea for your story, use it as soon as possible. Don't hoard the good stuff if you can easily throw it in, sooner. You'll keep your interest (and probably your audience's!) by revealing interesting bits of your story, your characters, your interactions and more, by telling them the moment inspiration hits. And you'll think of other cool things to fill in when "later" comes. I promise.

#4 - Don't sweat the art, sweat the story. If I drew dethkomic with the same kind of mania I draw a lot of my other stuff, we'd be here all year waiting for a new update. Especially when it's a hobby/fancomic/just for fun kinda thing. Whole-assing your art is great, but panels fly by the reader's line of sight so quickly, they'll barely notice a fair amount of half-assing if your story's good. And a half-assed story with all its imperfections is better than a story never told. Certainly go ahead and save your best arting for the important panels, but if you only managed to draw three fingers on a character in the background of an establishing shot, nobody's gonna care.

#5 - Just do it. This is the hardest one on the list. Sometimes, you just gotta say "My people want to see this!" enough times in your head that it gets you into your work. Don't worry if anyone is or isn't reading/will give you likes. Don't worry if you think you've taken too long a hiatus for whatever reason. Don't worry if you think it's pointless. Finishing a comic is a great effort and not for the faint of heart. Don't downplay the difficulty of doing any labor of love, really. Shit's hard. But it's fun. And give yourself a break because you're allowed to fail at updates and change your drawing style and re-do chapter 2 fifteen different times. It's okay. You're making comics! And that's awesome!

And I'll be your number one fan if you do end up making one. Please let me know. You know why?

Because dethkomic loves you! Thanks for the ask!

[interlunium-opus]

No Place I’d Rather Be. [ Jay ]

[ Jay | fluff ]

Abstract: when you went to the library on the night when the Triennial Winter Ball was held, you expected to be all alone. But Jay, your best friend and the  campus heartthrob is somehow already there waiting for you.

You stared out of the corridors of windows as you ascended up the staircase of the desolated library, your eyes fixated on the bustling crowd outside. It was the night the Triennial Winter Ball was held: basically the night everyone looked forward to the moment they started university. Unlike how dark, drab and quiet winter nights in campus usually are — tonight, the campus was alight with festive lights lining up the path leading up to the grand hall and students filtering in, decked in their “Sunday best”, filling the otherwise quiet night with cacophony of laughters, chatters, and whispers.

Standing in contrast with the crowd outside was you, all alone in the dimly-lit library, decked in monochrome with books in hand instead clinking glasses and waltzing with others in an elegant dress. You sighed as you thought to yourself, who am I kidding, my introverted soul wouldn’t last a minute in there.

“You’re late today.”

You jumped, startled, dropping some of the books you were carrying. Given the context of tonight, no one should have been in the library right now. Especially not the campus heartthrob and the social butterfly, Jay Park.

“Jay?” You called out, squinting your eyes to get a clearer view of the tall figure at the end of the aisle. The dim-lighting were of no help at all but the blonde locks and the deep voice were a massive giveaway, “wait..what are you doing here?!”

“You look petrified to see your own best friend, it’s almost heartbreaking,” Jay muttered sarcastically as he made his way towards you before reaching down to pick up the books you had dropped.

“Well, duh, no one should be here tonight especially not you,” you retorted as you walked towards your usual seat at the corner, the one with the large windows and dimmest lighting, “people are going to think that you got kidnapped or something and oh God, the amount of hearts you’re breaking tonight with your no-show.”

“Well, what’s your excuse?” Jay raised an eyebrow at you.

“Jay, we have been best friends for almost 2 years now, you know why I am not there — I would just combust,” you said as a matter-of-factly as you took a seat.

“But it’s our final year, you’ve got to make it count — socially I mean. And come on, it’s the Triennial Winter Ball not some frat party,” he grumbled as he sat on the armrest of the chair next to you with his body facing you and arms folded. Being a massive extrovert with a lifestyle that tends toward opulence — tonight’s extravagance was right up his alley and all month long he had been endlessly badgering you to attend it. Being the massive introvert you are though, the ball is basically the last thing you would want to attend.

That said, as incredulous as the friendship between the two of you are to many people, you two are polar opposites that complement one another in a way that two differently-shaped puzzle pieces can only fit one another. Being a social butterfly, your individualism, rationality and brilliant intellect really stood in stark contrast with the homogenous crowd and superficial conversations that he constantly surround himself with. With an equally subtle sarcastic dark humor to match, a tenacity like no others and a brilliant intellect that constantly challenge and stimulates his mind — you’re like an oasis in the desert.

Likewise, Jay, too, was like a breath of fresh air to you. You have had some initial reservations about him though. After all, he was more known for his lavish lifestyle and the parties he throw. But beyond those such fronts, Jay was highly knowledgable with strong passion for what he believes in — qualities of which really matched yours. Not to mention, being pragmatic and rational himself, he was one of the rare few people in your life that you don’t need to put up a social filter for as he is always able to objectively understand your views and opinions.

That is how you two end up going from being touted as the “cursed” pairing that was doomed to fail when you two were first paired for a project in “Modern Political Thought” module, to the Dream Team that ended up trouncing everyone else’s project, attaining the highest score out of everyone in class. In fact, you two just keep on surprising everyone by becoming almost inseparable even after the module ended.

“Who’s to say a couple of drinks isn’t going to turn a ball into a frat party?” You shot him an incredulous look before turning your attention to the books you were flipping, “… exam is around the corner anyway.”

“1.5 months away,” he emphasized as he lowered his head down to your level, peeking over your shoulders to take a closer look at your notes, “Seriously? you’re skipping tonight’s extravagance and festivities for Multivariate Functions and Lagrangian? I’d have let it slide if you were working on a prose instead.”

“Well what’s your excuse for being here then? I’m pretty sur-“ you stopped mid-sentence, caught off guard by how close his face actually was to yours when you looked up to face him. Jay’s face as usual was unperturbed, his blonde locks softly framed his chiseled face and his lips was pouty in concentration as his eyes travelled from one end of your notebook to the other before he turned his face slightly and met your gaze. You swore for a moment you felt your heart skip a beat but the moment one corner of his lips lifted into his signature lopsided grin, that thought immediately disappeared as you knew he was going to say something sarcastic or dramatic.

“How can I be so selfish and party away when my best friend is all sad and depressed alone in this library?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “Jay, as if-”

“Also,” he suddenly interjected, “the girl that I asked out for tonight rejected me so….”

“Wait, what?!” You gasped, “The Jay Park got rejected?”

“I know right. She rejected an offer that millions would have killed for,” he shrugged as he straightened back up.

“Exactly! who in their right mind would- anyway, at the risk of sounding insensitive, couldn’t you have substituted her with other girls? Like you said, millions would have killed to be your date — you can just pick and choose.”

“Wow, ____, you really have ice in your veins don’t you?” he smirked.

“Whatever, just being rational.”

“I know. I definitely could. I mean the head cheerleader asked me out too so I could have just accepted it,” he murmured, “but...” he paused, “as cringeworthy as this sounds, 80% of the reason why I really looked forward to the ball was because I was looking forward to spending it with the girl who rejected me. So without her in the picture, the whole vision just suddenly lost its spark. Like… I’d rather just spend time with her then whether it is at a ball or library or wherever.”

“Oh…” you managed, unsure how to react, “that’s kind of… deep I guess. Well yeah, I mean if you still don’t feel bitter over her rejecting you then sure, you do you, go after her. Unless of course she’s at the ball with someone else then maybe not…”

Instead of responding promptly as he usually does, Jay just heaved a huge sigh as if he was disappointed or something. His eyes glued onto yours as if trying to pry some information out of your mind, “You know you’re awfully dense. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re too studious that it’s beginning to cost you your social skills or something?”

Jay has always been blunt but tonight, it was just on a different level. It was almost like he was here to intentionally grate you as if someone was actually keeping score. You retorted, “Excuse me. Did you just come all the way here to push my buttons? Because yo-“

You stopped mid-sentence again when he suddenly leaned closer towards you, his hands on either side of you, one on the edge of your table and the other, gripping your headrest, “I am already with her right now.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, your mind working on overdrive.

“Fine,” he uttered, ”let me spell it out for you — you’re the girl. You’re the one who rejected me. Twice.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to stop joking but his unperturbed facial expressions told you otherwise. Still in disbelief, you stammered, “No way — Me? When?! I mean we talked about the ball a couple of times but you’ve never… unless - wait… you were serious?”

You remembered it was a Saturday night, about 2 weeks ago at almost 4 AM when you and Jay was at the library burning the midnight oil. You were busy trying to finish up your Econometrics assignment while Jay, who had long given up with his Philosophy assignment, was engrossed in a movie marathon next to you.

“Ugh,” you groaned when your regression results turned ‘insignificant’. You turned your attention to the papers and books strewn across your desk, frantically flipping through the pages to see where the error could have been and how else can you rectify this.

“You need to sleep on it,” Jay murmured, casting worried glances at you, “You’ve been on it for hours.”

“I can’t,” you shook your head, your eyes scanning over your messy handwriting, “I’ll end up obsessing about it again at home so I definitely need to get to the bottom of this today, that’s the only way I can sleep.”

Jay sighed, pausing his movie and turning his attention fully towards you, “Fine. But you really need to reward yourself for working so hard this semester because otherwise, you’ll just burn out. Also, by reward, I did not mean hibernating.”

“Hmm,” you nodded absentmindedly when suddenly Jay snatched the pen you were using, “Hey ___ eyes on the person talking please. What did I just say?”

You rolled you eyes, relenting, “Something about rewarding myself and not hibernating — there, happy? Can I get my pen back?”

“Good,” Jay beamed, quickly pulling his hand away when you were about to snatch your pen back from his grasp, “The Triennial Winter Ball would be a good idea of a reward by the way.”

You scoffed, “Jay, that is probably your idea of a reward but it definitely won’t be mine. First, I’ve got to look all made up from top to bottom — that takes up too much resources for something an introvert like me possibly won’t even enjoy — that’s the equivalent of some floppy investment prospects right there.

“Secondly, I avoid crowds like the plague whenever I could help it and the ball has all the variables that could make me combust on spot: there are a lot people; a lot of emotions; a lot of expectations and — well, you get the picture.

“And finally, I would need to find someone to go with — again, too much trouble.“

“You have me, where’s the trouble in that?” he asserted, snatching your pencil case away this time when you were about to reach for it, “Just go with me then.”

“Yeah no that’s ridiculous,” you shook your head, stretching your hand out to him, beckoning him to give your stationaries back, “Stop playing, give me my stationaries back.”

Ignoring your demand, he pressed on, “Why is that so ridiculous?”

You sighed, “Because A) everyone wants a piece of you so B) I’d be burnt at stake if we do go together. And also C) You should spend that special night with a special someone, not your best friend — come on, Jay, you need to work on your prioritization skill.”

“Wait — that was meant to be it?” You shrieked as you recalled the memory, “I mean, it just rolls so casually in our conversation — I couldn’t have possibly picked it up as serious. Anyway, fine — when was the other time?”

“Just a few days ago when I was sending you home,” Jay replied as-a-matter-of-factly. Jay remembered skipping dance practice that night, earning an earful from the instructor the next day, just so that he can walk you home after your Students’ Union meeting with the president, Yang Jungwon.

“You’re really set on not going to the ball?” Jay asked for the umpteenth time and you nodded.

“What if I tell you that I know someone who is thinking of asking you out for the ball?” Jay prodded, stopping you in your tracks, “I’m serious.”

“Still no.”

“I have not even told you who he was,” Jay grumbled.

“Fine, entertain me,” you relented.

“Jungwon.”

“Jay stop messing around.”

“I told you I’m serious, geez,” Jay said exasperatedly.

“But why — what is that kid thinking…”

“I don’t know — maybe you should stop having some night meetings with him alone before it grows into a full-blown crush or something,” Jay shrugged before you smack him lightly on the arm. “Ouch!” he whined, “Anyway so? Will that be a yes or a no?”

“Of course no, Jungwon’s a definite no.”

“Well, I saved him from a heartbreak then,” Jay mumbled.

“Huh?” You stared at him.

“Nothing,” Jay quipped, smiling sheepishly. The truth was, one of the reason why he insisted to walk you home tonight was because he overheard Jungwon telling Heeseung this morning that he definitely would ask you out to the ball after the meeting, perhaps right after, perhaps while walking you home. Knowing that someone as upright as Jungwon was going to ask you out, Jay thought he should have been elated for this might mean that you will actually come to the ball. But somehow, like a broken record, the conversation kept on playing in his mind all day during his classes, accompanied with the 1001 likely scenarios of how you’d likely respond to him. By the time night has set in, all he knew was that he was dead set on not letting Jungwon ask you out to the ball, by hook or by crook. He did not fully comprehend why, perhaps he just did not like Jungwon, he thought. Or maybe, he didn’t like you with Jungwon together — or perhaps, he actually didn’t like you with any other guys. Fortunately by the time he had reached the Student Centre of the Campus, completely out of breath that is, he can see that you and Jungwon were still discussing the union project. Once the meeting ended, as indicated by Jungwon switching the projector off, Jay just barged in, announcing that he’ll take you home much to your suprise and to Jungwon’s dismay.

“Why not though?” Jay suddenly asked, “I mean accepting Jungwon? He’s like the textbook example of an ideal guy: cute, smart, upright, overachiever and whatnot”

“Well, my good friend has a crush on him for the longest time so that’s one big reason,” you explained, “also, we don’t even know each other that well on a personal level for me to say yes to.”

“Then would you go with me instead?” Jay suddenly grabbed onto your hand, stopping you in your tracks, “I mean, if you’re worried about having a good time, wouldn’t I be ideal then?”

For a moment, silence engulfed the two of you as you two stared into one another’s eyes. You opened your mouth to say something but immediately closed it, remembering how just this morning you overheard that the head cheerleader had asked Jay out, “Jay, just go with someone else more fitting okay? You don’t have to pity invite me or something, I’m fine. I heard the head cheerleader asked you out — isn’t that perfect? two campus heartthrobs together? You guys would be the talk of campus and the envy of many.”

Despite the praises, he could feel his heart sank. While it was not an explicit rejection, your nonchalance, for the second time, pricked him. Not one to be emotional, he plastered a smile as he slowly let your hand go, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Oh no, crap, I’m sorry Jay,” you sank in your seat as you stared at him in disbelief. No wonder, he looked so taken aback that night, you thought, and how cold he was the next day. “You know what, yeah I’m definitely dense — I think I traded my social skills for good grades. You can tease me with that all you want, I won’t even try to defend myself anymore.”

“Well, on the bright side, flirtations from others can’t get through to you — you’re like a fortress or something,” Jay chuckled, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry though really,” you bit your lip, apologetic, “What can I do to make it up to you? Oh you know what — that Michelin-starred restaurant that just opened up in the corner? How about I’ll treat you there for tomorrow? It’ll break my wallet but if it will unbreak what I’ve done to you -- I’d gladly commit to the splurge.”

“Oh come on, I’m not that materialistic,” Jay scoffed, “Do you mean it though, that you’ll do anything?”

“Absolutely,” you nodded, “Within moral and ethical bounds, that is.”

Suddenly Jay extended his hand towards you, beckoning you to take it. 

“You’re not dragging me to the ball right now right?” you took his hand and he pulled you up to your feet, leading you towards a more spacious area, “We’re underdressed for it Jay. I mean look at me, I’m decked in monochrome -- I basically look like I’m mourning.”

He chuckled as he pulled out his AirPods case, taking out one and gently inserting it into your ear before inserting the other pair into his, “Don’t worry, there are no dress codes for our own private ball.”

Soft music started to play through the AirPods, it was “Best Part” by Daniel Caesar ft. H.E.R. “Just dance along with me alright? I don’t need to be splurged on,” Jay’s hand slowly snaked over your back, pulling you close to him as he carefully yet smoothly guide you to the melody of the music.

“Well, gotta warn you though,” you smiled sheepishly, “I’m bad at this so don’t sue me if I step on your Pradas.”

“Fine, exclusively for tonight, I’ll put my Pradas at risk,” he quipped, his eyes glued onto yours, “Say, if you had known that I was serious — would you have said ’yes’ to me?”

You looked up, meeting his warm gaze which somehow, perhaps due to the proximity, was making your heart skip a beat, “I think so? I mean, I hate crowds but you would usually make me forget that I was in one. Also, you’ve always said yes to all of my weird adventures so I always feel like I need to repay you back in-kind if the opportunity arises.”

Despite always trying to keep his composure in the face of any nerve-wrecking  moment, Jay failed this time as he feel his smile widened while his heart raced uncontrollably. He couldn’t exactly pinpointed why: was it your sudden heart-fluttering words; was it the proximity; was it the the warmth that he could feel on both hands; was it the atmosphere; was it the fireworks that was starting to set off outside; or was it just you?

Suddenly, he thought in retrospect, he was glad that you had said “no” to him. He wouldn’t have traded the moment tonight, just you and him away from all the external noises, for a waltz in a crowded and noisy ballroom, even with all the glitz and glamour that it offers. In fact, tonight best represented what you meant to him, like that of an oasis in a desert, your presence alone is enough for him even if he has to search through the highs and lows for you -- it is just you who he’ll gravitate to eventually. 

_______

Author’s note: first imagine wheee! Hope you guys like this one :3

[ragingbookdragon]

What If The Love You Deserve Is Love You Never Find?

Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 3.6K Warnings: Explicit Language, Slight Angst

Author's Note: I spent like an hour going through my music to find the perfect song lyric for this. Love me people. Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

It’d been complete fate that she’d even met him. A chance of looking up when she was fixing a shirt on a display, gaping as he browsed the racks along the wall, very so often picking something up to examine it before folding it and returning it to its original position.

But even from halfway across the store she could tell he was drop-dead gorgeous, and she slapped the back of her hand across her coworker’s chest. “Dibs.” It was all she said before hurrying towards him, grinning when she heard her friend groan something along the lines of, ‘No fair!’

She cleared her throat as she neared him and he glanced over, giving her a smile. “Good morning,” she greeted. “How are you today?”

“I’m good,” he replied. “How are you?”

“Well, every day is a new day.” She grinned when he laughed. “Is there anything I can help you find, or are you just looking around?”

“Oh, I’m just looking around.”

Nodding, she said, “Alright, well since summer break just started our sales are everything along this wall,” she gestured to the side next to her. “It’s buy one get one free, and so is that wall over there.” She pointed to the other side of the room. “Everything in between is buy two get one free.”

“Sounds good.” He murmured.

“And I’m (Y/N). So if you need any help with anything or want an opinion on anything, just come find me!” she smiled at him and wandered off back towards the registers where her coworker was, and was promptly slapped in the side, causing her to gasp slightly.

“What’s his name and how much money does he make?”

(Y/N) huffed a laugh. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t—you didn’t ask? Why not?” she griped. “That guy’s wearing a Rolex! He’s probably loaded.”

“It could also be a knockoff,” she shot back. “Besides, you gotta wait it out.” (Y/N)’s eyes followed him as he looked up and down the wall of shirts and jackets. “If he comes and asks for help, then he’s interested.”

Her coworker rolled her eyes. “You say that about everyone and they’re only always coming to ask for purchase.”

(Y/N) shrugged. “It’s gotta work one day.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Probably. But at least—”

“Excuse me,” someone interrupted and they both spun around to see him standing there, a smile on his face as he looked at (Y/N).

“Yes?” she chirped, flashing him a pearly white grin.

“I was wondering if you could help me pick out an outfit?” he asked, and she nodded.

“I’d be glad to help,” shooting her friend a wink as she followed him back towards the wall. “So, is there a particular event you’re going to that calls for a new outfit?” she inquired, taking in the sight of him.

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m hanging out with a couple friends later tonight.” He glanced at her. “Wanna show off, you know?”

(Y/N) giggled. “I totally know what you mean.” She crossed her arms. “Alright, well, let’s start with the easiest thing. Favorite colors?”

“Red, white, black, gray, and teal.” He replied.

“Hmm…boots or sneakers?”

“Boots.”

“Jeans or khak—”

“Jeans.” He interrupted with a scandalized expression.

She giggled again. “Just being thorough.” (Y/N) looked him over. He was tall, extremely built and God, his face was beautiful. Strong jaw and cheekbones, tanned skin and dark hair with a small white patch in the front. And his eyes, oh, his eyes were the prettiest teal.

“See something you like?” he flirted with a smirk and she rolled her eyes.

“Oh, don’t be cocky, I was just beginning to enjoy this.” He chuckled and she hummed. “I can see you like wearing jackets in eighty degrees so I’m gonna assume you’re more of a ‘suffer the pain for the aesthetic of the look’ type of man?” he nodded. “Okay, you a hoodie or sweatshirt guy?”

He paused, eyeing the displays and remarked, “I’m more a leather jacket type of man.”

(Y/N) nodded. “I can work with that.” She started up the wall. “Based on your body type I’m going to assume you run between a large and an extra-large.” Pausing, she eyed his hips. “Your pants size is probably a large.” She handed him a pair of dark blue jeans and he looked them over.

“Did you just give me jeans with bedazzled-shit on the back pockets?”

She cracked a grin. “Embrace your inner punk rock star, babe.” Shoving a crimson V-neck in his arms, she followed it with a pair of matte-black military style combat boots. “Black or tan leather?”

“Mmm…I have a tan at home,” he murmured, and she nodded.

“Black it is then,” (Y/N) decided, handing him a black leather jacket that closely resembled a bomber style jacket with a gray hood attached. She spun and stepped up to him. “Do you wear jewelry?”

“Mhm,” he said and turned his head. “Got my ears pierced a while back.”

“Have anything against religious imagery?”

He gasped. “And be blasphemous? I would never!”

She chuckled and wandered around a display, picking up a set of small silver earrings with crosses dangling on them, then she handed him a silver block necklace with the engraving, ‘Stay the course, for horizons are chased, but never caught’, and a silver wallet chain. “Your belt is black but I’ve half a mind to find a silver belt buckle to go with it.”

“But I digress,” she said, waving her hand before coming behind him, gently shoving him to the dressing room. “Off you go!”

He laughed, disappearing into the dressing room and she looked over at her coworker, giving her a mouthed, “Oh. My. God. He’s. Hot.”

“Tell me about it!” her friend mouthed back.

“And he smells like heaven!” (Y/N) returned, smiling when the curtain shifted, and he stepped out. Immediately her jaw dropped, and she breathed, “Holy shit.”

He chuckled, sending shivers down her spine and ran a hand through his hair, an action that made her stomach flip when he looked at her with those gorgeous teal eyes. “I take it I’m looking good, huh?”

All she could do was nod and mumble, “I’ll say.” She walked over and gently drug him to the giant mirror on the wall and turned him round so he could see himself. “You’re gonna knock your friends and half the people in this city dead the second they lay eyes on you.”

He reached up and adjusted the silver necklace before tugging at the jacket. “I like it.”

“I’m glad you do,” (Y/N) said, internally sighing in relief. “You’ve got everything for the deals, so let’s head to the register and make this happen, if you’re ready.”

“After you.” He replied, and she waltzed around, tapping at the register when he held up a hand. “Gimme just a minute.” She nodded, watching as he wandered to the displays and plucked a black backpack off the rack and shoved his old clothes and shoes in it, then he picked up a silver ring and slipped it on his finger. He walked back over. “Had to finish off the look.”

(Y/N) smiled. “Well, you’ve picked up two items, so you’ll have to find one more for the deal.”

He leaned his hip against the counter and shot her a flirty grin. “How ‘bout I buy the backpack and the ring and I get your number for free?” she blinked in shock and he added smoothly, “Never know when I’ll need help with another style.”

Her coworker was nudging her in the ribs but all she could do was try and horribly fail at hiding the grin as she rang up his total and flipped over the receipt, quickly scribbling her number down. She handed it to him, and he took it. “Thank you—”

She tugged a little and murmured, “You are going to let me style you for beach days, right?” her eyes followed down his body. “I’d love to help you pick out a nice pair of swim trunks.”

He smirked. “Well I was hoping to ask about underwear too, but I could probably throw in swim trunks as well.” Pulling the receipt from her fingers, he said, “Name’s Jason, by the way.”

“Well, have a good day, Jason.” She flirted, waving as he walked off.

Her coworker shoved her elbow into her ribs, and she gasped. “Holy fuck, it actually worked, and you just scored a really hot fuck.”

(Y/N) sighed dreamily. “Yes, I did.”

***

One “styling” turned into multiple “stylings” and many, many phone calls which turned into brunch and dinner dates with Jason. Which she strictly went to under the belief of styling said man, because falling in love with him spelled heartbreak and she knew it because there was no way someone like him was interested in her at all.

And yet, no matter how much she tried not too, (Y/N) found herself slipping deeper and deeper for him. It scared her, but she figured the easiest thing to do was to get him out on a date of her own and set the line before it was crossed. Which was how she found herself dressed in a 1950’s style floral dress with matching flats with her hair and makeup done, waiting underneath the cherry blossom tree in the Gotham City park.

She brushed her fingers over the fabric at her knee for what seemed like the millionth time, heart fluttering in her chest as she watched the people walk by. A few people had come up to her, either to compliment her outfit or ask her who the picnic was set up for. Jason had texted that he’d be there soon and (Y/N) hoped it would be right then because if she had to tell another guy to scram, she was going to pick everything up and haul ass.

Shaking her head, she focused on the poetry book in front of her, reading over another prose when she heard, “(Y/N)!” She looked up, seeing Jason hurrying towards her, three books in his arms.

She laughed and stood up, meeting him halfway. “Jay, I said bring one book not three.”

“I couldn’t pick. I love Emily Dickinson just as much as I love Walt Whitman and John Keats.” He retorted, setting the books down on the blanket before taking her hands in his, pushing her out to take in the sight of her. “Wow,” he breathed. “You look beautiful, doll.”

(Y/N) flushed, smiling shyly. “Yeah, well…you said something about the fifties, and I had this in the closet.” She nodded to the blanket. “I hope you’re hungry.”

His stomach rumbled in response and his cheeks tinted pink as he sat down. “You didn’t hear that.”

“Hear what?” she repeated with a grin, opening up the basket. “Okay, so I went a little overboard with the food, but who cares.” He chuckled, watching as she pulled out a couple bowls and a tray, then set out two plates for them and some silverware.

“What’s in these?” he asked, opening the lid to one of the bowls. It looked like some kind of pasta salad.

“That one is a BLT pasta salad and the other is fruit salad.” She started unraveling the foil from the platter. “And these are chicken Caesar pitas.” (Y/N) put one on his plate. “I made four just in case you wanted more to eat.”

Jason’s face lit up at all the food and he met her gaze. “You did all this for me?”

(Y/N) smiled and nodded. “Yeah…I hope it’s not too much though.”

“Not at all.” He looked around. “But I do hope you got something to drink in there.”

She giggled and handed him an insulated, stemless wine cup before pulling out a bottle of rosé. “Of course.”

“Thank you, doll,” he said as she poured them their drinks, then he raised his cup. “To us.”

(Y/N) clinked her cup to his. “To us.”

And that slowly turned into the food being eaten and the wine being drunk which ended up with Jason’s head in her lap as he read them his favorite poems, her fingers gently carding through his silky hair. At one point, he’d rested the book on his chest and simply closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of her massaging his scalp. And (Y/N)? She was trying to keep her heard from beating out of her chest.

“Jason?” she murmured softly, and he hummed in return. “Is this real?”

He huffed a laugh and opened his eyes. “Yeah, (Y/N), I think the sky is real.”

She didn’t laugh, merely offering a halfhearted smile towards the open park. “No, Jason, this…us…how you are towards me. The flirting and the touching.” Her eyes were trained on the grass because she could feel his teal gaze boring into her, and if she looked down at him, she knew she’d lose her edge. “I…feel like you care about me…more than a good friend would.”

Swallowing, she assured, “It’s okay if it’s a no…but I wanna know now just to be sure.” (Y/N)’s voice quieted considerably. “It’ll get messy if we don’t figure this out here.” She went silent, refusing to look at Jason as he rose out of her lap and shifted until he was sitting beside her, their thighs brushing against one another.

His hand gently cupped her cheek and he murmured, “Yeah, it’s real. How we feel for each other.”

“Really?” she blinked. “Because you and me? I didn’t wanna assume but I—”

Jason pressed his lips to hers, effectively silencing her and she all but melted into him as she looped her arms around his neck. He smiled against her lips and with his free hand, gently pushed her down onto the blanket, the right side of his body resting on hers as he kissed her.

When they pulled away, he rested his forehead on hers, quipping, “I think you assumed rightly, doll.”

“Jason?” (Y/N) asked.

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

***

That single date morphed into something deeper between them, and she could tell Jason was holding back a bit. He was open to love, to having a relationship, but something told (Y/N) that all of the ones he’d ever had either ended in disaster or mutual termination.

That being said, Jason was nothing but a loving boyfriend to her. He was everything that romance books and movies were based on. The guy every girl wanted to be with and (Y/N) had no idea how she got so lucky, but she wasn’t going to question it for fear of waking up from whatever dream this was.

And the first time Jason invited her over to his apartment a few months after they got together, she wasn’t sure who was more nervous about it, but she could tell they were both walking on eggshells around one another, all throughout dinner and when they finally decided to turn in for the night.

She opened the door to the bathroom, letting the steam escape as she stepped out. “Bathroom’s yours.” Jason gave her a quiet ‘thank you’ and moved inside, shutting the door rather quickly.

(Y/N) sighed and sat down on the bed, staring at the door. She couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why he was uncomfortable with her there. Not wanting to keep the atmosphere going, she rose from the bed and wandered to his closet door, shooting a quick glance towards the bathroom. The shower was still going, and she smirked, opening up the closet.

Jason’s wardrobe was a mixture of T-shirts and leather jackets and suits, and his shoes were either boots or sneakers. All dark, all silk or cotton. She stepped inside the walk-in closet and drew her fingers along the fabric, stopping when she felt a thicker jacket. Bingo. (Y/N) tugged it off the hanger. It was Jason’s red sweatshirt he wore all the time. She practically had to beg him to get out of it when she wanted to put him in something new—he wore it like it was his second skin.

Slipping it on, she slipped back into the bedroom and quietly shut the door just as the shower shut off. Momentarily panicking, she hurried over to the window and leaned against it, staring out at the traffic below. The bathroom door opened and (Y/N)’s heart slammed into her rib-cage when she heard Jason’s breathing stutter when he saw her.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she murmured. “Got a little cold.”

His footsteps padded behind her and his hands rested on her hips. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that snooping in people’s personal belongings isn’t very nice?”

(Y/N) leaned back against his chest, head propping on his shoulder giving her enough space to see his face. “No, but she did teach me to put my big girl panties on when my boyfriend won’t grow a pair.”

Jason cocked a brow, fingers digging into her hips as he challenged, “Is that so?” he tugged her back, pressing his front into her back. “And what exactly am I not growing a pair about?”

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “But something’s bugging you and it’s really screwing with our mood.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then he sighed and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “I…gotta tell you something, doll.”

(Y/N) blinked and spun around in his arms. “Please don’t tell me you cheated on me.”

“What? God no!” he blurted. “No, I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

“Then what’s the problem?” she asked, reaching up to cup his cheeks. “You can tell me anything, Jason. I’m not going to get upset.” They stared one another down and he sighed, pulling away before heading to the bed. “Gonna show me you’re a eunuch or something?”

Jason barked a laugh. “You’re hilarious, doll.” He reached under the bed and pulled out a locked box. Setting it on the bed, he pressed his thumb to the little printer, and she watched as it flashed green and the locks flicked. He opened the case and (Y/N)’s eyes widened when she saw the gear inside, the guns on either side of the box, the suit in the middle, and the red helmet sitting on top of it.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, but I wasn’t sure how.” He whispered. “I guess I was scared what you’d think.” (Y/N) said nothing but she reached for the hood and picked it up, taking a seat on the bed as she flipped it over in her hands, examining it.

“Scared of my opinion…or scared of you?” she hinted, and he looked at her from where he knelt, a mix of emotions crossing his mind.

He shook his head and shrugged. “Both.”

She held the hood and with her free hand, gently caressed the lines of it, explaining, “Four years ago, my life was saved by Red Hood.” Jason’s head shot up and he gaped at her. “I was still in high school, coming home from prom when I got in a car accident with my best friend. We were hit by a drunk driver.”

(Y/N) looked at him. “The other driver was DOI, and my friend was unconscious and bleeding severely…I was awake but had broken my femur and clavicle…I couldn’t move, and I was scared.” Her fingers twitched along the cheek of the hood. “And then this mysterious masked man broke the lock on the door and cut my seat-belt. At first I thought he was going to hurt me because he looked menacing.”

She smiled. “But he grabbed my phone in the floorboard and called nine-one-one and then held my hand until an ambulance showed up.” (Y/N) gazed at him. “He kept saying I was going to be okay and that he wasn’t going to leave until I was in a bus and on my way to the hospital.”

Picking the hood up, she leaned over and put it on his head, watching as it beeped and lit up. “Later I heard on the news that he’d been responsible for the gang war between Black Mask and the drug dealers…but he’d successfully managed to get some of the school areas out of poverty and drug usage. And he’d killed a lot of bad people who didn’t deserve to be around.”

(Y/N) pressed her lips to the forehead of his helmet. “I was never scared of you, Jason. Then or now.” He put his head down and she merely smiled softly when he reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly.

They stayed that way for a while until he shifted and pulled the hood off, setting it back in the box. “Thank you, (Y/N),” he whispered, and she nodded, gently brushing her fingers through his hair.

“Of course.” She tugged at a strand and he looked over at her, seeing her eyes solemn. “Just promise me you’ll be careful from now on, and that you’ll come back in one piece.”

Jason snorted. “Will do, doll.”

“Good,” she nodded, then happened to look back in the box. “So…this might not be the best time but…how do you feel about I don’t know…putting the suit on when we go to bed?”

He huffed a laugh and rose, shoving her back onto the bed. “Well, well, Miss (Y/N), aren’t you a kinky vixen.”

“I can’t help it, Jason. Red Hood’s a pretty sexy guy.” She winked. “Say…wanna play cops and robbers sometime?”

“You’re something else,” he purred, and she wiggled underneath him.

“Don’t I know it, babe.”

[killian-spey]

Death Would Be Kinder [Ch. 2]

Prev. Ch.

[Drusilla/Spike/Calendar!Reader]

Words: 2276

Fic Concept: Jenny Calendar’s sister spends some “quality time” with the Season 2 Vampire Squad. This chapter takes place during [BtVS S2:E15]

TW/CW: violence, kidnapping, chains?

AN: Idea came from @prose-for-hire ‘s submission to the fic title game. Taglist is at the bottom, let me know if you want to be added!

You’d been sitting silently, watching Spike wheel himself back and forth across the factory. If you didn’t know better he looked like he was pacing. In reality, he was probably checking behind the pillars and corners of the factory for any sign of your friends. It seems the vampires were expecting Buffy to come looking for you. As the time dragged on, your suspicions became reality; Buffy had prioritized the threat of the Judge over saving you. You had to admit, it stung a little, but it was only logical.

Spike peeked his head into each doorway adjoining the main factory floor. You could tell he was getting restless. You contemplated your odds carefully before you decided on taking a calculated risk.

“You lose a sock?” you yelled.

“Did I what?” Spike wheeled back into the room, an odd expression on his face.

“I asked if you lost a sock.” You paused, his intense glare caught you off-guard. “You know… Because of all the pacing. And popping your head in and out of every room in the place. Somebody’s going to think you lost a sock.”

“Well, I didn’t.” He chuckled a bit before going quiet again and stalking around the factory in his wheelchair. You nodded to yourself, deciding to quit while you were ahead. After that, the only sounds left in the factory were the spinning of wheels and an occasional bumping of door frames and frustrated curses.

It had only been a couple hours of his pseudo-pacing before Angelus and Drusilla stumbled their way into the factory. Spike took one look at the state Angelus was in and hid a smirk under his hand by scratching his nose.

“Well, you’re home early. Slayer hasn’t even tried swiping the girl yet.”

Spike’s good mood vanished as he watched them come down the steps. Drusilla was beside herself, and for a moment you found yourself feeling bad for her. Then Angelus opened his big fat mouth and you remembered who these people were.

“Yeah, well things didn’t go exactly according to plan, Spikey.” He prowled the room, circling like a big cat before he gravitated towards you. Your nerves peaked and you swear you saw a glint of pride behind Angelus’ eyes as he heard your heart pick up. He stepped within arms’ reach of you and sneered.

“What I can’t figure out is, why would she abandon you like this?”

“Where’s your big blue friend?” You swallowed your anxiety and stared up at him in challenge, you weren’t going to tell him a goddamn thing. Might as well give yourself a fighting chance. If he figured it out, you were dead already. You were going to be careful, of course, but that didn’t mean you were going to let him win.

Angelus roared, grabbing your face by the jaw. He was suddenly wearing his game face front and center. ‘Buffy really rattled him, huh?’ You remained stoic, as statuesque as you could muster. If you had misjudged his mood, this might be one of your last moments alive.

Drusilla had floated her way over, leaning into Angelus and hugging his arm to her side. Your staring contest interrupted, Angelus pulled away from you. You took the free moment away from the spotlight to run your fingers against the grain of the armrests, trying to ground yourself in the feeling of the wood underneath you. Your panic was bubbling to the surface, tension and pressure building in your ribcage. You caught Spike’s knowing glance towards you as your eyes flickered between the vampires. You dropped your eyes to the floor, frozen as Drusilla subtly coaxed Angelus away from you. Before long, Angelus had stormed out of the factory again, mumbling about sending Buffy a message.

You were grateful and more than a little stunned. Drusilla saved your life. In her own, subtle way she’d dismantled Angelus’ rage and directed it somewhere else. She’d spun him out of the factory towards Buffy with little more than a subtle flirtatious gesture. You practically gawked at her as she made her way into Spike’s lap. She had these men wrapped around her finger and they didn’t even know it.

Well, maybe Spike knew, but he certainly didn’t mind. He was running his fingers through Drusilla’s hair, comforting her as he spoke.

“If you like the hostage so much, maybe you should have a little fun, Ducks.” He wrapped an arm around Drusilla’s waist to steady her as he wheeled towards you, continuing. “She was supposed to be the distraction for the Slayer, after all. That is what went wrong with the plan, wasn’t it?”

Drusilla lifted her head, gears turning as she looked between Spike and you. Your mind rushed with your fears of what she was contemplating. You didn’t put it past them for ‘playing’ to mean something rather unpleasant for you. Drusilla hummed under her breath excitedly, springing from Spike’s lap and practically skipping out of the room. Spike nodded at you, raising his eyebrows as if to say “Hey look, I fixed it!” and wheeled himself into a good position to watch from, a smug grin on his face.

Drusilla returned with two fistfuls of chains and your heart dropped. She fussed with them somewhere behind you and left the rest in a pile as she ducked off again to the other room. Spike flicked his eyes between the chains and his girl curiously, but said nothing as she flurried about the factory. When she returned, she was holding a long carrying case and a small over-the-shoulder bookbag. She dropped them beside the chains and left again without a word.

“Ducks, what is all this stuff?”

Spike called out to her and wheeled over to the bags. He unzipped one when she didn’t answer. You couldn’t see into the bag from your position and Spike’s exasperated reaction didn’t help you either.

Drusilla returned one final time, holding a large blank canvas in each hand. The left was maybe a 20”x24” and the right was maybe a 24” square. (50cmx60cm or 60cm square).

“Which one does the artist like best?”

You paused, unsure if there was a right answer. After a couple moments you pointed weakly to the left canvas. Drusilla smiled at you and put the square canvas down. Spike scoffed as Drusilla set up an easel from the carrying case and put the bookbag on a table beside it.

She dragged the chains over to your chair and kneeled, carefully untying the knots around your right leg. You studied her face; she bit her tongue lightly as she worked, pulling at the ropes with deft, perfectly manicured fingers. After she’d untied your legs and shackled them, she let your arms off the armrests.

She took your hands in hers and pulled you up to stand for the first time in almost a day. You scanned her expression and glanced backwards towards the easel, then back to her with trepidation. She glided you in front of the daunting white canvas and left you, sinking backwards and sitting in Spike’s lap.

You stood, dumbfounded at the prospect of Drusilla wanting you to paint, of all things. She seemed unimpressed by your inaction after a few moments, and had begun whispering into Spike's ear. He'd leaned into her, pulling her closer and snickered at what must have been a rather amusing comment. He flicked his eyes at you through his lashes, a predatory glint flashing behind his eyes as his smirk grew. He straightened in his seat with satisfaction, head held high.

“Paint for the lady or get eaten. Your choice.”

Drusilla’s eyes wandered back to you and provided no comfort, but then again, why should it? You turned back to the canvas, feeling both their eyes staring at you. A calming breath later, you assessed the materials on the table.

The canvas bag she'd brought had a full set of oil paints- far nicer than you'd ever been able to afford. You didn't dare think of the poor shopkeeper she'd probably killed for them. A person just like your Uncle. He was just another obstacle in these people’s way, and for that he was murdered. You shoved the paints to one side of the small table and began assessing the tools. A somewhat rudimentary selection of spatulas and brushes. You could make do just fine with these.

You set up a palette with some blue, red, white, and black to start. A color palette often was the first thought you gave to a painting. This painting would be mostly blues, purples, and grays. Without turning your head, your eyes flicked towards the vampires just off your left shoulder in the periphery. You had never really let anyone sit and watch you paint. It was hard enough showing a finished piece to someone other than family.

You mixed a deep lilac and raised a palette knife to the canvas. You paused, unsure where to place the landscape. The creeping feeling of being watched was throwing you. The white snow canvas was taunting you, paralyzing you. But you weren't about to let it win. Any of them. You closed your eyes and just swiped the palette knife confidently in a bold first stroke. Now you had a puzzle. How does this fit into a landscape? There was no going back now, it had to work.

It was a mountain slope. The hue you used was suitable for a distant fixture seen from a twilit glade. You could lean into that, thinking on how to keep the morbid whimsy of the piece consistent as a theme. You blocked out the clearing and plotted out the forest behind and around it. It fell silent in the factory as you worked, only the scraping of palette knives and brush strokes echoing in the room. Pieces fell in place as you added gnarled willows at the tree line, white ghost pipes and fungi crawling on the foliage, and sickly green fireflies in the weeping branches and crooked thorn bushes. You didn't like how the overall feel of the piece was so damp and dreary. It felt too muted, too blue for what you'd envisioned. You added nettles to the glade in a redder purple, almost magenta, to tie the piece back into the mystical tone you wanted. A few more touches, a ray of silver moonlight here or there, and you stepped back. You contemplated the piece, for some reason feeling unfinished. The glade felt completely untouched, too alone by itself.

You almost jumped when you heard Drusilla shift off Spike’s lap behind you. You froze, dropping your gaze to the floor, unsure of her intentions. With three clicks of her heels against the concrete flooring, she stopped just behind you. So close you would have felt her breath on your neck if she were human. She leaned forward and pulled your hair behind your ear. She placed one hand on your shoulder and raised your head with a finger under your chin, guiding your eyes back to your work.

“Don’t you like it?”

“It’s not bad, actually.” Spike wheeled forward a pace or so to take a closer look at it. Drusilla still seemed to be waiting for your own answer. You studied it again silently.

It did feel telling, in an odd sort of way. It was invisibly and indescribably alive, despite the darkness and isolation. Could be a good metaphor for vampires... Alive and free only after their own deaths. Sure, they may not exactly live up to society’s expectation of a good neighbor, but you couldn’t say they let being dead keep them from living.

Still, the painting felt unsatisfactory, felt incomplete. You shook your head and pondered. You drew up a couple new colors, a ghostly blue and a red-brown clay. You loaded a palette knife with the clay tone and hovered over the painting, indecisive. The central piece as of now was a large, twisting willow on a small inclined mound of earth. The whole painting felt like background to an invisible subject. Nothing tied the eye to the painting, there was nothing to follow. No movement in a living place.

Drusilla took the palette knife from your hand and set it down. She pulled you lightly to step away from the painting, lightly petting your hair.

“Let it rest, you’ll do more later. With a clear mind,”

You let a heavy sigh escape your lungs. She was right. If you kept going now, at the end of your rope, you’d risk doing something that detracted from the painting entirely. You jerked your head up at a loud scraping sound from above you. Angelus had swung the door open on the mezzanine of the factory. He had a vicious grin and a playful look in his eyes, leaning on the guardrail and looking down at the three of you.

“Did you have fun with the Slayer, then?” Spike called up to him.

“Oh, she makes it so easy!” Angelus threw himself at the spiral staircase and rushed down them with glee.

“I barely had to lift a finger to throw a wrench in her little puppy problem.”

Drusilla twitched her head and glided towards him. She was staring at his face, fixated on something you didn’t pick up on. She swiped her thumb across the corner of his mouth and brought it to her own lips.

“Did you bring any home, Angel? I taste a young one on you.”

“Not today, darlin’. Besides, you have that one.” Angelus gestured to you and sauntered off, calling back as he left. “She wasn’t really any use anyway.”

[Next Chapter Soon!]

Tags: @prose-for-hire @soggy-enchilada @misselsbells06

[vore-scientist]

Return of the Dragon King pt 1: Prison Break

[A non-sexual high fantasy GT/vore story with both hard/fatal+ other fantasy violence and safe/soft]

This story is a prose adaptation of an RP between @vixen525 and I. It takes place in one of her worlds and features mostly her characters.

Summary/Pitch: Separated from Sophia by the evil (and illegitimate) Prince Nero, Yonah must rescue his princess from Nero's devious clutches. With a collection of quirky fantasy characters as allies, Yonah aims to bring an end to Nero's reign and return the rightful heir to the throne.

But before that, he must escape from one of Nero’s prisons.

Story General Warnings: Return of the Dragon King overall will contain hard/fatal vore (in an intense fantasy violence style) along with soft/safe (the good stuff). Themes of abuse and torture as well. (There may be one instance of soft fatal that if I ever get that far I’ll warn for that specifically but it’s so far off from this it may never get written down)

Chapter Specific Warnings: This chapter contains all the story general warnings. This is NOT the chapter with soft/fatal. It’s hard only. It very much treads the line between hard vore and just standard fantasy violence. This part contains a very brief mention of attempted (and failed) sexual assault.

Onto the story:

----

For the 20th night in a row Yonah was replaying the moment in his mind, and like the 19 times before, this time was slightly worse than before.

It started with merriment, feasting, dancing, joking. Then transitioned to screaming, to blood, to Sophia being dragged away and him unable to stop it. And finally ended with waking up here, on a hard stone floor, in a room with no windows, with cold metal around his ankles and a chain attached to a back corner. With a terrible pounding in his head and an indescribable weight upon his core.

While he wondered why it had happened. Why this diplomatic mission to another world had been under false pretenses, however it wasn’t really worth dwelling on. He wasn't going to get answers here. All that he knew was he had failed. He had failed to protect Sophia. His charge. His friend. His princess. She was taken and he had let it happen!

After his 5th day in the prison cell he had given up trying to escape. Whatever that pressure was, pushing on his core, it stopped his magic. He had woken up without his robe, staff, and hat. For a normal wizard that would be a problem, but Yonah HaEsh was half FireWitch in addition to half giant. He had his own natural magic! Surely he could melt the cuffs and bars.

Nope. He could see the air shimmer with heat around his hands. He was generating magic, but it seemed to be… negated as soon as he tried to release it. All it succeeded in doing was make him tired. And hungry.

He was so hungry. The prison guards were giving him just enough food and water to stay alive for reasons that were beyond him. So he spent most of his time laying on the floor. Conserving his energy. For what purpose? For what event? None at all. He just hoped. And cried. Or at least tried to. His tears had long since dried up.

The screech of the prison bars sliding open grated upon his ears and he drew a harsh breath but did not give the guards the satisfaction of interacting with him. He had tried to rush at them a few times, just to have a little fun. But the chains weren’t long enough to let him reach the bars. All his antics got him was humiliation.

“Oy! Halfbreed Thing, you’re in luck,” came the voice of a nameless guard, “the warden decided to give you a treat tonight!”

Yonah didn’t respond. It was clearly sarcasm.

“He also said if you don’t eat up, you get nothing for a week!” And the door was closed again.

He still did not look. He had decided he wasn’t going to even touch what they had assumedly given him. It was probably poisoned, or drugged. Or both. He drew another breath.

That smell.

He finally looked. His heart racing. They wouldn’t… would they?

Standing with her back against the bars was a young woman with straight black hair, wearing a similar tattered outfit as himself. She must have been cold, and scared, but she was not shaking. Instead she stared right into his eyes. The fear in them was evident.

Now that his ears were no longer ringing he could hear her breathing. She was trying to calm down.

Apparently she succeeded. As she talked first.

"So... I guess they put you in here because you use magic too?" her voice was weak, and her accent thick upon his ears but he understood her well enough.

Yonah did not respond right away. Carefully he sat up, leaning against the back wall where his chains were connected, rattling them as they piled up.

“Well they certainly didn’t throw you in here so you could be my pet.” he snorted steam with his words, happy he could still do that much, and pleased him to see her concern at this display. So perhaps he could have some fun, even as her scent started to permeate his cell, leading his thoughts in another direction.

“No…” she answered, not moving any closer. “I doubt they’ve been feeding you well. I suspect they threw me in here in hope that you’d eat me.”

Yeah no shit. Had she heard the guard? Or was she too scared to listen. He had listened, even if he pretended otherwise.

“Being tossed a person to eat. How barbaric. Do they think I am some sort of feral animal?” His voice was hoarse with dehydration, and conflict. For he was considering eating her. Yonah HaEsh, despite being half giant, was not above eating smallfolk, if necessary. And she certainly smelled…delectable.

She shook her head “Many giants wouldn't hesitate if hungry enough… They may be normally polite to smaller folk but when half starved? All bets are off”

Yonah nodded, “I suppose so… Though I am only half giant.” He couldn't do more than suppose, as he did not know anything about giants of this world, though he remembered seeing one at Prince Nero’s castle. A little less than twice as tall as his own mother, and his mother was over 40ft tall! What he did know was that giants in his world would be tempted just like him, and while they were also normally polite… ish… their own survival was more important than the life of someone they did not know.

So why was he holding back? Well for one thing, she was out of reach. For another… He did not like the idea of being fed a person, it was insulting. The idea was nearly offensive enough to scare his hunger away. Nearly.

“Why you?” he hissed. Trying to chase away the remaining offensive thoughts. The mental images of grabbing her, sinking his fangs into her soft tasty flesh, and using his jaws and hands to rip her apart. The thoughts of how delicious it would be to finally satiate his hunger properly for the first time in weeks.

It took her a long minute to answer “I… keep escaping. I got out the door this time, nearly made it to the outer wall.”

“Ohhhh, curious” he breathed out, glad his ‘treat’ turned out to be interesting enough to distract his thoughts with. “You do not look like an escape artist. Or are you of hidden talents?”

She shook her head “The magic they use to… nullify the magic of others… doesn’t work on me. And my own magic doesnt like that im captive and kept… helping me escape”

Ohhhhh fascinating. He did not say out loud this time. “Sounds like you are a handful. Though perhaps you are rather, a mouthful. Or two in my case.” he smiled with all his fangs.

She swallowed nervously “Y-yes”

“Why don’t they just kill you? Are you important?”

She shook her head again “They are waiting for the execution order. That’s… why I’m here.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She took a breath. “If another prisoner kills me… they don’t lose their capital funding for executing a prisoner without the proper paperwork…”

“That’s where I come in” and he snarled “I don’t like being used as a tool. And I don't really want to eat you”

She nodded “That’s… good”

“But I am hungry.”

“Oh…”

“Why are you in this prison?”

She looked away. “I… killed someone. With magic.”

More fascinating by the second. “Why, would you do that.”

It was an obvious struggle for her to answer “It wasn’t… it wasn’t intentional. He pinned me up against a wall and started tearing off my clothes. My magic just... reacted. The next thing I knew he was dead”

Yonah snorted again “Should have been intentional!”

“I haven't had any formal training! My magic just happens!”

“Shame” he sighed. “Do you know why I am here?” he asked, changing the subject.

“You’re… a mage. A rogue one. Like I am.”

That was new to him, “A rogue mage?”

“Practicing magic is highly regulated, don’t you know?”

“No.” Yonah saw that made her very confused “I am not of this world”

She seemed to accept this easily. This world seemed to be more comfortable with the idea of other worlds than his own, which had only started to make contact with new realities. He had also decided she didnt need to know his story yet. For he had not made up his mind on keeping her alive, or eating her. If he ate her, then it would have been a waste of breath to tell his own tale of woe.

He tugged on his chains to pile them up and keep them from getting tangled. And for the next few minutes he occupied himself with this task.

“They stop-”

Yonah looked at her so fast his neck cricked. She started again.

“They stopped using shackles on me because the chains kept breaking. Perhaps I could” she took a single step forward, and seeing that Yonah did not react, took another. “I’m sure you would appreciate more freedom of movement.” She took another step.

“Well not all of us are so damn talented now are we?!” he growled. She took two steps back.

“Im trying to help you! Maybe I can figure out how to get it to work on you too!”

“A self proclaimed untrained mage!” he spat “and why would you help a monster like me?”

For as much as he wanted to be civil, he was also a monster. And as much as he tried to fight the temptation to be monstrous, he did not know if he could succeed.

“It wasn’t being a monster that got you in trouble! It was magic.”

She sounded very sure of that.

Yonah snorted “That is your own assumption”, and turned around to lay his head on the chains, facing the corner.

After a few minutes he heard her soft footsteps, and he craned his neck to look. She had gotten a lot closer than he expected and was reaching for his chains. She was clearly in the mood to help him. Unfortunately he was in a mood to play with his would be treat instead, and he did not have any confidence that she could help, so why not have fun.

“Are you sure that’s wise little morsel?” he sighed with a fanged smile.

Amazingly she did not back up but touched chains by his ankles.

“No. But sooner or later they will get the execution order signed. So my odds of survival are shit. But they are better if I free you.”

Yonah made his eyes glow with what fire he had left “Are they better? You said you were untrained.”

She looked embarrassed, “I’m hoping I can practice on these chains of yours. My magic does disable the nullification. We can work together to get out.”

“Untested magic is dangerous” yonah growled “Maybe I should just eat you!” he snapped his teeth.

Still she did not leave. Instead she stood up and glared at him “So what? I die and you survive another week until the next council meeting and your execution is approved?”

Yonah narrowed his eyes “Maybe I dont care about that anymore.” but he does not move either. “You dont know why im truly here. Maybe I deserve this!”

His fiery eyes still on hers, she retaliated “I dont care if you do! I need to get free, and I cant on my own. You want to be free to dont you? If I can use my magic, I can break these chains, disable the anti-magic on this room, save us both!”

Yonah rolled his eyes, losing their staring contest. He did not stop her from continuing her investigations of the chains. But his mind wandered, until he exclaimed.

“Maybe you’re a plant! Instead of using me to kill you, you’re here to kill me!” he jerked the chains away from her.

“I’m unarmed!” she insisted and scrambled forwards to maintain contact with the metal.

“You said they cannot chain you, that their anti-magic shit doesnt work on you, so yours does work, and it’s killed someone before!” He knew that this new panic was not helping him in the slightest, and yet he did not care.

“Most of my magic isn’t working! I just somehow break chains and disable the magic nullification! I don’t know how it works or how to activate it! But the fact I can means they want me dead so they stop having to catch me! And magic isn’t allowed and I definitely don’t have the indicator that I have special permission, those are super obvious.”

Yonah blinked “Could be lies! You could be spitting lies! Permission to use magic. How ridiculous”

“Everyone knows that the few legal mages have face tattoos to make them obvious”

Yonah breathed steam again and finally she backed away from the painful heat. “I dont! I don’t know anything about this world! You could say anything and I wouldn’t know if it was truth or lies!”

“Oh… right” she looked at her feet “You aren't from this world. That must suck as much as my own problems with my memory…”

She rambled a little more about how she was definitely a prisoner, it was obvious from her malnutrition, and that despite not being able to be kept in chains she had marks on her wrists and ankles from the failed attempts.

But Yonah was not listening anymore. Once again he turned away and was trying to cry himself to sleep.

So she took the opportunity to touch the chains near his ankles again.

“Careful now!” he hissed without looking at her. “You don’t want to get burned” Hearing her yelp as she touched the chains, which he had put his mind to pumping his fire into. Maybe he couldn’t melt them, but he could make them painful to touch.

He heard her curse, and then the chains rustled again as she grit her teeth and grasped the half giant sized links, whining in pain and holding back tears. 3 seconds were all she could manage before she had to stumble back, sitting on the ground and blowing on her burnt hands.

Yonah sat up and looked at the chains. He did not let his face show any surprise as he found rust and cracks that had not been there before.

“Wow. It didnt work. Big fucking surprise, some help you were, but I guess you were telling the truth about being being put here for me to eat.” he lay back down. “Maybe I’ll do that in the morning.”

Suddenly the pain in her hands was not as important as what the half giant had said.

“It started to work! But I couldnt hold on long enough!” she wailed, “I tried! I really tried, to help you’re sorry ass!”

“And you FAILED” he snorted back.

“Only temporarily!” she insisted

“And look where it got me. Nowhere. I’m going to sleep”

“If the chains were just a little cooler! Then maybe-”

“I told you to be careful. You have only yourself to blame for your failures and your injuries” he stated, fully aware it was his fault. And that he was sabotaging himself. And yet he couldn't stop himself.

“I was trying to help you. You don’t have to be so rude. We are stuck in the same situation and I am trying to make a difference.”

“I dont have to be polite either. Now you’re the one being rude, keeping me awake”

She crossed her arms in defiance of her own fear “You’re kind of an asshole. I thought maybe we could work together to escape but apparently you’d rather stay and be executed.” She stood up, glancing at her hands, “Guess I’ll just try to figure out how to disable the nullification and escape without you if you really are that opposed to working together.” She turned and walked back to the cell bars before sitting down again.

Yonah looked away, no longer amused by her company, for he was too tired, and too hungry, too angry. Mostly at himself for heating up the chains.

Of course, he couldn't sleep, even though he wanted to do so. After about 10 minutes he glanced at the human, who was making hand motions at the bars. He could just barely feel the sparks of magic failing to become embers at her will.

That got boring really quickly, and he noticed that, unlike earlier, she was shivering. Not with fear…

“You’re wasting your time, little one”

She gasped and jumped from her sitting position, nearly toppling over. He was not asleep like she had assumed. And now he was staring at her with those glowing eyes again, full of fire and hunger.

“I am not giving up” she yawned and shook even worse, “I have no desire to be executed, not by the prince, and not by you!”

Yonah’s eyes dimmed with compassion, “You can try again in the morning. You keep this up and you’re going to freeze to death”

To his surprise she snarled at him, “What do you care!? You obviously arent worried about execution, and I dont have much else to do at the moment!”

Yonah rolled his eyes “Do you want a warm place to sleep or not? I’m only offering once. Can’t imagine you’ve had a warm bed in a while”

“I- what?” she paused, processing what he said, “Warmth… sounds wonderful… But you talked about eating me in the morning!” so she did not step near him.

“I said maybe. So you don't have to worry about it until then” He considers for a moment “I’m still making up my mind. I dont want to be used as an execution method, but I am starving. However” he yawned, his fangs looking larger than before, “I promise not to eat you tonight, and I am very warm if you want to sleep in my arms.”

“This room is absolutely freezing…” she admitted, “But I dont like the idea of you waking up before me to have a snack!”

She still looked hesitant so he added “Tiddles won’t be able to bring anything with you still visibly uneaten”

Now her fear was replaced almost entirely with confusion “Tiddles?”

“One of the little guards who did this to us. Sneaks me food most nights. If he comes tonight, I promise that I will let you try again, in the morning, to break the chains, before I resume considering whether or not to eat you. How does that sound?”

“How… likely is this Tiddles to show up?”

“He appears most nights, but not the last, and he never skips more than one night in a row.”

“How about you promise to let me try again, regardless of if Tiddles shows up!” she was not about to take such a chance.

Yonah scrunched up his face “Fine.”

“Alright, that’s much better.” she took a step towards him again “It means you have to let me go, and you wont think about eating me until after I get to genuinely try to free us”

“If you’re not tucked out of sight soon, I dont get fed, and I’ll have have a much harder time not thinking about it” he threatened “Tiddles can’t claim he thought I ate you if you’re standing alive at the front of the cage!”

A few more steps, she was almost within reach… “Fine… I guess… I just want to try a couple more times, it will be quick”

His patience waring thin he made his eyes flash “but I want to sleep, and to get fed”

“It will only take a moment!” she stopped just out of reach.

“Tiddles often manages to get me an entire barrel of crap! I’ll be willing to share” his mind now on the food, he couldnt think of much else.

“Im starting to figure it out though”

Why was she so insistent! This was not the time! “You’re tired, and cold, and hungry. You try any more magic and you’ll just pass out.”

He had gotten to his knees but he deflated a bit, lowering down into a position not unlike a crouching dragon “So I offer one more time than I said I would. A warm place to sleep. A proper meal. Or you refuse, and I get angrier, I get hungrier, and you stay cold and my only option for dinner”

She hesitated and finally sighs, “You are probably right... I just got so close to escaping today... I was gonna use a wind spell to blast open all the doors when one of them tackled me...” She took the step forward that got her within reach, and Yonah slowly reached around her, stopping her rambles. “But maybe after a rest I’ll have better success”

Having held back long enough, yonah scooped her up and returned to his corner to curl around his new teddy bear, thin and cold as it was. In contrast, his own embrace is soft, pillow-like even. And warm. So very very warm. She tensed in his grip for only a moment before calming down and closing her eyes with a deep sigh.

“By the way, I didnt introduce myself. My name is Savina”

Not resisting the urge, Yonah nuzzled her with his face, his normally neatly trimed facial hair overgrown and tangled and in need of a wash. He was drinking in her scent, even if he was resisting getting a taste, “I didn’t introduce myself either. Now shut up or I’ll put your head in my mouth to shut you up. I hear Tiddles”

As he was facing the back wall, it appeared as if he was alone in his cell, as the footsteps got closer, along with scraping noise and soon, a jingling of keys. Unlike earlier, the screech of the door opening was not so bad, knowing what it meant.

“You awake big guy? Damn this thing is so heavy… I managed to get a lot of scraps so it’s not mostly water this time! Probably tastes just as bad as all the rest, worse since I couldn’t sneak any salt in... but better than nothing right?”

The only response Tiddles got was a slight movement of Yonah’s head. His bushy mane of unkempt black hair shifting. Then two orange lights appeared. The giant's eyes locked on him with anticipation and hatred.

The guard, Tiddles, who couldn't have been older than 20, dragged a barrel within reach of Yonah, though the prisoner did not make any move.

“The others were laughing earlier about how you got a decent meal tonight… but I dont see any plate. Not surprised it was a lie. Im sorry again that this is not seasoned. But…” He left and returned before Yonah could investigate the food. Holding a large sack, the smell coming from which made yonah take a very intense breath.

“I did bring these… They were going to be used to torture other prisoners. Tested them on me. Just one bite and I thought my tongue would burn up in my own mouth, I drank so much water I thought I would throw up. But maybe it’s not as intense for giants!”

Through his dehydration Yonah started to drool, the spicy smell of the hot peppers filling his half FireWitch brain.

The display of hunger caused Tiddles to freeze up a moment “Um… I’ll take that as a yes to these. Great Goddess they make my eyes water!” he set the sack down and went to the other back corner where an empty barrel was on it’s side.

“I’ll take this one, yes?” Tiddles didn’t wait for an answer but said “you’re… not as talkative tonight. Usually you threaten-joke about eating me along with the slop. You alright?”

As soon as Tiddles had moved away from the full Barrel and sack of peppers, Yonah Sat up and scooted over with one hand. Revealing the reason he was not talking. Savina was tucked into his elbow, having fallen asleep.

Tiddles seemed briefly transfixed by the woman. If yonah had to describe the expression the closest would be reverence. Before cringing away.

“That’s what they meant by a good meal!?” He shook off his surprise “what a load of dragon crap. You’re not some feral animal”

Yonah didnt respond to this continued attempt to bond with him as he dragged the barrel back to his corner and stuck his finger in, building up his fire to warm up the cold scraps and water. Tiddles made no more small talk and left him to his pitiful “meal”.

Once the contents of the barrel started to steam, Yonah nudged Savina awake. She was not happy about that.

“I was actually sleeping well, what the fuck”

Yonah set her on his lap, the barrel in front of them both. “If you dont eat some of this now, I’ll eat all of it. You wont get a single drop, but if you eat now, you wont make a dent in it noticeable to me”

She nodded, understanding, and put her hands into the barrel. Yelping in pain as the hot slop made contact with her burnt hands.

Grumbling about how she was an idiot, yonah rummaged around in his chain pile for a flat piece of metal. It was a band from a previous barrel that he had broken. That was the only time he had gotten an earful from Tiddles about how if he continued to do that, Tiddles wouldnt be able to sneak him more food. He was able, with some effort, to heat it, pinch it, and bite it into a sort of ladle, which he used to scoop up the scrap soup and hold it to Savina who was very grateful.

Even with his encouragement she ate very little. Yonah had no idea how long she’d been here, but it was likely longer than himself, and it was very probable that her stomach had shrunken, so he eventually gave into his own hunger and stopped trying to get her to eat more and let her slump against his middle and fall back to sleep.

But before he ate any of it he took the peppers out of the sack and crushed them into the prison soup. It took all his self control not to just eat the peppers straight up. So he rewarded himself by licking the juice from his fingers.

He would have downed the contents of the barrel like a shot but resisted as it would have wasted all his patience preparing it for better taste. And even if it was literal scraps in unsalted water, hunger was the best seasoning. And the peppers, made this the best thing he’d tasted in the time since he woke up in this cell.

It made it much easier to not think about eating the woman in his lap as he too lay down to fall asleep.

---

He woke first, and during the hours of the night his stomach had become rather empty again. Though he kept his promise and resisted thinking about eating her. He did not, however, resist tasting her; he never made a promise involving tasting.

“NO!” she yelped and sputtered as he licked her face like a very large dog waking up it’s owner, clearly convinced he was going to eat her, panicking.

He stopped licking her, But he was not listening to her protests. The moment she yelled the world felt lighter. He felt… no, no time to dwell. He tossed Savina aside and focused on generating a lot of fire into his ankle cuffs. It wasnt enough to melt them, but it was enough to make them soft. Soft enough that he could pull and stretch them and get free.

And then the feeling was gone. Back to that soul crushing feeling that had been ever present, as if it was never gone.

“What did you DO?” he snarled as he rubbed his freed ankles, which were red and raw from the previously tight metal cuffs.

Savina got up, looking frazzled with one side of her hair sticking up and out at odd angles due to half-giant spit. “What I was trying to do last night! Hey!”

Yonah crawled to her and picked her up, putting his face close to hers to demand, rather loudly “Do it AGAIN”

Defiantly she took his gaze and his rank breath “I wish I could! Like I said before, and like you just saw, I can’t do this on purpose! It just happens!”

In a rage his eyes flash and he bares his teeth “Fucking useless!”. His urge to throw her against the wall lost out to his being touch starved and instead he sat back down to hold her just a little too tight.

He did not fail to notice that a small hint of the relief of pressure occurred when she gasped at his moment of rage.

“So. Did that count as your morning try? Should I start considering whether or not to eat you again?”

She stiffened in his grasp “that wasn’t intentional! But doesn’t it prove what I was saying, that I am too useful to consider eating, that with practice I can succeed?”

“I already got my legs free. I can reach the bars now. Reckon i can try smashing them… and if I eat you i may have the strength to do it” he huffed. With a small amount of food and a night’s sleep, what he had was the energy to be a massive dickhead again. “So you would be helping me.”

“Those bars are heavily reinforced with the prison magic! They’ve kept giants bigger than you in this prison!”

“I’d still like to try, so you’re lucky I want company more than a proper meal right now,” he chuckled against her. She was so skinny she wouldn't even be a proper meal, maybe half of one.

“Please let me try again later to disable the nullification. Then we can both get out and get decent food” she sounded both desperate and angry.

“I know exactly what I’m eating if I get out” his eyes flashed again and he licked his lips.

Savina shuddered but did not sound disgusted when she said “i think i have an idea of what… or who… that might be”

“So, are you going to try again or what?” Yonah was getting impatient.

“Will you be ready to break down the bars when the magic reinforcement is gone?” she asked.

Yonah backed up against the wall, bracing himself so he could charge. If she succeeded.

Savina went to the front of the cell, grasped the bars and closed her eyes, muttering. Occasionally she let go and made hand gestures.

Nothing.

Maybe she needed encouragement. Yonah growled at her. Low and threatening. Savina stiffened and he felt the pressure lift, very slightly, very briefly.

“Get on with it!” he hissed.

“I’m trying!” she shot back, walking to the center of the cell, it didnt seem to matter where she was.

Then she screamed, her whole body hitting the ground as suddenly Yonah was on top of her, having pinned her under a hand. He snarled in her face “Maybe I should just eat you then! At least my last meal will be a tasty one!”

This succeeded in having the desired effect. Whatever the nullification was, it lifted. However he could feel it coming back.

“NO! I’m trying, give me one more chance, I know I can do it!”

He was not listening to her. He had confirmed his theory. Without hesitation he took her left arm in his jaws. She started crying and screaming, Pushing at his face to pull away. “Stop Stop! You’re hurting me!” Her voice was shrill.

/That’s the idea/ he thought.

With a sickening CRUNCH and a shriek, it was Yonah’s turn to be thrown, against the wall.

Not that he cared. Not one bit.

The magical nullification was gone.

From the entire prison. With no signs of coming back.

Keeping his promise not to eat her, and extending that promise to any part of her, Yonah crawled over to Savina and opened his jaws to release the nearly severed arm, along with at least a gallon of bloody drool. Savina just sobbed. Hmmm she could bleed out. That would also be counter to his promise, in spirit, if not in word. He rubbed a thumb and finger together until they were red hot and pressed the tip of the finger to her shoulder.

The scent of burning flesh filled the air as he cauterized her wound. But there were more important things to take care of now.

Fueled by adrenaline, hunger, and literal fire in his veins, yonah gripped his prison bars, making them red hot. In a few moments he wrenched them apart and he was out. He barely noticed the flash of light behind him as he stepped out of his cage.

The alarms hadn't even started ringing by the time he ran into the first unfortunate guard.

----

It was the alarm bells that brought Savina back to earth. She sat up, and blanched as a sticky arm rolled off her chest and into her lap. She was still covered in blood but the wound had sealed. For all her lost memory she did recall something very important. She should keep her arm. Holding it kept her from trying to touch her shoulder. She had never experienced anything so painful in her life-

No… wait. She had experienced something more painful… Now her head throbbed too! Nevermind any of this! She had to find the half giant mage, he was her ticket out. Even with the magic nullification gone, she wouldn’t get far drained of her own magic and severely injured.

It wasn’t hard to find him. All she had to do was follow the trail of carnage and busted cell doors.

The first guard she found had no head, and a chunk of a shoulder missing. Blood pooled on the ground from the massive bite. Hmmmm. He had a nice sword. Putting her arm down momentarily, She took the sword and a belt to sheath it. It was a bit tricky to get the belt off the person and onto herself but she managed. Before she took her arm off the ground and continued on, not caring to avoid stepping in the blood. .

More dead guards lined the halls as she progressed. Most of them were missing their heads, some of them burned to a crisp. But many were only missing their limbs, or had a bite taken out of the side. Some of those were still living. One in particular had been bitten from the hips down, their guts spilling out onto the floor. She decided not to use her sword to put them out of their misery. Her excuse being that it would be too much effort to put her arm down every time.

Finally she caught up to the large mage. He was in one of the storage rooms where the more dangerous items confiscated from mages were kept. He was ransacking it, shoveling items into something, but finished as she entered and stood up, putting a hat on his head. If he wasn’t so large and didn’t have such a distinct physique, she might not have recognized him.

Dressed in a stunning outfit of mostly blues and golds, with a massive wide brimmed pointed hat to match, his hair now shining and tied back in a segmented pony tail, standing up to his full height and holding a majestic wooden staff, the once brutish creature from the cell was looking more like a person. Except for the fire in his eyes and blood and viscera hanging from his jaws.

With misplaced confidence she walked right up to Yonah and holding the shoulder end of the severed arm she swung to smack him in the ankle. He had on boots now and she wasnt sure he felt that until he looked down at her.

“You FUCKING ASSHOLE!” She bellowed “You TORE my arm off! Why would you do that?!”

He looked at her angry and quizzically “The anti-magic field is gone. It worked.”

She did not back away from his gaze, since he was not currently trying to eat her she figured he wasn’t going to. Clearly he had not hesitated with the guards. She waved the arm around in frustration "you didnt have to BITE IT OFF"

Yonah crouched down to snarl “Clearly I did. You weren’t in enough… danger to disable the field. I’m rather clever you know.” Without asking he scooped her up to hold her up to his face with a cheeky, blood stained grin, “After you told the story of your assault, I started to put the pieces together. Mortal peril seems to do the trick nicely”

“I still dont think you needed TO BITE MY ARM OFF,” she repeated.

Once again she used the severed arm to slap him, now in the face.

He blinked in a kind of shock and then bared his teeth “I think you’ve lost your arm privileges”

His first instinct was to get the wrist between his teeth and gulp the arm down. But… he still felt like he should keep his promise. And now that his belly was half filled with chunks of prison guard he could think clearer.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU BASTARD!”

Savina shrieked as the giant man pinched her arm, the severed arm, plucking it from her weak grasp. His eyes flashed and it was lit up like a match.

Lost for words she watched as her arm burned into ash before her very eyes, the giant man grinning once again.

Now she was shaking with rage “I COULD HAVE RE-ATTACHED THAT”

His grin became a scowl “How in this reality was I supposed to know that?”

“Weren't you listening, you didnt even need to bite it off in the first place! My magic was starting to work!”

He talked as he placed her onto his shoulder, securing her to the harness he had found with his belongings.

“Didn’t I? We dont know that. Guess we will have to experiment later” he smiled wickedly, marching out of the room “But right now, I’m still hungry and there’s still more guards left alive.”

As he said this a guard rushed around the corner with a crossbow and fired. Yonah, having heard the footsteps just jerked his staff and the bolt exploded. He snatched up the guard, put the poor fucker’s head in his mouth and bit down, while pulling the body away. The sound was similar to when he’d bitten her arm, and blood spurted from the neck onto his face, and Savina’s entire person.

Yonah swallowed the head and tossed the body aside “I can’t eat them all at my size even if I only eat pieces. I can burn them, or crush them” he explained as yet another guard appeared which he simply squashed by slamming his staff down upon, “but I think we need some help. The human prisoners do not seem so eager to get back at their tormentors as I had thought.”

“They are running away from you. If you weren’t on a massacre they would probably be taking the advantage to riot and get revenge.”

“So we need more monsters.”

As he continued through the prison he broke every occupied cell, letting the prisoners run, and killing every guard with an intense savagery. But the most horrific thing, in Savina’s opinion, was when he picked up whole and alive guards and tossed them into his hat.

Eventually he broke into a cell and the prisoner inside did not immediately cower or run, but stood up, eyes reflecting in the darkness. A tall pale man with dark hair smiled with sharp fangs.

“That’s a vampire!” Savina informed him. The vampire bowed.

“A very blood starved vampire, and I could smell the flood coming from the other side of the prison, yet I was too weak to break myself free once I felt the magic nullification just, go away. Was that you?” he stared at Savina, not Yonah.

Savina gingerly touched the raw, burned flesh of her shoulder and looked very annoyed, “Yes. it was me.”

“I’m going to feast now, as I see you have been doing, mysteriously small giant”

“Don’t fill up on the ones I’ve killed, take out the ones still alive” Yonah instructed.

“Wise words,” said the vampire, “though I will take a little of this one, just to gain back my strength.”

Before leaving yonah sniffed at the vampire. Then reached up into his hat and pulled out a fancy, though sadly wrinkled and dirtied, suit. And tossed it at the vampire.

“Smells like you”

The vampire stood up from taking a drink of blood from the guard who Yonah had decided to merely kick against a wall.

“My clothes! You are a gentleman monster!” And with a snap of his fingers swapped out his prison outfit for his old one. “I feel more like myself already!”

Done with the small talk, Yonah moved on. It was time to get out of this place, with hopefully minimal distractions. He would still make a snack, a charred corpse, or a bloody pulp out of any guard he came across.

But it was only a few cells later that again, the prisoner did not immediately scream or flee. Yonah could sense a very eerie magical aura from her, she was pale like the vampire but he suspected she was not one. She smiled at him like the vampire but her teeth were flat.

“My dear emancipator, did you come across a spider necklace during your rampage? I would very much like to have it back.”

That was odd enough that Yonah decided not to ignore it and instead reach into his hat. He did not recall a spider necklace so he could only think the words. An object indeed fell into his hand. Which he tossed to the woman who squealed like a giddy teenager as she caught it.

Putting it on she rubbed the shining black thorax of the obsidian spider inlaid on the silver medallion.

That eerie aura from before increased 100 fold, followed by the chittering, skittering, buzzing of millions of tiny legs and wings. Unlike Yonah’s cell, this woman’s had a window. And through it marched or flew an unimaginable number of insects and arachnids.

Yonah took a step back. But the plaque of bugs was swarming into the prison from every window, every crevice, every crack in the wall, every broken pipe.

“My children will clean out this place” she giggled, though it was closer to a witch’s cackle.

Yonah backed away from her. Deciding that it was now time to leave this wretched place, confident the bugs could take care of the rest. It was by her merciful magic that the bugs avoided him entirely, and seemed to be able to scramble away from his footsteps even as he started down the corridor.

Ah, another guard, coming out of a nearby door, a good distraction from the creepy crawlies. He rushed and shoved the guard up to their torso into his mouth and got ready to bite down. As the ribs started to crack between his teeth the taste of this guard matched up to a familiar smell.

Releasing his jaws he held a gasping, screaming Tiddles.

“If you dont want that one, my babies will happily take him!” The bug witch called from behind him.

Ignoring the creepy aura yonah wheeled around snarling “He’s MINE” and he secured the flailing young man to his shoulder.

“Suit yourself” said the witch, “but he seems to not like you very much, and I am not overly fond of him myself”

Tiddles was indeed trying to free himself, earning him a swift flick to the head. “Probably hurts with those broken ribs to struggle like that, little one. I will keep you safe.”

Without another word Yonah turned back. Enough of this. He pointed his staff at the wall and blasted a hole through, stepping outside. Still in the walled compound he did not take a fresh breath of freedom just yet. He ran for the walls.

Arrows and crossbow bolts rained down at him. Fine. It was time for some big magic. Yonah stopped and took his staff, raising it into the air he found in it the perfect spell. He swirled it around and chanted. The morning sky, which was clear, crackled, and a swirling storm cloud gathered overhead.

The guards on the ramparts screamed as bolts of lightning struck them, leaving Yonah free to take down a section of wall and flee into the forested mountains.

It was after he had been half running half jogging for 15 minutes that he stopped and sat down against a cool boulder shaded by the trees. Or rather he nearly collapsed. One big gorey feast after weeks of starvation would not immediately restore him. That would take time. He had been running on the reserves of his magic, adrenaline, and a bloodlust.

The moment he closed his eyes to rest however, he felt Tiddles renew his struggling.

“Why do you keep this up” Yonah mumbled, not looking at Tiddles, but feeling him freeze.

“I dont want to die!” the young man squeaked. “I saw you eat the other guards!”

“Well then aren’t you in luck that I filled up on them? I had enough to be satisfied for a while.”

That did not calm Tiddles down any more, the struggling was back “You kept me as leftovers!” he shrieked.

“Naw” Yonah said and reached into his hat to draw out an intact, but dead, guard, “I already did that.”

He felt Tiddles faint at that declaration. This did not bring Yonah any joy, as Tiddles’ terror had done before. Being so full Yonah just returned the corpse to the pocket space that was his wizard hat.

“So, where to now?” Savina said after five minutes “We need to get going, surely someone will try to follow! There is more than one shift of guards and they will be looking for all the escaped prisoners, especially you, who was responsible!”

“I think the bug witch will make sure no one does” yonah said, though it was more likely that at least one idiot would manage to slip away. “But I am tired, We need to find a cave or something to hide out in to recoup my… I mean our strength”

“I can help with that”

As if on cue the bug witch stepped out from behind a tree. Yonah eyed her suspiciously. Savina was too hurt and too exhausted to do the same.

“Oh really? And why would you?”

She just laughed “You saved me? And you returned my amulet to me! I owe you big time. By the way, you look just awful. Would you like my children to clean you up?”

“What do you mean?”

Before she answered there was more buzzing in the air as wasps swarmed around her “these little gals are very efficient! I promise they will not sting”

“They cannot hurt my humans either!” he said, nervous about what was about to happen.

“Of course”

He still held his breath as the wasped charged at him and his companions. Savina screamed as well before she smartly held her breath too. Tiddles was the luckiest, unconscious for the whole thing.

It was over in just a minute, thank the gods, as Yonah would have to take a breath. Still, he sneezed and a few bugs flew out. Savina was breathing heavily.

“So, bug witch,”

“Cait!”

“Cait… What’s a nearby place for a big monster to get some rest?”

The woman considered “Hmm… The woods that way are decent. Bears will be scared off by you. Humans should leave you alone. There’s a cave in those woods if you want extra shelter. I want to get back to my home but I can have one of my babies guide you there”

“That would be much appreciated” Yonah focused and gathered up more strength to stand up. And then froze in place as the largest drider he had ever seen came into sight.

“Babe!” he called, ignoring yonah and scooping up the witch into a hug that transitioned into messy kisses.

“I got out of the prison!” she declared, “this nice big fellow helped me! Got my amulet!”

The Drider was a full head taller than Yonah and eyed him over with all 8 eyes before nodding. From between all of his feet a smaller, but large dog sized tarantula, scampered up to Yonah.

“Charlie here will lead you to shelter!” said Cait, “Now I haven't been home in a long time”

And with that, the witch and the drider left.

Charlie made a hissing sound while scraping her feet on a rock to get Yonah’s attention. She led Yonah to a large rocky incline and eventually to the mouth of a cave.It was large enough that if he crawled, he could get in. Which he did without hesitating.

The cave was larger in the inside and he probably could have stood up but he stayed sitting.

The spider stayed at the entrance of the cave, made a little dance, and then disappeared.

“Seems safe enough…” Yonah said. He unharnessed Savina so she could sit in his lap. “Guess what, I was lucid enough during my rampage that I picked up food that wasn’t dead guards!” and from his hat he got out some bread and cheese, and even a barrel of water.

“Um… no thanks” she said.

“You must eat, Savina”

“Im too nauseated from the pain.”

She did look a little green now that she said it.

“I have a healing potion… it should numb the pain a bit.” This he took from a sleeve. A small vial. Just a single ounce. It was like a grain of rice in his palm “It will even help with your shoulder, to at least regrow the flesh around it and stop infection”

She took it, and still looking like putting anything in her mouth would make her vomit, she downed it like a shot.

30 seconds later she felt much better. Or at least, felt less pain… She still felt like complete shit. But took the food with her good arm and started eating.

“I dont know why you brought him along…” she said, referring to Tiddles through a mouthful of bread.

“I doubt someone as kind as him works at an evil prison if he has a happy home to return to. Plus if i had let him go.. The other prisoners might not have been so kind to him. He was still a guard.” Yonah yawned, “Fuck. Im tired. Didnt we just wake up like, an hour ago?” he asked.

“Sure but you just broke a prison” Savina pointed out.

“I did… didn’t I…” Yonah tried to lay down but found that didn’t work with Tiddles on his shoulder. So he resigned himself to sleeping upright for now.

Still half starved, Savina did not manage to eat much. So yonah put the food back. He found a outcrop of rock that he could lean against and put an arm protectively in front of Savina. She put her own remaining arm over his. And they both fell asleep at the same time.

Even through the exhaustion of his over half a month in prison, and the torpor his kind got from a full belly, Yonah HaEsh heard the quiet footsteps of someone entering the cave.

Yet his brain was still slow to react. He opened his eyes and stared down.

Kneeling in his lap, holding Savina’s arm to his fanged mouth, moments away from biting down, was the vampire.

----

[FIN]

UHHHH thanks for reading. If you liked this please let me know. If this fits your blog theme please reblog it!

I hope you enjoyed this. and I hope to have more of it for you in the future. lots more adventure to come!

[cestcirque]

Hi, is it okay to ask for a few writing tips?

So I've decided to come back to writing after almost 8 years of not doing it, and of course I thought it was a good idea to get back to it in a format I've never done before, a SMAU 🙄😓

I'm having a hard time trying to get the point of each chapter across through texts. Sometimes it feels like a character messages the other and it feels so unnatural like, I try to explain the context of something (like a characters bg story) and it feels like overexposition.

My main difficulty with this is making sure that the readers get to know and feel what happened outside of the "phone" without necessarily having to write out a scene, because there's a lot of subtly and body language in written scenes that help with the build-up of emotional plot points. Without that, I feel like the climax of my story is a little...lackluster?

Since you two beautiful stories that definitely made me FEEL things without having written parts, I thought of asking you if you ever had this problem and how did you overcame it.

Omg 🥺 yes, always down to give writing tips!!! I’m so touched it’s me you want to ask 💕 I truly think there’s so much you can do in SMAU and I wish more people explored it in depth

I’ll direct this towards SMAU but some of it is just philosophy for prose writers as well! ⤵️

I had trouble at first too, but it’s really just a shift in thinking. Instead of action, the focus is character—SMAU is literally all about how people interact with each other, and in my opinion that gives more opportunity to hone in on some very specific emotions

When it comes down to it, it’s like you’re writing a script. And in order to write a script, throw out that prose mindset. Just throw it out 😝 Body language doesn’t exist here!

Think about the scene you’re trying to write. Obviously first make sure it’s a *necessary* scene to advance plot / develop character. Then consider the following, in this order:

1. Don’t be afraid to let important things happen “offscreen”

First step is to let go of the details, esp when your characters are doing things in person. With SMAU, you don’t need to tell your readers everything! In fact, it’ll be impossible to tell your readers everything. The trick here is simply showing that your characters experienced it nonetheless. But rather than giving a play-by-play after the fact (one of my pet peeves 🙄), consider how the action would have changed the way they speak to each other

Something like… “God, why didn’t one of us bring an umbrella?” “Ugh next time I’ll check the menu before making a reservation.” “Weird that the park closes early on Sundays.” “Was nOT expecting it to be that much to rent a car.”

OR to focus on character… “You know you didn’t have to sneak out this morning.” “No fun, at least come inside next time.” “Not even a goodbye?” “What, missing me already?”

2. Find a good reason for each interaction to be happening in the first place

So you’ve figured out which scenes can happen offscreen… but wait, what if your characters are physically in the same space or there’s an in-person action that’s absolutely crucial to your story? Well, what would cause someone to text about it? Find the reason. My biggest pet peeve in SMAUs is when characters start texting each other while they’re in the same room… they’re only doing that bc the writer didn’t find a good enough reason

I’ll use Step 7 of Aperture as an example. The scene at the bookstore is where I struggled the most in the “no prose” challenge. Yet the solution was so simple once I shifted my thinking: “Akaashi help, I’ve lost you.” “Sorry sorry, I’m on the second floor. Literary fiction.” Two lines of setup. And now they can have their conversation

3. Say as much as possible with as few words as possible

Once you know all your interactions are on solid ground, try to write dialogue that tells you more than just the words. Say things without saying things. This is what I try to do in general, even in prose. Always try to do this. I think over-explaining is the mark of an amateur. Remember you’re not the only one on the court thinking—readers can connect the dots too

Example. My absolute favorite line of The Cardinal Set was in Page 21 when the interviewer asks Atsumu if he lost track of the prompter. He says, “Not at all, forgive me. I don’t believe I could’ve made it through that speech if I wasn’t looking at her.” Not only does that tell you what’s physically happening in the studio, but also exactly how he’s feeling

An easier exercise might be to ask yourself how a character says “I love you” without really saying it. We all say it without saying it sometimes—“get home safe” or “have you eaten yet?” or “I saw this and thought of you.” Shirabu said, “Let’s start over, okay?” Semi said, “I’m literally already getting ready to go out.” Atsumu said, “I will never disclose her name.” Akaashi said, “I’ll be back in a bit with stuff to make you breakfast”

4. Remember a SMAU is not just limited to “social media”

If you’ve gone through the first few steps and there’s still something that you can’t articulate quite right, maybe you can tell the story with a different frame. I mean I spoofed a whole online article, for God’s sake 😅 and that was probably my favorite thing to write

Think about how much you do on your phone! It’s a lot! All the world’s a stage! Back to Step 7 again, I literally added in that Google search screenshot hours before posting it, simply bc I realized I could??? Like it’s amazing how much the visuals on your phone can help tell the story

5. Do things that can only be done in SMAU

Last miscellaneous piece of advice. Seems basic but I think people still forget it bc the format is already so different. Why did you choose SMAU in the first place, and not any other method of storytelling?

Point being SMAU is a completely unique way to write. What really sells it is proving that you couldn’t have told this story any other way. I mean what’s the point if you could just as easily tell the same story in prose? I talk a lot about visuals having equal weight in the plot, but you can do it solely with writing too—in no other medium can you so easily sext the wrong person 🤣 and you can’t even try explaining these alternating conversations in prose

So experiment! Go wild! You can do so much more in SMAU than you think!

[ussgallifrey]

Jealous

✦ Summary: The little green monster has a way of ruining a perfectly good night, and he is not talking about the Hulk. ✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader ✦ Warnings: Little bit of angst, jealousy ✦ Word Count: 2.4k ✦ Author's Note: This was written ages ago for a request that's now vanished from my ask box from an anon asking for a jealous Bucky.

It's there in the curl of your lashes and the hand that you bat against the Asgardian's arm - that's when the clenching sensation presses down on his throat. When he feels his fingers wrap a little tighter around the shot glass on the bar. The night long since gave way to the pleasant thrum of inebriation, but all Bucky can sense is the bitter taste in his mouth when he watches you laugh so freely across the room.

Another gloating tale of ancient glories, a genuine laugh, a flirtatious quip - Bucky's painfully present for it all.

He had been cowardly perched on this one bar stool for almost the entire evening, trying to find some liquid courage - though he couldn't get drunk, not even close, it was just a bit of a placebo to get the gears going. Meanwhile, you flitted between the others with a carefree ease and an intoxicating smile. Wrapped up in soft pinks and a striking flower in your hair.

Bucky glowers at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

He had watched the way you seemed to flow through the crowd, taking the time to join each circle of people. Laughing unabashedly with Clint and Tony, resting your head on Natalia's shoulder, letting Sam throw a too familiar arm over your shoulders and tug you closer. That one probably stung most of all.

Your laugh seems to rise above the music and the crowd - an arrow sent right towards him, alluringly sweet in its intensity. But it's not for his ears, not happening because of something he said. No, you're wrapped up in the blonde demigod's looming stature and chiseled everything.

Maybe he lingers too long on the shape of your body leaning against the other man's. The styling of your hair, the way your eyes never leave Thor's. And the way the Asgardian's eyes seem to dip below your eye level to wander freely along the lines of your body.

He struggles to swallow the darkness that threatens to rise - the itch in his throat that ices over his heart and makes his blood run cold. It's metallic and chilled and difficult to ignore and he hates himself all the more for letting it take over.

Thor's returning laugh is deep and rich, coated with the finer golds and riches of a royal lineage. Bucky has to steady himself with a hand on the bartop when the blonde ducks down to place a kiss to your cheek, a fitting smile on his face as he excuses himself from your presence.

It's hard to ignore the giddy rush of nerves that seems to creep up as your smile turns bashful, averting your gaze as you press a trepid finger against your cheek. And then you're turning and he's looking down at his drink - trying to ignore the sting and pangs of the little green monster.

"Mr. Barnes," you cheerily greet as you plop down on the neighboring barstool, a manicured hand placed just a breath away from his own much larger hand. 

Pulling his gaze from the gemstones on the end of your nails, Bucky nods in acknowledgment. Not trusting his mouth for anything as his stomach still sloshes and slurs with the sourness of unwarranted jealousy.

That sweet perfume seems to mingle in the air between you, something floral and soft - warm and pink to match your dress and nails. Princess-like, something entirely untouchable and angelic.

"You've been… notably absent tonight," you pester, sipping from your nearly emptied neon-blue cocktail.

"Have I?" he lets his finger drag along the rim of the glass, catching a drop of condensation. 

You hum with a nod, "Been missing you something fierce."

That gains his attention as he finally lifts his head up, trying to read your doe-eyed expression. 

He turns a little more towards you, a knee daring to touch your own but not quite able to close the gap. 

"That so?"

Another hum, followed by another sip. Gaze drawn low to watch the way your fingers wrap around the black straw, lazily gliding up and down as you give a coy smile his way.

There's a distant part of himself - the shadow of a man who used to look like him, but a little more clean-cut - that would know the right things to say. The sweet prose and flirt to get you turning his way, wrapping you around his finger, and never letting go. He'd sure like to get in contact with that version of Bucky Barnes right about now because he's feeling next to hopeless in your presence.

"This isn't really your vibe, is it?"

Vibe? Right, more slang and lingo that sometimes has him stumbling over his own feet and looking like a right fool in front of everyone else.

You seem to catch on to his internal dilemma because you're quick to clarify, "You're not big on parties."

No argument there. He rubs the back of his neck as he fails to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, uh, no. Definitely no."

There's a little cooing sound in return, a batting of long eyelashes as you swirl your tongue around the straw, taking a long final sip of your drink. He could get lost in the action alone, watching your lips pursed together to suck on the straw, cheeks hollowing out - it's hypnotizing and entirely dirty, but he just can't look away.

But then Thor's bellowing laugh carries far across the party to lodge itself directly into Bucky's ears. He can't help but grimace, staring down at the bar in favor of actually groaning his disdain.

But you catch on - of course you do. You follow the pitiful trail of jealousy right up to his seething face like a bloodhound. He must reek of it too because your sweet expression seems to fall in an instant.

"Do you," your fingers stroke along the tip of the straw. "Do you not like Thor?"

He balks at how easily you hit the nail on his head. "Wha - no. I - he's, I mean, I don't really even know the guy, you know?"

There's this look that settles on your face that says you're not buying a line of his bullshit.

"He's sweet."

Bucky taps his glass with an impatient finger. If he has to sit here and listen to you compliment Thor, he might just vomit. Oh, he'll sit and listen alright, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

"I'm happy for him and Jane," you continue. "Says he plans to stay on Earth for a while, think he couldn't stay away from her any longer."

You're talking, but the words aren't registering the way they should be. It's just an infinite loop of you laughing and Thor kissing your cheek.

"They're a good fit for each other."

Of false images of Thor wrapping his arm around you, dipping you backwards, and kissing you senseless.

"You'd never think they would make a good couple, right? But they totally work in their own way."

How easily you'd be swept off your feet, probably picked up and made to wrap your legs around him. He was probably shirtless at this point because why wouldn't he be? 

"Hey, are you - are you okay? Bucky? Did I say something or...?"

God, why was he so hung up on this? Why couldn't he just work out the nerve to just go up to you and ask you out? It wasn't that hard, right? Just a few words, his heart waiting on the side to be broken, his returning ego to be bruised. 

It's not like he could compete with someone like Thor. The man was literally a God; a legendary being of Norse mythology and epics. Compared to… him. Him with the flashing neon sign above his head that read Fucked.

"Bucky?"

It was probably a fool's hope that you would've been interested in him. He was so many things this side of wrong. Not golden and wonderful like the man you had been laughing with for the past thirty minutes.

There's a hand on his.

Oh.

Slowly, he looks over at you. 

You smile gently. Thumb carefully rubbing over his knuckle in a soothing motion, "You drifted away on me. I - I wasn't sure if…"

The words fade away with a cautious touch. He wants to turn his hand, lace his fingers with yours. It feels right in his mind, he wants it to be right.

A soft silence drapes itself over you both. Your hand remaining on his, fingers lazily rubbing circles over the top of his tense knuckles.

"You know," you say after a moment. "I think I'm ready to get out of here."

You watch his expression with a curious gaze before continuing, "Even I can get partied out, Barnes."

He doesn't want you to leave, enjoying this haven you've created in the corner of the bar with him. It's the lingering hope that burns in his chest that maybe he stands a chance with you. Maybe he can win you over if he ever gets the nerve.

But you don't move to leave, fingers coming to a sudden rest - a breath away from his skin.

"Are you out of here too?"

Is that a twinge of hopefulness in your voice? It's nearly hard to believe, but he latches on to it like a lifeline. Finding himself nodding fast and dumb as he says, "Yeah, yeah. I'm good here."

Your hand runs its way up and over his arm and shoulder, lingering above the collar of his leather jacket. Waiting, he realizes. Waiting for him to join you.

There's a surprising amount of nerves going haywire in his body because his legs seem unusually shaky as he stands from the bar. But you're there, batting those glittery eyes as you wait. Your body manages to press up against his side as you wade through the remaining partiers. Floral perfume wafts up from your exposed neck and he nearly buckles over.

"My lady!" Thor bellows in shock, a stupid grin upon his stupid face as he manages to untangle himself from the group.

He pauses in front of you both, baring Bucky not even the slightest glance.

"Surely you're not leaving so soon."

When did he grab your hands in his large godly ones? Why does Bucky's stomach feel like it's going to make him spew all over the floor now?

Your laugh is easy as you gently pull your hands back, "Even mere mortals like me know when to call it quits, Thor."

And it's only then that the god seems to take in the dark figure you're leaning on, mismatched eyes looking Bucky over with a sudden glint of realization. He backs away almost immediately, "Oh, of course! Another time, then."

It's only when you're walking again that the blonde throws him a playful wink, which makes Bucky feel all sorts of confused.

And the thing is, he's not even entirely sure where you're going and if you expect him to follow you there. He'd like to think that, but he can't be sure. 

The warmth of the party gives way to the misting rain of the darkened city streets. Illuminated only by the neon signs and streetlights. Seeing the contrast to you, wrapped in soft pinks and gentle flowers, only makes Bucky feel all the more aware of his surroundings. But you seem to pay no mind to it whatsoever as you make your way down the sidewalk.

You're tucked against his right side, arm rubbing against the leather of his sleeve, your pink dress fluttering in the gentle breeze of the night. And when a car rushes by on the slick road, it'd be impossible to not notice the way you shiver. When you stop at the crosswalk, Bucky doesn't even think - pulling his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders.

There's a little gasping sound as you pull it tight around you and your eyes are absolutely shimmering in the street light when you look up at him. Bucky can actually feel the moment his heart swells.

"Thank you," it's said so softly, so sweetly. And you finish it by gently squeezing his hand.

He takes a chance, throwing his arm over your shoulder and tugging you close. The contented sigh that falls from your lips makes him know he made the right move.

You pass the walk in pleasant silence, occasionally bumping his hip with your own, a soft laugh when he looks down at you curiously. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where you're headed as the glowing tower comes into view.

You pause at the front entrance - the harsh lights from the lobby illuminate the space behind you, making you glow in the rainy night air. Bucky reluctantly pulls his hand away. Feeling lucky enough to have gotten to walk you home, but not enough to expect anything beyond this point.

But your drawn brows pull his attention as you grab his hand back, "And where do you think you're going?"

He huffs a laugh. Steeling his nerves as he sheepishly looks up at you, "Guess that depends."

You give a thoughtful nod before tugging him flush against you. He gasps, despite his best intentions.

Brushing his hand against your cheek, you give a pleasant little mewl. His heart thumps harshly in his chest as his eyes darken. 

"You know," you murmur against his hand - your hands now resting on his hips - as you pause, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

Bucky groans softly, feeling the weight of the evening sinking lower in his chest.

"Especially," you continue. "When you could just have what you want."

Your mouth finds the underside of his chin, kissing lightly on his Adam's apple. Manicured nails find their way into his hair, scratching carefully against his scalp and neck. And then you pull back, dark eyes staring up at him with a smirk.

"That is, if you want it, Sergeant."

Soft hands smooth over his arms, down his sides, to his hips once more.

"Do you want it, Bucky?"

His mouth feels dry as he takes in your beautiful features. The way your dress curves your figure, the way his jacket seems to be perfectly made to fit your shoulders. The obvious thrum of passion coursing through him. And just one look into your eyes gives him all the reassurance he needs - there's no competition here, you only have eyes for him.

So, he settles his hands on your hips, fingers splayed out along your lower back.

"Yes," he says hoarsely. "I definitely want."

And then you're angling your head up to meet his lips as you walk the two of you backwards into the tower and out of the misting rain, into something decidedly warmer and better.

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[neuvillette]

Paperwork - FrUK Fic (18+ish)

During the industrial boom in England, someone in particular has been working himself to the bone.

Fuck... There it was again, that near-painful pang in his ribs from thinking about that bastard. That arrogant prick had whispered to him so closely that day so long ago that the memory of the hot breath from his lips still seemed to be lingering on his ears-- or was that just his own fiery blush? Either way, it wasn't going anywhere. Whenever he was alone his thoughts would instantly crack back to that insufferable shit. How his lips were so plush and too naturally red to be decent... How those blue eyes drifted lazily along wherever they pleased, often up and down his body. How he hoped that they one day would look back at him so pleadingly, begging for something almost too shameful to fulfill. He knew approximately how the man looked under his clothes, since he was prone to low cut shirts, high hems, translucent fabric. He had a tight waist and broad shoulders, he had hips that almost could be considered too wide, ones that would probably be good to hold onto tightly and grip red marks into. His chest, like much of his body, was soft, not flabby exactly, but plush enough to squeeze and nibble at. Fuck, FUCK, that pang came again, searing through his chest as he battled to think of something else. He had work to get done, and a lot of it. These kinds of thoughts were not only immoral but incredibly inconvenient, and the toll they took on his body meant he had to go through an arduous process to relieve himself, if only for a little while. His teeth all pressed down together as his jaw clenched, he could feel the pressure all throughout his face as he tried to just get on with it. There wasn't that much paperwork left, right? Just a bit more. A small distraction would do him some good. He only realised he was tapping his mostly-dry dip pen against his desk when he noticed how the rhythm was starting to seep elsewhere into his mind; tap tap tap, thrusts against a document, against something soft, warm, moans echoing in arches over the staccato beat, and--- He dropped the pen unceremoniously onto his desk, caked-on ink splattering down as he pressed his forehead into his hand. He had been slipping too hard recently. His bosses hadn’t been pleased with his work as of late; though he had been toiling during similar hours and put in the same effort he always had, they said he needed to rise up to meet changing standards. He used to do work with his hands, but that wasn’t needed anymore. He used to be their guard dog, or at least their work horse. For everything it was, at least the action of his youth was invigorating. At least he wasn’t monitored, and had time to do things for himself, instead of being their tool all hours of the day. He had time to work with his hands, his hands. To create things that were valuable, that were helpful to the, to his, people around him. Now he was… well. He was expendable. But not so expendable that they would waste his capacity to do paperwork. Industry was booming, one couldn’t just expect to stand by with what had been accepted in the past. Labour was becoming more standardised, more efficient, more impersonal… Not that he had ever been the most personable chap. While he enjoyed working with his hands, making things one by one, the gritty way, the difficult way, he made efforts to internalise what they had said to him. They needed his mind, his edge, to work on this stuff. That’s what he was for, after all; not forging swords, not stringing bows, not tilling soil or growing things; but intellectual, gentlemanly, removed work. Detached, necessary, proper. It suited him, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t one easily inclined to the personable, nor to saccharine slop… Not when communicating with others, anyhow. Buried and smeared while being hidden amongst mounds of paperwork were brief scribbles of poetry, of sketches of mistily reimagined silhouettes, flowing romantic prose incapable of coming out through his own halting speech, of faintly grasped memories of torrid expressions he needed to recall through flowing strokes of a figure, but those all were secrets even he wasn’t meant to have access to. Shameful, that’s what it was. Inefficient, ineffective, and shameful. An outlet for his needs to make something, perhaps, but… Certainly they sated other desires as well.

The distance between them should have helped; should have given him time to correct and corral his feelings, mold them back into form briskly, scaldingly, sharply--as one does when shaping copper. Instead he had gone too soft, too half-hearted, and his self-inflicted blows to his psyche had been too gentle. The metal of his desire had set and crisped up before he could steer himself back on track, and now he had to re-anneal, to subject himself back to fiery disavowal and guilt before the exacting measures of self-restraint would be effective. Yes, he quite liked that idea. He couldn’t have his metallurgy back but he could certainly think of his rehabilitation as such. He had forged many a sword, an arrow tip, an axe, before. His personality would be the same. Scalded and quenched and hammered into shape. And with his skill he could tap incessantly, exactingly, forcefully thrusting against the teasingly giving metal and-- blast it, again! It was achingly difficult to ignore. The distance only seemed to make his delinquent misgivings have more courage to rise up again out of turn. When he was face to face with those capricious blue eyes long enough to remember the wretched personality that tagged along with them it was easier to keep his goal in mind, but the longer he went without a glimpse of the sour man himself, the more alluring the rest of it seemed. Had they even written letters? Well, he hadn’t sent any. He had received a fair handful until they had run dry. He had almost convinced himself that he was glad of it. A few lines in the others flowery script were too laden with implications to be safe; he had already resigned himself to the idea of his correspondence being read at his supervisor’s discretion, so it was best if the letters wasted away entirely rather than risk the uncovery by his betters of whatever hintingly depraved thing would find itself penned inside a perfumed envelope. Near the end of their dispatchment, the notes had gotten quite irritated it seemed, demanding reply. His excuse for his silence was that he simply didn’t have time to dally on such things, but in truth he wanted to show himself that he could deny the temptation. It was easy to tell himself that he had enough to worry about with dozens of signatures to scrawl, appeals and drafts to write, documents and proposals to uncritically approve. With considerable effort, he plucked the intricately carved ivory dip pen off of the desk before blotting it back into his blue-glass inkwell. Just a few more of these documents and he’d be able to wallow in his own home instead of his suffocating office. The half-hearted, half-present signatures left a streaky trail of black as his newly inkstained hand trailed across the page, though the final few letters were jaggedly interrupted with a rapping at the office door.

“Yes, sir, I’ve already said I would finish them by today,” his calling tone was harsh but clearly deferent; he was a lively one, but part of being a man was knowing his duty and thusly his place. Even so, he didn’t bother glancing up from his efforts to correct the broken signing at the tail end of the page as the door slowly opened, creaking unceremoniously.

“If it’s really necessary I can work past my contractual hour, though I must note that your well-intentioned checkings-in aren’t conducive to getting any actual work done.” This comment was much more pointed, though not so much so as to be crossing a line. Still, the silent presence above his desk, looming, made him rethink his words for a slight moment before he got the better of himself. No need to look up as if they can dole out some sort of punishment! To you, of all people! No, you’re working together under the same sense of duty… Right? Keep your head down and show them your dedication and vigour. If they’ve got a problem they can bloody well deal with it, that’s not something that’s important enough to interrupt this work.

« Ah. Scribbling pen names has stopped you from writing back ? You are a much more petulant boy than before, their puppy-dog training is not working on you. » The two sentences were connected not in theme but in the rolling, keen tone they were carried by. The former was a lazy observation and the latter was crafted solely to rile him up. The door quietly shut behind, and there was a graceful and soundless moment afterwards. In a second of skillful self-control, he did not drop the pen but instead cooly placed its nib back into its proper receptacle, as much as he was inclined to throw it at his guest. For a flitting pause, a scorching rage surged through him. What about no reply hadn’t gotten through that dense skull, and what made him think, after it all, that he could flicker back in, no doubt impermanently, just to ruin all his progress, and--

God he needed to see him.

He would not ever, never, let him know that.

“As spineless and will-less as ever, then, Bonnefoy. Resolute enough to travel across the channel to be a nuisance but not enough to do any work or get any admirable aims in life.” Fuck, that hadn’t enough venom, it was transparent and flimsy. Traceable. He made sure his glower was deep enough to offset what he was certain was too-soft a rebuttal. It hadn’t done enough, though.

« So you have missed me ! Yes, you know, I do enjoy to come here and to anger you. » A quick beat passed.

« You know I had to come and-- mmm… scorn you for ungentlemanly not replying to my letters. » Well, it seemed he was being equally as transparent. He almost shivered. It was one thing to have his feelings discovered, but if they both were in agreement over what was happening, it was much more difficult to steer away from what was coming.

“Scold. You mean scold.” He added curtly, taking his pen back up as he glanced back down at his paperwork. He had been staring at his face up until then, he just realised. Blue eyes as infuriating as ever, that new obnoxious french hairstyle, the unneeded tightness in the waist and legs of the waistcoat and trousers, the volatile expression of something genuine.

“Your english still hasn’t improved.” He continued with a comment he knew would be ignored, but he needed to get it out there. Keep up the guise of nagging conversation.

« Your office is so away from the rest in here. Isolated like always. And no windows, a prison ! Poor little sad Englishman, and of course no time to write letters, not one bit. » They were talking by, not to, each other, though they were saying the same things. He had decided to sit upon the edge of the bureau, clearly an excuse to stir up some fabricated bile for their equally as convincing argument.

“I’m working upon this desk, thank you! And I’ve been working for months now. You were not invited and are not wanted; you’ve found your way in and can find your way out. Good day, Bonnefoy.” His pulse was hammering now, if only he could direct it at that copper-- beat his will into place, keep it straight and unmarred, stay determined. The Frenchman was simply smiling away with that look of acute, cutting, though well-intended observation. He was not going to leave on his own. With a return of the pen to its place, he stood, making an attempt to usher his unwelcome guest out. Francis rose as well, and as he did so the Englishman made no further attempt to get to his office door. Instead they stood together, steadfast.

« Say hello to me. It’s been so long, and I want to hear it and you want to say it. Just hello. » It was a tender plea as much as it was a command. The fool really thought he was entitled to it, but only in the way two who have known each other a long time are entitled to hear the news of someone’s workday or what dreams filled their last night’s sleep. They weren’t touching, but they could. His own face was beet red as he decided whether or not he should deny the request, angry and upset at more than the situation and himself. It was boiling over, the tapping beats in his chest and throat weren’t subsiding. He had to do something. He wished he had a bloody window so he could toss the intruder out of it, grasp him by his ruffled collar and throw him out the door, or against a wall, or over his desk, or--

“You-- I can’t believe you--” He was cut off by a look, and maybe Francis had moved forward slightly with his deep gaze, bridged the gap a little to make it easier, but maybe he hadn’t, and maybe he had grabbed at the nicely pressed wool jacket of his own accord, pulled at the stupidly styled french coif to reach for a kiss, to stumble into the wall behind them all on his own. He certainly was the one pressing them together, at least preliminarily. Bonnefoy, having planned something along these lines, was quick to fill in the needed friction after a blink.

« That’s-- hmm… one way to say hello. » The teasing tone was almost enough to make him stop entirely and snap him out of it, possibly stear himself back onto a more proper path, but Francis was smiling again and it was just too earnest as he craned his neck back in anticipation to be kissed there. They both knew this was the only hello he’d be able to manage. Any further acknowledgement of a budding warmth between them beyond the physical was more than he could honestly bear. For now, the more openly flagrant refusal of the two to meet gentlemanly expectations would have to be their letters that were few and far between, punctuated by occasional tysts like this, though the sentiment always lingered, and he was afraid it was growing. He had a period in his youth, with no supervision on open seas, when he didn’t hold himself to such a high standard in these matters. It had taken a fair amount of diligence to push himself back on track, but now--... Well, he could feel himself slipping again, but this time he knew better. Somehow the refutation of his desires of it all made it all the more difficult to deny. But Francis wasn’t giving him much pause to think more deeply about these things, and the wretched glint in his eye made it seem like he knew just what was on his mind. Why did he always know!? It hurt, to be so well understood in a shame the other refused to acknowledge. When had Francis ever been shameful of anything? He pretended to be, but only to be irritating. Every so often when they’d do this, he’d resort to saying such horrible things about how he relished his sanctity being soiled when they both knew perfectly well that no such thing was ever there in the first place. Francis made no signs to do so tonight, not as impatient hands were fiddling with buttons and edging him over to sit back on top of the desk. That pansy French fashion was great for enticing the eye but by god, the buttons! Warm, manicured hands met his and Bonneyfoy grinned.

« You do not need to open my shirt. » What a stupid assumption.

“Just because I don’t-- stop that! I can do it on my own, you’re not making it any easier. I could just rip the damn thing if you prefer-- I don’t have to but. Well, I get to,” His huff was met with an expression that looked sickeningly soft. Was this not injustice enough? To acquiesce to desire, but now his carnal lusts were being interpreted as tenderness! Maybe it was a bit of that, but blast it, Francis could at least pretend he didn’t know. It wasn’t like this was something special for him, anyway. That fop was getting it on with anything that moved and looked his way, and now Francis was lording it over him that he liked him! He was probably smug, pleased that he had ordained to come down and give him the pleasure of a single, solitary fuck while he was off cavorting with--

« Please, let me. You’re tense, I can help. » There he went with that tenderness again, too visceral to be faked. The beat in time of the two sharing a glance was raw and it shut him up quite well. Francis kept chatting as he placed the Englishman’s hands under his shirt as he nimbly undid his own buttons. The other was content to grab about underneath as he waited.

« You need to learn to say no to them. Get more time away. They make you feel worse inside, and that is not very handsome at all. » And there he went with the sap. It was easy to slide his hands around to the small of Francis’s back and hold him steady as he kissed him to shut the man up. Surprisingly, Francis pushed him away to finish opening his buttons. The Englishman did not appreciate that.

« Despair is becoming on you, but even you need to be patient. I’m not going anywhere. » They both knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t complaining when Francis plucked his own cold hands out of the back of the Frenchman’s trousers and placed them on the man's freshly revealed chest. He could feel Francis shiver under him, his own hands were much colder than the other’s hot skin. A moment of impulse made him squeeze possibly a bit more roughly than he should have, and Francis did that little gasping moan of his he always did. It had  been so long that he hardly remembered it anymore, but it was quite the experience to hear it again. The more he groped the chest, the tighter the legs around his waist would get. Oh, his poor paperwork, it was only slightly out of the way of being crushed and pushed about… Maybe he could move it before they got on with it all, it would only take a--

That familiar warm hand grabbed his jaw tightly and pulled his gaze back away from the documents on his desk, the both of them pausing only for a moment before they kissed again and all thought of paperwork was forgotten in favour of instant gratification. He could feel Francis smile triumphantly as he kept up his slightly desperate grabbing and squeezing, his hips starting to move up against the open legs resting on his desk. It was rather ungraceful, Francis’s legs snaked tight around him as he pressed their bodies together. In the one moment before he would no longer be able to resist himself, a clutching shock of guilt crackled through his chest. Unbeknownst to him, his face contorted slightly, a grimace of pain and reconsideration. Francis didn’t see, or, at least, didn’t pause. Instead, the hot, slender fingers that still held his jaw were keeping the pair kissing as a rhythm not dissimilar to one that the Englishman was familiar with was hammered out against the solid office desk. If only he could say he forgot the expectations of his bosses and the world at large for those moments, but he couldn’t. His will was stronger, however. At least, his will when combined with his desires. Besides, it was difficult to pause when his pervasive nuisance was sitting its fat arse on his desk, when they were clutched and and hugging together as tightly as his wax seals pressed to his paperwork that was currently watching the display. His hands were suddenly disordered-- after months, years even, of writing when told to, shaking hands properly, adjusting ties, now they had free reign to fly wherever they fancied. Tangled in bouncing blond locks one moment, then back squeezing his partner’s chest, then slipped down the back of the loosened trousers upon his bureau. There wasn’t much time until the nonsensical French interjections fizzled into dripping moans, and even less of a beat until a quicker, tense breath of air joined in. Chests still together, their hearts raced. He was the first to pull away and face the wall with a few curses as Francis was left sitting. Realising the fruitlessness of any attempt to clean himself there, he circled around to tend to the ever-patient papers awaiting his return as he dutifully stacked them in his carrying case.

“I should be going, then. These need finishing. Ta.” Miraculously, he found the coldness he had been attempting to muster up upon his companion’s arrival, though it was a tad too late. Francis wasn’t altogether pleased with the change in tone, although he understood the haste required after their torrid encounter.

« But I need a-- Angleterre, you-- ! » His shirt unbuttoned and tousled, and his trousers hanging off of his hips, Francis slipped to place himself in front of the door.

« You are bringing me to your flat, or your kennel, or wherever it is they keep you when you aren’t here. »

“Not if you’re going to speak French, I won’t.” A raised eyebrow came with the easy, chilled reply.

« Do not get smart with me. » Francis shot back, deft fingers working to button his shirt and press down his clothing as swiftly and naturally as bird preening itself. The other’s stern expression and eyes looking elsewhere told him as much as he needed to know. He softened, if only slightly.

« Look, I’m just as presentable as you. It’s a business trip, would that make you feel better ? I won’t bother you as you do your paperwork. I’ll even make you tea and something real to eat as you finish up. Hein ? »

Another few beats between them, and, ever the gentleman, he opened the door for Francis after giving them both a once-over.

“We’ll need to be quick, alright? These pants are already uncomf--... Go.” He gestured briskly out the door, and followed after the other man who seemed far more pleased with himself and the situation. What was he doing? Why was he-- well, that didn’t matter. All he had to worry about was getting back to his own room and not being seen by anyone in so disheveled a state… Besides, Francis seemed to be making no effort to be inconspicuous-- loudly asking for directions to his living arrangements because it had just been so long since he had seen them, and in French, no less. Though determined not to look at him, what made it worse was that he could just sense that sickening grin creeping up Francis’s face, spreading more and more by the minute. If only he had just remembered how irritating and inconvenient, unprofessional and repulsive the Frenchman was… Being apart for so long made him more alluring when he really knew what the bastard was like. If he had been prepared, why, he wouldn’t be bounding after him, through dirty, smoggy streets; his heart racing, his stern glare only slightly beating out the flutter in his chest and the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Incorrigible.

[sleekervae]

The Neighbour [2.1]

Masterlist

A/N: OH MY GOD I LIVE!!!! Also, spoiler ahead for The Bastards graphic novel; not so much plot-wise but there are a few lines from the book. Indented paragraph is credited to Emerson Barrett and XoBillie.

“I have loved you from the moment you first smiled at me,

Giddy, mischievous, not ever looking for trouble yet somehow

Trouble has a way of always finding you.”

Remington stared wistfully at the view from Eva’s balcony, knowing how self-conscious she was when he watched her as she read a piece. In his lap sat Pluto, satisfied to have his ears stroked while he took his afternoon nap. 

He couldn’t explain it, but somehow Remington found he was always transported to a new dimension when he heard Eva’s poetry. It was so soft and delicate, he could appreciate it the same way one does the petals of the first flowers of spring. Everything about her writing was so soothing, now a familiar notion that he never wanted to let go of.

“You’ve ignited a fire in my belly with embers sparking and popping

Under the intense pressure of your dark eyes 

And the bubbling pearls of your laugh.

I loved you when I first ran into your open arms and marvelled

“My God, you feel just like home”

And with a few simple touches the open sores on my skin 

Recede and heal, and their pain is a faint memory in comparison

To the electricity your fingertips carry. 

I loved you when we were flying over the streets,

Vibrant yellow, orange and purple coating my eyes and

Painting you into Monet’s Twilight, Venice.

You’re a renaissance masterpiece that has been imprinted

Into the soft folds of my brain...”

Eva set her book down having finished the incomplete piece, watching her boyfriend with a dazed smile on his face as the echo of her prose sunk in. She simpered to herself with giddy.

“You know, I always have mixed feelings about reading you my poetry,” she said.

“Why’s that?” Remington asked, “It’s very good,”

“I know that. And you know that,” she smirked, “And I know that you know that I’m low-key inflating your ego with this shit,” 

Remington chuckled, reaching out across the small table to take her smaller hand in his, “Would it put you at ease if I told you my ego is too far gone?”

Eva rolled her eyes and snapped her notebook shut, “Maybe I should start writing poems about the things you do I find annoying?”

“You say that like it’s bad,” Remington shrugged, giddy when she shook her head in dismay at his teasing. 

Pluto continued to lie motionless in Remington’s lap, assuming the sphinx position as he had his ears rubbed. However, the tabby’s eyes sprung open when a guttural vibration shook through the small wooden table, disturbing the peaceful afternoon. 

Eva glanced at the familiar glare of ‘Blocked Caller ID’ appearing, refraining from showing little disdain as she declined the call. Remington however was curious; for the past few months he’d seen Eva decline calls like that over and over again. The first few times he figured it was telemarketers, or scam calls. However, he noticed how they came frequently in the weeks; more prominent on Wednesdays and Thursdays. 

“Who is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Eva shrugged, “It’s blocked for a reason,”

“But if you blocked the caller... then you have to know who it is so you could block them,” he reasoned, “Right?”

Eva responded in silence, taking her phone and quickly tucking it beneath her thigh. Remington stared at her pointedly. 

“Eva, you get these calls nearly every day,” he said, “If it’s something bad... you know you can trust me with anything,”

“I know...” Eva nodded slowly, exhaling, “It’s my mom,”

Eva had been exceptionally non-forth coming when it came to her life back in Seattle, only remembering hearing about her friends and family once or twice. He respected her privacy, though he couldn’t help but be a tad curious. She fit the overall profile as someone who was running away from her problems.

“You blocked your mom?” he asked, somewhat in disbelief though from what he understood of their relationship he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Eva nodded, “Yep. Either she can’t take a hint or she’s way more stubborn than I am,”

Remington looked across the street to his own house, the gentle breeze billowing through the sheer curtain in the living room he remembered his mom helping him and Emerson pick out. 

“Why don’t you speak to her?”

“Why don’t you speak to your dad?”

“I told you already,” 

Pluto then leapt off of Remington’s lap and landed on the table, crossing over to his owner and staring at her with his big, soulful eyes. Eva smiled and gently scratched his ears.

“She showed up to my graduation, which would have been fine... but she showed up with her new husband and a kid,” she admitted.

Remington raised his eyebrows, “Her own kid?”

“Yeah. She got married to her co-pilot and they have a ten-year-old son together. She abandoned our family and started a new one,” Eva shook her head, “I guess being married to a chem teacher wasn’t as exciting for her,”

“What did your dad do?” he asked.

“That’s the best part. He knew about it and chose not to tell me. I just couldn’t believe it,” she replied, “But the fact that she just... she disappeared for years and then showed up again with a new family -- at my college graduation! How could I possibly celebrate after seeing that?”

“And you haven’t spoken to her since?” he asked tentatively.

“No. The way I saw it, she walked out of my life with no qualms. So... I walked out of hers. And it doesn’t matter how much she phones me; I don’t have time for disingenuine people,”

Remington reached over to take her hand that was resting on the table, stroking gently over the bumps of her knuckles, “Did you... did you meet her son?”

It was then Eva looked truly bummed out, “I think that’s the part I regret most. I mean -- he’s a kid. It’s not his fault his mom is a flake,” 

Remington nodded, “Do you still love your mom?” 

“I don’t know,” Eva shrugged, “Call me a coward, but avoidance is just easier to deal with,”

“You’re not a coward,” Remington assured, “I get it. But... speaking from experience, you can only avoid your issues for so long. As hard as it may be, you might want to address these problems sooner rather than later. I promise you won’t regret it,” 

“Rem --”

“She’s your mom. And obviously the fact that she’s still blowing up your phone should tell you something,”

Eva sat quietly, letting his words sink in. She knew Remington was right; knowing what she knew about him she also knew that he wasn’t just talking out of his ass. She appreciated that he understood where she was coming from, she just wished that his solution could be as easy as it sounded.

“I will call her back... eventually. My dad wants me to come home for Christmas, I guess I have to,” she chuckled sheepishly, warranting a sympathetic smile on his part, “Just... not today,”

“That’s okay,” Remington said, gently squeezing her hand, “It’s all gonna’ work out, Eva,”

“You can’t promise that,” she pointed out.

He shrugged, “Let’s not call it a promise, then. Let’s call is a whim,” 

July had faded into August, as did pandemic fatigue. The streets were becoming busier, the business’ were seeing more intake in revenue, and people were slowly coming back out to try and enjoy was little of a summer was left.

And while most people were doing their best to social distance and keep safe, the cases continued to grow. Safe in the confines of the house, Eva sat at the table and read over the final print draft of the band’s graphic novel. Eva was blown away, completely immersed from the plot line to the artwork. She was supposed to be working with Emerson on his latest project, yet afforded herself a small break. 

Across from her, Emerson was reading through Eva’s Tumblr blog, blown away at the amount of work she had posted since mid-June. Every prose and line was so vivid, painting a clear picture of her emotions. On the one hand, he couldn't help but be a little uncomfortable, knowing the sensual poems he was reading was about his older brother. On the other hand, everything was so poised and punctual -- he figured he may borrow some stuff to try on Shy some time. 

Eva turned to a new page littered with more text than it was visuals, but on the edge of the left page was a stunning, very accurate sketch of Remington. His hair looked so different in the form of a basic sketch, yet those eyes, that face still captured all the majesty and curiosity within. She was unable to help that her fingers glossed over the lines that made up his torso with all his tattoos visible, tracing down the length of his arm to the vanity beside him and back up again. The cold paper singed her fingertips as she read the prose beside the sketch, a small smile creeping onto her lips with every word that echoed in her brain.

“...Emerson thought that if hell and heaven had a bastard son, that it would be Remington. His brother had an angelic-looking face with big almond-shaped eyes. His eyes were brown but could shift into black, and melt into the iris. It was a look that Emerson though the angel of hell would be proud of. But then, in the right light, those dark eyes changed and came to glimmer like the purest of gold - a look angels would swarm for. Apart from the eyes, his face was the feature of him that seemed to never change no matter how brutal this world was to him...” 

Eva had to give credit to Emerson for his writing, capturing his brother in such a way that she herself would have. And like the flip of a switch, the memory of Remington’s eyes flashed through her mind, shining of gold and beauty the way the words had echoed to her. 

In another blink his eyes turned into the eerie shadow of black, flashing a look he’d throw her way when his lust for her consumed him. In one paragraph, Remington had been portrayed as a killer from hell, offering flowers to his peers instead of knives.

Though, all romanticism was put aside as Eva read the paragraph again, noting the last line she had skimmed over quickly:

“...his face was the feature of him that seemed to never change no matter how brutal this world was to him. The rest of him was not...”

There as no denying how cruel the world had been to Remington and his brothers, though the more she pondered the more she realized she had never seen the type of dejection in his face the way Emerson had described. He always appeared -- not happy, per say -- but content with his life. 

Emerson looked up from his tablet, noticing the way Eva’s eyes were glued to her own reading, her hand placed protectively over the sketch of Remington. 

“You okay, Eva?” he asked. 

She glanced at the youngest brother, shaken by the break in silence. But she smiled reassuringly and flipped the page, despite not having finished reading the last. 

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded, “It’s absolutely beautiful. I did make note of a couple grammatical errors... I hope you don’t mind,”

“It’s fine,” he grinned, “Deadline for rewrites is on Friday,”

“If you'd like, I could go through the rest for you. I’m in between articles right now,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Promise I won’t post spoilers for fans,” 

“Might have to get you an NDA,” he giggled merrily, “I’ll send the file over. You ever work with InDesign?”

“A few times, yeah...” she trailed off, a new train of thought lingering in the back of her mind, “Emerson... can I ask you something sorta’ personal?”

Emerson raised an eyebrow, “How personal?” he asked. 

She breathed out carefully, “Remington had told me about your dad --”

“What did he say?” Emerson asked quickly, his cheerful demeanour quickly souring.

“Just that he hadn’t been in the picture for a while,” she said assuringly, “Nothing else,” 

Emerson began to relax a little, “Okay. What’s your question, Eva?”

“Say he out of the blue started making an effort to get back in touch with you... would you take that offer?” she asked.

“Nope,” he replied shortly, “Because if he wanted back in our lives, it would be for his own gain,” 

Eva stayed silent, his quick answer all she needed to know that she shouldn’t push the envelope. Emerson saw the fall in her face, feeling a tad bad for being so short with Eva. 

“Sorry...” he grimaced, “I just... I don’t like to talk about my dad,” 

“I understand,” Eva nodded, “I’m sorry I brought it up,”

“... Why did you?” Emerson asked curiously.

Eva exhaled, her fingers picking at the edge of the glossy page, “Just getting room different perspectives. My mom and I don’t exactly have a Gilmore Girls kind of relationship. I’ve just been thinking ‘cause she’s been trying to get a hold of me for so long,”

“Was she nice to you? When you were younger?” he asked.

“I don’t really remember,” Eva replied truthfully, “She was -- superficial. There but not really there,”

He cocked his head, his wispy black hair falling over his eyes, “So... you’re trying to figure out if you want a relationship with your mom?” 

Before she could reply, they both turned when they heard footsteps echoing in the hall towards them. Michael had appeared, panning his camera around for new footage for the band’s Youtube channel. Eva was unsure whether she pay attention or turn back to the book and pretend not to see. 

“What’re you two working on?” he asked, focusing the lens on Emerson so Eva was just out of the shot. Michael respected that Eva was a touch camera shy. 

“Top secret,” Emerson replied promptly, “And if we told you, we’d have to kill you,”

“I won’t unleash that wrath,” Michael chuckled, “Don’t have too much fun!”

“We’ll try,” Emerson muttered as he sauntered into the next room. 

Eva closed the book and pushed it aside, sighing to herself as she pulled back her laptop and opened Emerson’s project. The youngest brother watched her unabashedly, picking off the air of uncertainty swirling around her. 

“Does Remington know your mom keeps calling you?” he asked.

“He was kind of curious as to why I kept getting all these blocked calls,” she replied.

“What did he say?”

“That everything was going to be okay,” she nodded slowly, “You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that in my life and... it’s not. So, I’m super inclined to believe him,” 

Emerson swallowed, “My brother has a tendency to want to take care of everybody. And it’s not a bad quality. But he also doesn’t know how he can make it better,” he said.

“It’s not up to him to make it better,” Eva declared. 

“But he loves you,” Emerson stated, “And just because of that, he’ll want to help you find your way out of this. When Remington commits to someone, he tends to go one-hundred-percent all in,” 

Eva simpered to herself, “I appreciate him. He’s -- definitely been a plot twist,” 

“Good or bad plot twist?” 

“Very good,” 

Emerson smiled as she started to type on her keyboard, some of Eva’s vexations visibly released when the topic had changed to Remington. As she appreciated Remington, Emerson appreciated Eva for all that she’d done for him. He had this gut intuition, a simmering notion that Eva was going to be sticking around for a long time. And he had absolutely no problem with that.

“Can I ask you a serious question, though?” he asked.

“Of course,” Eva nodded.

“Do you like his blue hair...?” he asked with a drawling disdain.

The young brunette turned her head in the direction of the distant chatter of the boys. 

“I take it by your tone you’re not a fan,” she said.

Emerson scoffed, “He’s taking me back to the Kool-Aid dye trend,”

“Oh, Emerson,”