#like I can’t name one concrete reason that would have me like this. there were many little things that happened these days

[procrastinating-falcon]

I’ve been crying nonstop for half an hour now. And I don’t even know why

[livelaughlovesubs]

Dom!reader x sub!scarletella

Warning: fictional stuff - stimulation through a separate object (?), inspired by some fanarts (artists are amazing), teasing, degrading pet names

I’m seeing so many fanarts that have this implanted and I HAVE to do something about my horniness that’s holding me back from working so, as far as I understand, for mr. Scarlettela his real body is his umbrella or it’s at least connected to him - anyway, can’t believe I’m writing about homicipher bruh, I feel ashamed T^T

!!Spoiler warning!! This is not canon but has some elements from it

He is a good boy, he really is! Well, maybe not at all times, but he’s trying his best for you. And haven’t you seen just how much he loves and trusts you? He’s basically devoted to you! Like a faithful follower~ Handing the red umbrella he always carries over to you so easily, when he normally would never let anyone touch it, let alone give or lend it. It’s just proof of how much he likes you!

So why were you so mean and destroyed it? You like him, didn’t you know that his umbrella is connected to him? Why were you hurting him. He didn’t understand, he didn’t even know what to do. Because in the end, he still liked you.

Now this over 8 feet tall creature was kneeling in front of you, head lowered in confusion as he stared at the concrete floor. You were still holding the now broken umbrella, scoffing as you stared down at his rather pathetic form. It wasn’t entirely broken, just some bend metal and rough ends, or a little tear here and there. Yet for some reason his clothes were torn and disheveled, hands shaking slightly as he kept mumbling the words ‘I don’t understand’ or ‘I like you’ over and over again. At first he seemed intimidating, but now you didn’t have an ounce of fear left.

There must have been a connection between him and this umbrella. Instead of speculating, best just ask him.

Slowly you pointed the long object in your hand at him, the tip pushed below his chin as you made him look up at you. His round, almost completely dark eyes stared right at you, one side was covered by his crimson hair. There were tears steaming down his cheeks, he was crying, how unexpected. The two of you locked eyes for a few seconds, and you wondered what you should do about this crazed man.

While their language was hard to grasp at first, you were getting the hang of it by now. “This umbrella, is you?” The meaning of the question itself was unbelievable, but since this ghost realm exists, maybe your hypothesis wasn’t that out of place. “Yes. Me body.” Look at that, you were right. That explains why he suddenly got so sad. You groaned internally and pulled your arm back, using the umbrella as a cane instead.

As you were still thinking over your next step, his hands reached out to you hesitantly, and softly tugged at the ends of your coat. After stretching the fabric out a little, he leaned his forehead against it, mumbling almost inaudibly, “please don’t go, I like you.” You raised an eyebrow, the corners of your mouth subconsciously moving upwards as you snickered, “What?” His grip got a little tighter and his hand trembled from tensing his muscles so much, then he said a little louder, “I like you, don’t you like me?”

God you wanted to laugh, this was so sad it was laughable. How in the world did he come to that conclusion? In that moment, you had a lot to say t0 him, but due to the language barrier you couldn’t convey it really well. So you just talked to yourself, needing some time to vent.

“Oh you poor thing.” You chuckled in your own language, the one he didn’t understand. “What am I supposed to do with a perv like you?” He looked up at you again, wanting to ask what you said if not for your shoes that were pressing against his chest. “..what?” The person- or monster asked, but he didn’t resist your touch and leaned back, following your guidance. From earlier up to this point, he has been kneeling, just this time he was also using his arms behind his back to stabilise himself.

Without changing the almost arrogant look in your eyes, you used the gift he gave you to trace some imaginary lines on his body. The tip glided from his jawline to the tip of his chin, and you asked, “your name?” The heavy tension was something he also caught on, and he hesitated, not knowing to what this would lead. He shook his head, forcing out a “don’t know…”

You hummed slowly, showing you understood the message. Nonetheless, you continued to move the tip down his neckline all the way to his toned collarbones, “I’ll give you a name.” His eyes widened even more, it made him look objectively creepier, but you thought he looked like a dumb puppy. All big eyed, bearing a deep need and raw desire in his pupils. “How about,” then, just like drawing with a stick in the mud, you traced the word, “Scarlet,” over his chest, simultaneously voicing out the word.

He shuddered as the hard surface scribbles around his torso, squeezing his lips together while he tried to stay still for you. You weren’t being exactly gentle there. When you stopped to glance at him, he quickly nodded. That wasn’t the end to your little play yet, and you slid the pointy end across his abs and stomach, down to his thighs, making him spread them a little wider, “I gave you a name, so you’ll be my servant from now on. Understood?” This has been said in your language, but you hoped he’ll get the overall meaning.

Again he nodded. In his head, being your servant meant you liked him, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t keep him around! So how could he ever say no.

“Use your mouth.” You ordered, digging the tip into his flesh a little, and he answered shortly after, “I understand, me happy.” Sweat was forming on his forehead, and his previous crying ceased. Instead a faint taint of pink covered his cheeks, and he stared at you almost manically. “Good.” You said, which was basically a praise— right? —and he smiled, a shaky, breathless one.

A little behind you was a chair, and you dragged it closer to the still kneeling man below you. Even you were starting to get tired of standing, so you sat down in a comfortable position. “What now.” You said to yourself, not really paying him any attention anymore. It would be nice if you had a collar, would red or black look better on him? But your resources were limited, and you didn’t exactly have a lot of things with you as well. That’s when you absentmindedly thought over what you did own.

Besides that crowbar you’ve found down here, you really didn’t have a lot. Well, you also had a broken umbrella now— hold up, that’s right, you own him now. A rather sadistic thought came to mind, and you pondered to what limit you could control him with this red, unusual umbrella. Would he feel your presence when you just hold it? You got lost in your thoughts again, fumbling with the torn textile and the handle. This didn’t stop until a strange sound caught your attention.

Your eyes left the red batch of fabric in your hands, and instead wandered to the other red thing in the room. He crawled into a ball, arms folded in front of his body while his head pressed against the ground. It looked like he was in pain again, though you weren’t sure if these noises were whimpers of pain or pleasure. “You okay?” You eventually asked, and he whispered in a higher pitch, “me okay..!”

Once again your gaze returned to the umbrella. He must be in this state due to something you did, and so you tightened your grip around the handle while mindlessly drawing a line with your index finger on the panel. As expected, his shoulder jerked upwards even more, and he rolled more together, as if he wanted to take up as little space as possible. His entire body was twitching, also for some reason his coat was only hanging off his arms now.

“You are into it.” You commented, not even too shocked to learn this rather unnecessary fact. At least you can have your fill of fun with this. “What about this?” Suddenly you started moving your hand up and down the handle, rubbing the umbrella panel with the other hand. It was a truly humbling experience to do something implied sexual to a literal object, but your eyes were glued to the ghost before you, so you didn’t even notice how weird it must have looked.

And sure enough, there was a change in his behaviour, he got louder. Your smile widened involuntarily, and your pace also got quicker and rougher. Oh fucking hell, if he was really feeling that kind of sensations, you won’t be able to stop yourself. It was like you were hypnotised, concentrated on nothing but his expressions. On the different ways his face twisted into one of ecstasy.

A big, dark, lunatic grin, paired with fanatic eyes that were ripped wide open. Some hints of a scarlet blush covering his face while sweat rolled down his face. Those perverse sounds he made were proof of the probably internal pleasure he felt, and he quivered all over, still bend down on the floor. Now that you’ve got a better grasp of what was happening, you realized he was crawled together to hide something.

“Ngh, hgGnn- ah..! Please…♥︎～” he whined at your feet, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth and landing on the floor. You’ve been fumbling with the handle for some time, so you’ve gotten bored again and was curious about if the textile was a part of his being as well. Without a second thought, you simply stuck two fingers between the folds, and you were met with a heavily muffled moan.

“Arghhh-…MmmHFfffF～ ♡♡♥︎” Once he felt your touch, he bit into his own palm to quiet himself down. At some point he started crying again, glistening tears decorating his already ruined face. You didn’t think his reaction would be this good, this lewd, whatever you did, he must have liked it a lot. Which is why, despite the absurdity of your actions, you moved your fingers in and out of the holes or just randomly caressed whatever part you felt like touching.

Out of nowhere you felt something tugging at your coat again, it gave off a sense of Deja vu. Of course it was him, who was only pinching the corner of it with a shaky hand. His grip had lost any strength compared to before, and you couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. “What?” You asked him, though you didn’t stop your administrations. He cried out when he opened his mouth to speak, breaking down in front of you, for your entertainment only.

“Haaaa-HnnGh… wait, p-please wait-!♡” Was he telling you it was too much? It’s making you want to overstimulated him even more. He was being so pathetic it was cute. Without wasting a single second, you went as fast as you could, blatantly ignoring his pleads. Based on your own observations, he must have been close, if he was similar to a real person. “Feels good?” You asked, to make sure he was alright. He didn’t reply again and only nodded all weakly, but you’ll let it slide this time.

He felt so hot and strange, it was a nice but unfamiliar feeling. Not only that, he felt something burning building up inside him and it was threatening to spill. That’s why he wanted you to slow down. Poor thing was confused, absolutely baffled what this warm feeling was. Is it love? It must be love. He loved you and you loved him after all. All in all it wasn’t a bad feeling, and since you seemed happy, he is too!

Another sudden wave of pleasure coursed through him, his eyes were clouded with lust and bliss, and the dirty whimpers that slipped past his lips got more erotic by the second. How desperate and lovesick he sounded, begging, pleading, squirming and trashing around on the spot. Thighs pressed together while his toes curled, back arched as a last moan ripped from his throat, “nnNgGHhh ♡♥︎ ♡～” Just as you predicted, that must have been his climax. Now’s the question, did he came in his pants? Did such things still have a reproductive system?

My my, it seems that is the case, whatever it was it seeped through the dark fabric of his trousers, causing an even darker spot to appear.

You only caught glimpses of it since he was hiding his own body so much, but you were content nevertheless. Since he was so obedient the entire time, you decided to be nice to him with the limited vocabulary you had. “Cute.” His kneeling figure was still shuddering and twitching, ragged gasps and pants were also coming from him. But for him, the only thing he could hear was your voice ringing and echoing in his mind, as well as the awfully loud beats of his own heart.

After all this time, you finally praised him! Well you did before but this time he was sure of it! And you found him cute! He was so happy he couldn’t stop grinning. That’s when you said, “do you want anything?” It was to kind of make up for making a fool out of him, or maybe for breaking his umbrella. He didn’t even think before quickly turning his head up, slurring out, “g-give me you name?” You blinked, that wouldn’t have been what you wished for but oh well. Right before you simply told him the answer you stopped yourself, and responded teasingly, “call me master.”

You weren’t sure if he knew the meaning behind it, but it didn’t matter. He had a blank look for a few seconds, mumbling to himself, most likely repeating that word a thousand times. While he did that, he let his head hang low again, facing the floor. His hair hid his face really well, and you couldn’t read his expression. “You alright?” You asked once the silence started to make you feel uneasy.

He placed both his hand on the floor and leaned down, until his face was hovering centimetres above your shoe, and he whispered eagerly, excessively so, “I’m happy, master. I love you.” Before kissing the tip of your shoe. You stared down in disbelief, a shiver running down your spine. He was more of a freak than you thought.

The moment he was done, you grabbed a fistful of his hair, proceeding to yank on it, making him face you on eye-level while he gasped in surprise. Your other hand clutched the umbrella more tightly, causing him to groan slightly. “Stupid dog.” You chuckled with a sinister smile spread across your face, watching as hearts appeared in the middle of his pupils.

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (8)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n : I had to cut some scenes, explained in the notes below, to be saved for a bonus chap or drabble. Also, I altered the outline, and this story isn't ending with 9 as originally intended. Happy Chem Ov release day! Enjoy 🖤

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The reader is left confused by Ewan's online stunt. If he really is content with keeping things casual, then why is he acting otherwise? Tensions reach their peak and Ewan is forced to face the consequences of the arrangement.

Day or night, Ewan will answer your call. 

Even when you seem overly irate at him, greeting him with, “Ewan, what the fuck was that picture?”

He exhales haughtily, your tone almost bringing him some twisted sense of pleasure. Like a ‘this is what you get’ type of reaction. Was he 7 or 27? He’s been labeled sensitive before, but right now, he can’t muster the energy to care.

“Hello to you too, darling,” he says, smoke billowing out of his lips as he lounges on his apartment balcony in London. He had convinced himself that his worries about you and Matt vanished the moment he reaffirmed you as his to the world. In this day and age, in your profession, that can easily be accomplished by something called a hard launch. The first image he posted was supposed to do just that, but the internet has a fickle memory. 

Several months had passed with nothing concrete circulating about you and Ewan, leading fans to readily accept the possibility that you were now dating Matt, prompted by the recent Deuxmoi feature. Granted, Ewan was spotted sneaking out of your building once, but what does that really prove?

Unfortunately, some others spun the story beyond recognition, protected by the anonymity afforded by their black mirrors. Aided with nothing but conjecture, they took it upon themselves to accuse you of infidelity. 

All in all, it had been an eventful 24 hours. His impulsive act of possessiveness quickly turned into a mutable gossip headline.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” you reply immediately. “Why would you post that? I didn’t even know you took it in the first place.”

“I was doing you a favour. Don’t you see? People are under the impression that we’re still together.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Darling, you know it matters. It’s not a good look that you were spotted with someone else, you know what people are like,” he said. 

“Oh, thank you so much for saving me from public ridicule, Ewan,” you say, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Since when do you care about what people say? You stay offline for this exact reason.”

“I know some mean things were being said about you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” you insist, but you no longer sound sure.

“I’m doing you a favour,” he says. “If that picture remains, then it’s basically a ‘fuck you’ to all the people who accuse you cheating on me.”

“How can I cheat on you, Ewan? We’re not together.”

He bristles at that statement, the truth that sits unpleasant in the back of his mind. It hurts that you’re right. “You know what I mean,” he musters. 

He hears nothing for a while, save for some shuffling in the background. Are you screaming your frustrations into your pillow? Is your fist raised at the skies, cursing his name? Tell him you hate him, and he will crumble. The three words will come out of him unrestrained. I love you, followed by, please don’t leave me. 

But they already have spilled out of him, lost among his tearful pleas in the car. That night in September, he crumbled and he lost you anyway. What good would it do now? What difference would it make?

You finally speak, and he hears the frustration in your voice, even as it softens, “You’re so fucking infuriating.”

He can’t help but chuckle, the sound low and easy, “Hey, baby, you’re the one who called me.”

But your next words wipe the smile right off his face. “Ewan… this isn’t going to be the last of it. Sooner or later, we’ll have to make it known that we’re not as in love as everyone thinks.”

He frowns, not accepting that you’re pressing on the topic. “Why?”

“Your memory must be so twisted, Ewan,” you sigh, and he can picture you shaking your head, “Don’t you have that ironclad PR arrangement for your new film?”

His chest tightens. Leave it to you to be the bearer of harsh truths. “That… That might not happen.”

“Might not? Oh, for fuck’s sake, you didn’t quit, did you?”

“No, I didn’t quit,” he answers quickly, trying to keep his voice steady. “But can we not talk about the film? It’s not what matters right now.”

“But it does, Ewan,” you insist, the concern in your voice gnawing at him, “you’ve got this important thing, and I… what if I want out? What if I want something real?”

“Something… real.” It's like a punch to his gut, nightmare fuel, and he scrambles for a response. “Like what?”

“I don’t know… I just – ”

“This isn’t real enough for you?” There is no hiding the vulnerability in his voice now. It wouldn’t even work if he tried. “I… I’m not…”

“Ewan.”

You refuse to answer his question, and he thinks it’s for the best. He responds with his usual, “Darling.”

“What are you going to do about that picture?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” he finally decides. 

“What?”

“I’ll get rid of it.”

“Okay. Good.” He can hear the relief in your voice, but he’s not done yet. 

“But you can’t get rid of us,” he says firmly, leaving no room for negotiation. “I won’t let you.”

You groan, “Ewan… ”

His reply is curt, daring you to disagree, “Darling.”

He’s met with a long and uncomfortable silence, the air thick with everything left unsaid. He needs to break it. He needs a diversion. “Are you home?” he asks.

“Why?”

Even over the line, he can feel you pulling away, like your tether to him is loosening. He can’t let that happen again. “Are you still angry with me?”

���Why?”

“Why don’t I come over and we can hash it out?” His voice drops into that rhythm, the one he knows you couldn’t resist. 

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Maybe so,” he admits, a small smile playing on his lips, “but I want you.”

He waits with bated breath, ready to run out the door at your word.

“I can’t believe you, Mitchell,” you sigh, your amusement at him bleeding through. It’s all he needs.

“See you soon, darling.”

All throughout the night, he doesn’t let you go. The moment he steps through your door, the tension from the call dissolves into something more primal, something neither of you can resist. Every touch feels like a desperate attempt to hold onto a love that might slip away, even if just for a moment.

Deep down, he knows, just as you do, that this can’t last. But as the night stretches on and he holds you close, he pushes that thought away, burying it in the recesses of his mind. 

This is enough, even for now. 

And so the song remains the same.

Clad in full costume, you tread the halls of the set, your posture noticeably straighter. Alyna’s attire has a way of transforming you, making each step purposeful, each glance sharp. The familiar weight of the prop weapons at your side makes you feel like a true fighter. 

The Watford studio is buzzing with energy as the Entertainment Weekly photoshoot unfolds, the set alive with activity. It is one of the actual sets used for the show, so you feel right at home - Alyna Rivers in her natural habitat. 

You weave through the crowd, careful to avoid Ewan, whose presence you can never shake off. You’ve never actually been together, in a big group setting such as this, since the beginning of the arrangement. The cast definitely knows something is going on, especially after Ewan’s last daring post on Instagram. Ewan hadn’t deleted the post – he simply deactivated his profile instead. You noticed it the next day when you tried to check, only to find his account gone.

The realisation left you conflicted. On one hand, it meant the picture wasn’t out there anymore. But on the other, it felt like a temporary fix, a way of avoiding the real issue rather than confronting it head-on. It was a pause, not an ending. The post still existed technically, suspended in some middle realm. 

Since the cast is not privy to the sordid details of your arrangement, you think it best to keep interactions with him at a minimum. It had been constantly nagging at you, the thought of being with him but not really. Are you even allowed to hold his hand in front of your friends? Won’t that be crossing the line, breaking the rules that he set when he promised that, you won’t be his and he won’t be yours?

Alyna would never, not in a hundred years, allow herself to be put in this position. Especially not by Aemond Targaryen, of all people.

Just as you start to relax, Matt materialises by your side, a wide grin plastered on his face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the fiercest bastard in the realm,” Matt says, looking every bit as Daemon with his Targaryen blacks and silver-blonde wig, giving you an exaggerated once-over. “Looking for your next conquest?”

“Careful, Matthew,” you shoot back, smirking. “Alyna’s got a list, and you’re edging pretty close to the top.”

“Good to know I’m on your mind, and as a top priority, nonetheless,” he teases, nudging you playfully. “But let’s be real, you’d miss me too much.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Miss your terrible jokes, maybe.”

“You love my humour,” he insists. “I’m just saying, when you get tired of shooting arrows and swinging swords, let me know. I would like to take you out into the real world.”

You raise an eyebrow, cheeks heating up. He caught you off guard, so thank the gods for the sheer boldness that Alyna wears like skin, rubbing off on you as you stand in her shoes. “Is Daemon asking Alyna on a date, Smithy?”

“Depends,” he quips, a sly grin on his face. “Is it working?”

Before you can respond, Tom saunters over, clearly not one to miss out on the fun. “What’s this I hear? Matt finally working up the nerve to ask his on-screen sidekick out? Either I’m going mad or my five espresso shots are working.”

“Watch it, you,” you warn him playfully, unable to suppress a grin. “Alyna’s still got some arrows left. And I’m not his sidekick.”

Tom smirks. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re all talk.”

“Want to test that theory?” you challenge, raising an imaginary bow. Matt lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest as if struck.

“See? Deadly,” Matt says, winking at you. “So, what do you say? Coffee, next week? Somewhere far from dragons and politicking?”

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. “You know, that doesn’t sound half bad. As long as you promise not to reenact your last attempt at flirting.”

“Ouch,” Matt laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll do my best.”

As the photographer calls for everyone to take their places, you catch a glimpse of Ewan watching from a distance, his jaw clenched. The amusement in Matt’s eyes tells you he’s noticed too.

“You’re playing with fire, you know,” you whisper to Matt as you walk toward the set.

He grins, lowering his voice. “I wasn’t called the Rogue Prince for no reason. Besides, I am the blood of the dragon.”

“Sure you are,” you reply, but you are unable to ignore the thrill of Ewan’s intense focus. 

The set buzzes with activity, cast members instructed to maintain their character’s demeanour for the photographs. The Greens go first, with their designated groupings, with Ewan and Gayle sharing a close-up shot. From where you stand behind the cameras, you can feel Ewan’s gaze locked on you, his presence heavy and distracting. After a while, you feel the need to step away, walking further to the side. 

He remains silent, his focus clearly split between you and Matt, who keeps up a steady stream of clever remarks that make you laugh. Each one seems to darken Ewan’s mood further. The tension becomes so palpable that the director finally calls out, “Ewan, can we get your attention over here, please? You’re off your mark.”

Liv and Phia, still awaiting their cues, scurry over to where you stand. Liv leans in with a knowing smirk on her face, whispering in your ear. “Trouble in paradise?” Of course they’ve noticed Ewan’s odd behaviour. 

“More like purgatory,” Phia quips, scrunching her nose.

“Something like that,” you murmur, eyes flicking over to Ewan, who’s now talking with Gayle and the director, looking over the shots taken, though his attention doesn’t stray far from you.

“Well, if you need an escape route, just say the word,” Liv offers, her voice full of concern.

“Do you want me to stare back at Ewan?” Matt cheekily offers, making you punch him on the shoulder. He only laughs openly, the sound free and uninhibited and just Matt. 

“Thanks, guys,” you say, grateful for their friendship. But you know there’s no easy way out of this tangled mess. Not with the way Ewan is watching you and Matt like he’s one step away from bringing The Battle Above The Gods Eye to fruition.

Not long after, it’s time for the Blacks to step onto the set. As you move into position, you can feel Ewan’s gaze practically searing into your back. You fight the urge to laugh. Or grimace. Or shoot him a questioning look. The idea of Ewan in his full Aemond costume brooding over you is something indeed. The fangirl in you would have been sent reeling, if only he wasn’t so fucking infuriating. 

You spot Liv, Tom, and Phia swooping in like a rescue squad with a mission to derail Ewan’s brooding. Phia, ever the animated theater kid, practically throws herself in front of Ewan, waving her hands like she’s recounting the world’s most thrilling tale.

“Ewan, did you catch that last shot of Helaena? Absolute perfection,” she says, grinning.

Tom saunters up, “Care to explain why you are standing here lurking like some stalker? You’re scaring the crew, mate.”

Phia gently nudges Ewan away from your line of sight. “Come on, Ewan. Let’s go for a smoke, it’s stuffy in here.”

Ewan’s clearly torn, but he’s powerless against his friends’ instigation. You bite back a laugh as you see him getting pulled in every direction. Your makeshift rescue team really needs to get their act together, but you love them anyway. The camera snaps away, and you focus on your poses. Knowing that Phia and the gang are running interference, you’re free to enjoy the moment and be Alyna as the photoshoot demands. You can save the enjoyment from watching him squirm later. 

The photoshoot wraps up in the evening and everyone begins to gather their things, preparing to leave. Cast members chat, stretch, and discuss plans for the week.

“So, coffee next week?” Matt asks again, this time with a bit more seriousness.

“Yeah,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll see what I have scheduled then I’ll give you a call.”

“Great. I’ll even let you pick the place. Well, I’ll be off, love, I’m meeting my sister.” he says. Then, as if sensing something, he leans in closer. “But I’d better give you something to remember me by.”

Before you can react, Matt pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you warmly. The embrace lingers just a moment longer than necessary, and as he pulls back, he plants a soft, teasing kiss on your cheek. You catch the mischievous glint in his eyes. What is he up to?

As Matt releases you and heads out of the studio, you spot Ewan coming toward you, his presence all too familiar. He doesn’t say anything at first, and just stands there, his silence more charged than anything he could have spoken. His expression is stoic, but with the way his lips are pursed and his nostrils are flared, you would say that he’s bothered. He’s jealous.

“You seemed to be having fun,” he finally says, his tone casual, though the tension is unmistakable.

“Mmm, maybe I was,” you reply, meeting his gaze head-on. “Is there a problem?”

Ewan’s eyes narrow slightly, but he shakes his head. “Not at all. Just… nevermind. I’m sure you know, we’ve been booked for a magazine feature coming up in a few days.”

You freeze. “Yeah, I heard. What about it?”

“I’m just making sure that you’re okay with it, darling.”

“It’s work, Ewan,” you reply tersely. “We’ll deal with it.”

The tension breaks when Fabien swoops in, his flawless smile in place. “So, you’re stealing Matt away from me now?” he teases, and there’s an edge to his question. He’s still on the fence about you and Ewan, as he feels protective of his friend. But he’s aware that there’s no simple right or wrong here. You both hurt each other; that much is clear. 

“Maybe,” you quip back, shrugging with feigned innocence. “He seems to like my company.”

Fabien laughs, though there’s a hint of something serious beneath it. “I’ll allow it – this time. But don’t forget, I’ve got dibs on him for the next round of drinks.”

As Fabien’s laughter fades, Ewan’s voice cuts through the lightheartedness. “I don’t think she needs your protection, Fabien.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, rolling your eyes. “I don’t need looking after, Ewan.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice dropping to something darker. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

There’s a challenge in his words, one that sends a thrill of anticipation through you, even as you know it’s a dangerous game you’re all playing. The fire between you smoulders, waiting for the next spark to ignite it. Is Matt that spark? No, you realise, both your actions will be enough to bring everything crashing down.

For now, you step away, leaving Ewan to stew in his misguided jealousy. 

“See you around, Fabs,” you wrap your arms around his neck, giving him a hug goodbye. “I’ll see you for our shoot, yeah?” you tell Ewan, making it clear that you’re not up for another dalliance in between. 

He gets the hint, nodding tersely. But he doesn’t just let you go, not without making his mark, the thing he ached so badly to do in front of Matt, but couldn’t. 

He briefly casts a glance around the room to make sure no one else is hovering, then presses a soft against your lips, leaving you no time to protest. 

You’re exhausted. You’re frustrated. You shouldn’t give in to this, but you do. He feels right; he feels like home. 

If home is a Motel 6 along the highway, ready to kick you out at a moment’s notice. Isn’t that just a knife in the gut?

You pull away after a second, and he smiles, his thumb lightly grazing your cheek.

Fabien shakes his head, a feeling of warmth rising within him at the sight of his two friends who clearly belong together. If only they would get their heads out of their asses.

You seem to remember his presence, pushing away from Ewan’s hold.

Fabien can only roll his eyes. 

Only two days later, and you’re back to work once more. The British Vogue photoshoot has its focus on high fashion, set against the backdrop of an American West-inspired ranch. It doesn’t dwell on you and Ewan as celebrity figures, which is why you agreed to the shoot in the first place. 

Walking onto set, you’re struck with awe at the dramatic tableau of worn wooden fences, hay bales, and lasso props. But your amazement reaches its absolute peak when Ewan emerges, in full cowboy attire. 

Fuck. You bite your lip, and you can almost hear your heart pounding. Unbeknownst to you, the crew notices your flustered state, but they think it’s just you admiring your boyfriend as expected. 

He meets your eyes from across the room, then saunters over to you, that characteristic smirk set on his lips. Your breath catches in your throat, when he tips his hat and greets, “Howdy, darling.”

“Why, hello, good sir,” you try to match his tone, giving a playful curtsy. 

“Ready to give them a show?” he asks, and you’re sure if he’s referring to the photoshoot or the possibility that the two of you might have to play at being a couple as these people expect. You opt to believe the former. 

As the shoot progresses, the tension between you and Ewan becomes almost unbearable. You’re clad in an elaborate, haute couture cowgirl outfit. A sculptural corset made of brown leather, with a tailored vest on top. A floor-length skirt with a high slit reaching your upper thigh, dyed to a rich gradient of burnt sienna. Knee-high heeled boots. A leather choker with a central silver pendant rests on your neck, dangling provocatively. 

For the first set of shots, both of you casually lean against the fence. Ewan poses beside you, watching you with an intensity that is both electrifying and maddening. His gaze is hungry, almost predatory, and you almost forget about the elaborate set around you. Thankfully, each blinding flash of the camera pulls you back into the real world. Keeping you from riding a cowboy right down on the hay bales. How does the saying go? Save a horse…

The photographer snaps you out of it, as he shouts a direction for you to pose solo with a lasso draped over your shoulder. Ewan steps out of the frame, leaning against a wooden post, his eyes locked on you as if he’s trying to memorise every detail of this look. 

“Alright, let’s try a more dramatic pose,” the photographer instructs. “Maybe something with a bit more attitude.”

You adjust your stance, twisting slightly to emphasise the curve of your waist. As you do, you momentarily meet Ewan’s gaze. His eyes are dark with something like desire, and his lips are set in a grim line. 

“I can’t even articulate what you’re doing to me, darling,” Ewan murmurs in your ear, when the photographer calls for a 5-minute break. Set assistants run onto the scene, adding and rearranging props for the next round of shots.

You smirk, “Speak for yourself, Mitchell.”

“Mmm,” he hums, satisfied. 

The next shot calls for Ewan to stand behind you, his arms wrapped around your figure, the position as intimate as can be. Each click of the camera seems to heighten the tension.

His breath is warm against your neck, the sheer proximity electrifying, causing your entire body to heat up underneath the layers of leather and cotton. His heartbeat matches yours, quick and erratic. His voice is a mere whisper, barely audible over the camera clicks. “You’re making this incredibly difficult, you know.”

You tilt your head slightly, “Difficult how, exactly?”

“Keeping my hands off you is the hardest part of my day,” he replies, his voice husky with restrained desire. “It’s like you’re daring me to break every rule we’ve set.”

That you’ve set, you want to correct him, but you bite your tongue. A bitter chuckle escapes you, the sound a mix of frustration and amusement. “So what if I am,” you tease, bending back slightly into his embrace, feeling his body heat against yours. He welcomes your closeness, leaning into you. 

For the next few minutes, it’s a game of seduction and denial, every movement aimed at tormenting the other. The crew, blissfully unaware of the full extent of the tension, is generally pleased about the atmosphere of the shoot. In their minds, you and Ewan are simply leaning into your real-life chemistry and romance.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Little do they know.

In the brightly lit break room, the hum of distant chatter from the set fills the silence between you and Ewan. He’s seated across from you, his gaze unyielding as you check your phone.

His voice breaks the quiet, his tone deceptively casual but laced with curiosity. “Doing anything tomorrow?”

You look up, meeting his eyes, before tentatively answering. “Actually, yes.”

His brows lift, his curiosity piqued. “Care to elaborate, darling?”

You shift in your seat, trying to mask the tension in your voice. “I’m supposed to grab coffee with Matt.”

“Matt.” Ewan’s voice is low as he repeats the familiar name. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, his expression morphing from curiosity to something more intense. “Is it… is it a date?”

“I think that was implied,” you reply, your tone deliberately nonchalant as you try to maintain control of the conversation.

“Really.” His voice tightens, his response loaded with a mix of disbelief and frustration.

You notice the obvious shift in his demeanour, the way his jaw clenches and his eyes darken. “Why the long face?”

Ewan’s hands ball into fists on the table, his composure breaking. “Fuck, I—”

Before he can finish, you cut him off, your own frustration simmering. “Forget it. Don’t answer that.”

“No, just…” His voice falters, his emotions raw. “I don’t want you to go.”

You blink, taken aback by his admission. “Are you being serious right now, Mitchell?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Ewan’s eyes lock onto yours, filled with a mix of hurt and possessiveness. A concoction borne out of circumstances of his own making. Or had it been you, last September? You can no longer keep track of whose fault reigns over everything. The truth of the matter is, you love him. Of course you do.

But nothing feels right anymore. 

“I don’t know,” you retort, your voice rising slightly, “I hope you are. Because you can’t just say that to me.”

“But I am.” His tone is resigned but unwavering. “I don’t want to watch you with someone else.”

The words hit you like a cold splash of water, freezing you in place. “Then I’m ignoring what you just said. This isn’t fair to me.”

His face falls. “You can’t just ignore it. It’s not that simple.”

You stand up abruptly, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. “Well, I don’t see how this conversation is going to help anything.”

He stands as well, his expression pained and conflicted. “I just – damn it. Wait a minute, darling – ”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Look, if you’re going to act like this, then maybe we need to rethink – ”

“No,” he interrupts, his voice desperate. “I don’t want to rethink anything. I just… I need you to understand that this isn’t easy for me.”

The room falls silent, both of you breathing heavily. The unresolved problem lingers, the weight of it all hanging heavily between you. 

You take a final look at him, feeling a mixture of anger and longing. “I’m gonna go get some air.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and walk out of the break room, the doors closing sharply behind you. Ewan is left alone, frustration clear on his face as he stares at the empty space where you once stood.

Ewan is sprawled on his couch, a half-empty bottle of beer resting on the coffee table. The warm light of a lamp casts a muted glow over his apartment, which is littered with the remnants of his evening alone. He has seen the latest headlines about you and Matt, enjoying a date in Hyde Park.

Hyde Park Outing: Is it Love in the Air for these HBO Actors?

He tries to ignore them all, but the nagging bitterness won’t let him be. The images and headlines keep flashing in his mind. Unable to shake the frustration, he sends a quick message to Tom and Phia, inviting them over for a casual distraction.

A short while later, they arrive, carrying a six-pack and a box of takeout. Ewan greets them with a tired smile, which barely masks his despondence.

“Evening,” he says, opening the door wider to let them in. “Glad you could make it.”

Phia gives him a sympathetic look as she steps inside, setting down the food. “We came prepared. Looks like you could use a break.”

Tom follows, his eyes scanning the cluttered room. “And some beers. We figured you might need them.”

Ewan leads them to the living room, where they settle onto the couch. As they crack open the beers and start munching away, the initial wariness fades, replaced by casual conversation. His two guests are careful not to broach the topic of you, but they know it’s inevitable. Soon enough, it will be time to get down to business, which is essentially what they came for. They’re the rescue squad after all. 

“So… we have a feeling we know what’s been eating at you,” Tom says, taking a swig of his beer. “We saw the headlines, mate. Don’t even deny it. It’s gotta be rough.”

Ewan grimaces, his hand gripping the bottle a little tighter. “Yeah, the headlines. they’re , uhhhh … oh, what does it even matter?”

Phia raises an eyebrow, glancing at him. “Come on, kid. It matters. You can talk to us. We weren’t cast as siblings for no reason.”

Ewan lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “We have this thing, this casual thing. But seeing her with someone else... it’s like a punch to the gut.”

Tom nods sympathetically. “I get it. I’m sure it was fun at first, but – ” 

Phia’s concern wins over her, leading her to interject, “Ewan, maybe you need to bloody talk to her. Figure out where you both stand.”

Ewan shakes his head, though his expression softens, and his unmistakable vulnerability shines through. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to see where that leads.”

Phia reaches out, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “Ask her why she ended things last year.”

“I know why – ”

“Just… ask her again? You might find out more than you expect.”

Tom waits a beat before butting in with a light-hearted chuckle, “It’s better than letting it fester. At least you’ll know where you stand. You owe her that much.”

Ewan huffs out a laugh, the bitterness in his voice giving way to reluctant amusement. “Maybe. I just don’t want to make things worse.”

“Mate,” Tom shakes his shoulder, “look at the state of things. How in the bloody hell can you make it even worse? I don’t think it’s possible.”

Phia just smirks at his boldness, but she agrees, nodding to Ewan, “He’s right, you know.”

Tom raises his beer in a mock toast. “To Aemond and Alyna.”

“Oh, you absolute rascal,” Phia laughs in disbelief. 

But they all clink their bottles together, the gesture a small comfort amidst the confusion. The evening winds down after an hour, and after they depart, Ewan’s mind is still consumed with thought.

Day or night, you will answer Ewan’s call.

“Hello?” your voice patches through after a few rings.

“Darling,” he says, “I think we need to talk.”

💌 next chapter

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @onlyrealjoy @hotdismylife @thepurplecrown @just-fics-station @clarkysblog @urmomsgirlfriend1 @misfitbimbosblog (continued in comments ... )

Some notes in the margins...

I did have Matt and the reader's date written out, but I thought it seemed superfluous for this one. Maybe in a bonus chapter?

In the next one: 'THE talk', Ewan dealing with stuff for his film, whippets, interviews, MORE headlines... will they finally resolve everything?

Also, if yous want, I can give a glimpse on what would have happened if Matt got the BV shoot instead :)

The end isn't even within reach. More angst to follow. How can there be more, you ask? Let's hash it out below 😉💙

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

jealousy, jealousy | s.r. x liaison fem!reader

you’ve never excepted to feel jealousy in a work setting, but new things are always happening to you at the bau. although this feeling of jealousy doesn’t pertain to the direct specifics of your position, not exactly.

you busy talking with the local sheriff when something from the corner of your eye caught your attention. being as discreet as possible you shifted some of your attention towards spencer and elle, who were sitting close together as they looked over something. spencer’s fingers tracing over something while elle nodded along, her eyes then moving to settle on his face when he turned his gaze to her.

you saw the tiniest smile tug the corner of her painted lips, just a hint of a shimmer passing over her eyes. your heart felt sore at the simple sight.

“uh, i’m- i’m sorry. forgot i had to make a call, but i’ll talk with you later.” excusing yourself with a polite smile as you hurried to find an empty space in the small station. seeing hotch and gideon in the makeshift conference room, morgan and jj on different ends of the floor, you just headed for the suv outside.

you tried to be discreet hoping no one would notice your figure passing by, you pulled out your phone as a distraction as you scrolled for penelope’s number. the warm sun and gentle breeze greeted you in a comforting summer embrace though your heart felt like it was just frozen in a block of ice.

“oracle of knowledge, how my i assist?” penelope’s sweet voice filled your ears.

you sighed out, “hey pen. how you doing, lovely?” just wanting to talk with your friend. you know you could talk to her about this but you weren’t sure you wanted to have her keep a secret about coworkers.

“i’m lonely in my cave, honey. can’t wait for the group to come home.” her chipper mood made you smile with a slight chuckle, “yeah i miss you too. we’ll be home soon don’t worry.”

“so what’s the real reason for this call? spill.”

you scuffed in defense, “can’t i just talk with my friend? a little hurt you don’t want to hear from me, pen.” putting a hand to your heart in a mock show for yourself.

now she scuffed, “i always want to hear from you, but i also know that a certain boy genius is there and he usually occupies all your attention. what’d he do?”

you ground the bottom of you shoe into the concrete, “just- probably so stupid, but do you think that… spence and elle have something going on?” whispering their names as you looked around the street for any of your team.

“do- do i hear a hint of jealousy?” penelope’s teasing a great joy to have during this conversation. one that you instantly regret since it’s unprofessional. “no! …yes, yes a little.” just admitting to the nauseating feeling whenever you see elle leaning in close to spencer or you catch him looking at her with a certain appeal.

“oh honey, you love this boy. but i wouldn’t worry, i know a thing or two about him. he’s just as crazy for you, just give it a bit of time.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

curious about your take on riddle's dream. i have seen people en masse claim that riddle yearns to a deliquent/"if he wasn't traumatized, he would be in a pop music club" and... it feels like such a literal interpretation (although there are some who are obv just joking) to the point of misinterpretation? i'm not very invested in riddle's story arc, but to me it read like a pretty clear "what if i was the worst version of myself (which riddle has been raised to see as being disobedient) and i was still loveable".

[You can read my thoughts on the book 7 chapter 12 part 3 update here!]

I think there’s a lot of different ways to interpret the dreams because of how… vaguely they’re written + their length + every player coming into the dreams with their own experiences which inform their POVs. For this reason, I don’t feel comfortable outright stating X or Y interpretation is “wrong”, and nor do I wish to be used as a means to validating one interpretation over the others. All I’m going to do this ask is explain how I personally interpreted Riddle’s dream. That’s all.

I don’t think Riddle wants to be a delinquent; this would be conflating a child’s desires to that of a delinquent. Yes, Riddle was detained be a police officer—but not for any violence or serious criminal actions. He was detained for singing in front of the police station (without a license) and causing a public disturbance (because of his amplifiers). Furthermore, Riddle doesn’t engage in any other criminal behaviors (unless you count not going to school, but a minor isn’t usually held liable for that; the onus is on his parents for not sending him). I think it would be more accurate to say that Riddle’s wishes are very child-like ones. He wants to be able to play with his friends all day, he ignores studying and obeying rules, he can eat tarts and drink sugary tea whenever he wants, he has doting parents that are always emotionally there for him, etc. These are not marks of delinquency, they are the innocent longings of an inner child that never got to be recognized.

While I don’t think it’s a guarantee that Riddle would be in Pop/Light Music Club had he had a more lenient mother, I do think that Riddle would want to explore creative outlets. He is noted as having a very strong imagination, but is limited in his life experiences and struggles to think for himself or to act outside of the concrete, as is defined by rules and laws. If these restraints were loosened up and he had actually been allowed and encouraged to explore other avenues, he might have found an interest in the arts and expressing himself through that. It could be a visual medium, a written medium, a musical medium, whatever.

I think music is what we jump to right away because he has a band in the dream, but I could easily see him dabbling in other areas too. Maybe music was chosen because it’s a group activity, and Riddle longs to be that setting. A happy family, a boy with lots of friends, you name it. You could also argue that Riddle went with music because that’s what he knew from his dorm members. Adeuce are in athletic clubs, which Riddle is sort of rubbish at, and Trey is in Science Club, which of course covers topics Riddle would already be studying irl. Cater’s club is the only one with a significant degree of creativity allowed. Riddle might have based his hobby in the dream off of Cater’s experiences. One telltale detail that supports this theory is that Riddle mentions people keep leaving because the band can’t stick to one genre, which is also true of Cater’s irl Pop/Light Music Club. Another thing to consider is that Riddle is able to conjure the look of delicious cakes and cookies but not replicate the taste because he’s not familiar with it. You could say this is also true of his being in a band. He looks the part, but we never hear him participating in it—perhaps because Riddle could have seen Cater rushing to a club meeting in his outfit, but not have actually heard him play. Therefore, it’s possible that Riddle’s dream is just pulling from his shallow understanding of what “being in a band” is about… the camaraderie of it. This, again, loops us back to Cater’s relationship with his fellow club members. It’s less about the actual playing and more about the vibes and hanging out with one another. Maybe Riddle heard stories from Cater about this and got curious? This same logic applies to other aspects of his dream. He seems to emulate what he has heard from his dorm members in general. Loving parents who are there for him (like Trey), the bout of delinquency (like Deuce), the ability to speak his mind (like Ace). Riddle is wanting to be more like his peers, who were able to have “normal” experiences. To me, it feels like he used his dorm members as templates (which he combined with his own desire to have a fulfilling childhood) because Riddle himself doesn’t have a clear concept of what it means to live freely. After all, he only has like 1-2 months of playing with Trey and Chenya to go off of compared to a few years with his Heartslabyul classmates.

As I said earlier in this post, I don’t think the Riddle we see in the first layer of his dream is meant to be “the worst version of himself” or “Riddle but disobedient”; it reads as more of Riddle indulging in everything he missed out on in his childhood. Sweets, parental love, playing all day with friends, loudly and openly expressing himself through music, exploring creative ventures, making happy memories… I don’t believe these are bad things or borne out of Riddle wanting to be rebellious or disobedient, they’re just consequences of acting like a kid.

I do find it interesting that so many aspects of himself were entirely written over. However, I don’t see it as Riddle thinking he has to be a different person (as in, having a different personality?) in order to be worthy of love. Riddle was definitely still able to make friends as a child even with the quiet personality he had then. It was possible. Nothing in his backstory makes me think Riddle believes he wasn’t deserving of love—but he may think that love has to be earned, that love is conditional. And what is that condition? Following the rules, obeying, performing well in exams. That’s what he was taught would earn him success and his mother’s love and that’s what he enforced in early book 1. I think… Riddle definitely wants to be someone else, but in the sense that he wants to be born into different circumstances. Parents that get along, a dad that has time for him, a mom that dotes on him, no magic, no expectations to shoulder, lax rules, etc. This ties in with Riddle wanting to live the childhood he feels he never had. A childhood where he had no friends, where he studied all the time, where his mother calorie counted for him, where he was not allowed to play video games or watch movies, where he was not allowed to choose his own clothes or career or anything. Several of these sentiments were expressed post-OB.

Now that being said, everything I just discussed covers only the first layer of Riddle’s dream. I see the idea of Riddle thinking he has to be someone else coming through a little stronger in the second layer of his dream. That’s the part where everyone is being chased through the destroyed rose maze. Here, we see a much more extreme and even more domineering Riddle than what we saw in book 1. He lords over his students such that even his versions of Ace and Deuce have fallen into line and mindlessly follow his commands. The mob students are scared of him—and though Riddle is aware of it, he is content. They salute him and praise him for his iron fist. He is the most correct, after all. He is ruling just as his mother would, he is being the person his mother wants him to be.

This is expanded upon further in the third layer of his dream, in which he faces his inner darkness. Riddle confronts the truth: that he is desperate to cling onto the dorm leader seat, because that’s all he has going for him. He has driven away his classmates, who fear him and resent him. There’s his mother, but she has not granted him the affection he craves, and her approval is conditional. He is alone and unloved. This potentially recontexualizes details seen in earlier layers. Why is Riddle in a band? Maybe because he wants to be like Cater, who seems easygoing and approachable. Why does Riddle live many other aspects of his dorm members’ lives? Why do the characters conjured by Riddle’s darkness to fully believe that Cater wants to transfer to Scarabia—a dorm known for having a friendly and relaxed leader? It could suggest an insecurity in Riddle, a worry that he, as he is, is not enough. Not smart enough for his mother’s approval, not kind or cheery or normal enough to make friends. So all he has is his crown, which he reverently claims to. It’s one of the few things he has to call his own, a decision he made for himself and something he earned through his own merit.

But ultimately, I see Riddle’s truest desire as… being his own person, having his own independence and things he chose for himself. Not letting himself be ruled by the shadow of his mother. (His Phantom fittingly seems to dangle him on strings, as if Riddle is its puppet or marionette.) It doesn’t mean complete chaos or anarchy, and it doesn’t mean being like other people. It means defining his own rules for how he should live. Walking forward on his own path. Making his own identity, not tied down to that of his mother. Riddle is so used to being to do what to do or how to be—by his mom, by some arbitrary set of rules. The fact that he confesses to the things he actually wants after his OB… that he wants to stand up to his mother over winter break… that he confronts the dream version of his mom with the declaration that he will open this door with his own hand, that he will walk forward on his own path… I think that says a lot.

…. Weeeeell, like I said at the start, that’s one interpretation 🤷‍♀️ It’s not necessarily “correct”, and it’s liable to change (especially since all of this information is still very fresh; I’m still taking the time to digest it myself). The wibbly wobbly dream magic is open enough to invite all kinds of interpretations, so I encourage you to take this all with a grain of salt and to come to your own conclusions?

I think it’s interesting that it’s Riddle’s dream that has resulted in many different interpretations, especially on the English speaking side? I wonder if that’s because the average EN player skews younger, so those fans can relate a lot with the struggle for identity and finding freedom from one’s parents, even if their circumstances aren’t exactly the same as Riddle’s. We project our own experiences and feelings onto Riddle, which informs our interpretation of his dream.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

── THE GLASS PRINCESS // SEVEN

Series Synopsis: You wake up in a strange room with no memories, broken glass at your bedside, and a prince named Zuko as your only chance at figuring out who you really are.

Chapter Synopsis: You get your first taste of freedom from the constricting walls of the Earth Palace.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Zuko x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 5.2k

Content Warnings: complicated relationships (strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to strangers to lovers to enemies to lovers), amnesia, alternate universe, lots of secrets and lying and mystery

A/N: hello everyone and welcome to part two of the glass princess!! in the next few chapters we will be learning more about princess y/n and how she met zuko/the fall of ba sing se :) thank you all for reading!! and yes i did make up an entire spirit for the #plot 😭🙏🏻 i promise she will have significance to the story later on though!!

Although it was uncharitable, you could not help yourself from thinking that the only reason Long Feng was allowing your brother to keep that ridiculous creature around was because of its apparent resemblance to Quynh. In a way, it could be considered to have been made in her image, and Kuei knew that as well as you did, which was why he was currently leaping about joyfully, shaking you by the shoulders as if he were a child instead of a man.

“I’ve found him!” Kuei shrieked at you for the thousandth time. “I’ve found Quynh’s son! She hasn’t abandoned us after all, Y/N! She sent her son to me!”

“That ghastly, muddy creature is no child of Quynh’s,” you said, wrinkling your nose at the tufts of fur all over the fine carpet. “And Quynh never abandoned us in the first place. I do not know why you think that that is the case.”

“No one has seen her in nearly a century, and it’s been even longer since anyone found Quynh’s Door. If ever she was real, she left the palace long ago,” Kuei said. “Maybe she was never a spirit in the first place — just one of Bosco’s ancestors.”

“That is blasphemy!” you rebuked him. “Quynh is no Agni — she is a concrete spirit, not an abstract deity. If anything, she is far more similar to Tui and La, from the Northern Water Tribe.”

“Who?” Kuei said.

“The ocean and moon spirits,” you said with a heavy sigh, once again finding yourself unimpressed by Kuei and his ignorance. “They live in the Northern Water Tribe and allow Waterbenders to bend.”

“Quynh doesn’t allow anyone to bend. She’s a different legend entirely. You should know that,” he said. You gritted your teeth.

“I wish you would pick up a book for once! It was an analogy, you fool,” you said.

“It matters not,” Kuei said after a second. “I don’t know why you’re so set on this fairytale, but the sooner you give up on it, the sooner you can find the wonder in the real world.”

“By the real world, do you mean my chambers?” you said. “Or yours? Because that is the extent of the world I know.”

“I mean the bear sitting before you at this very moment!” he said, ignoring your pointed response and gesturing towards his new pet with a flourish. “You are more taken with a made up story than an actual natural phenomenon. That’s a problem, dear sister.”

Bosco the bear grumbled at you in agreement, blinking his large, wet eyes at you. And perhaps you might’ve been impressed by his sturdy build and elegant snout, but all you could see when you gazed upon him was a cheap copy, a faded replica that could never hope to capture even half of the original’s glory.

“Well, dear brother, it can’t be helped. Your pet will never be Quynh,” you said.

“Always bringing down the mood, aren’t you?” he said, rolling his eyes at you. “I wasn’t saying he was Quynh, I was saying he resembled her greatly. Anyways, you know stories always inflate their characters; for all we know, Quynh really did once look like this.”

You wanted to argue with him, but of course it would not be productive. Like the element he ruled, your brother was set in his ways — the only qualities he had in equal measure to stubbornness were cowardice and naïveté, both of which he was perhaps better known for. It was true, though, that when he gained a sense of conviction for something, he’d stand by it with a fervor that he rarely displayed otherwise. It was one of the few attributes you could genuinely admire him for, even if it was inconvenient at times.

“As you say,” you said. “I see no purpose in further discussions on the matter. You do not believe in Quynh, and I do. Neither of us can change the other’s mind, so we ought to just move on.”

“Compliment Bosco first,” Kuei said. “On my authority as the Earth King, I demand it.”

“You demand a lot of things on that tenuous authority,” you muttered. Then, you smiled at the piteous looking bear. “You truly deserve to be my brother’s companion. I am certain you are possessed with the same commanding spirit that he is so fortunate to claim.”

Kuei beamed at you. “Thank you. You can return to your room.”

You snickered at him. “It is appreciated.”

Only when you were halfway down the hallway did he shout in protest, realizing your thinly veiled insult. You sped up your pace, running towards your room before he could come and question you or make another demand — you did not put it past him to insist that you compliment his bear properly.

It was one of those ways you had to get back at him. You were ever searching for more, trying your best to needle the brother who was, whether directly or indirectly, the cause of your imprisonment.

Your chambers. His chambers. The hallway in between. These were the confines of your world, according to Kuei and Long Feng, who was his most trusted advisor. It would be dangerous, after all, for a girl with no bending and royal blood flowing through her veins to be wandering the streets without protection, even in a city as safe as Ba Sing Se. So although you had begged to at least see the kingdom which was your own, you had been promptly refused every time, the locks changed periodically and the guards rotated hourly to ensure they stayed alert to your movements.

Escape was impossible, but even in such a life, you could find solace: in your dressing room, a door would sometimes appear, a door which led to the heart of the palace — not the throne room, but the true heart upon which the entire structure was constructed. Quynh’s Den, the entrance to which was constantly shifting between the spirit world and the mortal one, was the only place you had for yourself, though of course you shared it with its other inhabitant: the great mother bear spirit Quynh.

It was there today. Ensuring that the entrance to your own chambers was sufficiently blocked, you did not even hesitate to pull the door open, ducking into the stone passageway behind it eagerly. The only light came from the glowing crystals overhead, but you knew the way so well that you could’ve tread it even with your eyes closed, so the dimness did not trouble you any.

It did not make sense for such a long, winding hall made entirely of stone to be behind your dressing room, but that was because the hallway was not truly there. The door was only a gateway to the realm in which Quynh’s Den resided, but that realm was somewhere else, in some intangible other dimension that did not quite obey the same rules as yours.

Time, too, felt strange in this place. You did not know for how long you walked; you never did. You could only keep going until the narrow passage opened into a large cavern, the walls of which were studded with the same glowing green crystals that the entire hall had been encrusted with. The majority of the space was taken up by a massive black form curled up on a bed of ghostly white moss, her head resting on paws that were several times your own size. You knew from past experience that if you were to stand right beside her when she was in such a position, you would barely even be able to peek over her nose.

“Quynh,” you said. Twin jewels blinked open — her enormous eyes were the same luminous shade as the crystals surrounding her, and they, too, shone with a mysterious, intrinsic power.

“Y/N,” she said, the cavern rumbling with the depth of her voice. “I was wondering when you would come again.”

“I come whenever you allow me to,” you said, moving so that you could sit in front of her. She huffed, tilting her head so that you could clamber onto her paw and lean against the plush fur of her cheek, which would be several times warmer than the cold stone floor.

“It’s not under my control,” she said. “You know my limitations.”

“Yes, of course I do,” you said. “That’s how it’s always been. I was just reminding you, so that you are not angry.”

“I do not blame you,” she said. “For not visiting. I know that you cannot unless the circumstances align. Rather, it is that I am bereaved when you are gone. It has been many years since I could say this with certainty, but the truth is that I miss your company.”

“And I, yours,” you said. “Though you should not feel too complimented by that. It is you or Kuei, and I am, as ever, irritated by him at the moment.”

“You should not quarrel with him,” Quynh chided you. “He is the only family you have. It does you no good to fight with him so frequently. You will be sad if something happens and those are the only memories you have of him.”

“I wish that you were not inclined to defend him!” you said.

“Whether you like it or not, he is of the same line as you. I love him as well, for that fact. I am bound to,” she said. You pouted.

“You ought to love me more. He doesn’t even think you are real,” you said. “I’m the only one who’s believed in you in decades.”

“A mother cannot declare favorites,” Quynh said diplomatically. “And so, neither can I. You ought to know this by now.”

“He’s found a bear,” you muttered obstinately. “It’s a disgusting creature. Rolls in mud whenever given the opportunity and barely knows to shut its jowls when it’s eating.”

“A bear?” Quynh said, one of her ears flicking with interest. “I did not know of any which existed.”

“I suppose there is this one,” you said. “He is a true bear; I have ascertained as much. He does resemble you, though it is in the way that quartz resembles diamond.”

Bear was not quite enough to encapsulate what Quynh was. Certainly, her form was as such, but she was in a sense phantasmic, and so ascribing a physical species to her was disingenuous. That was why you found it so grating that Kuei was frolicking about and proclaiming that he had found her equal — she had no equal. Quynh stood alone.

“It is unfair,” she said, “for you to hold that against him. If you were possessed with an uneducated eye, you, too, would mistake the quartz for the diamond. He cannot be blamed.”

“I would know,” you said. “Even if I were blind, I would know. The diamond possesses something which the quartz never can.”

“And what might that be?” Quynh said.

“I don’t know,” you said. “But there is some such quality.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps you are upset about something entirely different and are taking out your frustration on an animal that cannot help its ancestry and a brother who is known to be a fool.”

“On that much, we can agree,” you said with a self-satisfied smile. “Kuei is a fool.”

“Y/N,” Quynh warned you. You hung your head in defeat.

“I asked Long Feng if I could leave again,” you said. “I thought he was in a generous mood, considering he raised no complaint about Bosco being moved to the royal chambers, but he refused! I told him I would not stray from my guards’ side, that I only wished to go for a matter of minutes, but still he said no.”

“Did he give his reasons?” Quynh said.

“The same as ever,” you said. “Until Kuei marries and has children, I am next in line for the throne. As the heir, I must be kept with the utmost of caution, and the only place I can be safe for certain is the palace.”

“He’s not entirely wrong,” she said. “The world is dangerous. More than you might think.”

“I don’t think anything,” you said, though you immediately felt poorly for snapping at her. “I cannot even form an opinion on the city I might one day rule. What sort of a princess does not even know her subjects? To say nothing of my brother the king, who himself has not left the palace walls in years and is entirely comfortable with that! I cannot understand it. I cannot understand why he has no desire to know his people, the very people who love him so dearly as to accept him as their ruler.”

“Not everyone is like you,” Quynh said, nudging you as gently as she could. “And your brother’s past shaped who he is now. You cannot blame him for desiring safety when he was there when it all happened.”

She spoke of your father. You had never met the man, for he had died days before you had been born, so you felt no grief at the reminder, but you knew it was not the same for Kuei. After all, your father’s death was the only reason your brother had taken the throne in the first place; a throne which, at his young age, he had been ill-suited for.

Due to Kuei’s fondness for animals, which he had had since he was very young, your father had taken him to the zoo for his birthday. There, a wayward assassin of the Earthbending variety had sent spikes of stone into your father’s heart, killing him before the guards could even react. It was all they could do to save Kuei and run — the assassin, as far as you knew, still walked free today, for they had been too concerned with your brother’s protection to chase after the killer.

The zoo was shut down. The child Kuei was crowned king, though your mother was deemed his regent. Days later, she fell gravely ill. Giving birth to you was the last thing she did — she never left the childbearing bed, using the final remains of her strength to push you out and hold you tightly against her chest until she stopped breathing entirely.

One child there for your father’s last moments. The other, for your mother’s. Quynh was not exaggerating in saying that Kuei was the only family you had left, but your lives had been so dissimilar as to be entire opposites. He had his ministers and advisors to replace the gap your father had left in his life. You had Quynh to serve as your mother, in whatever way she could.

“The guards will be vigilant,” you said. “And anyways, even if I am Kuei’s heir, I doubt that anyone would have cause to assassinate me. I am not important enough to the kingdom. If I were killed, Kuei would simply marry earlier, and have more children, so it would be a net loss for any assailants.”

“You know that I am not opposed to it,” Quynh said. “It is your brother and his advisors who forbid you; I am only reminding you to respect their wishes, for they, in some manner, have your best interests at heart.”

“But I am dying of it,” you said. “Every day I languish in the palace, I can feel my spirit being crushed by the ever-encroaching walls. My only respite is visiting you, Quynh, but even that is not enough. I am still captive.”

Quynh sighed. It was a great sound, whistling and low, teeming with disappointment and worry and affection, all in equal measure. You rubbed your hand against her fur, waiting for her response, though you doubted it would be any different than every other time you had asked.

“You want me to open a door to the kingdom,” she said.

“Yes,” you said. “If I go alone, in the garb of a commoner, then I should escape notice entirely.”

“Alright,” she said. You opened your mouth to argue before closing it.

“Alright?” you repeated. “You’re saying yes? What about the usual rebuttals? It’s too much of a risk, Y/N, you won’t even be able to find Quynh’s Door.”

“It’s true,” she said. “You won’t have that guarantee, but of course, I can manually open doors back to the palace. The danger in this is that you will have to wait until I can open a door to allow your return, even if you want it earlier. As you well know, time is different here. I could open a door for you mere seconds after you’ve left, but that still might mean you must spend hours in the city.”

“I do not mind,” you said. “I will make good use of that time. But what has changed your mind? Why have you never offered before?”

“Something has come to the city,” she said. “I can feel it. There is a presence, or perhaps multiple presences, that can change the course of Ba Sing Se’s destiny — and, more importantly, of your family’s destiny. I am not sure, but I feel as if it is imperative that you leave, or else I will be depriving you of that destiny. And that unto itself is a fate, but not the one which you are meant to find.”

“Who are they?” you said. “These presences. How will I know that I’ve met them?”

“You won’t,” she said. “There is no way for any of us to know. Even they, themselves, may not yet be aware of it. It is just like that. You needn’t endeavor to find them; if you are meant to, you will.”

“I see,” you said, and then you leapt off of her paw, beaming up at her. “Then the only thing I will

“I hope you do,” Quynh said. “Furthermore, I hope you do not regret your decision.”

“I won’t,” you said firmly. “Thank you, Quynh.”

“It is my duty,” she said. “I am obligated to. To be sure, it is difficult, for there is always some difficulty when a mother must let her child go, but it is necessary. It is a story older than even I.”

“And this story is just as old,” you said. “That even when you let me go, I will return to you. Of my own volition, I shall return.”

“So you shall,” she said. “Go, then, Y/N. And return with as much haste as you leave, so that I may not miss you for too long.”

A new hallway formed in the walls of the cave, and without a backward glance, you walked towards it. Striding down the passage, you kept your eyes forward, knowing that if you turned around, you would see the stone closing behind you. You could not go back; it was not the nature of Quynh’s power. There was only one way to go, now that the decision had been made: forward.

All of the passages made by Quynh were the same length — barring the one behind the famed Quynh’s Door, naturally — so it was a trick of your mind that made the trek to Ba Sing Se seem longer than when you returned to your room from her den. Still, eventually, you came to another door, and your entire body shuddered in anticipation as you placed your hand on the knob, because this was the moment that you waited your entire life for.

Unable to delay for a second more, you swung the door open, taking your first step into the city of Ba Sing Se, your silk-slippered foot toeing delicately onto the cobblestones. Shutting the door behind you, you glanced over your shoulder to ascertain that it had disappeared. As you had expected, the wall was smooth and bare, giving no indication that there had ever been an exit in the first place.

There were people everywhere. You had never witnessed such a large crowd before; people milled about by the fading light of the setting sun, jostling one another as they rushed to and fro. At the fringes of the throng, two men with long torches went about lighting the street lamps, though they took their own time doing so, talking and laughing with whichever passersby that they recognized.

Another person might find the chaos to be ugly, hideous in its disorder, but you found a kind of mystical appeal to the hustle of the street. These were people who were living their lives as they were meant to, with no awareness of the simple freedoms and small joys they possessed. They gave no care to the idea that their daily lives were so remarkable to you, that their going-ons were the most wonderful thing you had ever seen.

You were too afraid to step into the sea of people, so you stayed along the sides of the road, admiring them, watching them, wanting more than anything to be one of them. But of course you were not. You would never be.

The door had spit you out near a small tea shop. It was not run down, exactly, but it was lived in, homey, the wood polished and the chairs worn. You opened the door to the establishment, but found it to be devoid of any patrons. There was only an old man behind the counter, sorting the change with toughened hands, though he looked up when he heard the bell chime announce your entrance.

“Hello, miss,” he said. “I’m afraid we are about to close for the night.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” you said. “I wasn’t wanting tea, anyways. I was just admiring your shop.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, grinning at you. “Though it’s not my shop, so I can’t claim to have any hand in the decor.”

“It smells so lovely,” you said. “It reminds me of a very beautiful thing, though I can’t name which.”

“Flowers?” he guessed. “Maybe a garden full of jasmine blossoms, their petals facing the moon, with a few drops of rain scattered about on their surfaces?”

“Actually, yes,” you said, amazed at his accuracy. “How did you know? That was exactly correct.”

“It’s the new blend of jasmine tea we’re brewing for tomorrow. My nephew picks the flowers himself, so that we can be sure of the condition of the jasmine before we make the tea. It’s the best way to allow the flavors to come through!” the man said.

“Wow,” you said. “I never knew there was so much thought put behind tea. I just drink it.”

“Most people don’t care enough,” the man said with a nod. “That’s what sets our tea apart. It’s only when you pay attention to the most minute details that you can ensure your final product is as close to perfection as can be found in a teacup. It’s a grave sin to think that tea begins and ends with the boiling of water; in truth, it starts when you plant seeds in the soil.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” you said. “Though I hadn’t it until now. Thank you for telling me. I shall pay more attention the next time I have tea; perhaps then I, too, will be able to understand its origins from a mere sip.”

“It takes practice,” the man said. “But no harm ever befell the man who paid attention. Or woman, in this case.”

“Of course,” you said. “But I should leave you to close. I apologize for bothering you in the first place.”

“Don’t apologize,” the man said, waving you off. “It’s always a delight to have a conversation with a willing partner.”

“The delight was mine,” you said.

“Do come again!” the man said. “Perhaps earlier in the day, though. I can serve you tea — or, better, I can make my nephew do it. I think he’s about your age, and he is wanting for friends. But don’t tell him I said that! He’s not aware of it quite yet.”

Your eyes widened at the thought. You had never met someone your own age, nor had you ever had a friend — Quynh and Kuei were your family, for better or for worse, and the servants never dared speak to you beyond the barest of formalities. So, in a way, you were alsowanting for a friend, but you could not tell the man this. Instead, you smiled slightly at him, bowing your head in gratitude.

“I should like that,” you said. “If ever I am nearby again, I will surely come.”

As the night stretched on, the streets began to empty — or was it that you were wandering further and further away from the main crossroads? Regardless, there was certainly a shift in the air, and it was only when you entered a deserted neighborhood that you realized there had been footsteps following you for quite some time now.

Turning around, you saw no one. The streets were devoid of life. The footsteps had stopped, but you could not help the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

Where was the door? It had been long enough — you should’ve been able to find it by now. You should’ve been able to go home by now. But there was no door. You were alone, and you suddenly understood why you had been forbidden from leaving the palace.

“Who goes there?” you said. “I — I am armed, so show yourself, but proceed with caution!”

“Armed?” a voice said. “Don’t fool yourself, your royal highness. Everyone knows you aren’t armed.”

“Your royal — how do you know who I am?” you called out. “Coward! You dare to hide in the shadows and hurl such insults at me?”

Your response was an enormous boulder shooting towards you. You squealed and dropped to the ground, covering your head with your hands as the boulder smashed into the wall behind you, bits of rubble raining down. There was a stinging pain on your knee, and you frowned as you realized that you had scraped it when you had initially dodged.

“What are you doing?” you said. “You will kill me! Stop it! You craven hound, I command you to stop what you are doing and face me like a man! If you cease your actions and explain yourself at once, I shan’t have you put to death. I will even pardon you of your every crime!”

Again, no response, and your heart dropped as you realized that might be his goal. What other reason would the man, who apparently knew your identity, have for attacking you? It was unfathomable, but you were reminded that it had not been so long since your father had been assassinated. Whatever sentiments had driven that attack…what if you had been wrong? What if you were, for whatever reason, the target for the next assassination?

It reminded you of a story, one you had read on the tenth anniversary of your father’s death. You thought it might comfort you, or more specifically your brother, to read the tale of another king who had been assassinated but whose reign had continued on regardless; in truth, though, only one quote had stuck with you, and this quote was neither comforting nor kind.

Sometimes, these things just happen, it had said. Kings are murdered. There isn’t always an explanation. Sometimes, the only reason is the action itself. Sometimes, people just kill for the spectacle of killing.

Maybe that was the case. Maybe you were just going to be killed for the spectacle. The show. The king’s beloved sister, murdered in his own city, the safest city in the entire world.

Right when the second boulder was about to hit you, there was a metallic sound, and then something sliced through the boulder, cutting it in half before it could reach you. When you looked up, there was a man in black standing in front of you, twin blades held in each hand, his posture confident but wary.

“Who are you?” you said. The man did not respond, scanning the area. He must’ve determined it to be safe, as abruptly, he relaxed his stance, sheathing the swords and then shifting to face you.

You could not stop yourself from yelping. Instead of a face, there was a blue mask regarding you, frozen in a grotesque grin, though when you got over your initial surprise, you realized you recognized the guise.

“The Blue Spirit?” you said. He nodded. “I’ve read the play, but I didn’t realize that you were — that you were a real being!”

The Blue Spirit was motionless in the wake of your words. Or, no, that was not correct. It was not that he was motionless, but that every part of his body was constantly shifting and changing, on high alert, so that the sum total was a man that was both ever at rest yet ever moving.

You pulled yourself to your feet, careful not to hurt yourself on the scattered stones surrounding you both, and just then, right behind you, a door appeared. You laughed ruefully at the ironic timing.

“What were you doing here, anyways?” you said. He mimed opening his hand; you did so, your palm facing the sky, though you had no idea what he planned to do with it. But he had saved you, so you thought that there was no harm in trusting him for a moment longer.

He did not do anything as dramatic as grabbing it or carving his name into it. He just dropped something into it, something soft and light and white.

Jasmine flowers. The delicate cups of the blooms were opened, seeking out the moon, and twinkling in the starlight against the silky fibers of the petals were a few drops of water — holdovers, you assumed, from the day’s rainfall.

You closed your fingers over the flowers, careful not to crush them in your fist. You did not know what they meant — an offering? A price? Something else entirely? Regardless, you knew that they were important, and you vowed to reread the story of the Blue Spirit once you returned home, so that you could understand their significance.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers, and also for rescuing me. If we should ever meet again, then I will thank you in a better way, but for now, I have to go. The longer I linger here, the more danger the two of us are put in.”

Opening the door, you took a step in, but before you closed it, you looked over your shoulder, back at where the Blue Spirit had stood. That strange person…you owed him your life. The least you could do was look back at him, afford him a final glance before you sealed yourself away entirely.

When you turned, though, he was already gone. The only proof that he had ever been there in the first place was the flowers in your hand, the pluming dust in the air, and the heart which steadily beat in your chest — that beat which meant you were still alive, at least for now.

You did not stand there and mourn his absence. Allowing the door to swing shut and the passageway to close behind you, you began to walk home.

taglist (comment/send an ask/dm to be added): @rinisfruity14 @c4ttheart

[cherrylovelycherry]

Little boy

pairing. alhaitham x fem!reader cw/genre. slightly angsty, oc 'haitham, happy/bittersweet(?) ending. masterlist! requests open!

The silence is thick as he stares you down. You, and the baby held protectively in your arms. The baby boy’s peering at him with eyes an uncomfortably familiar turquoise green.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Al Haitham asks, words like ash in his mouth. The baby’s a few months old. How had you even hid your pregnancy from him? He knows you weren’t together, knows it was a one time thing, but if he’s the father… “I would’ve helped.”

The baby Y/N held in her arms, instinctively protective, had honey-brown hair like hers and her eyes were turquoise green…like his.

The silence on her part seemed to go on forever. She would open her mouth to say something and then change her mind.

"Mhm. You would have." She spoke finally, in an awkward voice.

Al Haitham's face furrowed slightly at her tone. He demanded an answer, but he wasn't going to press her either, because he assumed she had her reasons. He sighed in irritation before asking again.

"Then why? Why didn't you tell me?" it comes out far harsher than he intends.

Y/N let out a snort of irritation, but took a breath to calm herself as she didn't want her baby to feel the tension she was feeling.

"Because it was risky, besides, you just had a very important position as a Scribe." She spoke, rocking her baby.

A risky proposition? What would have been so risky about telling him? Would he have tried to do away with the child to protect his career?

Is he that cruel?

“Did you think I would…” His words cut off. He knows what he was about to say - that he couldn’t be trusted to react appropriately.

And… is that true? Has he ever given her reason to doubt that?

He’s never done anything like that, so why was that what her first assumption was?

"Yes. I thought of all the options that could have gone wrong for the sake of my son." She commented, giving a heavy sigh. Her little boy was her only priority.

"Do you really think that little of me?" he wants to ask. Do you really think you can’t trust me to do right by our son?

“Why did you think I’d be so harsh with you for having a child? Has our relationship really been that cold? I’m not…” He trails off. Has he truly been so cold?

"Uhm. Yes." She says affirming her questions.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice…" She spoke to herself. "Besides we never had a concrete relationship." she wanted to add but decided to keep it to herself.

"From Dehya to Cyno they noticed that you were too hard and cold when we were together." She commented.

“I was… harsh?” he asks. That is the exact word he would not have used to describe himself in your relationship. Cold, yes, but harsh? Never - in his eyes.

He knows his faults. He knows that he can be cold with you - no warmth. Only, “what’s best,” or, “what’s most practical.”

But harsh? When has he ever been that? Have his words and actions come out so cruel that you saw nothing but a harsh and cold man?

"…haitham."

"Al Haitham!" She called out to him for the third time.

"I was talking to you, I assumed you were deep in thought." She commented to him.

"As usual." She held back from saying.

His eyes snap up to her with those sharp words. No, he's not ignoring her - just thinking.

He's always thinking, his mind endlessly churning. But he has never let that get in the way of listening to you.

"Yeah," he replies, "What were you saying?" He still doesn't want to look away from his son.

"Ah." He let out a sigh, he was getting a little irritated at Al Haitham's lack of attention.

"I was telling you that I named my son-" Her words were cut off, by way of correcting herself.

"I named our son Iker." She finished. Stroking his little boy's cheek.

"Iker…" he repeats, running a hand over his chin as he considers the name.

"It's a beautiful name." His gaze moves to your son, whose small hand is grabbing your finger. It's a good name for him… is what he really wants to say.

Y/N's expression softens as he watches Iker grasp his father's hand.

"Yeah, i know…" Her voice sounds nostalgic for a moment as she looks at the scene in front of her.

There was a momentary silence from both of them, which could not be determined as comfortable or uncomfortable. It was just silence.

"He looks…" his words trail off again. "He looks just like you." How could anything of him be seen in Iker, when the only thing he can see is the image of you imprinted upon him.

"He has your hair and your smile." he adds a moment later, voice low as he leans in to nuzzle the soft tuft of Iker's hair. "He's got your dimples." He thought.

Y/N let out a scoff when he heard him say that.

"Come on, Al Haitham. Iker literally has your eyes and most of your physical features." She spoke, smiling a little.

"I was often told that he looked a lot like his father, because he hardly looked at all like me." She commented quietly in a somewhat disinterested manner.

A small smile crosses his face for a moment, before he looks back down and realizes just how much your son looks like him.

"I've never seen a child so similar to their father." He murmurs quietly. It's almost unsettling. Even down to the shape of his skull - this child's face is a spitting image of his.

You can see a moment pass by, almost as if he's contemplating something. He looks back up at you. "Would you mind…" He asks quietly.

"Uhm?"

"Oh, okay." Y/N holds out Iker for Al Haitham to hold in his arms for a while.

Gently she passes her baby to him, demonstrating how his hands and arms should be positioned.

Your son makes a cooing noise as he gets held by his father for the first time. Al Haitham's expression shifts as he holds the small babe in his arms for the first time.

His gaze flicks back to you again before he speaks, his words hushed as he speaks. "Could I… Could I stay here?" He asks. "Or at least, help you take care of Iker. I'd like to spend time with him."

Y/N's eyes widen as she hears his words.

A surge of different feelings, from negative to positive. She wondered if it was a good idea, after all she didn't want her little boy to grow up without a father figure.

She took a breath before saying, "Yes, yes you can." with an attempt at a smile that was half-hearted as it was more like a grimace. More than anything, she agreed for Iker's sake.

He can see the thoughts running through your head. Emotions running high - joy, anxiety, hope, doubt. "But…" he says quietly, still looking at her. "What about you and I? Do you…" he trails off, not sure how to formulate the next sentence.

"What if we - if we…"

He stops himself again. Maybe it's better not to think about that right now.

For now, he'll just treasure this time with your son.

©cherrylovelycherry do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[cocogum]

Yugo’s ambiguity.

I love to think that the reason why Atone is nonbinary despite being an extension of Yugo is because Yugo physically LOOKS ambiguous when he’s older.

Like my guy looks like an accurate angel if it took human form, not female but not male either. He looks very much like he’s in the middle.

If it wasn’t for the fact that we saw his upper body being exposed in Toross’ world and heard him speak, then I genuinely think that he could’ve been perceived as neither gender or a mix instead.

And his wakfu wings (or antlers as I like to call them) clearly emphasize the angel look even more!

If someone were to take his hat off and build his body to make it look like Grougaloragran’s human body, then we would have the embodiment of ambiguity.

No joke, I genuinely believe Yugo has the face for it.

Even when we see him from the back of his head, we can’t tell if this is a guy or just a girl with short hair.

*This scene was the only one I could find where we get a distinct shot of the back of his head in his adult form*

Every eliotrope gets something from their creator no matter how small or big that physical or mental trait is. Whether it’s his lust for fighting (Bouillon), his cockiness (Sidaire), his stubbornness (Oropo), or even his belief that he can do what he must to properly lead (Ripulse).

*I would’ve actually mentioned the female eliotrope who was in Oropo’s group as well and related a trait of Yugo’s to her but since we didn’t get too much of her in the episode, like even knowing what her name was, I didn’t include her in the enumeration*

So who’s to say Atone doesn’t represent a mental trait of Yugo’s but rather a physical trait?

It would make sense given how Yugo doesn’t actually think he identifies as nonbinary but simply looks ambiguous without even realizing it himself.

I just love to think that’s the case because Atone has honestly been making me wonder what he could have possibly gotten from Yugo. Eliotropes are at their core alter egos of Yugo. They have at least one thing that connects them to him. Like broken glass fragments that complete a mirror when they’re all put together. And Yugo is that mirror.

Atone is an extension of Yugo’s ambiguity and it makes perfect sense.

Yugo has such a good complexion but it’s so vague at the same time that I can definitely see how he could be interpreted as imprecise just by his face alone.

An angel taking human form is exactly what comes to mind when I think about him 💕

So by that logic, having Atone being nonbinary would not only give us a wink at Yugo’s unspoken physical ambiguity, but it would also give us a copy of Yugo if he had been entirely identifying as nothing concrete.

[lucienwrites]

The Monster Keeper - Chapter 1

-pretty much sfw (contraception mentioned), you show up for work the day after the rift appeared, learn about your new duties, and meet your first monster- 1068 words

You had only been working at the zoo for a few months but you were already getting used to the routine. So when you showed up early in the morning for your shift and your boss was already there waiting for you you knew straight away that something was up.

“Good morning (name)” he grinned.

“morning,” you looked at him suspiciously, “what’s going on?”

“Come with me and I’ll explain.” You dropped off your things in your locker, picked up a clipboard off the side and attached a radio to your belt before falling into step beside him. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the incident yesterday?”

“Of course.”

“Well as you know a huge focus of this establishment is conservation and with people being how they are I was certain that these creatures would likely become a myth again if we weren’t careful, so as soon as I heard the news I sent some friends of mine to rescue as many as we had space for. We’re keeping them in our temporary storage for now, just until we can find new homes for the other animals.” You didn’t speak for a moment, taking in the news. Your boss filled the silence “Most of our keepers will have their work cut out for them looking after the regular animals, and after some discussion we have decided that you should be in charge of our new guests.”

“What?!” you exclaim, shocked out of your silence, “I’m sorry but I hardly think I’m qualified-“

“None of us are, these species are entirely new to us all. You are one of the few members of staff who did not assist in the capture so perhaps they will be more inclined to trust you.” You understood his logic but it still seemed unfair. Something told you that the real reason for the decision was that you would be the easiest to replace, but you decided not to say anything. Besides you couldn’t help feeling excited despite the possible danger. The chance to work with creatures you had only read about in stories wasn’t exactly something you could turn down.

“Alright, I’ll try my best, but if I get eaten it’s on you.”

Your boss chuckled “sure”

You reached the temporary storage pens, or the holding cells as you called them. They were hardly fit for anything to live in, just concrete sheds with barred doors like a jail cell.

“I know they’re not ideal,” the boss admitted, “we’ll find better enclosures for them as soon as we can, and that’s part of your job too. We have no idea about any of their preferred habitats, besides the obviously aquatic creatures.”

“So basically I need to find out everything about how to care for these creatures by myself.”

“Pretty much. But if you need anything you know how to get hold of me.” You already knew you wouldn’t be contacting him for anything other than a genuine emergency, there wouldn’t be any point. He would just give you a corporate pep talk and encourage you to sort it out yourself.

“well I think that’s everything, see you later (name)!”

“see ya”. And just like that you were left alone with a clipboard, a radio and 20 concrete boxes concealing beings from another realm. As you were gathering your courage you heard your boss over the radio, “one last thing, are you on any form of birth control at the moment?”

“what??”

“if these creatures can’t get what they need they will try to escape, and we both know that they will succeed.”

“I had my tubes tied last year if you must know, but I’m not sure that I like what you’re implying.”

“Just keep them happy, I don’t care how you do it.”

You sighed, tied your hair back out of the way and approached the first building.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Within the sad, grey, concrete cell there stood a unicorn. It shone iridescent even in such dim light. You felt your chest tighten, hating to see such a beautiful creature kept like this, cowering in a corner. You slowly reached a hand through the bars of the door, fearing it would try to bolt if you opened it.

“It’s alright,” you spoke softly, “I don’t know if you can understand me but I promise I won’t hurt you.”

-I understand you- you heard a voice in your head, neither male nor female. It reminded you of a river, or perhaps distant music. As the unicorn approached, you felt an irresistible urge to bow before it, and so you did. When you raised your head you were looking directly into its eyes. -I believe your words, you do not feel evil-

“thank you,”

-but this place… I fear it will hurt me and others like me whether you mean it to or not-

You nodded, it was right, “I know, but still I will try my best to protect you. The other people who work here have put me in charge of all the creatures from the rift so please, help me take care of you until we can find somewhere safe for you to live.” the unicorn gently placed its cheek against your outstretched palm, its coat velvety soft. You took that as a yes. “I have to ask you some questions to work out what you need, sorry if some of these seem silly.”

-not at all, I will be happy to answer them- Over the next few minutes you learnt as much as you could, scribbling notes on your clipboard. You’d write up a proper chart later, you told yourself.

“so, what do you eat? Is it the same as horses?”

-yes that would be fine, oats, grass, do you have apples here?-

You couldn’t help smiling, horses were horses it seemed, “yeah we have apples, I’ll get you some!” The unicorn whinnied softly and nuzzled into your palm. “I’m sorry but I’m going to have to leave for a while, there are so many other creatures I need to check on and I want to make sure that everyone is safe, but I’ll be back later, and I’ll bring as many apples as I can get my hands on!”

-Thank you, do not worry I understand, I too was a guardian-

You look into its kind eyes and nod in understanding.

[juuuulez]

📰 | part one: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes x Saviour!Reader, female reader I’m so sorry!!!!, mostly scene setting..next chapter will get juicy.

summary: You meet Carl whilst the Satellite station is being raided, where they take you as prisoner.

previous | next

This is gonna be an ongoing fic!!! I’ve already got like,, 8 parts mapped out, but will likely add more stuff here and there. It also currently has no name……but I’ll think of something. It will follow canon loosely, mostly at the start, and then I’ll just diverge into whatever I want to write about LOL. Let me know what you think, if you like it, want more soon etc etc.

It’s Saviour!Reader, with very heavy father-figure Negan because I am sorry but I LOVE HIM! Slow burn, enemies to lovers with Carl, teenage squabbling, you get the gist.

I’m also open for requests!!

It feels like you can’t breathe.

It’s dark, so dark. Almost pitch black, if not for the moonlight shining through the windows, spaced out near the rooftops to allow some visibility. You try to keep your footsteps light, one hand clutched around a metal baseball bat, the other feeling the wall to make sure you don’t trip. Everybody else is asleep.

Everybody else is dead.

You have no idea who’s done this. But it’s multiple people, from what you’ve gathered. A group uninvolved with the Saviours. Until now, you suppose.

It was no secret that your father was a tyrant, and had his fair share of enemies, but this? Talk about retaliation. If you’d been sleeping, too, you’d be dead. Maybe it was some sort of fate that you weren’t. Divine intervention. Whatever, it didn’t matter.

Then an alarm blares, disturbing the calculating silence, awakening anybody who remained unconscious. Panic spreads throughout the satellite station, followed by the relentless noise of machine guns. Your grip on the bat tightens as you sprint down the hallway, searching for salvage, somewhere to hide. They’d overpower you, no doubt. Though you were strong, a dedicated fighter, there was only so much a 17 year old girl could do. Facing them was too risky.

And to come home in a body bag? Not an option; Negan would kill every last person alive.

You round the corner, facing a door that you knew led to a supply room. The perfect hiding spot. So, you check your surroundings, weapon at the ready before entering the small space.

The door slams behind you.

“Hands up.”

You panic, momentarily, yet don’t obey. Spinning on your heels, you meet the source of this threat, a pistol pointed in your direction.

But behind it stands a boy, likely no older than yourself. Messy brown hair, stupid looking hat. Eyepatch. Definitely not a soldier.

He takes your silence as offence, “I said, hands up!” The boy barks at you, pulling back the safety with a distinct click.

It feels like there’s a lump in your throat, yet you speak anyway, arms still caged defensively at your sides. “You wanna kill me?”

The question clearly takes this boy off guard, judging by the way his jaw clenches, displeased by the ambiguous attitude you’re holding.

“Haven’t decided yet.” He answers, tone cold and steely.

But the gun isn’t pointed at your head. It’s a little to the right, just past your ear. If he shot it now, the bullet would hit the concrete wall. Lack of depth perception, you decide. One eye.

And so, you take that chance. With one motion, you’re swinging your bat towards him, using all the strength in your body. For some reason, he doesn’t shoot, but does duck down, the swift motion causing that stupid sheriff’s hat to fall to the ground.

The minuscule moment of shock, uncertainty, is your window of opportunity: it doesn’t take much to barrel towards him, your shoulders colliding with a thud as you disarm the boy, letting the pistol fall to the ground.

You don’t bother to pick it up, kicking the weapon away from the two of you, letting it skid across the concrete and hit the opposing wall. But in the time it takes him to retrieve the gun, you’re already out the door.

It doesn’t take long to navigate your way out of the station. Sprinting through hallways, narrowly avoiding tripping over limp bodies of people you once knew. Then the doors are right there, so close. You could even see cracks of sunrise seeping through the gaps.

Fresh air assaults your face, filling your parched lungs, and it takes everything in you not to fall to the ground in relief.

But it doesn’t matter.

There’s shouting, the figures of people coming into view. It floods your system with panic, suddenly alert at the newfound danger. Your sprinting comes to the stop, skidding on wet grass, blanketed with morning dew.

You fall flat on your ass.

The moment of clumsiness is all it takes for these people to approach you, shouting, demanding a name. A gun in your face. You grit your teeth, spotting the metal bat a few feet away, too far to reach.

And that boy, with the stupid hat. He picks it up. It makes you want to scream.

They demand you take them to Negan. To the next outpost. Locate their friends. There’s talking, bargaining on a radio. You stood in silence, childishly frustrated about being used like a pawn on a board. Exchange of you, for their two friends. That, or they’d kill you.

This immature silence lasts the whole trip.

The handcuffs around your wrists are irritating. There’s an itch on your cheek you can’t scratch. Your shoulders begin to hurt from being twisted into such a position.

But the worst of it? That boy, with his stupid hat, holding your baseball bat.

You swallow your anger.

You swallow your anger as they leave you in the RV to raid the Saviour outpost.

You swallow your anger when they come out with their two friends, but none of yours.

You swallow your anger when they tell you that Negan is dead, he’s been killed. That you’ll be put in a cell until they know what to do with you.

“Let me see the body.” You demand, brows furrowed, attempting to shield your inner confliction. Concern.

The man with the curly hair and beard answers, already distracted, moving onto the next task. Like the life of your father was meaningless. “Ain’t no time, we gotta move. Get back to Alexandria before nightfall.”

You swallow your anger.

Until you can’t anymore.

It hasn’t even been that long. The end to a long, gruelling day. At least, it appears to be, judging by the dimming light seeping through tiny windows. You’ve never been in a prison cell before. Though, granted, it was probably time you got some semblance of consequence for your morally-grey actions.

There’s footsteps. Once person approaching, then another walking away. Keeping guard on your cell, you presume. The same process had happened twice already.

Except this time, the footsteps continue a little further. The jingle of keys, a metal door creaking open.

Then he’s standing in front of you, on the other side of the bars. You want to burn that stupid hat.

“Your hat looks stupid.”

His face twists, brows furrowed, but otherwise ignores the harsh statement. The hat remains on his head.

“What’s your name?” He asks, standing a few meters away, warily. As if he’s afraid you’ll squirm through the bars and attack him. Maybe that’s a good thing.

You don’t answer.

But the boy continues talking anyway, “Mine’s Carl.”

It’s like an olive branch, a truce. An ounce of humility amongst this whole, terrible experience.

You roll your eyes, but tell him your name anyway. Carl seems to take this as permission to continue, as he now sits down on the cold concrete floor, though still maintains the distance between the two of you.

“Were your parents back there?” He asks you, though doesn’t sound particularly curious, nor judgemental. It’s that same, weird, stony tone. Like he only wants to know simply for the benefit of information.

So, you humour him.

With a shrug, you mumble, “No.”

“Is Negan your dad?” Carl asks almost immediately, already having a path of conversation in mind. This boy knows what he wants, and intends on figuring it out. That, or he’s just really blunt.

Once again, you shrug, giving a pointed look that conveys how you don’t intent to cooperate.

In response, Carl narrows his eyes, taking your lack of cooperation as hostility.

A few moments pass, and he’s getting up again, storming towards the door. The keys jingle. Metal creaks.

And he’s gone.

Another few days pass.

Nobody had interacted with you; it felt like you were going insane. Four walls and a dinky bed.

At least Carl tried to talk to you, nobody else seemed interested.

Until the curly-haired man is back, who you presume is named Rick, and is getting you out of the cell, once again adorning handcuffs.

“You’re going to Hilltop,” He tells you, snapping your wrists together once more, but this time offers the reprieve of cuffing your hands in front of you, “Somebody will watch you, give you a new home. You misbehave? It’s back in the cell.”

Though displeased, you have no choice but to follow. Suspicion stews in your gut, as these people appear to be in a rush, ever so slightly frantic. An energy in the air.

You remain impartial, annoyance radiating from your being as they drive, all these people packed into an RV. Everybody is having their seperate conversations, though you remain alone, handcuffed at the back of the vehicle.

A few hours in… and the road is blocked.

Blocked by people. A few cars parked nearby.

Disruption stirs in the RV, weapons suddenly gripped, prepared for a threat. Just before Rick can go to investigate: you hear it.

Whistling.

Your face must clearly light up, a hint of hope, and you’re rushing to stand. Though you can only make it two steps forward, deeper into the RV, when suddenly hands are gripping your shoulders, a firm hold keeping you in place.

Keeping you from escaping.

You twist and turn, aggressive curses leaving your mouth, but are unable to fully face your captor.

But from the corner of your eye, you see the rim of that that stupid, stupid hat.

[honkytonk-hangman]

Goodness! Gracious!

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: You wouldn't say you were trying to give your 'Uncle' Mav a taste of his own medicine, after all, it was him who introduced you to Rooster in the first place, but you weren't exactly trying to spare the man, either.

Notes: Reader is named Grace for ease of writing, and is Charlie Blackwood's daughter. I headcanon Charlie as a lesbian like her actress, but have not described reader with any traits aside curly hair. this is just a little thing that has been on my mind, idk yet if i'll write more, but let me know!

I would love to hear any feedback!!! <3

Masterlist

“Hello? Anyone home?” you call out, slipping your sunglasses off to better see inside the slightly dishevelled space in front of you, also taking a moment to remove the scarf from your head, and place both items in your purse. A sound that could only belong to a heavy tool as it clatters to the ground somewhere further inside the building, followed by a sharp scraping noise on the bare concrete flooring, like a stool being kicked out of place hurriedly at the sudden appearance of visitors. You straighten up, giving your head a much-practised gentle little shake that you know  tousles your curls perfectly every time.

You take a few steps further into the open hangar bay door, the soft echo of the approaching footsteps making you turn, and you can’t stop yourself from grinning with genuinely excitement at the sight of the man who steps out from behind one of several tall crates, looking around curiously as he wipes an already blackened cloth over his hands, however he falters when he spots you, the rag quickly tossed to the nearest surface as his own face lights up in a wide smile.

“Grace?!” Maverick exclaims in a mixture of surprise and disbelief, not only at your impromptu stop by at his Hangar, but at your presence on the West Coast as a whole. Regardless of any confusion though, he hurries toward you, wrapping you up in a warm hug that you more than happily return, holding onto Mav tightly for a few seconds before you break away again.

“What are you doing here?” Mav asks, his hands holding your shoulders now as if he was getting a good look at you for the first time in years, despite the fact that you were in regular contact. “I thought your Mom said something about you being North of the border until after Christmas!?” he goes on to add, his brows furrowing in concern. You roll your eyes playfully, and flick your hair.

“How that woman works for the bloody Pentagon mystifies me sometimes,” you chortle, and shake your head again. “No, I was asked to take the lead on a project up at the headquarters in Canada, but… I… I actually quit,” you reveal the truth like ripping a bandaid off, although you know telling Maverick the news was never going to be the hardest part.

His face converts briefly into shock before it deepens once more into concerns, his hands squeeze your shoulders firmly, and he takes half a step closer to you as if to conceal your conversation from the prying ears of his various boxes and crates.

“What happened, are you alright?” he sounds a little flustered as he asks, unsure what to even begin asking, but you quickly raise a hand to rest on one of his own outstretched ones and give it a warm pat and a reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine, Mav, I know it’s kinda outta the blue, but it’s not for any bad reason…” you trail off realising although Maverick was the easier person to admit your truth to, explaining the whys seemed to suddenly become much harder.

Maverick nods carefully, but adjusts his tone and expression to match your own calm. You shrug, briefly looking away from him and toward the Cessna you can now see is tucked toward the back of the left side of the hangar. You squint at it, but force yourself to look back at Mav before speaking again.

“I don’t know how to explain it to you, or mom. I just realised I wasn’t happy anymore…” you swallow shakily and shrug your shoulders as best you can with Mav’s hands still holding them. You see his eyes searching your features but something very quickly in his demeanour relents and he softens.

“Hey, you don’t need to explain anything. Knowing that you weren’t happy is more than enough for me,” he tells you, and it’s almost embarrassing how immediately your heart becomes lighter.

“All my life I never had to worry about what I was going to do,”

“Your mom’s used to love it when you’d get asked what you wanted to be when you got older, and you’d confidently shout ‘Aeronautical Engineer’.” Mav chuckles warmly, and you can;t help but share his smile.

“Except for that one year-long period I wanted to be a Naval Aviator, like you,” you remind him, making him nod in vague remembrance.

“Remind me, was it the Cessna 172 flight I took you on that changed your mind?” he asks, earning an immediate embarrassed groan from you.

“God, you’d think at sixteen I’d have given more thought to what flying was actually like…” you roll your eyes, but you both share another laugh at the memory of you begging Mav not to tell your Mom’s how much you’d hated the surprise they’d organised for you, though you’d missed the knowing look the three adults had shared over lunch later.

Mav gives you a final little check-over as the laughter softens, and he squeezes your shoulders once more, before finally dropping his hands.

“I’m guessing the reason I haven’t already heard about this from your mom is because she doesn’t know…?” Maverick ventures, knowing Charlie would have forgone her usual email, and gone straight for a video-call to share news like this.

“... I know I need to tell her, but I just wanted to have something else figured out first, or a plan, or a…” you trail off knowing you had no real reason good enough for not telling her. “... I don’t want her to be disappointed in me…”

Maverick gives you a soft ‘tsk’ as he shakes his head, but his expression remains soft and he reaches out to take one of your fidgeting hands.

“Grace, believe me when I say I know how you feel. When your mom believes in you, it feels like that's all you could ever need to succeed, but as hard as it can be to feel like you’re going to let her down, if I’ve learned anything in the past thirty-something years, it’s that there's no such thing as disappointing Charlie Blackwood.”

You stare at him, feeling a little disbelief at his sentiments, but knowing for a fact that he of all people wouldn’t lie to you about this. You open your mouth to try and say something, anything, but before you can, he tightens his grip on your joined hands and gives you a knowing little smile.

“I know you have to learn that for yourself, but don’t sell her short, alright?” he asks, making your mouth shut tightly, but after a few moments you give him a short smile. He squeezes your fingers a final time before releasing you and placing his hands on his hips.

“So you planning on hiding out on the West Coast, then?” Mav asks lightly, as if you hadn’t just had a day-altering conversation with him. You nod a few times to clear your head, and cough away the tightness in your throat.

“I was actually hoping I could convince you to give me the keys to Mom’s chalet… at least until I find somewhere to stay,” you tell him.

Maverick’s eyebrows shoot up slightly, but he nods.

“You’re planning on staying out here a while then?” he asks, and you shrug, but relent your coyness quickly.

“I’ve got a job here in San Diego. How about I tell you and Penny about it over dinner soon?” you offer, feeling an edge of excitement fill your voice again. Maverick considers you for a few seconds, before dropping his hands from his hips as he nods.

“That sounds great. You know, you’re welcome to stay with Penny and I, but I think the chalet is probably more ideal while you get back on your feet.” he says in that way that tells you he really did understand you on a level many people just didn’t.

You open your mouth to reply something about living with newlyweds when you’re cut off by the sudden slamming of a car door behind you, the approach of another car going entirely unnoticed by the both of you in the midst of your heart-to-heart, but there’s mistaking the voice that immediately follows arrival.

“Mav?” this time the voice is closer, letting you make out the deepness and slight rasp this time. You turn to the open hangar door that you’d entered only minutes prior, where the silhouette of a tall, seemingly very fit man stands admiring your ride, and mimicking the way Maverick had just been stood with his hands on his hips, the man gets a good eyeful of your baby and lets out an impressed whistle.

The newcomer is only just pulling himself away from admiring your car when Maverick steps past you, holding a hand out to make introductions. Immediately once the taller man has stepped past the threshold, you take note of the way his eyes barely touch on Mav at all, instead snapping straight to your figure. You’re glad you decided to put a little more time into your appearance today, glad you’d bothered securing your hair with a scarf.

The stranger is both very tall and extremely fit, like you’d glimpsed from his shadow, but now that he nears and removes his sunglasses, you’re treated to the rest of his handsome features, strong and confident, his honey brown hair short but curling in slight waves where it’s been allowed to grow a little longer. His face is clean shaven except for a thick, dark moustache that he honestly pulls off more than you think he has any right to.

He seems vaguely familiar, you think, and briefly before Maverick speaks again, you see him come to the same thought.

“Rooster, you remember Grace Blackwood, don’t you? Charlie’s daughter?” Mav asks just as the man, Rooster comes to a stop in front of you.

“I think you were still a kid last time you saw each other,” Mav says mostly to you, but your memory has already been jogged, though you’re most familiar with Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw from name alone, hearing about the fallout between he and Mav from your mother more than anything.

“Right, the future aerospace engineer, right?” Rooster asks, lips quirked up as he clearly gives you another once-over, though this time attempting to be more subtle about it. “You get around to building that mega-sonic jet yet?” he asks, making your eyebrows tilt up into your hairline.

“I’m surprised you remember that,” you tell him truthfully with a laugh, but don’t bother to let yourself be embarrassed. “But no, mega-sonic technology has yet to be harnessed. But you’ll be one of the first to hear about it once it is,” you add warmly.

You recall then the time you had discovered that the older boy harboured dreams of being a Naval Aviator like Uncle Mav, and had subsequently cornered him for the afternoon, insisting that he take a look through your portfolio of various jet plane designs complete with detailed notes. To his credit, you remembered that he had spent an acceptable amount of time looking over each design, and had even asked you questions your mom’s or Mav hadn’t thought of.

“Do you prefer Rooster or Bradley these days?” You ask when the memory has passed you by, noticing how he seems to jump at your words, seemingly distracted completely. Your smile widens more and you cock your head.

“Rooster, Rooster is fine,” he tells you, shaking your hand firmly when you offer your own, his eyes locked on yours.

“Still go by Gracie?” he prompts after a moment's silence, neither of you seeming to realise that although having completed your handshake, you now simply stood with entwined hands. You wonder if it’s a coincidence that his gaze dips at the same moment your skin prickles with goosebumps, brought on solely by your name on his lips.

“Definitely,” you tell him. No reason occurs to you in that moment to tell him that you hadn’t allowed anybody to call you ‘Gracie’ since you were about thirteen, not even the men you’d dated since.

Maverick clears his throat loudly, and both you and Rooster tear your eyes apart, followed quickly by your hands. The older man looks between the two of you with as much evenness as he can seemingly muster, though you notice he gives Rooster a longer, sharper gaze.

“I’ll grab those keys for you Grace,” Mav tells you, his eyes swinging back to you and you blink at the slightly narrowed look of warning you find there. Unable to do anything but blink innocently, he seems to hesitate before stepping away, back toward the trailer in the back.

You watch Maverick jog back to his trailer, before shifting your gaze to the man in front of you. To your amusement you find him also following Mav’s retreat, though his eyes snap down to yours quickly as if sensing them on him.

“You’re hanging around San Diego?” he asks simply, making you wonder how much he’d heard about you since he and Mav had made up.

“That’s the plan. I start a new job next week,” you inform him, earning a frown of curiosity from him, and he cocks his head.

“Mav said something about you making it big with Lockheed–”

“–Changed my mind,” you cut him off quickly, feeling anxiety beat loudly against your chest, but it’s silenced almost immediately when Rooster swivels his eyes away from you, nodding as he does.

“Fair enough,” he replies after a moment, still not looking back at you, almost as if he could sense your nervousness. Clearing your throat and tousling your hair for your own confidence alone, you straighten and let a coolness enter your demeanour once more. Rooster looks back then, eyes studying you lightly.

“It’s still kinda new… so who knows how it’ll go…” you tell him, shrugging. He shrugs back, but nods once.

“Least you’re going for it. Most people would rather stay comfortable than take a chance on the unknown… Even if things don’t go how you plan, I doubt you’ll look back in ten years time and regret trying.”

You blink in surprise at Rooster’s words, and for the first time during this entire re-introduction, you get a real sense of the man he’d become in the years since you’d seen him last, and if anything, you find yourself drawn in even more by that than all his tender gazes and unsubtle flirting combined.

“Thank you, Bradley,” you say softly, ducking your head briefly before meeting his eye again. “I needed that.”

You see him smile, before his eyes flicker to movement over your shoulder and he clears his throat, adjusting to point back at your car parked in plain view.

“You sure you won’t let me take her for a spin?” He says loudly, almost confusing you before you hear Mav’s trailer door shut behind you. Placing your hands on your hips you shake your head, playing along.

“Look, I only just convinced mom to give her to me, and I’m not risking her just cause some  flyboy pilot bats his eyelashes at me!” you reply, earning an amused side glance from the flyboy in question.

“Well if your heart ever thaws some…” Rooster trails off just as Maverick joins you once more, appearing convinced by the faux-argument.

“Rooster, I wouldn’t set your heart on it,” Maverick tells him, handing you the keys to your Mom’s North Island chalet. You spin them showily, and can’t help yourself from sending the other man a wink.

“But hey, maybe if you ask nicely, one day I’ll take you for a ride,” you say innocently, watching as Rooster blinks down at you, eyes widening slightly as he processes your double entendre, just as Mav coughs and claps his hands together.

“Don’t let us hold you up any longer, Grace, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do,” Mav suggests, making you roll your eyes, but you take his dismissal easily, leaning in to give him a brief, tight hug. When you pull away, Rooster makes no move other than to shove his hands in his pockets and give you a seemingly friendly nod.

“Don’t hesitate to ask if you need any help settling in,” he says, sounding flippant enough, though his eyes tell you a different story.

You bid both men goodbye and saunter purposefully toward your baby, making a show of climbing in, fixing your scarf over your curls, and lastly, slipping your shades back over your eyes. You can see Rooster still in place, hands on his hips again as he watches you start the engine, only turning away from you when something from behind him causes him to jump. Your amused grin is the last thing he must see as he turns away from you, and you can’t help but wear it the entire way home.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

just that still sort of quiet

Happy Christmas to the lovely @minky-for-short! Love you sweetie <33

Want more soft jmart dads? I have you covered. Let's not think too hard about why we need this.

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

------

Jonathan Sims has always had trouble sleeping, even now he's left most of his demons in the past.

But tonight, he's not the only one.

-----

Jon had given up on asking why can’t I sleep a long time ago.

There were just too many answers to that question, enough that it was pointless to wonder. Like asking, of the entire house that collapsed on top of him, which precise brick had struck him in the back of the head and killed him. 

It used to just be plain old insomnia, a childish fear of what he’d see if he closed his eyes, an inability to give up that much control in a life where he already couldn’t convince people he was a boy and they’d all got it wrong. 

Then he grew and it was the bumps of coke at the weekend parties, the cup after cup of bitter black coffee, the books he’d buried himself in so he’d have an excuse to live in the university library and keep his life neatly organised and Harvard referenced. So at least the myriad ways in which he was falling apart were tucked away and organized. 

When he lost even that small amount of routine, the reasons shifted and became more stark. Suddenly, it was the tangled, hopeless mess between his ears that kept him up. It was the sticky black ink inside him that had soon leaked out and drowned him, no matter how neatly pressed his suit was or how brightly the brass nameplate on his door rang out Head Archivist . He hadn’t slept for days at a time back then, though it had actually been the least of his worries. The paranoia, the concrete certainty that the moment he closed his eyes, the horrors chasing him would sink their teeth in. Rest had been impossible, until his brain had simply boiled over. Sleep caught up with Jonathan Sims so hard he came close to never waking up. 

But now that inky blackness had a name, a neat little label and a prescription ticket. Undiagnosed schizophrenia, autism with no accommodations and a healthy dose of the bargain bin insomnia that had been plaguing him since he was a child. He saw a therapist once a week, a couples counselor once a month with Martin, he took the medications they prescribed him and was honest about when they couldn’t keep the bad thoughts out. The horrors finally crystallized, he realised the things he’d run from had been shadows on the walls of his own mind and, more importantly, there were ways to fight back. 

But Jon still couldn’t sleep some nights and he’d finally given up on wondering why. But he did know what to do about it now.

They slept so tangled together it was impossible to extract himself without waking up his boyfriend. Sure enough, Martin stirred as Jon squirmed out of his arms, threw his legs over the edge of their bed and felt around blindly for his slippers. He made a noise that was almost his name, one sleep glazed eye opening past the bird's nest of auburn curls. 

“I’m okay,” Jon whispered soothingly, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Just can’t sleep, that’s all.”

Martin scrubbed a hand against his face, “Need me? S’okay if you do, I’m up…”

The last part was an adorably obvious lie but Jon had slowly learned to believe Martin when he offered him help. If he asked him to come with him, to sit and watch the rain for a few hours or put the kettle on and talk about the weight on his chest, he would. The certainty of it, the solid, warm presence of his love was enough to make Jon smile as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of those messy curls. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he murmured, tugging the duvet up over his broad shoulders, “You go back to sleep. I’ll come get you if I need you.”

Martin sank back down into the blankets with a sigh, back to softly snoring by the time Jon had belted his dressing gown. So much of him didn’t want to leave that warmth, ached to be back in the safe circle of his arms, listening to his heartbeat against his ear. But the itch had firmly settled into his brain by now, the restless static that pushed him to close the door and pad as quietly as possible down the hallway to their flat’s little sitting room. 

Shelley was asleep on the sofa, curled up in her favourite place where the sag in the leather was particularly deep. She opened one golden eye to regard her owner as he shuffled past, yawning and stretching to follow him into the kitchen like he should be grateful she’d deigned to get up for him. 

And he was, scooping her up and letting her perch across his shoulders like she always did, scratching behind the one ear she had left until she was purring contentedly.

“I’d feel worse about waking you up too but you have all day to sleep,” Jon murmured softly, smiling when she butted her striped head against his rough cheek.

He flicked the switch on the kettle, wincing at how loudly the old thing rattled, but it was worth it once he had a warm mug between his hands, breathing in the lavender scented steam. He’d insisted stubbornly for years that herbal teas had never helped with his insomnia since he was small until, after weeks of searching, Martin came home with a brand that was almost exactly the blend Jon’s grandmother would give him as a child, the precise ratios of lavender to passion flower to lemon balm. How he’d done it, Jon would never know but after one long inhale, he could feel his muscles unwinding and his nerves settling, if a little begrudgingly. 

Machen and Irving were asleep on the rocking chair, the two kittens curled up so close that it was impossible to see where one began and the other ended, just a lump of soft black fur. Jon felt bad, making them move when they looked so peaceful, though their indignant cheeping settled as soon as they could curl up in his lap and dig their tiny needle claws into the terry cloth fabric of his dressing gown. 

Jon somehow juggled their two newest additions, a mug of tea and the cat around his neck without scalding anyone, settling back and reaching for one of the books on the side table. Not the books he’d usually turn to, just a stack of dog-eared romance paperbacks from the library closest to their flat, but they were perfect for distracting his brain when it wouldn’t slow down. He could send his mind to some far off beach that didn’t really exist or some quaint little fictional town, bemusedly watch two one dimensional love interests fall in cliched, inevitable love. Hopefully, while it was gone, his body could be free to collapse. 

Jon set himself rocking, nudging the chair into a comforting, rhythmic motion, one hand holding the book while the other stroked across Irving’s back. He started to flick through pages, beginning to believe it was starting to actually work, that his eyelids were getting heavy, his limbs getting that lead feeling, his breathing slowing…

Until it occurred to him that tracking his body this obsessively probably meant it wasn’t working at all.

Jon closed the book on the couple’s ridiculous miscommunication before the grand declaration of love, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh. It always went like this, he’d shift all his anxiety from whatever woke him to the act of getting back to sleep, pulling him further away in the process. Whatever had caused his eyes to open, a bad dream or a phantom ache from a long time ago or the new mundane stresses he’d earned, getting them closed again always felt like he was trying to climb an impossibly steep cliff. 

“What’s the matter, daddy?”

Jon jumped so hard he sent the two kittens in his lap skittering away like puffs of smoke dissipating. Shelly dug her claws into his shoulder, hanging on grimly and giving Jon a low rumble of annoyance like it was his fault for having a heart attack.

And of course Gertrude Sims didn’t even blink, just staring up at her daddy like she was just waiting for him to collect himself and answer her question. 

“You’re going to have to stop doing that to me, darling,” Jon wheezed, only just remembering to whisper, “It’s that or we tie a bell to you.”

“Like the kittens,” Gertie beamed that sunshine smile she had, the one that erased any lingering doubt that she was a clone of Martin. 

The only thing she’d gotten from Jon was his eyes.

“I suppose so,” Jon chuckled softly, reaching out and putting his hand on her cheek, “What are you doing out of bed, darling? It’s so late.”

Gertie leaned into his hand, so close her little cheek squished, “Daddy was up so I thought maybe it was time to be up? Time to go to the museum and see the butterflies?”

Jon felt a prickle of guilt, shifting so he could take his little girl in his arms. She clambered up excitedly, sitting in his lap and resting her head against his chest so her fluffy hair tickled his nose. She’d grown so much in the four years she’d been alive, Jon would always miss the days he could hold her in one hand, but his arms had always found a way to fit around her. He’d make sure they always did. 

“I’m sorry, darling, it isn’t time to go to the museum just yet,” Jon sighed, “I should be in bed, I just…I can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Gertie plucked at his dressing gown, “How come?”

Jon hesitated for a moment before deciding to answer honestly, “I…I don’t really know. All sorts of reasons, I suppose.”

Gertie absorbed that, he could almost hear the gears clicking inside her mind. Jon felt the same sense of needling dread he always did when he’d tried to explain the way his mind worked, to teachers, to doctors, to the therapists he’d tried in the past. That feeling of cracking open his chest for them, having to watch the poorly disguised horror on their faces as they examined all the parts of him that were wrong. 

There was only one person who he was able to open up to without that fear. And fortunately, Gertie was just like her papa.

“Daddy’s scared?” she mumbled, turning her face towards his. 

Jon swallowed, feeling his hands shake as they lay against her back, “Yes. Sometimes I’m just scared, Gertie. And it makes it hard to sleep.”

His daughter shifted, sitting up and craning her little neck to clumsily kiss Jon’s forehead. 

“It’s okay to be scared,” she hummed, her voice bright with that sunshine she always seemed to radiate, “I’m right here.”

Jon felt his throat close, a rush of emotion surging up from his chest. It wasn’t constricting like fear, like panic, it was an embrace, something solid and sure that anchored him when he was drifting away. The kind of tightness that said I’ve got you and I won’t let go.

Because how many times had he said those words, kissed his little girl in the exact same spot on her forehead as he pulled the covers up to her chin and tucked them close around her. On nights she couldn’t sleep because of bad dreams or the rain drumming too loudly on the windows or the colic she’d had when she was small, Jon and Martin had dug furrows in their carpet walking her back and forth, feeling her grow heavy in their arms as sleep finally found her. No matter how early in the morning it was, how long she’d wailed, there would always be that twinge of regret as he’d laid her down in her cot or her bed. 

So Jon had made that promise for both of them. I’m right here. And he’d meant it with every cell of his body. 

“Thank you, Gertie,” he rasped, holding her little face in his hands, “I feel a lot better now.”

Gertie nodded happily, all perfect confidence, “Always does!”

Jon held her tight for a moment, just because he needed to. The kittens came slinking back over, jumping up and curling against Gertie’s side, Shelley began to purr like a busted old engine. Jon rocked them for a long while, listening to his daughter’s steady breathing, feeling his anxious heartbeat slow to match her own. For a perfect half hour, he didn’t need anything more than that.

“We should try and get some sleep, I think,” he eventually murmured, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Gertie gave a little wriggle of excitement as Jon stood with her in his arms, walking her down the hall to her bedroom, “Going to the museum! See the dinosaurs and the butterflies and the big whale!”

Jon chuckled softly. The Museum of Natural History was their daughter’s favourite place, she’d been looking forward to their visit all week. 

“We are…” he settled her back down into the bed, smiling as Shelley immediately unwound herself from his neck to snuggle up next to Gertie, “Sweet dreams, darling, I love you.”

“Love you too, daddy,” she smiled as he kissed her forehead, in just the right place, “And you have sweet dreams too.” 

“I think I will,” Jon waited until her eyes were closed, until the rising and falling of her chest settled into something soft, “I’m right here.”

Jon knew he should go back to his own room, leave the door ajar so the streetlight filtering in from the living room windows would soften the darkness. He should curl up in Martin’s arms, relax into the warmth of the people who loved him most, he should be finally, finally sleeping. 

But he would stay awake just a little longer, perching on his daughters bed and watching her dream of butterflies and blue whales.

There were plenty of reasons Jon couldn’t sleep. But she was his favourite.

[equallyloyalandlethal]

Okay, lemme be real with people for a sec.

Tw: bullying, harassment, mention of past suicidal ideation.

There’s a lot of shit running around right now about me and my friends and people that know/associate with me, and I’m done hearing it or letting it perpetuate without addressing it. Like, beyond done to the point that the attempts to shame, demean, belittle, bully, and harass me and mine have become laughable rather than any sort of impactful.

There are parties with whom I once associated that are claiming me and mine have been non-stop bullying and harassing them for months. This is categorically untrue.

For the record, I’ve NEVER bullied anyone. As someone who has considered taking my own life because of being on the receiving end of it as a child, that accusation is appalling. The folks at the root cause of these rumors on the other hand have done nothing but harass and quite frankly ACTUALLY bully us. Here is what they’ve sent me in the last three hours:

As a measure of safety, both theirs and mine though they don’t show the same courtesy via trashing me and my friends on their various platforms, I won’t name names or the server in question. This isn’t about showcasing their awful behavior, however I think the above asks speak for themselves quite plainly. If they could produce things of a similar caliber, they would, but I have not engaged in such behavior. The one potential instance they might be able to produce is this:

Now, admittedly, this was probably not the best thing to read as an author when they were invited into my friends and I’s server, however it wasn’t meant in malice. I was honestly very excited for their story, to the point that I made a photo edit for it.

Additionally, this was their reaction when they saw it, as far as I’m aware:

And when they asked me for help betaing I gave options and checked in with them throughout. I received nothing but praise:

Yet, this is what they have to say now:

If they had come to me honestly about any negative feelings we could have had a conversation and handled things in a positive, rational manner. However it took me interacting with some new friends to find out that they were saying I was bashing their fic and work in general while they in turn were doing just that to my own work.

I can respect someone telling me they don’t jive with my writing or stories. Not every piece is for every person, that’s kind of the point of fandom. But when it’s done in a way that’s entirely detrimental and derisive of my skills overall with no consideration for the fact that at the time I thought we were friends, then I feel the need to speak up.

Why did I ban them from MY personal server, my safe space with friends? The revelation that they were in fact trashing my work behind my back and intended to have me waste time helping them without ever using the help. I felt betrayed and used and like the bad end of a worse punchline.

Some people are cruel and unkind, that’s just the truth of things. But that’s a reflection of them and not me or anyone that’s interacted with them, and it’s certainly not a reason to act the same way.

We are not the problem, and things like the asks above/at the beginning of this post are simply proof of that.

If the people in question want to step forward and supply their own proof as to how I’ve personally bullied, harassed, insulted, demeaned, or any other such negative thing, please feel free. If you have concrete evidence of it, as unintentional as it would have been, I’d love to know so I can avoid repeating it in the future. If there’s room in this for me to grow from it and become a better person, I would like to, so genuinely if you have something to show me that explicitly demonstrates how I’ve harmed or harassed you or others close to you, share it with me.

But if you can’t, then please stop calling us the ones looking for drama. That’s ALL on you at this point. YOU’RE the ones going public. YOU’RE the ones slamming with names and using your platforms to doxx us all. If the drama keeps on, it’s solely from the fact that you and your friends are feeding the fire with your own feelings.

I, for one, am not looking for it, even despite this post. I simply felt the need to put a stop to the rumor mill before it spun out of control. As always, there are two sides to any story, and people are encouraged to share theirs, however in that same vein, so too are me and mine allowed to share ours.

All this to say, essentially, fuck bullying in fandom spaces.

We as a community need to move past such pedantic behavior and focus on keeping the spirit of our beloved fandom safe havens protected. In the endeavor of making it as great and prolific as it used to be, we are all equally responsible.

Let’s all aim to make fandom fun again rather than tearing each other to bits and pieces.

[thunderhel]

Fratt Week Day 1 - Blood

Pairing: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock Word Count: 2089 Rated T Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Blood, Not quite actually Fratt yet, More Frank just making some observations

I haven't actively participated in anything fandom or posted any writing in over a year so shout out to @frattweek for giving me the inspiration to actually do something. Even if that something is writing 2k in a day and posting it unedited because it's late and I'm already a day behind 😬

Read on AO3

Frank thought a lot of things about Red.

About The Devil. Daredevil. Murdock. Matt.

All stupid names in Frank’s opinion. Red suited him better.

The Devil was probably the stupidest of all. I didn’t pick it, Frank. Though Daredevil wasn’t much further behind. Again, I didn’t pick it. Murdock was so unfortunate he almost felt bad for little Red, having to deal with that on top of everything else life had heaped onto him. I genuinely can’t tell if you’re just trying to be rude or if you’re actually just racist. Matt was too human. I…Frank, I am human. You know that right?

Frank knew. He just liked, every now and again, to hear Red say it out loud. Maybe to remind Frank, but maybe also a little to make him remind himself.

They didn’t always fight together. They didn’t even frequently fight together, but sometimes things just lined up in a way that Frank refused to classify as either good or bad, and they ended up on the same trail.

It had been the same shit as always, just under a different name. Drug dealers this time. The real deal, not kids trying to be inconspicuous in the alleyways, but the main runners, meeting suppliers at what was supposed to be an empty warehouse. The drugs weren’t the reason Frank nor Red were really after them, but putting a stop to that felt like a bonus.

They’d split up shortly after they’d arrived, Red slipping in through an open window, high enough it hadn’t been considered a priority to guard, while Frank had taken the perimeter, eliminating any threats -with beanbag rounds, Red, don’t be a bitch about it- before they could notice anything was amiss inside.

The bored guards outside hadn’t been an issue, but the armed security just past the bay doors had given Frank a bit of a run for his halfhearted promise to try to use nonlethal force. The problem was, nonlethal was much more difficult and time consuming than simply painting the concrete with brain matter, which meant Frank was slightly behind schedule when he finally made it to the sounds of Red’s fight.

He had intended to be backup, and he didn’t intend on slouching the responsibility. Frank took up his position alongside a wall of half broken crates, the stock of his gun pressed hard to his shoulder just in case anyone seemed about to slip past Red’s defenses, but he doubted he would be needed. Not with the way Red was fighting tonight.

It’s something my dad used to say, Red had told him one night, speaking low and slightly detached, the way he always did whenever he shared something about himself. About his past. There never seemed to be any rhyme or reason to his sudden decision to share. Frank half wondered if he was just talking to himself when he did, forgetting Frank was even there. When he’d go dead eyed in the ring and just turn into a monster as he beat the shit out of the other guy. He called it ‘letting the Devil out’.

Frank had never met Red’s old man, and he knew exactly three facts about him. He was a boxer, Red had loved him more than anything in the world, and if his version of letting the devil out was anything even close to Red’s, he was a fucking force to be reckoned with.

Because Red didn’t act like that devil business was a metaphor. Red was a fucking demon when he fought.

For everything he’d done and everywhere he’d been, Frank knew he’d never seen anything move the way Red fought. He moved like he was created to fight, like everything else he could possibly do with his life was just tossed on at the end like a bonus if he ever got bored of the incredible way the universe had decided to put him together. Every move was coordinated, almost liquid in the way he ducked below punches and arched himself out of the way of kicks.

Everything about him was power and speed, moving in ways Frank knew he hadn’t been able to bend at even in his prime, before delivering hits hard enough that Frank could hear the other guy’s bones snap from across the room. A pipe flew clumsily past Red’s head and he dispatched of its thrower so quickly, Frank wasn’t even sure exactly what he did to get the guy to make that exclamation of pain before he was slumping to the ground in a spray of blood.

A few drops of it hit Red’s chest plate, but the marks were lost among the myriad of streaks already decorating it. The red and black of his stupid devil suit made it hard to tell what was clean and what was filthy with blood, but the entire picture came together to create something so unsettlingly otherworldly that it hardly mattered. Blood streaked across his mask and was running over his chin, either from a lost tooth or a broken nose, or maybe none of it was his at all.

The bandages on his hands were a darker red, the color so thick it looked like they’d been dyed and not just stained. Blood was flecked and splattered across his chest, the wet spots glowing against the matte red and black. It was running down his chin, dripping onto his neck in a way that reminded Frank of an animal after a hunt. If he had turned right then and had taken a bite out of one of the men on the ground, Frank couldn’t say he would have been too terribly surprised.

Red tilted his head in that unnatural way he had, assessing the last man lying prone at his feet, or maybe the room as a whole. His shoulders were still hunched, fists curled at his sides as he remained locked in fight mode, his body clearly uncertain how to proceed without something else in front of him to punch. His lips curled back in what might have been a grin or a snarl or maybe just an animal reaction to the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Frank, for all his flaws, was 100% human. There was no mutation, no alien DNA or secret government experiment gone wrong. Just normal government black ops shit that went sideways and a stupid jarhead they’d tried to make a patsy. Just a human man with a short fuse and the memory of his daughter’s limp weight in his hands and nothing left to lose.

Red was a different story.

This was why he couldn’t call Red Matt. Matt - Matthew- was a human name. A normal name for a normal man, and Frank for all of his eye rolling at Red’s choir boy bullshit, didn’t think he would ever fully be convinced that Red was human.

Frank could see it in the way he moved, the way he slipped when he stopped talking. When he stopped trying to force himself down into that tiny box whose walls were made of religion and society and legality. When he let the devil out and went out hunting for blood.

He’d never tell him, had to keep the thought down low, but Frank thought he understood why Red didn’t kill. Not because God told him it was wrong, and not because of the law or whatever other bullshit Red liked to tell whoever had to listen to him talk about it. No, Red didn’t kill because of that animal thing inside of him.

He didn’t kill, because Frank was almost positive Red might like the feeling a little too much.

Red didn’t kill, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

It had to have only been seconds, not more than a brief pause in the chaos of the night, but Frank felt time slow down for the first time in a while as he stared at Red’s form in the half light, his chest rising and falling with the effort to breathe through the fight he’d just finished.

In those brief seconds Frank thought of the leopard he’d once seen while on tour, dragging a carcass up a tree. Thought of the way its fur had shown in the sunlight and the blood had marred those distinctive spots. He thought of the sound his old man’s GTO had made when it started up, that deep vibration that echoed in his chest. He thought of the glint of moonlight on his Ka-Bar, the kick back of his gun against his muscle, of the look Maria gave him over her shoulder the first night they spent together.

The last one kicked him back into reality, and he cleared his throat, spitting the taste of copper out of his mouth before he lowered his gun. Red’s head jerked the other way, a dog picking up a scent, as Frank finally approached.

He could forgive himself for the mix up of his thoughts, blaming it easily on the adrenaline and the scent of blood in the air.

He thought of that leopard again, of the way its muscles had moved beneath its fur as it had dragged its prey up that tree. Of Red’s fist slamming into the jaw of an idiot who didn’t know when to get out of the way. With a silent prayer of an apology to Maria, he begged her to understand - it was hard to see a predator move the way they did and not think it was a thing of beauty.

Frank had meant to grab Red’s arm, try and jerk him out of whatever blood fueled stupor he’d lost himself in, but his hand landed instead on the side of Red’s face, thumb pushing hard against his jaw as it swept through the blood not yet dried against his stubble. If Frank still felt fear as strongly as he used to, he might have been worried about getting bit.

“Easy there, Alter Boy, they’re down for the count.”

Red exhaled low and long, and Frank watched the struggle happen. Watched as Red tried to fight back that inhuman part of himself to resemble something decent. He made a sound almost like a huff - like he knew he should be annoyed with Frank but was going through the motions just because he thought he should. He didn’t pull away from Frank’s hand.

The idea of Red, of this wild cat in the shape of a man, tucked into a suit and tie and handing over legal documents at the courthouse and calling a judge ‘your honor’ was almost a joke.

“Not for long,” Red finally managed, his voice low and thick. “We need to get going.” He titled his head in a way that if Frank wasn’t careful, he might have said seemed like he was pushing further into Frank’s touch.

Frank thought of the heavy weight of a knife in his hand and the smell of gunpowder. He tried not to think of Maria’s skin beneath his fingers as he dropped his hand to Red’s shoulder.

Red was still tense, still poised to pounce at the slightest provocation. There was a hum beneath his skin, stronger than blood but not quite animal enough to call a growl. It burned beneath Frank’s fingertips, under muscle and blood and bone and leather. He squeezed once before he let go, but knocked their shoulders together as he turned.

“Then let’s get fucking going.’

Red gave a sharp incline of his head instead of a nod. He leaned away and spat a spray of blood, some of it flecking across the face of another man on the ground. The blood was bright red, a superficial wound in Red’s mouth, nothing to distract Frank from the blood still humming too fast through his own veins.

With a swipe of the back of his sleeve, Red halfheartedly cleaned his mouth before straightening back up. When he turned back to Frank, the pull of his lips couldn’t have been anything other than a grin, wide and vicious and sliding straight through Frank’s chest.

“Let’s get fucking going,” he echoed back, voice low and too excited for the amount of blood still smeared across his pale skin. His footsteps were almost silent as he led the way back out.

Frank slung his gun back into position, finger on the trigger and stock his shoulder, focusing on the weight in his hands, and not the sound of echo of Maria’s soft sigh against his ear.

[forwhump]

You Know Not What It Is

a/n; this was supposed to be kind of a fun random chunk of silas backstory reveal which is why i picked it but then i realized it’s actually just more of point being a dickhead so if you’re in the market for that buckle in & let’s go & if you’re not, sorry ! the next one will be smth fresh & brand new I promise <3

tw/cw: graphic depictions of violence, guns, torture, psychological torture, mentions of noncon, misgendering, transphobia, vomiting, racism, grievous bodily harm, dehumanization, execution, major character death

living weapon whumpee

Silas is mostly dead the first time he hears anything about who he used to be.

It happens on the floor of the common room, and Silas hates dying in front of the unit. He’s sure they all know well enough that he’ll be back, but it still seems to traumatize them each time it happens. The horror of it, Silas supposes. He never goes gently.

“Pathetic,” Point scoffs at them. “You are soldiers. You should be above forming such attachments to the…machinery.” He looks down towards Silas, gurgling on the concrete, drowning from the inside.

Silas can’t die, but Silas isn’t made of stone. Silas can be wounded. Silas scars. How many traumatic brain injuries does he get to walk away from? How many more times can he get shot in the face?

He gets to find out.

“It bleeds,” Point says, and points his gun down, “but it is not like you. It doesn’t need you to save it.” He pulls the trigger. He shoots Silas in the puckered hollow of his empty eye socket.

Silas doesn’t really have any recollection of losing consciousness but he loses a weird chunk of time. He hears the gunshot, he feels the heat of the impact in his face, and then he’s staring up at the ceiling but he can’t really see anything that isn’t red mist and his ears are ringing at a pitch that’s giving him a migraine, that’s making the red mist wet and weird and kind of watery.

There’s a weight on his chest that makes it hard to breathe, that makes him wretch, and he only knows it’s Point because of the mocking pitch of his voice when he speaks, sitting with all his weight on Silas’ fractured ribcage. “What keeps bleeding but just doesn’t die?” He teases.

Silas vomits but he can’t move or turn his head at all and he chokes, trying to heave with a chest that’s been crushed. It hurts more than he thinks he’s ever hurt. It hurts in every nerve and fiber and the hollow of his bones. He vomits again. His lungs have been punctured. There’s a bullet in his brain.

“You were all here,” Point explains, conversational, cross legged on Silas’ chest as it caves in, “before its name was in the news, so it’s of no surprise to me that none of you knew who it was. Usually, there would be no reason to say, because it’s of no consequence. But,” and Silas doesn’t need to see or even hear him clearly to hear the smile in his voice, even through the ringing, “you all protect it so staunchly, and you know not what it is. Do you know where we found the body we used for the prototype? Where we found Silas Park?”

Silas gurgles. A sort of dark haze has started sifting through the red mist and he doesn’t think that means anything good for him.

“His name was all over the news before we got our hands on him,” Point continues, almost grandeur. “It was every headline. His face was everywhere. Would anybody like to guess why?”

Silas would swear he could hear Point’s face stretch as he grins.

“No?” He says. “There are a few reasons. The barbarity of the murderers was a big one. The number of them. The trial, of course, was a big controversy, because of his behaviour and because of his fan club. You know how girls are about serial killers when they’re young men.”

Silas can’t see and he can’t really hear and his brain is still trying to fire but he isn’t really capable of thinking about anything except how much everything hurts, how heavy he is, how tired. He can’t breathe and his chest hurts but everything else hurts, too.

Still, Point’s voice rises above the ringing and it sticks out in the part of Silas’ brain that hasn’t been liquified. Serial killer.

Silas doesn’t remember anything about himself or his life before this place, but he knows that can’t be true. It can’t be. Silas is violent as the result of genetic manipulation and bioengineering. Silas is violent because of this place. Silas isn’t bad.

“He was very arrogant,” Point says. “Very unapologetic. He butchered so many people. Sentenced to death,” he explains, “which is how we got our hands on him. State didn’t care what we did with him and it saved the taxpayers the cost of having to execute him. That’s why it’s here,” he tuts. “That’s why it was chosen to become what it is now. Your sympathy for it is bullshit because now it’s a weapon and before that it was rotten. Your sadness is wasted.”

It isn’t true because it can’t be true. Silas isn’t rotten. There’s parts of Silas that are almost still human, and they’re the parts that are supposed to be good.

“I’m still human,” Point says. “I’m capable of remorse. I feel no remorse for the machine because of what it was before and because now it isn’t much of anything. It’s a tool for me to use. Sometimes it backfires. In such a case, it needs to be corrected. Nothing more.”

It’s loud in his wake; something wet is churning in Silas’ ears and he can hear the awful hiss of his breath like he’s breathing through his ears but it’s still quiet, it’s too quiet; nobody in the unit says anything for such a long time.

Silas almost thinks he might’ve lost them and it’s a devastating blow as he twitches with blood loss. But —

“You’re not any more human than we are,” Hal’s voice says from somewhere far away, from somewhere in the next room over. Silas can barely hear him. “You’re a monster.”

Point laughs and the rumble of it against Silas’ chest makes him vomit. His head lolls to one side, not with any conscious thought but with the force of his convulsions, and his chest hitches as he vomits blood and foam onto the concrete next to his face. Point laughs again and the process repeats. To Hal, he says, “we took a huge gamble with you, y’know, Singh. Your local 7/11 fell apart without you.”

“Fuck you,” Hal spits.

“You’re not my type. But the girl’s easy,” Point offers, “if you don’t mind ‘em used.”

“Motherfucker,” Wren spits.

The rumble of Point’s laughter makes Silas see white spots of light. “Careful, baby,” he coos. “You know to watch how you speak to me.”

“Leave him alone,” June snaps, not any closer than Hal but with a sort of ferocity that Silas would laud if he weren’t foaming bile and blood onto the concrete.

Point makes an amused sort of sound, a kind of click. “Him. It’s cute,” he says, “that you all kinda entertain her little delusion. It’s like your little inside joke.” He laughs again, a loud, condescending sort of sound that pushes Silas’ ribcage back into his body and he loses another chunk of time.

When he comes back to himself he’s foaming from the mouth and the nose and he can’t breathe around it. Point had climbed off of him and Silas is kind of hunched over, his cheek sticky against concrete that’s hot with blood. The same heat still pours from the exit wound at the back of his head, unslowed. The same heat trickles down his face from the hole blown into his eye socket.

Silas doesn’t even see red mist anymore, just a hazy sort of darkness that ebbs and flows as he gags.

He only feels Point’s boot against his hair when he shifts, grinding Silas’ face further into the concrete.

“I’m starting to think you may not be shaping up to be the soldiers we need you to be,” he’s saying, and he sounds like tin. “The empathy in this unit is just fuckin’ astounding. It disgusts me.” He makes a sound like he spits on him, but Silas can’t tell. Every inch of naked flesh is already wet and tacky, sweat and blood and foam and bile. “We’ll rid you of it yet. I’m disgusted, but I am not concerned.” Somewhere too close, his gun clicks. “We’re going to start with some exposure therapy. How many times do you think you’ll need to watch the freak die before you’re desensitized?”

He probably fires more than once, but Silas is none the wiser. He’s dead after the first round to the side of the head.

[new-employeeamillion]

I still foolishly dabble in Twitter to see what some of my fellow animation enthusiasts are saying, and one particular SpongeBob tweet annoyed me so much that I’m not even gonna talk about it on that app. It was quoting a segment of the Season 12 episode Shell Games, a fairly standard and innocuous episode, and saying that the plot is an insult to Stephen Hillenburg’s legacy. That was the final straw for me. I can no longer trust the people who aren’t diehard SpongeBob geniuses with Stephen Hillenburg’s name. Especially when they’re blue checkmarks who can benefit from the clout SpongeBob fans will give them.

What was so insulting about Shell Games? Them revealing Patrick’s rock was actually a turtle shell, for one episode, out of nearly 600. I swear, you have less of a reason to be upset over The Principal and the Pauper, and even that’s been an overreaction. I’m not gonna say Shell Games is one of my all time favourites, but I think it’s got enough character with the turtles to make it memorable.

But the gall of that user to transparently have no idea what the show is like now, and still feel the need to stuff the late creator’s name into their opinion to feel better about it. It isn’t 2019 anymore, when Kamp Koral had just been announced and no one had the concrete information on Stephen’s awareness of it. Even back then, my stance on post-Hillenburg SpongeBob stuff has always been “I may not like a lot of it, but I salute the people who he knew continuing to work on it.” How is that such a hard stance to take? Can’t these blue checkmark people have empathy for working class animation teams?

I miss 2015-2018 when the SpongeBob community was more stable. When a Post-Sequel episode aired that the fandom didn’t like, we didn’t jump to “Stephen didn’t want this! Legacy tarnished!”, we discussed what we didn’t like about it and hoped the next episode would be better. A lot of fans still do that, but certainly not the normal people who haven’t even watched the show since they were kids. Fair enough, but if that’s the case, don’t act like an expert out of nowhere. If you were a big fan of Sherlock Holmes, and every single thing made for the past 94 years has had people going “Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t want this! Legacy tarnished!”, you’d understand my antipathy.

Never mind the irony of all this - Stephen Hillenburg was alive when Shell Games was produced. It was the 4th-to-last episode to enter production before he stopped coming in to the studio. Community notes sorted that out quickly. And let me say, you don’t have to like every episode he personally contributed to or oversaw. But come on, why am I expecting nuanced thinking from someone giving Elon Musk their money?

Twitter’s never been a great website, but now, it feels like all the worst people have cracked the code. Only the loudest and angriest voices get the attention, which gets more dangerous the more sensitive the topic is. And then, even if you agree with the sentiment, you will despise the personalities of the very people you’re agreeing with. It’s a platform that encourages all the worst human behaviours. Whenever I so much as make a joke on there, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. It’ll hurt to see less from accounts I really respect, but I’ll offload it for a little while, because it’s not been good for my mood.

And I’m really sorry that this is yet another long angsty blogpost so soon. It’s been those times for me, and I hope you got some sort of useful lesson from what I’ve typed out.