#like a cat looking you dead in the eye and swatting a water glass off the table.

[blackenedsnow]

Bro you are TOO amazing writing these Postal stories!

Okay but wait... Hear me out on this request

Yknow how P4 dude turned into a cat? What if all of the dudes turned into cats and their s/o starts giving him so much loving affection cause they look so cute as a cat especially he still has glasses till he poofs backs

How would the dudes react to this and will they take advantage of being a skrunkly lil feline?

the dudes as cats; headcanons

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Postal (1) Dude x Reader, Postal (2) Dude x Reader, Postal (3) Dude x Reader, Postal (4) Dude x Reader, Postal (BD) Dude x Reader, Postal (Movie) Dude x Reader

NOTE: First off, thank you! It’s always such a blast writing these, and I’m so glad you’re enjoying the them! And this idea is fantastic!! Dudes as ugly little cats? FUCK YEAH

P1 DUDE

Absolute terror.

This poor guy is already unstable, and now he’s suddenly small, furry, and walking on all fours.

The moment he realizes he’s a cat, his tiny cat heart nearly gives out.

He hides under the nearest piece of furniture, terrified of everything around him.

Your affectionate cooing freaks him out even more at first.

How could you be so calm about this?

He doesn’t understand why you’re laughing at his predicament.

When you finally manage to coax him out with soft pats and gentle strokes, he eventually starts to relax.

He’s still terrified, but the head scratches?

They feel… DAMN good.

Would he take advantage? Absolutely not.

He’s far too freaked out to even think about manipulating the situation.

He’s just waiting to turn back to normal as fast as possible.

Mid-pet, he poofs back to normal, looking frazzled.

He stares at you, blinking, and never brings it up again.

P2 DUDE

Annoyance.

He’s used to handling insane things, but this?

It’s a new level of frustrating.

His human body was already full of bullshit, and now he’s stuck in a small, fluffy one.

His glasses almost look ridiculous on his tiny cat face.

When you start petting him, he acts annoyed at first, but the moment your hand runs down his back, he arches into it involuntarily.

Damn it, he can’t help but enjoy it.

Occasionally swats at your hands, trying to act tough, but deep down, he loves the attention.

The quiet purring gives him away every time.

Would he take advantage? Eventually.

He realizes that being a cute, angry cat gets him exactly what he wants: more attention, food, and the occasional treat.

He’s not above being manipulative when he sees it benefits him.

Right as you’re petting him, he poofs back to normal, still stretched out on your lap.

He smirks.

“Guess you liked me better as a cat, huh?”

P3 DUDE

Glee.

Of course this guy would embrace the weirdness of being a cat.

Why wouldn’t he?

He’s already unpredictable, and now he’s tiny and fast.

Being a sneaky little cat? Perfect for him.

He darts around, knocking things off shelves just to kill you.

You try to pet him, but he’s too busy darting around the room, knocking things off shelves, and generally causing a mess.

He’s the kind of cat who’ll stare you dead in the eye as he shoves your coffee mug off the counter.

When you finally get him to calm down enough for some affection, he acts like he’s bored of it in a second.

But he’ll sit in your lap when it suits him—just on his terms.

Would he take advantage? Oh, absolutely.

This guy would milk the situation for all it’s worth, stealing food, knocking over anything in sight, and playing innocent when caught.

Right after "accidentally" knocking over a glass of water, he poofs back.

Now you can smack him all you want!

P4 DUDE

Mild annoyance but not surprised.

He’s been a cat before, so this is just another day for him

He looks at his tiny paws and sighs like, “Here we go again.”

You start giving him head scratches, and he’s immediately like, “Well, if I’m stuck like this, I might as well enjoy it.”

He leans into your touch, purring loudly.

He’s not as chaotic as the others, just content to bask in the affection.

He stretches out on your lap, completely relaxed, giving in to the idea of being pampered.

He’s already used to weird stuff, so why not let you dote on him?

Would he take advantage? Yes, but in a chill way.

He’ll milk the affection for all it’s worth, enjoying being pampered without causing much trouble.

A catnap here, a petting session there—it’s all good for him.

Poofs back mid-purr.

He doesn’t even flinch, just gives you a shrug.

“So… wanna grab dinner now, or what?”

BD DUDE

Confused and pissed.

He doesn’t understand how or why he’s a cat, and honestly, he’s mad about it.

His little feline grumbles are non-stop.

At first, he’s stiff and unsure, but once you start petting him?

He melts like butter.

His confusion fades into pure bliss as you scratch behind his ears.

Would he take advantage? Not intentionally

But once he realizes how good being petted feels, he won’t leave your side.

He’s like an affectionate little shadow, following you around for more.

Poofs back while lying on your lap, still dazed and confused.

“Wait… I was just… a cat? What the hell?”

MOVIE DUDE

Absolute disbelief.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

He runs around in circles for a minute, trying to figure out how the hell this happened.

Surprisingly, a while after..

He’s okay with it once you start petting him.

He’ll even roll onto his back for belly rubs

Though he’s still thinking to himself about how weird this is.

Would he take advantage? Definitely.

Once he realizes how much attention he’s getting, he leans into it.

He’s gonna soak up all the love, purring loudly and acting all cute.

Poofs back while sprawled on your lap, looking just as confused as when he first turned into a cat.

This… was a weird day.

You still gonna pet him, though?

[twilightofthe]

.

[thesunicarusfellfor]

Regeneration Potion (Plat!C!Tommyinnit x Witch!F!Reader)

TW: Mentions of Dream's actions during Tommy's exile INCLUDING his un alive moment. YES I KNOW TUBBO CAN HAVE MORE THAN ONE FRIEND. SHUSH. PLOT.

Reader wears a dress most of the time. Also Tommy is around 17 (I forgot his canon age sorry)

I might make this a series!

☆Tommy P.O.V☆

His hotel was taken over.. His house was practically empty.. He was stared at everywhere he went.. His best friend replaced him instantly without much of a second thought.. His brother was dead, his other brother probably wanted to spill his guts for switching sides... He had... Nothing...

He had died for God's sake! Sure, he didn't expect people to immediately bawl their eyes out at the news, but he didn't expect to be brushed off so damn quick! He didn't expect the person he betrayed his brother for to replace him so quickly! He didn't... he... Was... Tubbo really his friend? He exiled him without checking up on him... He... He moved on so.. quick..

Standing over the giant crater once known as L'manberg, now covered with a thick sheet of glass... He wrapped his arms around himself and gave a sigh. In the distance, he could see Ranboo and Tubbo running around, most likely gathering materials for Sam Nook...

Gritting his teeth tightly, he felt a familiar burning behind his eyes before he stood up from a pile of dirt he claimed as a temporary chair. It took all of his power not to scream in emotional agony as he stormed away from the sight of his old best friend with someone else who he claimed as his new bestfriend.

Don't turn back...

With a few iron ingots and a low durability netherite sword to his name, Tommy walked as quickly as he could away from the memories. The sacrifices. The pain. The lonely feeling...

He had easily walked for a few hours, trying his hardest to find an area completely secluded from everything and everyone.

If they moved on once... They can move on twice..

He wanted to hold on.. He wanted to keep every little memory and object that he found comforting... But now... Everything he looked at caused a sharp pain to jolt through his heart...

He glanced up at the biome around him, only to frown slightly. It was a Dark Forest... But there was many problems..

He knew there were some large mushrooms, but he had never seen massive flowers bigger than a mansion! Everything... Felt weird... Somethings were incredibly varied in sizes! He spun around in awe as he stared at the different sized flowers and mushrooms scattered around him. Then... fear struck into his heart again...

Wilbur... He told him a story about a forest far to the north of L'manberg... Trees bigger than the eye could see, mushrooms taller than a house or smaller than a fingernail, flowers being anywhere from a millimeter tall to miles high into the air, all because of the land was protected by a Witch.

In the story, Wilbur said that only the lost and lonely would find that forest out of desperation to find salvation...

The Forest of the Forgotten...

His lips parted in surprise and he spun around to exit the land, in fear of upsetting the witch... Only to find a silhouette standing against the light a few inches away from him.

A not so manly scream tore from his throat and he hurriedly threw himself backwards, raising his arms above his head as he landed on the ground, "I'm sorry, Dream! I promise not to wander off again! Please don't take my stuff! Please I don't have anything left! Please...! Please!" He begged, tears spilling from his eyes as he scrambled backwards until he hit a tree. Tommy didn't even hear the foot steps wandering closer until a purple light rose into view.

He took a few gasps for air as he slowly lowered his hands. 'Dream's in prison. He's not here. He's not gonna hurt you again..' He carefully rose his gaze, only to see...

A young woman... She looked... Around his age!

She was kneeling on the ground a few feet away from him, just... Watching him. A black pointy hat was balanced on her (h/l) (h/c) hair that was nicely framing her (s/t) face. Her eyes were analyzing his every movement as they surged with purple flames... But they weren't threatening or violent... They were curious but calm..

He stared at her for a solid few seconds before realizing that the soft purple glow was coming from a ball of coloured fire in her hand. Mesmerized by the energy, Tommy hardly noticed when a dull pink glow appeared in his vision, only when the woman made effort to talk, did he notice.

"I... Don't know who Dream is.. But, I'm not here to take your stuff. That's a promise." She smiled softly, and moved her hand that held the pink glow closer to him. It... Was a Regeneration Potion. "Here, you look a little... Uhm... How do I say this nicely... Torn up...?"

Tommy couldn't hold back a frown as he rubbed his eyes free of tears. He forgot that his injuries from Dream hadn't healed yet... And probably wouldn't be healed for a long time. "Thanks... I guess.." He grumbled in an attempt to save whatever dignity he had left.

While he was considered naive, he wasn't stupid. He knew not to trust strangers immediately, so he uncorked the bottle and smelt it as he analyzed the colour to make sure it was really regeneration potion. At first, he wasn't going to drink it, but he quickly remembered that it wasn't like he had anything to lose, so he took a small sip.

It was dangerously sweet, much sweeter than Phil or Techno's potions, but it definitely wasn't awful and it for certain wasn't poison. He rolled his shoulders as he continued to sip at the potion while she stood up.

Dusting her black robe and dark (f/c) dress of any dirt, despite them being already dirty and a bit tattered, the (h/c) woman stood up and continued to clean the dirt off. "It will be getting dark soon... I'm not much of a fighter, so I will not be able to fend for the both of us if need be. Do you have a shelter nearby or would you like to seek refuge with me for the night?"

Did this crazy woman not know the meaning of stranger danger?

☆Your P.O.V☆

No matter how much you threw yourself into your studies, the looming loneliness never seemed to leave you..

Keeping to your daily routine, you begrudgingly lifted yourself out of bed and sat down at your vanity, glaring at your reflection that bared knotted hair and sleepy (e/c) eyes. Your non dominant hand stretched out towards your closet and watched as your irises lit up a bright surging purple, activating your magic. Your dominant hand began to run a brush through your hair while your other hand controlled the magic that was currently being used to sort through the row of clothes in your closet. Once you found an outfit that you deemed adequate, you made a quick gesture with your hand that caused the clothing to float onto your bed.

It didn't take very long to get ready, I mean, come on, you were in a large forest miles away from the closest village! It's not like you were going to be seeing anyone for a few more centuries.

Your house was cozy and rather small, but it housed you and your black cat Salem comfortably. It was nice and quiet where you lived.. Albeit dark and lonely..

The trees often covered the sun and prevented you from knowing what time it was, but you had stopped caring about the date long ago. It never mattered to you anyway.

"Yeah, yeah. Quit meowing. You act like you haven't eaten in a year." You rolled your eyes at the dramatic feline as you prepared your own breakfast first. Salem kept meowing loudly, standing beside her food bowl and swatting it every so often until you used your magic to toss a fish to her. "You done with your whining now? Big baby."

You rolled your eyes as you sat down with your bowl and quickly ate the fruits you had sliced up. Downside to living here, you primarily survived off of fruits and berries because animals rarely wandered into the forest, and if they did, well you kept them for their resources like milk or eggs or wool.

With a small sigh, you got up and washed your bowl, via magic so you didn't have to feel the burning sensation of the water on your skin, as you contemplated what you were going to do today.

Eventually you decided on going to walk through the forest to find more animals or scavenge for more fruits. Throwing your bag over your shoulder, you double checked that it was stocked up with healing and regeneration potions just in case, only to throw your shoes on. Waving good bye to your lazy annoying cat, that you still love regardless, you shut the door and walked down the path.

The silence was normal... But god it was deafening when something stepped on a branch or when one of your chickens decided to give a particularly loud squawk, but it did indeed heighten your senses.

Giving a sigh, you rose your hand and a purple pulse flew from your hand then trailed down your body and travelled through the forest. Your magic didn't detect anything out of the ordinary except for once thing near the entrance.

"Ah.. God.. Please don't be a zombie.. I'm not a fighter.." You whispered under your breath before setting off towards the untouched and overgrown entrance of the forest.

Arriving to the main path, you looked over a little bit to see a tall blond male spinning around in absolute awe of the forest.

He then took a sharp breath and spun around, almost immediately coming face to face with you. The loudest scream you had ever heard left the boy and he quickly stumbled backwards until he fell to the ground and hit a tree, "I'm sorry, Dream! I promise not to wander off again! Please don't take my stuff! Please I don't have anything left! Please...! Please!" He practically cried apologies while he curled into a wall.

'What kind of reaction was that?!' You thought curiously as you kneeled down a few feet in front of him. Assuming that the dark had freaked him out, you summoned a ball of fire and held it out, using the time to study the strange boy. His dirty shirt was ripped and torn in several places, his skin was decorated with mud, soot, cuts, bruises and scars and his cheeks were damp with tears. His breath was turning into gasps as his thin frame shook violently.

"Hey... Are you okay?"

He didn't seem to hear as he began murmuring quietly to himself, rocking back and forth a small bit to calm himself down. After a few moments, he lowered his arms and stared blankly at the magic in your palm.

Seeing the injuries on his pale skin, you dug into your bag and pulled out a glowing pink potion before holding it out to him. He didn't seem to notice it until you cleared your throat. "I... Don't know who Dream is.. But, I'm not here to take your stuff. That's a promise." You smiled as politely as possible, and moved your hand that held the potion closer to him. "Here, you look a little... Uhm... How do I say this nicely... Torn up...?"

The male grumbled a bit under his breath but looked genuinely thankful as he took a small sip of the potion. After deeming it wasn't poisoned, he began to take larger drinks of it.

"It will be getting dark soon... I'm not much of a fighter, so I will not be able to fend for the both of us if need be. Do you have a shelter nearby or would you like to seek refuge with me for the night?"

Honestly... The face he made amused you quite a bit...

[hermannsthumb]

Maria. *Grabs your face* MARIA. I would LOVE to see 15 bobbing for apples from the autumn fic meme written by you. Nothing would delight me more!

Anonymous asked: Halloween prompt #15 please!!... "Bobbing for apples but we meet accidentally underwater lady and the tramp style." OR "I thought we'd have fun bobbing for apples but you actually hate it and are really mad now"

15. Bobbing For Apples

from autumn fic prompts here

KATE ❤️__ ❤️for you id write anything... and anon the lady and the tramp scenario is so fucking funny/good

---------------------------

It’s a really good thing that Hermann has Newt, because if Newt’s being honest, he has no damn clue what the poor dude would do without him. Work himself to death, probably. Or spend every Saturday night alone in his bunk. So depressing. Newt considers it his big charitable act of—well, of all time—to force Hermann into social functions, whether it's fun nights out at the bar (with Newt!), or down the hall a few feet for awesome movie marathons in Newt’s quarters (with Newt!), or something like tonight, which is a super awesome and fun Halloween party that, like, everyone on the base was invited to (including Newt!).

Hermann was all set to spend another night alone (probably changing the batteries in all his calculators or rearranging the hangers in his closet) when Newt dragged him out, more or less by the collar of his argyle sweater, with multiple threats to make his life a living hell the following week in the lab if he didn't comply immediately. "Seriously, dude," Newt had said, ominously, while Hermann looked at him like a furious cat ready to take a swipe, "you're gonna put in those vampire fangs and get drunk with me, or you're gonna regret it. I mean it." Newt was not opposed to blasting the shittiest depths of his Spotify account over his bluetooth speakers or using Hermann's favorite coffee mug to hold his dissection tools. Luckily for both of them, Hermann decided the risk wasn't worth it.

Newt knows Hermann is bound to recognize how selfless Newt is being and thank him for it eventually. Probably. Maybe a few years from now. For now, Newt is enjoying the warm and fuzzy feeling of having done a good deed, and also of drinking a considerable amount of spiked punch.

Hermann is not enjoying either.

"I did, in fact, have plans for tonight," he tells Newt, sipping his ginger ale and observing Newt with a fierce scowl. He flat-out refused the booze Newt tried to push on him. It's fine, whatever—it's enough for Newt, right now anyway, that he actually came. They'll work up to bigger stuff like that later.

"Like what?" Newt says. "Doing a crossword puzzle and watching the second half of that boring-ass documentary you put on last weekend?"

Newt considers it an affront to the very concept of movie nights that Hermann used his pick on a documentary, and one about the jaeger program that didn't even bother interviewing him, no less. Newt loves a good documentary, don't get him wrong, but movie nights are for escapist shit. You don't see him switching on Godzilla. Plus, having to watch stock footage of Dr. Gottlieb Sr. blabbing his mouth about how smart he was while you were debating making a move on his son (who was currently in you bed, looking super cute in your sweatpants, because he'd forgotten to pack pj's) was kind of a mood-killer. "It wasn't boring," Hermann sniffs, which tells Newt that his guess was dead-on. "It was...interesting. And anyway, just because they aren't your idea of plans..."

"Okay, whatever," Newt says. "Let's just have fun. That's the point of a party."

He throws an arm around Hermann's shoulder and drags him closer, until their heads knock together painfully. He hears Hermann growl low in his throat. Newt doesn't say, soon, we won't have the time to do stupid shit like this anymore, so we should enjoy it while we can, even though he wants to. It's better to not make fun stuff depressing. Plus, Hermann might decide to take that as an invitation to bail and put on his documentary. Instead he reaches up across Hermann and flicks his chin. Hermann's whole body stiffens. "I can't believe I got you into this super awesome party and you're not even pretending to be thankful," Newt says.

With no great deal of difficulty, Hermann pushes Newt off of him. Newt lands heavily back in his chair, making the whole thing wobble, and he laughs as he just manages to catch himself from falling off the other side. "You got me in?" Hermann says. "Newton, I was invited three weeks ago."

Newt stops laughing. "You were?"

"Yes," Hermann says. The corner of his lip twitches up, with a smugness so powerful Newt can feel it radiating off of him in waves. Bastard. "I took it upon myself to ask if you might be permitted to come, too." He adds, sarcastically, "Out of the kindness of my heart. I know how terribly put out you get when you aren't included in these sorts of things."

Newt considers this new information, and then discards it, because it really doesn't fit the image of himself he's been cultivating as the cool, hip friend to Hermann's uncool, unhip nerd. Like, come on, between the two of them, Newt is obviously the one you'd want at your party. Hermann's gotta be kidding. Probably. Maybe. "It's a lame party anyway," Newt mumbles.

He tries to put his arm around Hermann's shoulder again, remembers that Hermann really didn't like that the first time, and then drops it back down at his side instead. "Totally lame," he continues. Newt recalls the Halloween parties of his youth with a warm, fond glow: elaborate costumes, tacky decorations, passing around bowls of peeled grapes in the dark, carving jack-o-lanterns while his dad hovered protectively over him to make sure he didn't take a finger off with the knife. This is none of that. Barely anyone even dressed up! The lack of Halloween spirit is tragic. "There aren't even any party games."

"Yes there are," Hermann says, mildly.

He points across the room at a large metal tub that Newt somehow missed before. It looks like it's filled with water, and...

"Dude," Newt says.

He doesn't wait to ask before he's hopping to his feet and dragging Hermann along after him by his blazer cuff. Hermann swats at his heels a few times with his cane, but eventually—like he does with most of Newt's ideas—gives in. "I'm a fuckin' champ at bobbing for apples," Newt boasts. "I used to—oops, excuse me," (he runs into two guys who are, like, twice his height, upsetting their drinks, and he hears Hermann groan as something purple spills on his sweater), "I used to always win it at the fall fest when my dad would take me." And then when he went back as an adult by himself, but it was less impressive a win when you were up against a bunch of ten-year-olds.

"You do have an exceptionally large mouth," Hermann says, rubbing at his stained shoulder. "I suppose that helps." As Newt bends to investigate the iron tub, he says, "Oh, Newton, don't, it's been out all night. Who knows what sorts of germs are in there?"

Newt gets to his knees and rolls up the sleeves of his PPDC-issued labcoat. He's a mad scientist to Hermann's vampire (vampire librarian?) tonight. Yeah, it's kind of a lazy costume, but it was free—he already had everything he needed in the lab. "I can get it in five seconds, max," he declares. His record is one second, but he's the first to admit he's a little rusty, and he'd rather impress Hermann by beating his estimate. "Will you hold my headlamp?"

Grumbling, Hermann takes it. Newt sets his glasses on the ground. "You're going to get yourself bloody soaking," Hermann says, and then he complains about something else, too, but Newt is screwing his eyes shut and ducking his head into the tub, which makes it difficult to hear him. One second—two seconds—two and a half—Newt emerges victorious from the tub, teeth clenched down firmly on an apple, and accidentally splatters a large amount of water on Hermann's shoes. He pulls the apple out of his mouth with a grin and waves it at Hermann. "See. I'm a fucking pro."

He tucks his glasses back on his face to discover that Hermann is staring at him with a very strange expression on his face. Newt can't decide if it's the blacklight bulbs overhead that are washing him out and making him look so flushed, or something else entirely. Then, in a second, he's grumpy and scowling and tsking over his wet shoes. "A pro," he echoes. "Hardly. It can't be that complicated."

Newt gestures grandly at the tub and takes a bite out of his apple. Hermann can always be relied upon to never turn down a challenge, especially when it means making Newt look—potentially—stupid. Newt uses it to his advantage often. Whatever it takes to help the guy have a good time. "It's all yours, dude."

Hermann grumbles something again about Newt being too arrogant for his own good, and something else about showing Newt how to do it without making a mess of everything, then gets down to his knees with a quiet hiss of discomfort. He shoves his cane, and Newt's headlamp, at Newt, though bewilderingly leaves his blazer on. "I'll be just a moment," he says, and dunks his head into the tub.

He splashes back up no more than five seconds later. Apple-less. "Bugger," he coughs, and then coughs some more. The entire front of his sweater is soaked. "I didn't—I didn't start out right. Let me—"

Newt watches Hermann try to drown himself a few more times in mild interest before he finally intercedes. "Need a hand?" he says, getting to his knees next to Hermann.

"No," Hermann splutters.

Newt takes his glasses off again. "Yeah, you do. Okay, now watch me—"

He emerges with another apple in seconds.

Hermann grits his teeth. "Newton—"

"One more?" Newt says, his grin widening.

Back under. Another apple. He winks at Hermann when he goes in for a fourth time, and this time, he feels the water of the tank being upset as Hermann (refusing to be outdone once again) splashes in alongside him. God, Newt loves riling Hermann up like this—he gets so funny, and kinda cute, when he's mad about something. Red in the face, and scowling, and sometimes (when he's real mad) speaking in a dangerously low and rough sort of voice with his r's rolling that makes Newt shiver, just a little. Like, Newton, you worthless, pathetic little man, cease this immediately, or else I'll... He actually said that to Newt once. It made Newt feel a little warm under his collar. Hermann's probably going to say something similar to him this time, and Newt can't wait.

Ten seconds in. Newt has been cutting Hermann a little slack at first, just to see if he can catch up, but finally decides to just go for the apple that's been bobbing steadily against his mouth this whole time. (He loves beating Hermann at stuff.)

And, well, apparently Hermann goes for it too.

They both miss the apple. Newt's mouth is up against Hermann's for another five seconds before he realizes what's happening (that that is definitely not an apple, that that is definitely a mouth, that that mouth is wide and weird another to belong to only one person Newt knows, that that mouth is parting in surprise, oh my God) and then he pulls away so quickly that he breathes in what feels like half the tub of water. He falls back on his ass, coughing furiously, and it's not until he shoves his glasses back on with a shaking hand that he realizes that Hermann has done the same. "I," Hermann says. His eyes are wide. "I'm sor—"

"It's fine," Newt squeaks.

"It was—"

"I know!"

Newt and Hermann's mouths were touching for five whole seconds. Underwater, while apples bobbed against their foreheads, but their mouths still touched. Oh my God. In elementary school, Newt thinks dizzily, that would be enough to catch cooties. This was so not how he wanted his awesome eventual seduction of Hermann to go down. For one thing, it wasn't even a seduction.

"I'm gonna get a towel," Newt says.

Hermann nods. He looks strangely adorable with water droplets on his nose and his hair plastered to his head like that. Newt has to get out of here before he does something stupid, like take Hermann's pointy cheeks between his hands and put their mouths together on purpose. He doesn't think Hermann would respond to that very well right now.

"I'll get you one too," Newt says, and it takes a lot of effort to force himself to his feet.

Hermann nods again.

"Okay," Newt says, and stumbles away. Out of the corner of his eye, he just catches Hermann raising a hand to his mouth.

[cricketnationrise]

so formal!

full fic on AO3 here

for @zimbitsweddingofficial

day 1: pre-wedding

_X_  _   _X_

Bitty’s in MooMaw’s kitchen, helping her with the last batch of pies for the Fourth of July. Jack is helping his parents set up outside, putting his height and muscles to good use. Deep breaths, you can do this. Right as he gets ready to ask, MooMaw breaks the silence.

“Now, Dicky, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you. You’ve been tenser than a mouse in a cat parade this afternoon.”

“Sorry, MooMaw, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just, uh – I was wondering, um,” he exhales sharply before just blurting out, “Iwaswonderin’ifIcouldhavePopPaw’sringtoproposetoJack.”

“One more time love, these ol’ ears didn’t quite catch that.”

“I was wonderin’, well, hoping, I could maybe – if you don’t mind – and if you do that’s totally fine I won’t be mad or anything – if I could have PopPaw’s wedding ring.”

“PopPaw’s wedding ring?”

“Uh-huh. To propose to Jack.”

“Now Dicky, I know I’m a little out of the loop, but I could have sworn I got a very excited phone call from your mother the day you graduated sayin’ you were engaged to the tall glass of water out there.”

 “MooMaw.”

“What? It’s not like I’m dead! He’s a very attractive fellow,” she says, a wicked grin lighting her features. “But aren’t I right, y’all are engaged aren’t ya?”

“Yes MooMaw, he proposed to me and I said yes,” he says, kneading the pie crust dough a touch too hard. “I just – I wanted to propose to him as well.” He looks up from the dough to look her dead in the eyes.

“I want him to feel as amazing and wanted and loved as I did when he proposed. It was one of the best days of my life, MooMaw, and I love him. Why wouldn’t I want him to get to have that feeling too?”

“Oh, Dicky,” she cries, throwing her floury arms around him, “you’ve grown into such a wonderful man. I know PopPaw would have been proud to see who you’ve become.” She pulls back to wipe her eyes.

“Of course you can have the ring. It’s mean to be worn, after all, does no good to anyone just sittin’ in my jewelry box.”

“Thank you, MooMaw.” Bitty’s not crying. He’s not. Oh who is he kidding, he’s totally crying.

“I just – I thought it might be a sort of good luck charm. Y’all were married so long and you loved each other so much I just thought – “

“I already said yes, Dicky, there’s no need to make me sob young man,” she says thickly, “you stop being so emotional right now, we have pies to make.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, kissing her on the cheek before turning back to the dough.

Step one: complete.

_X_  _  _X_

“BITTY!!!!!”

“YOU’RE HERE!”

Bitty can’t help but beam as he walks up the sidewalk toward the front door of Haus 2.0.

“Hi you two, I—” He’s cut off with a noise that doesn’t sound human as he’s scooped up by Ransom and thrown into Holster’s arms. These boys.

They’re all laughing by the time Bitty’s feet are on the ground again.

“It’s a good thing I’m not making a pie 'till later, I wouldn’t want to try and hold onto one while flying through the air.”

“Bro, we would never endanger a pie!” Bitty’s never seen the two of them look so offended.

“Glad you’re here, Bitty. It hasn’t been just us since we lived in the Haus!” Holster says.

They get inside and start on a six pack and get down to business.

“Alright so – it came? And neither Shitty or Lardo saw it?” Bitty asks.

“Got it right here, bro.” Holster hands him a small box pulled from the highest cabinet behind a collection of ugly vases.

“Do we get to know what this secret package is?” says Ransom.

“Yeah, plus I need your help with the second part,” Bitty says as he carefully opens the box. He gasps. Thank god for Etsy, it looks perfect. They even managed to get his cowlick to stand up.

“Uhhh, Bitty?”

“Hmmm?”

“Not that it isn’t stupidly adorable – look at the little C on your jersey – but why do you have a Lego version of yourself? No, better question, why was it secret?”

“Both excellent points, Holtzy.”

“This is how I’m going to counter propose to Jack.”

There’s a beat of absolute silence and then—

“HOLY SHIT BITTY!”

“That’s GENIUS, bro!”

The congratulatory screaming only dies down when they hear a door slam down the hall. Oops I guess we were being a tad loud for the other roommate.

“You said you needed our help for the second part?” asks Holster.

“Yeah, I want to make a Lego-sized version of the “yo marry me” sign but I couldn’t remember the colors or layout well enough and I know Shitty has it in his closet.”

“Bitty, bro, your brain is so big. Our little frog, all grown up—”

“—And savin’ China!” Ransom finishes, giggling.

“Oh hush you two,” he says, swatting them playfully, “Now then. I don’t think it has to be Lego-sized because Jack will never be able to read it, but I think if we scale it down to about postcard size that’ll work as a nice backdrop.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

It’s a nice afternoon, and it’s hilarious watching two huge and broad-shouldered men hunch over a tiny piece of cardboard, arguing about font size while he makes a pie.

Well two pies. But one is mini pie as an apology to the random roommate. They may not be “down to motherfucking clown” but Bitty knows his friends (and himself) can be a lot to deal with.

Bitty’s just put the full size one in the oven when Ransom and Holster finish.

“Y’all… It looks great. Thank you so much.” Bitty didn’t think a sign that ridiculous would make him cry but there’s definitely some tears.

“Got your back, Bitty,” Ransom says.

“Mama Mia while we wait for the pie?” He laughs a little as Holster pumps his fist in triumph, “I’ll just nip this stuff out to the car for safekeeping while y’all set it up.”

Step two: complete.

_X_  _  _X_

Everything’s finally ready.

He’s got the Lego-Bitty, with Ransom and Holster's sign as the backdrop. He made a pie for later (and about three kinds of cookies - so sue him he was nervous). Señor Bun is probably tired of having to listen to Bitty rehearse his speech by now. PopPaw's ring is nestled oh-so-carefully in Lego-Bitty's hands. Now he just needs Jack to get back from practice.

He hears the key turn in the door.

[tamagochiie]

happy new year to you

pairing: tsukishima x fem!reader 

genre: angst (?), fluff

warning: none

synopsis: Its New Year's Eve and you're all alone. Well, not really.

Tsukishima, the only friend you've managed to make since you've moved from the country side, comes to visit you after work without any particular reason. Whether it's to fill the space during after hours at your work or pester you with his sarcasm and cockiness; he always seems to come back.

a/n: I wanted a brain break from writing the bonus chapter for the Kenma series: Life As We Know It. The more I worked on it, the more I got a headache, so I really dunno when I’ll be able to post it, so please be patient with me :( 

The clock strikes upon the final hour before the new year, and the glimmering streets of Shinjuku echo with hearty laughter and drunken cheers of joy.

Standing on the other side of the glass window, you watch as strangers flow past you in groups and in pairs, all seeming to have the time of their lives while you go back to busying yourself by mopping the creaky wooden floors of the barren, dim lit bar you work in.

Nostalgia, rather than jealousy, pours over your thoughts as you imagine what your friends back home could be doing. They’re probably preparing bento boxes together at Yachi’s house to see the hatsuhinode later; and the thought causes your lips as much as your heart to sink.

As much as you wanted to go home for the holidays, you’re the breadwinner and if making money meant working through the holidays, then you would do exactly that.

Ugh, I wanna be home.

It had been another long night spent with you deciphering a string of intricately slurred orders from one borderline drunkard to the next. Truth be told, if it wasn’t a part of your job, you wouldn’t converse with any of the customers or dive head first into a sea of personalities, but out of all eyes you’ve met and smiles you exchanged, the one that mattered to you most had yet to make his appearance.

That is, until you hear a knocking against the glass.

You flinch back to your senses and your attention is no longer settled on the tiny rain droplets sliding down the window, but to Tsukki. He lazily waves at you with a sly smirk painting across his lips. You smile widely, teeth showing and everything; you quickly motion him to come inside.

Any worry of him being later than he already is that weighed heavily on your shoulders suddenly becomes light as a feather and floats away as the wind from outside breezes in.

“You seem extra happy to see me tonight,” Tsukki cooes your name like he has many times before, and you’re usually annoyed. The only difference is, you don’t mind it this time. You let it slide because today has been a bit unkind.

His wavy blonde wisps barely graze against the frame of the door. With one hand buried deep in his jacket pocket and the other carrying a grocery bag,  he holds his head up high like his pride. His sunglasses perched proudly on the tip of his nose.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” He sighs, ambling behind you as you make your way around to the other side of the island. He takes a seat on the stool across from you, shifting in place before setting the grocery bag down next to him. He leans all of his weight onto his elbows, placing his chin in the dip of his palm.

Through the green hue of his sunglasses, Tsukki watches you pull two tall glasses from below the bar and set it between the both of you. You swipe two cans of diet coke from the ice chest  and begin to prepare his usual: chilled diet coke with no ice.

It had something to do about his teeth being sensitive.

You pass him his glass and meet his gaze; a smug smile paints across your lips. “What’s with the shades, Tsukki? Were the stars too bright for you?”

He chuckles at your poor attempt of a joke and flips you off before taking a sip. Setting the glass down and keeping his collected disposition, Tsukki slides the shades off his nose.

Your lips sink to a frown and you suck the air between your teeth. A deep, trying sigh escapes you when you see his face sprinkled with fresh cuts and bruises.

“ God, you’re like a teenage boy.” You shake your head, pushing yourself off the counter.

“Hey, just remember that feeling you had when you saw me earlier,” His voice was gruff and croaky like he’d been punched in the throat, and by the looks of his face, it’s possible. “I saw that smile. You missed me.”

“You’re pretty cocky for someone who looks like they’ve been bitched slapped senseless.” You retort, rolling your eyes.

“You should see the other guys,” Tsukki teases, smirking. And though his tone is a bit impish, the fact he fought with more than one guy made you double take.

You relieve yourself with another deep sigh, leaving him behind as you go to the back to grab a first aid kit, a small bucket of ice, and cloth.

You’d only known him for a little while and you weren’t exactly close, but he was the only friend you had managed to make since you moved from the countryside for uni. He wasn’t the best company to have, but he wasn’t the worst either.

He was... good enough.

Since the night you met, it became a common occurrence to have him show up during the peak hours of the night all battered and bruised while you were closing up shop.

The midnight sky wept and the winds were not merciful, so you rushed to haul the chairs into safety before it could be whisked away. And just as you were about to carry in the bar's sign, you found him slumped into a corner, head tilted back.

His face looked like a badly bruised pear. His long, lanky legs stuck out to the narrow pathway, his feet soaked beneath the rain.

You were more curious than you were afraid, so against your better judgement, you inched closer to him, knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. As faint as it was, it was enough for you to gather the little strength you had left to prop him onto his feet and stagger back inside.

Breathless, you sat him in a booth, lulling his head onto the leather backrest of the couch before running to the back for the first aid kit and freezing diet coke because everything like that night, it was unlucky and there wasn’t any more ice.

It took him a while, but he eventually woke up; flustered and drenched in a mixture of rain water and his own sweat. Pupils dilated and full of adrenaline.

You struggled to get him to sit still, swatting away your attempts to help him until all the fight slowly left his body like a light bulb losing its energy. But when he was all able and well, he’d get up and walk out without even a thank you.

The days that passed would smear together like a poorly done Jackson Pollock painting that you would forget the whole thing had even happened.

That is until a familiar tall frame would stride into the bar one night, eyes searching the room till he found you.

Tsukki’s visits were sporadic at first, and it was always during after hours. He wasn’t as kind as he is now. Is he kind? He was like the dead of winter: painfully cold and bitter. At first, he wouldn’t bother a breath to say a single thought or even murmur a word.

Though, he’d trudge in looking tired, stumbling over his feet looking like he came fresh from a fight, or if he was lucky, just tired. He’d take a seat in front of you sometimes burying his head into his arms and take a nap or if you were lucky, he’d ask for a diet coke.

But nevertheless, his eyes are always the same: as light as the sun could gleam, but no sign of life. As far as you were concerned, he was merely a pretty shell.

You never understood why he kept coming back, especially since he pretty much gave you the cold shoulder for the first two months he cycled into his nightly visitations; but you never really bothered to ask.

You even stopped pestering him with any sort of questions about anything he did with his life, knowing full well he’d tell you to mind your own business.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop you from worrying.

“You should really stop getting into fights.” You move around the island and take a seat on the stool beside Tsukki, setting the first aid kit onto the table. “You scar more and more every time I see you.”

“Are you worried about me?” He chaffs, cooing your name in mockery. You ignore him and tell him to move a little closer, the fluorescent light flickers above you both, allowing you to see the cuts a little clearer.

He smells like old cigarette buds and cheap store bought soap. It’s a peculiar smell, but it isn’t as peculiar as his lifestyle.

“I’m annoyed by you.” You deadpan, beginning to dab away at the wound marking his forehead.

“Well, aren’t you gonna to ask me?” You grimace at him, harshly pressing the cotton against his wound. He flinches away from you and meets your overt eyes, “S-Sorry…”

“Even if I were to ask you, it’s not like you’d tell me.” Tsukki’s walls stand taller than his pride and are even more guarded than a mother to her own child.

“So, why keep helping me, huh?” He clicks his tongue and inches a little closer to you. He’s testing your sense of boundaries, but you’re unfazed. Instead you rip open a bandaid and slap it on him, causing him to seethe at you like he was a cat you threw into a tub of water. “I could be a serial killer, you know. Or someone really dangerous.”

You chortle, crinkling your nose at Tsukki’s cringe worthy strive to be mystifying. For the umpteenth time since he walked into your life, you bury your eyes into the back of your head.

“I like it better when you don't try so hard to be scary,” You tease, smiling at him and he mirrors you, playfully tilting his head just a little. “If you were gonna kill me, I’m sure you would’ve done it by now.”

You wipe off the dried speckles of blood and dirt sticking to his face. Though, the more you try to wipe it away, you begin to question what exactly he is capable of, and if it's his blood or someone else’s.

Like he usually does, Tsukki ignores you and shifts the conversation by asking you about your week. You tell him about your early morning class and the uncomfortable commute there. You lie about having lunch with your friends because tell him you didn’t have any to spend it with would be too embarrassing for someone as cocky as him to know.

There isn’t much about you to share; your life slides on the average side of the weighing scale of coolness. So, you worry you might be boring him, but as you clean the tiny scratch near the corner of Tsukki’s eye, you realize he’s looking at you like a shiny, lucky penny laying on the ground.

He’s looking at you with softness in his eyes and a subtle smile.

Fluttering. That’s what you feel tickling the pit of your stomach and you choose to yield from it, clearing your throat. You flicker your eyes to the plastic bag sitting behind him. “What’s in the bag?”

Without turning away from you, Tsukki extends his arm and reaches for it. He places it on his lap and you pull back, watching him as he pulls a pink cardboard box like the ones from the bakery; and lets the plastic float down to the floor.

“I don’t know much about you,” Tsukki begins, clearing his throat and wriggling in his seat.

For the first time since you’ve met him, all you saw was a walking brick wall that had the personality of dick. For the first time, you see him nervous and a little fidget-y and you enjoy it.

“But I do remember the things you share with me in true confidence even when I don’t always return the favor.” You bite down on your lip, containing your laughter at the sight of Tsukki with his head hanging low, straying away from your gaze. “In the last six months since you took me in that night, you show me kindness.”

You straighten your back and widen your tired eyes when he opens the little box and pulls out a tiny frosted cupcake with a very small candle standing at the top.

You blink because blinking is all you can manage to do.

You didn’t think he’d remember because you merely shared it in passing through a sea of useless information you exchanged between each other and two glasses of fizzy diet coke.

“No one should have to spend their birthday by themselves, don’t you think?” He finally moves his head to look at you and you swallow thickly, lips dried as you realize that all your hiding had been pointless.

But all you can manage is smile, grateful at the gesture and overwhelmed by soft tickling in your stomach. You want to cry because you’ve finally been met with gentleness even if it came from a stranger.

Tsukki looks at his watch and slowly begins to count the seconds. “Happy birthday,” He says your name quite differently than before. Your name sounds like a tune of your favorite song that you’ll wanna replay again and again. “Make a wish that counts because that damn cupcake was pretty expensive.”

You pout as he quickly falls back to his usual self. Clasping your hands together and closing your eyes, you do as he says and conjure the best wish you can make.

With your teeth tugging at your bottom lip, silencing the leftover thoughts lingering in your mind, you wish for happier memories and more friends, but most importantly, though you find him odd and a little annoying, you wish Tsukki could stay by your side.

But it's too bad that out of the three wishes you confidently offered to the gods, they’d choose to decline the one.

[op-peccatori]

per sempre tuo (M) | IkeVamp Leonardo

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Pairing: Leonardo da Vinci/Fem!Reader 

Rating: Explicit/18+/NSFW

Word Count: 4400

Summary: Your lover has many different sides, and you adore every single one of them.

per sempre tuo: forever yours

a/n: Finally. This is just some unnecessarily long fluffy smut to cope with finishing his route. Yes, I did listen to Italian music for this and yes, I did cry at some of the lyrics. I recommend the first 2 (A Te and Magnolia) if you wanna give it a listen~ AND, for Thirst Purposes, I’ve installed a reading nook in Leonardo’s room.

I had a tough time with the title, trying to pick which was more appropriate, per sempre tuo or tuo per sempre, but I went with the former...

(warnings/tags under the cut)

Warnings/Tags: explicit sexual content, vaginal sex, no plot, extreme cheesiness, some minor spoilers for Leo’s route

You’re not sure what wakes you–the gentle thrum of the rain outside the windows, or the familiar, sweet scent wafting over to you.

Slipping out from underneath the comforting mantle of slumber, you shiver and curl up sleepily.  

Or maybe it was the cold, the hint of autumn chill brushing warm skin as you turn over with a groan to find your usual bedmate missing. With a quick search of the disorderly room, you blink at the way your head throbs and squint at Leonardo. He’s curled up in his little reading nook, with the window cracked open, and you watch as he–cigarillo held between sanguine smudged fingers–sucks in a mouthful of smoke. It spills from his lips in slow, curling wisps after a few seconds. 

Further inspection reveals a notebook resting on his lap, an unbuttoned shirt, and chestnut strands pulled back into a short, messy ponytail that does unfair things to your libido. You don’t sit up just yet, content to let your eyes run over him as you try to recall the events of last night. 

Dinner had, as always, been a warm, chaotic affair. You remember being unable–and unwilling because it had been a while since you had indulged–to turn down Comte’s offer of wine. You remember the slow buzz creeping through your veins as you laughed at Arthur and Theo’s bickering, the droopy look on Sebastian’s face as it snuck up on him too, and the endearing flush on Isaac’s cheeks, unsure if it was wine-induced or if it was the result of Dazai’s teasing. 

A flush fills your own cheeks as you remember Leonardo’s warm gaze and soft lips, telling you to have fun as he left to have a quick chat with his old friend.

You remember accepting another glassful of the beverage, and you remember Sebas walking you to your room–which doesn’t explain why you’re in Leonardo’s bed instead of your own. It’s a bit like staring into murky water, trying to identify what lurks beneath the surface, and it slipping away just when you’re on the verge of discovery.

You refocus on his still figure.

Leonardo is, at his core, a man of action. With an eager mind, hands that itch to reach for something or the other–a book, drawing tools, things to repair, and ever since you came into his life, you. 

Jack of all trades, master of nearly all. 

Watching him at any time is fascinating; it’s hard to take your eyes off of him, you’re always eager to watch him in motion. And then there are the times where he’s quiet.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but it’s clearer right now as you observe him silently. He’s more subdued when it rains. It had been different when the two of you had been caught out in that sudden shower, but even now, the restlessness seems to have withdrawn, leaving placidity in its wake. 

He loves his naps, but the way he’s curled up next to the window, listless, eyes unfocused–he looks almost lonely. 

“Buongiorno.” Your startled gaze meets his, the cool gold of his eyes heating as they catch you staring. He turns his head to face you, his upturned mouth and the little crinkles in the corner of his eyes sending warmth fluttering through you even from across the room. “Slept well?” 

“Mm, I think so.” A yawn catches you off guard, quickly covered up by the back of your hand. You stretch languidly, feeling your muscles release, before you sit up, reaching for the top of your head to pat down flyaways. Your dress from the previous day is draped over the back of a chair, prompting a quick startled glance down at your body. You’re in one of Leonardo’s shirts; with a grateful sigh, you reach for the glass of water he somehow managed to make space for on his crowded bedside table. “I feel like I did.”

With the way he perks up, you wonder if he’s been waiting for you to wake up and play with him. The thought amuses you for a moment; sometimes, he really does act like a cat. You meet his eyes again, and he looks curious, putting out his cigarillo in a little ashtray on the windowsill. He’s always curious about what’s going through your head. 

“I hope you do. You were out cold,” Leonardo replies after a moment’s pause, before something sly crawls into his tone, the mischief glittering in his eyes putting you on guard. “I’d say you slept like the dead, but your snoring could’ve actually woken them up instead.” 

You barely avoid choking on the cool drink, gulping down a mouthful of it as you glare at him as dangerously as you can. It only serves to widen his smile. 

“Lies.”

“Nope. It was cute, though. I like it when you snore.” 

“When I-how often do I do it?” Your voice is shriller than you would like, and he, being the infuriating man that he is, starts laughing. 

“No need to get so worked up, cara mia,” he soothes, closing his notebook and placing it on a shelf behind him. He reaches for a damp cloth, wiping his hands clean, and closes the window.  “Come here, you look cold over there.” He looks colder. 

“I am cold,” you mumble, embarrassment still hot on your skin, but you can’t resist his beckoning fingers and climb out of bed quickly, the hem of his shirt falling to the middle of your bare thighs. Picking your way across the room as deftly as you can, a low hiss escapes you as you end up stepping on what looks like a puzzle piece. 

He reaches for you with a sheepish smile, gathering you up in his arms before settling back against the wall, reaching down to rub the sole of your foot tenderly. 

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, his calm voice warm, raspy gravel, reaching down to the very depths of you; wrapped up in his embrace, his heat seeping through the layers of cloth between your skin, you can’t help but melt into him with a soft hum. With your head cradled against his chest, you peer out the window. The skies are a solemn grey, but the flowers are there to make up for it, looking brighter in the light shower as they reach toward the heavy clouds.

You mull over his words for a moment, worry filling your heart, pressing your lips to the side of his neck before tilting your head back to look at him. “Is that why you were awake? You couldn’t sleep because of me?” 

At your words, he looks close to laughter, the corners of his lips quirked, but he fails miserably and presses it to your scrunched up brow. “I’ve slept through a lot worse, so no.” 

You study his expression for a moment longer, gauging the sincerity in his eyes, before you nod. Wondering what kind of stories are behind those soft words. “Oh. Also, did I pass out at the dining table? Because I don’t remember getting back to your room…”

“No, you didn’t. Last I saw you there, you were wide awake, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh that loudly. But by the time I got back, you’d already gone up to your room. ” Confusion creeps in, and Leonardo chases it away with a swift peck to your scrunched nose. “We should get you drunk more often.”  

You think back to dinner, and while it’s all a bit blurry you do remember having fun.

“So, I didn’t do anything embarrassing?” His fingers skim down your arm to tangle with your fingers, bringing them up so he can press his lips to the back of your hand. 

“Hmm. I think we have different opinions on what makes something ‘embarrassing’.” You stare at him until he grins again, sudden and wicked. “Don’t you remember singing for us?”

You resist the urge to jump out the window. “Oh no.”

“It was lovely,” he insists, chuckling when you swat him. 

“I can barely sing when I’m sober, and my drunken version has been likened to the screeching of a cat.”

“I don’t agree at all. I enjoyed it quite a bit.” 

“Of course you enjoyed it.” Feeling quite faint from the force of your despair, you attempt to escape his hold only for him to tighten it, pressing you back into him. You pull, he pushes. He pulls, you push. Your brief tussle ends with you sitting back against his chest, curled up between his legs, and a shiver running up your spine when you feel his lips on your neck.

“I did. Let’s see–I loved how free you looked, the way your hair escaped your neat little braid, the way you throw your head back when your laughter seizes you. The way you smiled at me, with your flushed cheeks and smiling eyes, reaching for me as if you never wish to be parted from me again. I loved it all.” His breath falls hotly on your skin and you’re frozen in his embrace, your heart holding onto every word that rolls off his silver tongue. “There was just one little problem.”

Your first attempt to speak dies in your throat. You wet your lips and try again, eyes sliding shut as he presses a burning, open-mouthed kiss beneath your jaw. “What was it?” 

Leonardo hums, lips forging a path up to your ear. “I wasn’t the only one to see all of that.” 

Fingers trace the jut of your collarbone, slow and inquisitive, as you work through the implications of his words. “I doubt anyone would see it the way you do.” 

“In this, cuore mio, you’re completely wrong. Not only do they see what I do, they covet. They envy. I don’t blame them for it, you’re a blessing one can only dream to have, but it still…” 

“But still?” 

He nips at the shell of your ear, hand smoothing across your abdomen, and your breath grows heavy. 

“It makes a part of me want to hide you away, away from their longing eyes. I would never do that, but a man still feels the need to stake his claim, yeah?” His hand dips under your shirt, tracing incomprehensible patterns on your skin, the calloused pads of his fingers skimming the skin beneath your breasts. “The entire time I was speaking with ‘Comte’ I was thinking of what beautiful side of you would be revealed next.” 

Your next words are carried on a breathless whisper.

“What did you do?” And you feel the way his lips, pressed to your temple, curl up. “What happened after that?” 

“Heh. Nothing.” He bites at the plump flesh of your cheek, light and playful even as his hand drifts up to cup one breast. Something is lodged in your throat and it feels like it might be your heart. “You did all the work for me.” 

It must’ve been something embarrassing, because you know the way he tugs at a nipple, rolling it between nimble fingers, is more of a distraction. The knowledge doesn’t stop your stomach from clenching with anticipation. “What did I do?”

“Nothing as bad as you’re imagining. I went looking for you, you see,” Leonardo licks up the length of your neck, kissing his way across your skin. Your fingers dig into the firm flesh of his thigh, holding onto the cloth as he sucks red, blooming marks. “But you weren’t in your room. Gave me quite a fright. I found you soon enough, though; stumbling through the halls, trying to find your way to your darling Leo’s room.” 

“I don’t remember that at all…”

His other hand cups your sex, heel pressing in with purpose as your head tips back, lips parting. “Don’t think anybody’s ever been that happy to see me. It was quite a kiss. Did I mention I had a few of the others looking for you too?” 

Leonardo’s palm slips further down, caressing the soft skin of your inner thigh, his cheek brushing yours when you try to look at him. He helps you turn around, leaving you kneeling between his legs, his fingers brushing your cheeks before he cups them and pulls you into a sweet kiss. The taste of his thin cigar spills rich on your tongue, the proof of his arousal brushing against your knee, but he seems content to just kiss you, tongue curling around yours, making a satisfied little sound low in his throat.

Desire burns low in your belly and you pull away with a gasp, forehead dipping to press against his.

With eyes dancing with fervour, he doesn’t look so lonely anymore. You worry, sometimes, that you won’t be able to reach him, that your worlds are too different. He’s a living legend who seems so out of everyone’s league it’s almost funny. 

But he’s also Leo: easygoing and warm, when all he wants is to curl up in your arms, to kiss you, and run his hands all over you, a dragon curling and rubbing itself all over its greatest treasure. When he just soaks up every bit of affection you offer him like a starving sponge.

The flat of his palm meets the soft flesh of your rear with a low smack, pulling you out of your musing. 

“I think that’s really e-embarrassing.” 

Such a demanding old cat, you think. Always wanting to hoard your attention. You should save that one; he gets, quite subtly, but adorably huffy when you say that. You’ve seen his quiet, simmering anger over the big things, but it brings you an odd sort of joy when he gets playfully mad at you over the little things. When instead of shrugging it off, he pouts until you’ve peppered enough kisses all over his face. 

He pinches your stinging flesh.

“Don’t agree. Story’s not over, though. So, then I brought you back here, but you decided to be a bad girl and torture your helpless compagno.” His hands slip up your shirt to cup your breasts, your back arching when his thumbs brush over tightening nipples.

“I’m not sure h-helpless is a word I would ever use to de-describe you.” Desire begins to pool between your legs, your head dropping back when he rolls the peaks between his forefingers and thumbs. You slip the shirt over your head, much to his approval and he doesn’t hesitate before leaning in for a taste, his next words spoken into your skin.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? But when the love of your life kisses you so sweetly, tasting like rich wine, with her hand on your cock–” He sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, working his mouth roughly as you moan and weave trembling fingers through his hair. “And you have to tuck her into bed because she’s drunk, and spend the rest of the night trying to think of the most disgusting things you’ve seen in your life? One can only wonder what circle of hell invented this.” 

“I-“ your skin burns at the thought of you trying to drunkenly seduce him, and you sit back on your heels with ears burning hotly. “I’m sorry.” 

“Me too. You put up a real tough fight, nearly convinced me…the places my mind went…” Leonardo sighs and slips a leg between your thighs, laughing when you squirm at the firm muscle of his thigh pressing into your sex. “Yeah? You wanna know?” 

“Did I really do that?” It comes to you in one single sentence, and the memory of Leonardo’s body pinned beneath you. 

“I just want to feel you. Please?”

Strong hands grip your hips and pull you forward, the friction robbing you of all coherence for a second. “I very nearly prayed.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that, planting soft kisses on both his cheeks, reaching for the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. “I’m really sorry.”

“Mm.” The pleased possessiveness in his eyes always takes your breath away, and the way he sighs and relaxes at your touch makes your heart thump in delight. It always ends up this way; a quiet moment spent with hands running over warm skin, the muscles of his chest firm under your fingers, your spine stretching as his palm slides along the length of it. “I’ll allow you to make up for it.”

“Yeah?” Your lips brush over his, and you breathe in the sweet scent lingering in his breath. Your hand slides down his solid abdomen, coming to rest on the waistband of his pants. “What do you need me to do?” 

With a small hum, his darkened eyes fixated on yours, clever fingers brush your breasts, your sex, and in a move that makes your breath hitch in your throat, they wander over to your rear, between plump flesh–and you immediately consider if what you’ll need is available or if you’ll have to run down to the kitchen. 

Leonardo kisses his way across your cheek, soft and sweet, lips warming your ear. “Smile for me.”

You blink as he pulls back to grin boyishly at you, feeling your brow twitch as your head drops to his shoulder. “You make me feel like a horny pervert.”

“Aren’t you?”

The sound you make is childish, near whiny in tone as you attempt to jump off his lap and flee to the safety of his bed. An admirable attempt, but one that is foiled right away by his arms wrapping around you. “Hey, don’t run from me.” 

“Leave me to my shame, Leo.” He pulls you close, chest pressing to chest, and your lips quiver at the feeling of your breasts against his muscle, and the way he tries to look stern but his affection just softens it until you want to eat him up. 

“You’re so pretty, Leo. Sometimes I wanna just eat you up.”

Dear Lord. Drunk you is shameless. 

“No shame in wanting your lover, cara mia,” Leonardo coos, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I want you just as badly, in every single way, all the time. Il mio cuore è tutto per te,” he murmurs, pulling your hips down to meet his, your mouth watering at the hard ridge of his erection. 

“I don’t see you making a fool of yourself,” you breathe, rolling your hips into his, thrill unfurling within you when he growls throatily. 

“If you saw what goes on in my head, you would run.” His voice is a power unto itself, growing deeper, going straight to your pussy. You reach for the fly of his pants, unbuttoning it swiftly and tugging at them until he lifts his hips with a thick chuckle. 

“Never. I’m far braver than that, and much too in love,” you declare, yanking the fabric down his thighs, taking a moment to admire the thick muscle defining them. 

“And you say I’m the smooth talker.” You crawl up the length of his long legs, his keen eyes raking over you, swaying breasts calling his hands to them like fleshy magnets. “Come to me, cara mia. I’ve been waiting too long to get my hands on you.” 

The head of his hard cock pokes at your thigh when you settle over his lap, his legs spread out. It begins to leak with a few pumps from you, and your eyes flit between the beads of his precome and the way his lashes flutter with each movement of your hand. 

“I don’t think I can wait too long,” he groans. “I was hard most of the night. Wanted you so bad.” 

“Sorry, baby.” You press your lips to his chastely, again and again until his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you there. Rough fingers reach your entrance, collecting drops of your arousal before pushing in. A wicked grin stretches across your mouth, matching his own. 

“Ah, I don’t think you’re up for waiting either.” Shuffling on your knees, you guide the head of his cock to your entrance, slack-jawed as you sink onto it. 

“...Fuck, Leo.” 

Leonardo draws you into another kiss, teeth sinking into your lip when you clench him tightly. His hands squeeze your thighs and, in a display of strength that honest to god has your pussy fluttering, he lifts onto his knees with ease, your legs coming to wrap around his hips. With his tongue still licking into your mouth, he pulls you half off his cock before jerking you back down and slamming his hips into yours. He swallows every moan, every cry, every wrecked sound that climbs up your throat. 

“You feel so good, cara mia. So perfect. And you’re all mine,” he growls into your skin, his thrusts relentless, intent on taking you apart. He presses you back into the bookshelf, and your heart pounds in your chest when he adjusts his grip on your thighs, pushing them back and hooking your calves over his broad shoulders.

The next, merciless slide of his length into you has your eyes rolling back. It’s only in this, when it comes to sex and your pleasure that Leonardo can push you in different, filthy ways until you’re left shaking. Your voice climbs in pitch with every rough thrust, your hands scrambling for purchase on a shelf behind you. 

“There, oh, there, please, k-keep doing that,” you sob, blinking back tears as you look up at him pleadingly, burning hotter at the sharp, consuming desire you see. He presses what feels like impossibly closer, the burning in your thighs strong but the drag of his skin against your bundle of nerves overwhelming. 

“Come for me, ___,” he groans, a wicked smile ghosting across his lips, allowing you a glimpse of fanged teeth and you see stars. Your back arches, head thumping against wood; your walls clamp down, and a hiss leaves his lips as you break in his arms. He slows his pace, fucking you through it, lips chasing away the tears spilling over. 

Forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, mind and body more jelly than flesh–his cock is still heavy in you, and an involuntary whimper sounds deep in your throat when you look up at him. He kisses you gently.

And with all his gentle affection, he pulls you off of his length and sets you down in front of the window, back arched and ass out, the glass cool against your sweaty cheek. You hiss softly when he slides in again, your breath fogging up the glass, his front curled over your back. Brushing away damp strands, he plants open-mouthed kisses on the nape of your neck, your shoulders. Twining your hair around his fist, other hand steady on your hip–he angles his hips and thrusts deep. 

You had been sure you didn’t have it in you to make even the slightest noise, but your body disagrees in the form of a low keen, your aching cunt swallowing him greedily. 

“That’s my good girl,” Leonardo exhales, his pace turning swifter and harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin providing an erotic contrast to the soothing rain. “Sorry for being so greedy but…” His fingers find your swollen clit and heat coils in your belly. “...I want one more.”

Denying him, your own pleasure at that, is not something within your capacity.

He muffles a guttural groan in your skin, nearly rutting into you as you wail, loud and wanton, unravelling once more. His pace stutters and liquid heat fills you in thick spurts. You turn your head, weak but wanting, to welcome his lips on yours.

Cracking the window open once more, you curl up against his body, his heat more than enough to shield you from the cold. You brush his hair away from his face, his having slipped free in the frenzy of desire. He rubs your lower back gently, covering you with his still-warm shirt, reclining against the bookshelf; you think you almost hear him purr his contentment. 

“Wait, where’s Lumière?” You’ve seen no sign of him, and the thought relieves you a little.

“Following Sebas around, last I saw him,” he mumbles, nosing at the skin behind your ear. You’re both so sweaty, but you wonder if you can make it to Le Thermae without running into any curious residents. “Also, cara mia, there was something I wanted to ask you.” 

“Mm?”

“I talked to Comte about it, and he’s agreed so you don’t need to worry about that. If you’re okay with it, I wanted to take a little trip.” You look at him and he pokes your cheek, but there’s no missing the hopeful look in those eyes. 

“Just us?”

“Just us. I want you all to myself,” he tells you, smug smirk and cockiness, before it softens into a tiny smile. “I had some work, back in Italy. Thought I could take you, show you around since we’d have the chance. Only if you’d like to, of course.”

“I’d love to.” Your immediate response is, quite embarrassingly, teary eyes and an enthusiastic kiss. Pulling back, you raise a brow. “Only if I’d like to? You mean you wouldn’t have wrapped me up in my sleep and taken me along anyway?”

“As you cute as you look when you’re grumpy,” he laughs at the narrowing of your glittering eyes, “the journey would be far more pleasant if you’re happy, no?”

“But I’m always happy when I’m with you,” you point out, foxy smile in place. The fuzzy feeling in your heart feels close to spilling over when he hugs you closer, but you still catch the way the tips of his ears flush. He holds you close as if wanting to imprint the feeling of your body against his, to sear your love onto his heart, to inhale the scent of you and trap it in his lungs–before the day comes when he will no longer have the chance to.

You turn away from the sadness and bury your face in his chest.

“Y-yeah, well. It’s time you got to eat some of the best food in the world.”

Now is the time for love, and you plan to give him so much, to paint him in the colours of your adoration, devotion and passion–that loneliness will not dare touch him for a long, long time.

Thank you for reading~ 

Translation:

il mio cuore è tutto per te: my heart is all for you

cuore mio: my heart 

per sempre tuo: forever yours (tuo is masculine singular possessive, tua is feminine singular possessive)  

[buckyjamess-archive]

Hi Sher! Can I get angst prompt 32 for Sam Wilson? x (i also kinda love you switched back to your seb url)

yes you can, there's not enough love for my man sam!

32. “Because i love you god damnit!”

pairings: sam wilson x reader

warnings: y'know avengers with their violence, blood and stuff. Cursing. fluffy end because can't leave my man hanging.

wordcount: 1.3k+, I will no longer call these things a blurb

❝ all the things i say ❞

it's what cats do, right? hide away when they know they're dying, their ninth life hanging on a thread. Hiding away from potential predators in moments of weakness. 

But you're not on your ninth life and you're not hiding away from potential predators. You only have one life anf it's hanging on a thread and you're hiding from your team, you don't need to be found, it is good, at peace. No need to bring your friends into danger in a desperate attempt to find you.

I had a good life. 

Your ears ring from the immense impact of the explosion mere feet away from you. The flames around you warming your cheeks and causing a trail of destruction. Your head is heavy from hitting it hard and the agonizing pain from your side makes you want to faint. A sharp piece of metal impaling the skin where your ribs end, marking your suit in a dark red stain, like red wine on a white carpet.

This is it, at least you die fighting the bad. 

With the little energy and will power that's left in your body, you drag yourself away from the fight, finding a spot between two flipped cars and nestling yourself in between, you hand never leaving the wound on your side. Your back hitting the cold metal behind you and the sound of a thud when your head meets the car. 

The ringing in your ears fade away but the deafening sound of the gun fight around and muffles the voices coming through your com stay but even if you wanted to say something, you doubted your voice or the lack therefore would let you.

Focus on your breathing if these were your last moments on earth, you're fighting to make it as painless and relaxed as it can be. You knew the day was going to come one way or another. 

as your life flashes before your eyes, the good and the bad projected like an old movie, your mom, your dad, your family, your friends, the sounds around you fade away, vision getting more and more unclear with each sharp inhale. 

It lasts two or maybe three seconds of slowly drifting to another, safer and better place when the cold against your cheeks and the yelling voice far in the distance pulls you back into the real world. 

Through droopy eyelids you're met with the brown eyes, usually filled with joy and sparkle and a faltered smile which could light up a room in better days. Sam wilson, the guy you joked around with and told you 'not to die or I'll kill you' moments before going into battle. 

Goddamnit, he found you.

You don't hear his voice or maybe you just don't want to. The gears shifting in your mind and going miles per hour as you desperately try to form the sentences, get the man, your best friend out of here. He's risking his life.

"Go away, Sam." It takes everything to mumble the words out and swat his heads away from your body. 

Sam refuses, ignoring your poor attempt at pushing him away, pleading him to leave you behind "I'm not leaving you behind!" 

and if looks could kill, sam would be dead by now and with a new found will and power, you push him away, nearly throwing him off his balance. A pained groan leaving your lips and a hand clothing your side "Get. Out. Of. Here!" 

Sam clenches his jaw, confused and sad with anger running through his veins "No!" 

"Why the hell not, you all will be fine without me!" 

it's the tears in your eyes, the crack in your voice and the color slowly draining from your face that tells Sam you're serious but he can't, he can't leave you on your own, not after he promised himself to tell the truth. 

“Because i love you god damnit!” Sam spat, hands now on both sides of your cheeks "have for a while!" 

and if it's the thing you needed to hear, as if it's your queue, a now-i-can-die-happy, you give Sam one of the faintest smiles and your eyes slowly close.

"damnit," Sam mumbles underneath his breath in panic, slapping your color drained cheeks softly in an attempt to keep you awake "could use some help here!" 

"and no heavy lifting, no sports, don't test the waters by forcing your limits and ask for help, let yourself be pampered." The nurse demands "as much as I enjoyed your company, I don't want to see you here again." 

From where you're seated on the edge of the hospital bed, you smile at the elderly nurse in front of you "wasn't planning on coming back, no offense but the food is just not that good." 

"That's because I didn't make it sweetheart." looking over the rim of her glasses, she squints her eyes and copies your smile "take care now." 

"I will." you nod.

The nurse shakes your hand firm, flashes the man behind you a quick smile and leaves the room. 

"Asking for help, you?" 

Unbeknownst to the man behind you, you roll your eyes and bite the inside of your cheeks to keep yourself from speaking. 

You watch the man as he comes into your field of vision, arms crossed in front of his chest and that damn warm smile on his face. 

"I'm going to be a pain in the ass, intentionally." you shoot him a fake smile "going to make you my maid." 

Sam's brows knit together and he watches you through squinted eyes "That's how it's going to be?" 

"Absolutely," 

you smile genuinely this time when he dips down to capture your lips for a kiss "I can live with that." 

"Even going to get you one of those maid skirts-" 

"Okay, alright-" Sam interrupts "get your ass in that wheelchair, we're going home. If that's what you fantasize about, you might want to ask Steve or bucky." 

"Maybe I will." You chuckle back. 

You let Sam help you, knowing all too well that your body will raise red flags with the smallest movements you make on your own. 

"Alright," Sam groans when he tosses the duffel bag over his shoulder "let's go home." 

within minutes you're outside, white walls, sterile rooms and bad food long forgotten and fresh air filling your lungs. Freedom. Something you craved after two months in this god forsaken place, bed bound. 

Sam's car is parked nearby and unlocks it, light flashing a couple of times. He stops the wheelchair a few steps away and opens the passenger side where he carefully helps you in. Handling you like a fragile package. 

"I can do that myself." You laugh when he reaches for your seatbelt. 

"Alright." Sam says, hands raised in the air in defense "if you say so." 

Sam presses a quick kiss to your forehead and stands back straight and closes the door. Making his way to the back where he opens the trunk and pushes your duffel bag. 

You watch the man, you've learned to love so much throughout the years, push the now empty wheelchair back into the building, a quick pep in his step when he returns back. That beautiful smile on his face when he seats himself next to you. 

"Alright, let's go home." 

"Quickly if you don't mind." You mumble back "worst hotel I've ever been in." 

Sam laughs and without another word he starts the engine and drives away from the place you called home for the time being.

The drive back to the compound is a blissful silence but the way Sam grabs your hand whenever he can and kisses the back of it, makes your stomach knot and you know that with Sam by your side, it's going to be a wild ride. 

[bxllafanficc]

¡Skate/sing your hearts out! (Yuri Plisetsky x reader)

(part six)

Part one. Masterlist!

Summary: After last year's cancellation of Figure Skating Grand Prix, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself unable to bring out his inner skater after a year of doing nothing but enjoy life like a regular teenager. That's when you enter the picture; We Are Voice Grand Awards's currently hottest competitive vocalist come first place two years in a row. Just like the other competitors of Grand Prix, it turns out that Victor and Yuuri faces the same issue. With an arrangement between Victor and Yakov, they agree to travel to Japan and hire you as a mutual coach for Yuri and Yuuri to help bring back the emotion into their performances like before, maybe even more intense than ever. Yuri however, who's never experienced issues with his coaches before, for some reason finds this one particularly difficult to coexist along with in their (reasonably) odd partnership. Warnings: none

*Your POV*

(Next morning)

"A-achooo!"

You jolted out of your sleep when the loud sound hit you. Half-asleep, you fumbled after a potential threat and thrashed with your legs to get out of bed. Your eyes weren't even open yet and you heard a shocked shriek from Magnolia before something skipped across the sheets and disappeared. You threw the blanket off you, threw yourself to the left to shake it away and-

*Thud*

Ow. You opened your eyes, finally. There was no attack, obviously. If your dream hadn't been about being the captain of a pirate ship as you were in the middle of getting attacked by the Englishmen, there would've been no reason to react that way, you thought.  The loud sound was the sound of a canon ball about to hit you, you'd figured. You let the impact of the floor stone you and you just laid there, thinking of what you were currently doing with your life; too tired to move.

"...(Y/n)? Did you- ... Are you dead?"

Hmmm, wait. Yuri, r-right. He saw that totally.

You rose to your knees and slowly peeked over the bedside, upon Yuri's weary gaze. Only your eyes were visible of course. No point in giving him the chance to see your red tainted cheeks after such an embarrassing act.

"(Y/n). What... are you doing?" His voice thick and dry, almost hoarse. He looked at you with his eyes barely widened. You then noticed how awfully colorless his skin was. Well, except for the redness around the base of his nose. Heavy bags under his eyes displayed on his features as well.

"What in the- Well you seem to have had a rough night, Plisetsky." It wasn't particularly an insult. He did look like the ceiling had been falling in on him and as if he had no choice to carry it the entire night. Yuri gave you a snort and leaned back in his bed.

"Shut up, Duchess."

You picked up your fallen blanket and placed it on top of the bed as you eyed the skater. Then the feeling of Magnolia bumping his head against your leg made you look down and sigh.

"Yeah whatever, Punk." You cradled the large cat in your arms and scratched his chin. 'Sorry, darling. I'll make it up to you...' You whispered in the cat's ear and kissed the top of his head. A purr started drumming from his belly but was quickly drowned out by another loud sneeze and a cough right after.

'Oh my, he isn't... Right?' You thought and the Russian boy sniffled harshly. Even Magnolia gave you a 'What's the matter with him?' look. You made your way to his bed and was met with swimming eyes. Even the stunning shade of blue and sea green had faded slightly and had been replaced with a grayish contrast.

"Yuri... Did you get sick from the waterfall yesterday?" You placed the back of your hand against his forehead and the heat hitting you almost made you retract it immediately. That, however, was done anyway by Yuri briskly swatting your hand away with a groan.

"'M fine!" He's burning up with a fever and he's laying here, lying straight to your face while looking close to passing out any minute. Another sneeze and you had decided what to do next.

"I'm calling Yakov that there will be no training for the following days. You get rested."

"No! I-I don't have such time! I'll practice anyway!" He sat up immediately and bore his gaze into you. You assumed that it was meant to be seen as fierce and energetic but it more looked like the kind of stare a drunk person trying to stare his way through solving a math-problem. You gently but firmly laid a hand on his chest at the intention to hold him back from straining himself any further. His gaze met yours with newfound shock and you ignored the feeling of a loud *thump* pulsing through your hand from inside his chest. A slight stutter was heard before you pushed him back down onto the mattress and held him still for a moment. 'Stay.' Was the message that thankfully got through.

"Rest and I'll be back soon, okay? You're not doing anything until you've recovered." Your words were stern but only a nod was seen from the boy as his eyes were intensely fixated upon your hand holding him down. Just then you noticed the rest of his face had turned red and damp from sweat as well, almost sure that it hadn't been there before. 'Oh no, his body turned hotter just now and his heart is beating out of his chest. Better get him some breakfast and call Yakov immediately before he dies or something.' And with that, you left the room and headed towards the kitchen.

You were making some hot chicken soup on the stove when Victor made his way into the hall and saw you, immediately stopping to see what you were up to.

"Smells delicious (Y/n). What are you making? Can I try?" He peeked above your shoulder and gasped lightly. Your shoulders were cradled by his arms from behind and he pushed his weight onto you, causing you to stumble.

"Pleaseeee?"

"Okay, okay! But just a spoon, alright? It's to Yuri." Victor sheered and waved at Yuuri as he as well now joined them in the kitchen. Next moment a spoon was dipped into the soup and the man started fussing about how great it tasted. He then made Yuuri try it as well meanwhile he stood beside you, taking low.

"A soup only to Yuri, huh? I'd say you're growing rather fond of him at this point. Is it 'made with love' as well?"

"Yuri's come down with a fever from yesterday's adventure. I cancelled his practice with Yakov for the rest of the week. Meanwhile, he said Yuri should think about choosing his music and a possible theme for his skating program this year so Yakov can go ahead and choreograph it in time for his return. Maybe you could help him with the theme and all that? I think he'd appreciate a little push into the right mind of thinking."

Victor fell silent and scratched the top of his head as he stared into the soup. You were heading to grab some red shiny apples and rinsed them under the water flow of the sink.

"How unfortunate that he'll have to postpone his practicing like that... Of course I'll help! Though, it's still a little suspicious of you nursing him back to health, I must say.

"Oh, just quit it, will you?"

"How are you feeling? You look pretty washed up." You pushed the door open and was met with Yuri scrolling on social media. His leg slumped over the other, laying on his back. You knew exactly why the media had been the center of his attention. Yesterday's news blew up around the entire world and people are freaking out on social media. But it wasn't just that. A few already silenced fans of the other figure skating idol's wrote about how it wasn't fair to the rest of the competing programs to have such an advantage. Some even went as far as speculating about Yuri Plisetsky already being so sure on winning this season's Grand Prix and with that, that arranged tour with you. As if  he hired you as coach because of that. To get to know you before the big collaboration between the two competitions.

"I always do. No point in rubbing it in though." You put the soup down on a little nightstand you pulled in front of the bed. Followed by the soup came a glass orange juice and a tray with star-shaped apple-slices. He grabbed the spoon you handed him and gave you a quiet 'thanks' before attacking the food.

"That's really not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I implied you look tired. That's what washed up means." You grabbed a chair from your desk and but it beside him on the floor. He looked slightly bugged that you'd be staying so close to him like that. Maybe he worried about another person getting sick but probably not. It was you at risk in this matter and he didn't exactly care about you, you knew. And yes, getting sick is a down step for a singer since the recovery can be slow and painful. But you didn't really care this time. Besides, you wouldn't be starting this season of We Are Voice in a good month anyway.

"You meant ugly though." His words were subtle and caused you to blink, slightly dumbfounded. Why did he say those things so casually about himself?

"You're never ugly, Yuri."

Wasn't he the one with confidence and pride worth a tiger's during last season's Grand Prix? It feels a little out of place somehow. For him to put himself down after only been doing it to others before.

"Say what now?" He took an apple slice between his fingers and inspected it before chewing it up with a mouth of orange juice.

"... You're actually really pretty... if only your personality wasn't to nasty though..."

You just felt like saying it, honestly. You felt like maybe he needed to hear it. And the parted lips and the wide stare you received from him revealed that you just might have been right. But he quickly read into the following sentence of your exclamation and shook his head.

"H-Hey!" The insult clearly hit the right spot as well judging by the pout and the blush. You flashed him a grin and let a loud laugh escape your lungs.

"Just eat your damn soup,Plisetsky!"

"Hey um... " You looked up from the book you had been reading. Yuri was finished with his breakfast and had been eying you for a good long minute in secret before deciding to speak up. You had just decided to ignore it and figured he'd say something if he felt like it.

"I have been wondering. So the reporter called you The Aubade Duchess yesterday... What does that stand for anyway?" The events of yesterday hit you in the gut once again. The loud screaming and the now so familiar pressure around you. They had been calling you The Duchess of (nationality) ever since your first year at the senior league of We Are Voice where you came in third. You hadn't been competing as a junior the years before but you were immediately a favorite of the people. Then, your second year, you won first place and earned the word 'aubade' to your fan made title. Last year, even though your competition grew more hellbent on winning, you came in first place once again. Your own coach had promised your fans a third golden success for this years finals. The title kind of stuck as you grew up on the stage.

"Right, that. Aubade stand for 'a love song which is sung at dawn', I have been told. It's silly, really." You turned to watch a certain detail in the marble floor, expecting some kind of teasing to come next. But the room fell silent for a moment and your eyes sought the reason behind the reaction.

"It suits you." It had been quiet. But you heard it nonetheless. Yuri wasn't meeting your gaze either but noticed your stunned surprise anyway.

"W-well, I mean... No- maybe? I don't know! It sounds ridiculous, just like you! God, you're so clingy and asking too many questions all the time."

He's been acting so... strange from his usual behavior. Like the fever has turned him into a less tense and distrustful version of himself almost. Wasn't he able to think straight? Perhaps you should treat him as a drunk person after all.

Even though your hand had been previously swatted away, you still put it to his forehead anyway. It was as hot as the first time and the heat made you snap back to your current situation.

"Shit. You're burning up... maybe I should-" You were cut off by Yuri leaning into your hand and closing his eyes. His entire posture screamed 'about to pass out'.

"Your hand... feels cool and nice..."

What the hell? Yeah he's as good as drunk. Wait no- you should call an ambulance, right. This is really bad.

"Oh. Should I get you a damp towel?" You were just about to retract your hand. To leave the room and attend to his fever once again but you were stopped. The Russian Punk took a weak hold on your wrist and held your palm close to his forehead. He sniffled once more before nuzzling into your hand with a little sigh. One more sniffle and he was out.

Light breathing was heard and he was finally asleep. On you, though. You couldn't even reach your phone to dial the hospital. You didn't want to scream for help either because it might have woken him up. But then, you couldn't help but feel a tad of relief as you were finally given a (kind of) break for a few moments.

But you had stuff to do. Those towels wouldn't wet themselves and you better prepare them for him. You began the attempt to remove your hand as carefully as you could but were immediately cut off by the soft mumble of a sound asleep Yuri.

"Mm... Don't you dare go anywhere."

...Okay then.

[princessjungeun]

Take It Slow: Yeji x Reader

Request: Could you please do Yeji x Fem!Reader? The plot is about them living together and falling in love 🥺 Thank you :)

Your roommate and you have lived together for almost a year and you both have yet to actually interact with each other. All you knew about your roommate was her name, Hwang Yeji. Despite the fact that you two haven’t really ever talked, you knew she probably despised you.

“I don’t understand why you two don’t talk. Really she’s super nice and cute too.” Your best friend Jiwoo knew Yeji because unlike you, Jiwoo was a social butterfly. Everyone loves Jiwoo she’s like the human embodiment of happiness. You sneezed three times then said “She doesn’t like me and you know it.” Jiwoo rolled her eyes and said “well you need to figure something out you two cant avoid each other forever. And go to the doctor you’re clearly sick” You responded “eventually we will. And it’s just allergies.”

When you woke up the next morning you realized it wasn’t just allergies. Your whole body ached, you were sweating even though you felt cold, and you had a wet cough. Forcing yourself out of bed you went to the kitchen to get water. You held yourself up against the wall so you didn’t fall over as you drank from your water bottle.

You heard a voice behind you “Hey are you ok?” You turned around and squinted, your eyes hurting from the amount of light in the room. You did your best to hold in a cough as you said “Y-yeah I’m fine just a little cold.” Yeji responded “are you sure?” You nodded but the second you tried to take a step you felt yourself falling.

Yeji quickly caught you, pulling you onto her back and walking you to your room. She placed you on the bed and felt your forehead, “you have a fever”. She ran to the bathroom and got some medicine before giving it to you with a glass of water. “Here take this.” You swallowed the cherry flavored liquid almost throwing it back up.

Your throat burned as you talked “Why are you doing this for me? I thought you hated me.” She responded with a soft smile “I want to. And I can’t hate someone like you.”

Never in the 10 months of living with Yeji have you actually seen her smile. Your heart fluttered at the sight. She was usually blank faced when she was around you, her narrow cat shaped eyes felt like they were burning holes into you. But this smiling Yeji was soft and warm, like a best friend almost. “You should get some rest y/n.” She pulled a blanket over you and walked out of your room, leaving the door open.

When you woke up you saw a boy scrolling through his phone sitting across from you. Immediately you looked around for Yeji, “she’s not here” the boy spoke up. You looked at him and tried to talk but your voice was gone, probably from all the coughing you did.

He could tell by the look on your face that you didn’t like him in your dorm. He calmly said “it’s ok she’ll be back. Oh and im her brother, Hyunjin.” You relaxed upon hearing him say that he was her brother, now knowing he wasn’t some creepy boy who broke into your dorm claiming to know Yeji.

“She sent me here to make sure you’d be ok while she’s in dance practice. I think she likes you, she talks about you a lot...” You stopped listening not believing anything he said. Closing your eyes you let him talk you back to sleep.

When you woke up again Yeji was back home, you could hear her humming in the kitchen. She walked into your room and saw you looking around silently. She ran the thermometer across your forehead and said “hmmm your fever still hasn’t broken and it’s been two days. I’m taking you to the hospital.” She helped you put on your shoes and a mask before putting you on her back and carrying you downstairs.

She drove you to the nearest hospital which was thirty minutes away. You honestly felt like you were dying. The motion of driving didn’t help making you feel nauseous and dizzy. Closing your eyes you tried your best to breathe calmly. You felt a hand on yours, her thumb caressing the back of your hand softly.

When she carried you into the hospital a few nurses immediately took you into a room to get checked out. Your eyes were closed but you could hear everything around you. The doctor asked Yeji all types of questions about you which she answered without issues. She knew everything from your birthday to your medicine allergies. You found this surprising because you’d never told her any of these things before.

“It seems that your girlfriend here has the common flu, we’ll get her an IV started with some fluids. As well as keeping her overnight for observation. She’ll be free to go in the morning.” The doctor told Yeji calmly and she nodded. Did he just say girlfriend? What did she tell him? But what you were most concerned about was the IV, you hated needles.

The doctor walked out to get a nurse for you leaving the two of you in the room. Yeji noticed your tensed body “what’s wrong?” She asked, her concern growing by the second. You responded “scared. Needles. No thank you.” Your voice still mostly gone but she was able to pick up what you said. She knew there was no other option, you needed this.

When the nurse came back she had the catheter in her hand ready to insert it in you. The nurse grabbed your hand and took the cap off the needle. The second you laid eyes on it you snatched your hand away and started crying. Everytime the nurse tried to gently get your hand you screamed and swatted at her.

“Wait wait wait stop!” Yeji waved her hands in front of the nurse. “Can you give us a second?” She asked sweetly. The nurse nodded and left the room. “Y/N you need this. I’ll hold your hand just relax.” You shook your head at her proposal. “What if you close your eyes and I hold you?” One again you shook your head.

The nurse came back in and told you she needed to get this done now because there were other patients. You nodded and held out your shaking hand, Yeji stood next to you, holding your head against her body. Before the nurse even got the needle out, you passed out.

When you woke up it was the next morning and Yeji was sitting next to your bed, holding your hand.  “You passed out then woke back up and fell asleep.” She told you laughing a little. A nurse came and had you sign papers so you could be discharged.

The car ride back to you and Yeji’s apartment was quiet. You decided to break the silence “so...girlfriend huh?” Yeji blushed and said “if i had no affiliation with you they wouldn’t have let me stay, it’s the first thing that came to mind.” You asked “we couldn’t have been sisters? Cousins?” She responded “not in the moment.”

You hesitated “well how about now?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the road but you could tell she wanted to look dead at you. Yeji stayed silent then asked “what do you mean..?” You told her “you know what I mean.” You laced her free hand with yours and she smiled. “Yeah...but take it slow.” You smiled wider and squeezed her hand lightly, “ok. We’ll take it slow.”

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - How A Star Is Born. ch.VI

A Hercules AU, founded by @evaroze, whom this fic is a gift for. I hope y’all like it!

ch.V - ch.VII

AO3 link

~~~~~~~~~~

The little sailboat gently glided along the river that would eventually pool into the sea. There, just as the river touched the vast salty body of water, there was a harbor that began the huge troublesome town of Thebes.

“Wow,” Dipper awed as he tied up the boat. “Is that all one town?”

“One town, a million troubles.” Stan quipped as he walked along the dock and his student hurried to catch up. “The Big Olive herself: Thebes. They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”

“Cool!” Dipper said as they entered the city. Never before had the farmboy seen so many temples and buildings clumped together, so many people in one place, so many speeding carts and horses and stray cats and the occasional mice that kept the cats fat and happy.

“Stick with me, kid,” Stan warned as they stopped with a group of people waiting to cross the street. “This place is dangerous.”

The horse-pulled carts came to a stop and some guy turned a red-hand vase so it showed a green walking man. They began to cross, but one cart sped by them and Stan had to dive on top of Dipper to push them both out of the way in time.

“Watch where you’re doing!”

“HEY I’M WALKING HERE!” Stan screamed back and made a rude gesture and he got up from Dipper, somehow miraculously getting a slight hint of a Latin accent. “See what I mean? Knuckleheads, all of them.”

“Then you should feel right at home.” Dipper sneered playfully, earning him a firm punch on the shoulder as they walked on.

A few minutes into town, after passing a shady conman that Stan saw right-through, a cute lady at a corner asking if anyone was wanting a good time, and a naked guy singing about accepting yourself, loving yourself, while waving around a dead chicken, the two men walked up to a fountain, taking notice of a group of people talking woefully.

“It was horrible.” A whiny troll-looking guy said as he rinsed his cap into the fountain, trying to get the soot off his clothes. “I lost everything in the fire. All of my beautiful vases and stone tablets.”

“Now were the fires before or after the earthquakes?” A big red-haired guy asked.

“They were after the fires.” A red-haired girl a few years older than Dipper answered with. “But before the flood.”

“Not to mention the crime-rate.” A skinny guy with a small mustache added in. “Seems every time I turn around, there’s some new monster running havoc!”

“1220 has got to be the worst year I’ve ever heard of.” The red-haired woman said as she kicked a rock harshly and crossed her arms over her chest. “Can’t we just move to Sparta, Dad?”

The entire time the locals were complaining, Stan was elbowing Dipper encouragingly and gesturing for him to go ahead. Dipper cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.” When all the eyes were on him, he felt a little nervous, but he went ahead. “It seems to me that what you need is a hero.” He said confidently and puffed his chest out with his hands on his hips.

The crowd did not look impressed. “Yeah,” The big guy snorted. “And who are you?”

“Um, I’m Dipper.” The young man said, trying to keep his confidence up, but was failing. “But I happen to be a hero, and…”

The four laughed at him and Stan narrowed his eyes as the townsfolk had their doubts if this young man could possibly help them.

“Have you ever saved a town before?” The small troll-like man asked.

“Uh… n-no, not yet…”

“Or reversed a natural disaster?” The big guy asked.

“Uh… n-n-no, but…”

“Ugh,” The red-haired woman groaned. “He’s just another chariot chaser.”

“Don’t you knuckleheads get it!” Stan yelled, placing a hand on Dipper’s shoulder. “This kid’s the genuine article!”

The little ugly man narrowed his eyes and adjusted his thick glasses to get a good look at the old man. “Hey… isn’t that the fallen god that trained Achelles?”

Stan’s whole face turned red and he began to shake with anger. “Watch it, pal.” He growled like an angry dog.

“Stan…”

“Hey, you’re right, Toby.” The big guy said and laughed harshly. “Oh boy! I needed this! Some amateur hero trained by the worst god of existence!”

Stan let go of Dipper and began cracking his knuckles. “You wanna go, buddy, c’mon…”

“Stan, Stan!” Dipper had to use his god-like strength to hold his teacher back as it looked like he was going to pounce on the big guy who looked like he could rip a tree out from the ground if he wanted to. “He’s not worth it, let’s just go.”

Stan, still growing, allowed Dipper to lead him to a large set of stairs while the four walked away. Soon Stan swatted Dipper’s hands off of him and they sat to try to think.

Dipper, meanwhile, was thinking about what that guy had said. A fallen god? That may very well have only been a cheap insult for the Trainer of Heroes, but Dipper had first-hand experience in the matter. Gods can fall. Was it possible that someone who had practically raised him and trained him to be a hero so he could be a god again knew exactly what it felt like to be someone you’re not?

“Stan, wh-what those guys were saying…”

“Listen, kid,” Stan said tiredly and held his head. “You’re gonna hear some really bad stuff about me in this town, and some of it is true, but I need you to trust that everything I’ve ever done has been so that family sticks together, okay? I’m gonna get you to your twin, okay? I’m gonna help you become a true hero if it’s the last thing I do, okay? All I ask is that you trust me. Please.” And he looked up at the teenager heavily.

Dipper swallowed as he saw a million and one emotions in his eyes. After everything this guy has done for him and planned to do for him, Dipper decided that trusting him was the least he could do, so the younger of the two nodded, but their moment was interrupted by a cry for help.

“Help! Help, please! Help!”

“Pacifica?” Dipper muttered as he saw a lush amount of blonde hair try to make its way through the crowd. “Pacifica!” He stood and hurried to her as her eyes lit up at the sight of him and hurried.

“Wonderboy… Dipper, thank goodness! Outside of town, by the sea, this little boy was playing and there was a horrible rockslide! He’s trapped!”

“Quick, show me where he’s at!”

Pacifica grabbed Dipper’s hand, making his whole face turn red, and she led the way through town back towards the sea, north of the harbor and just below a mountain that led to Thebes’ Temple of the Gods. Stan quickly followed behind them and a few townsfolk decided to keep an eye for entertainment purposes mostly.

On the damp sand there was a rocky wall side from where the tide often comes in and forms a wall, separating the town from the ocean. Dipper could hear a boy’s cries coming from behind a rock and he hurried across the beach, leaving Pacifica, Stan, and the townsfolk on the sidewalk.

“Help! I can’t breathe!” The boy coughed and desperately pleaded, “Somebody call I-X-I-I!”

Dipper stood by the big boulder and said calmly, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you out.”

“Hurry, please!”

Dipper looked up at the giant boulder and took in a deep breath. This rock was huge, one of the biggest things he had ever had to lift, but if he could accidentally destroy half of his hometown, he can lift a boulder. Right?

He grabbed on from the bottom and struggled for a moment, but with gritted, deep breaths, and sheer determination (Stan’s calls of encouragement also helped tremendously), Dipper was able to slowly lift the boulder up from the tiny cave in which the white haired boy was trapped behind.

The boy ran out quickly and Dipper asked in a strained voice, “Y-You okay?”

“Yeah… J-Jeepers, mister.” The boy awed. “You’re really strong!”

Dipper smiled and said after he threw the boulder into the ocean, “Just try to be a little more careful, okay?”

“I sure will!” The boy replied as he ran off into the town.

Stan cheered and hollered, only stopping when he was coughing and he bent over a little to cough sharply into his fist. The townsfolk gave a small applause for him, only a little impressed, as the boy climbed up the side of the mountain and went into the mouth of a large cave, where he was met with Bill in his throne, sipping on live worms, and Pacifica, who sat with her legs dangling over the edge.

“Jeepers? Mister?” Pacifica sneered.

“I was going for innocence.” Gideon said as she changed back into his older self and sat next to Pacifica to watch the show.

“You both did good.” Bill said coldly. “I was really moved by your performances. Great opening act.”

Meanwhile, Stan was at Dipper’s side and patted him hardly on the back. “Great job, kid! They even applauded! Sorta, but still!”

Dipper heard something and turned to look out at the dark and dreary sea. Bubbles. “I-I don’t think that’s applause, Stan.”

Stan looked out at the ocean and saw a shadow form under the bubbles, and soon they were shocked to find a big green head emerge from the water with sharp teeth and small eyes, followed by a long neck and a fat body, the monster roaring like a horrible siren.

“St-Stan! What the heck is that!?” Dipper asked his mentor.

“The Gobblewonker!” Stan yelled as he pointed at the monster. He pulled out Dipper’s sword from his scabbard, put it in his hand, and ran back to the screaming crowd for safety.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!” Gideon cheered and Bill snapped his fingers to make a ringing bell appeared.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford and Mabel were sitting on the front steps of their temple, having tea, as the young muse happily chatted and the aged god happily listened, but they were interrupted by Fiddleford’s wind-breaking running as he hurried up to his dearest friends and was short of breath.

“St-St-Stanford! It’s Mason! He’s battlin’ the Gobblewonker on the beach o’Thebes!”

Ford choked on his tea and had to spit it out. “WHAT?!”

Mabel punched the air. “Alright! He can take down that big dummy! I wanna see him do it!” And the young muse got up and started to run out of Olympus.

“Wait!” Ford called as he and his best friend ran after her. “Mabel, wait!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dipper slowly watched as the Gobblewonker’s neck positioned itself for attack, like an angry snake. This was no different than those garden snakes at the orphanage, right? The monster attempted to strike, but Dipper dodged swiftly on the beach. Again, and another dodge. Again, another dodge.

“That’s it,” Stan coached. “That’s it, kid, dance around, look for an opening.”

The Gobblewonker struck again, digging it’s sharp teeth into the sand, and Dipper was almost hit, but managed to spit out some sand and stand strong, unfortunately realizing a second too late that his sword was no longer in his hand, but lying behind him. Now having to multitask running the opposite direction and dodging a monster, as if this battle wasn’t difficult enough.

To distract it and buy some time, Dipper used his super strength and threw a huge rock at the Gobblewonker, who crushed it in his jaws while Dipper retrieved his weapon. He stood proud and ready to strike, but in one instant the monster engulfed the hero in it’s mouth and held its head up high to swallow Dipper like he was a pill.

Pacifica held her throat and cringed as the Gobblewonker licked his chops, but soon it was wincing, like it was in pain, and a gruesome scene of Dipper cutting the monster’s neck from the inside appeared before the audience and the Gobblewonker’s head and half its neck flew into the ocean, leaving red in the water and on his body.

“YES! THAT’S MY BOY, THAT’S MY BOY!” Stan cheered as the Gobblewonker’s body fell onto the beach with a loud splash and the dizzy hero fell to his knees. Stan was right by Dipper’s side and helped him up, lightly tapping his face. “Good job, kid, good job. C’mon, let’s getcha cleaned up.” And the old man helped his student get on his feet and shake away his dizziness from the acid that had been in the neck.

Up in the cave, Bill was turning red and shaking. Pacifica smiled, ready to see Gideon be burned to a crisp, but the young man was still, miraculously, perfectly calm.

“Gideon, your plan…”

“Bill, Bill buddy, relax.” Gideon rested his hands behind his neck as rain started to trickle down on the mortal world. “It’s only half time.”

The Gobblewonker’s body twitched behind the two men. They both turned and were very disturbed to find it standing up on its own and suddenly three heads emerged from the opened neck, ready to attack the hero again.

“HOLY HERA!” Stan yelled and ran aside to give the hero his chance.

Dipper backed away until his back was against the rocks, smiling. “Ha! You’re trapped in water, huh?”

The three-headed-Gobblewonker must have understood the young man and decided to prove him wrong, because the sea monsters climbed up out of the water and onto the same to better attack the human.

“Oh, jeez.” Dipper groaned before letting instincts take over and he chopped an incoming head off to dodge and get out of being cornered against the rocky wall.

Dipper allowed his adrenaline to take over and soon he was swinging at anything that came towards him. This, of course, was a bad idea and soon Dipper stood with his back to the sea at a thirty-headed-Gobblewonker, bigger and meaner and more powerful than ever before.

“WILL YOU FORGET THE HEAD-SLICING THING?!” Stan yelled from the sidelines.

Dipper swallowed as a clawed-flipper scooped him up and pinned him against the mountain side, all thirty heads getting closer and closer and ready to rip him apart limb from limb.

“C’mon, kid!” Stan cheered. “Use that big head of yours! C’mon!”

Dipper did some quick thinking, looking up at the mountain, and without a second to lose, he pounded his combined fists against the mountain on his left side, causing an avalanche. One by one the heads were crushed and more red stained the rainy beach, leaving only a fisted-up claw in the clear, unnoticed by the audience.

“NO!” Stan screamed and hurried to the rockpile. “C’mon, c’mon kid, stay with me. Stay with me!” The old man fell to his knees and started to move rocks out of the way, trying to find his student. “No, no, no! Please!”

Meanwhile, Gideon and Bill were smiling twisted smiles. “Hm, nice job, kiddo.” Bill said to Gideon. “You’ve redeemed yourself.”

“Told you it would work.” Gideon said calmly.

Pacifica looked down at the old man trying to get the young hero back with sad blue eyes.

“I… I can’t…” Stan panted under his breath. “I can’t lose…” But then he heard something that made him stop digging.

The fist was wiggling, finally noticed. The townsfolk were worried it was the Gobblewonker, still alive, and Stan stood ready to die trying to kill the monster that took his kid away, but everyone who was watching was beyond surprised to find Dipper priding the monster’s dead fingers off of him and standing tiredly with his clothes in rags.

Cheer erupted, everyone deaf to the yells of anger from Bill and the yells of pain from Gideon, or the dark cloud that appeared by the small cave as the three vanished.

The townsfolk yelled and celebrated and ran down to Dipper and Stan, but Stan was the first to congratulate the new hero, holding him in his arms and giving him noogies and yelling to the top of his lungs. “YOU DID IT, KID! YOU WON BY A LANDSLIDE! HAHA!”

And there, up in the dark rainy clouds, Fiddleford danced with Mabel cheerfully for Dipper’s first victory, leaving Ford standing there, mouth open, speechless with pride. “I… I can’t believe it… my boy… he…”

“I told you!” Mabel cheered and punched her uncle on the shoulder. “I was right, you were wrong! Looks like somebody has to sing the Ford Was Wrong Song!”

Ford chuckled and smiled down proudly at his nephew, who was now being carried away by the other humans. To congratulate him, Ford threw down joyous lightning bolts to dance among the jubilant rain.

Dipper caught the lightning striking the ocean and he smiled to himself, daring to believe that his family might be proud of him.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the Underworld, Gideon was on his hands and knees, weak from pain and whimpering. This was the fifth time he was being punished, and Bill wasn’t done. The young white-haired man looked up at his boss and pleaded. “Bill, I…”

With a snap of the triangle’s fingers, Gideon’s tongue burst into flame and the teenager cried out and clawed at his mouth. Bill glared maliciously as he snapped his fingers again and Gideon’s whole body was suffocated in flames. Again.

Soon a sad pile of burning flesh was at Bill’s feet slowly healing again. “First you couldn’t even turn both twins into mortals. Then the one left mortal you let live. And now he lives and kills off one of my most powerful allies for taking this dimension!” Bill snapped his fingers again, burning Gideon alive again, sentencing him to pain that would kill a mortal.

Halfway through healing again, Gideon whimpered through tears, “I can still kill him. He’s still mortal. He got lucky.”

“You better.” Bill said coldly. “You’ve got one year to kill Pinetree, and every time you fail, I’ll kill you again until either he’s dead or you wish you could stay dead.” And the triangle left his minion alone to cry on the floor and think of how he was going to kill the man destined to defeat Bill.

[hothian-snow]

Sparagmos: First Draft

To celebrate me reaching 32K with my WIP, here’s a bunch of drabbles which inspired the initial first draft. I might reuse one or two scenes, but not the stuff with Darth Zhorrid. Both Yen and her master has changed a lot through my second revision of the fic too, and so has my writing style. Enjoy!

Darth Kharopos knew damn well that he was intimidating. He must be, lest all the other Darths devour him whole. He was also acutely aware of the effect he had on Yennevyr. It was almost amusing, the sudden change in her posture, her back snapping straight the moment he stepped into the room. Her deference towards him, the soft words and lowered eyes. Was she eager to please, or eager to survive?

From her quick feet and mind, he thought it was the latter. Self-preservation was a necessary trait among the cutthroat Sith, but for his apprentices - his legacy - he wanted more. He thought with her keen eyes and her outsider’s perspective, she’d be able to see the Empire for what it was. To see beyond the rabble, beyond the rat’s race and see what truly mattered. Instead, her eyes were puffy and pink, the next morning they met during saber practice.

Pathetic.

And it wasn’t a one off occasion too. Every time she’d come back from a particularly grueling mission, her mind was elsewhere, her blows lacking the conviction he’d expect from an acolyte worthy of being called his apprentice.

Drawing his attention back to the current practice, he swung a saber at her, the saber deflected mid-swing by a well-placed parry. He stepped aside, and noted how her feet were firmly planted into the ground, readying the body to absorb the weight of a heavy thrust or jab. A defensive stance- again. Must he truly hurt her for her to finally switch to the offense?

The tip of her saber was shaking, her stamina running low.

With the ease of swatting a fly, Darth Kharopos knocked the saber out of her hands. Scowling, he walked away, not pausing to glance back..

*******

Something was different. Clearly, something had changed.

Yet, it was less of a change or a growth and more of a pot bubbling over, the pressure and the heat exploding, the fragile cage of a badly crafted glass teapot cracking, its jagged shards flying into the wall before smashing into sharp little pieces.

Something flared in her eyes and her single red blade came to life, slashing in his direction.

He stepped right and striked left. She jumped back, moving like a spooked jungle-cat, before bouncing back forward with an unexpected speed and thrusted her saber towards his form. He blocked her, catching her blade with the end of his own. Her stance buckled under his strength, and so she slid her saber away but not before suddenly twisting her grips - shifting form, right in the heat of combat, inches away from her enemy - and plunging the blade into where he stood. Darth Kharopos spun his double-bladed saber, creating a quick shield that deflected away Yennevyr’s weapon.

The weapon flew out of her hand.

He felt her clearly. Frustration. Loathing. Wrath.

Their force bond was never this strong, but now he could feel her closer than ever. The way her heart raced, the blood thumping in her ears, her ragged breath and barely held back sobs- it was a dam broken loose, her force presence like a whirlpool throwing the cold serenity of his mind into chaos. Decades of careful restraint and calculating control kept him from drowning in the waves of her emotions.

Yennevyr, with her lithe form and dancer physique, sent a butterfly kick towards his head. Darth Kharopos reeled back. He could’ve blocked her again, that he was more than capable of- but his senses were screaming, alarm bells ringing.

With that distraction - that uncharacteristic distraction, that daring, was so different from the cautious acrobat who used to dance in and out of his range - she summoned her saber back, the hilt smacking into her palm with a loud slap. Fluid like water, she leaped and swung the saber like a guillotine axe above his head. Eyes wide, Darth Kharopos raised his saber up to form a cover, digging his feet into the sand below as the impact hit him. Yennevyr was not relenting.

Her eyes were scarlet. Those amber orbs now glowed red, the color looking like freshly spilt blood against her snow-pale skin. It reminded him of the first time he saw a total lunar eclipse: the moon bled red, as if someone had stabbed its white soil and the wound began gushing glistening ruby.

He let her hit him.

*******

Despair was an emotion Darth Kharopos never experienced, not truly and certainly not personally. Whether that was an indication of mental strength or privilege, he didn’t know.

Lord Atala’s death hit them all hard; the empty space where his mother once stood still felt like a void. Darth Kratais second marriage with Darth Labrys could never fill that gnawing, missing hole, but the woman’s hands were tender and her gaze was warm and when she whispered words of comfort to him, it felt like he had a mother again. Her presence had gentled his father’s severe disposition, and when she brought about his half-sister - Tatyan - into the world, the younger Sith Pureblood felt like a tiny bird fluttering in his palms. She truly was worth protecting.

When his father passed, it felt like a bad dream had come again.

Except this time, mother was grieving and Tatyan was bawling and they all cried together.

“Never show weakness in front of outsiders”, Darth Labrys said. “But here, we’re family.”

Because of family, he’d never known despair.

He was used to inflicting it upon others, though.

Hearing prisoners beg for death, attempting to gouge their eyes out as if the act could wipe away the vision of seeing their loved ones writhing as lightning tore through them, was something he’d grown accustomed to. He saw it coming like a holofilm in slow-motion: the moment where a war veteran’s mind was about to break, their will and determination ready to be shattered into dust at just a single jab. He always made sure their descent into madness was quick- no need to prolong the suffering. Genuine torture was only reserved for the worst of his enemies. It was satisfying, forcing some arrogant Republic general to their knees and making them scream, or exposing some tough Jedi for the weakling they were, like ripping open a bandage to reveal the ugly pus beneath.

How then, had he become so numb to the agony of others, that he missed seeing the same signs in his apprentice?

She was in despair, so upset she wished she’d died.

The circular burns on her arms looked like the ones he was used to inflicting upon Republic foes. It was an easy interrogation technique: stamping a recently deactivated lightsaber onto bare skin, the still-hot metal like a sizzling brand. And when he gazed into her eyes (oh sweet Yennevyr, when was the last time he truly looked at her?), they were dead. Empty glass orbs that had given up on life, if only her heart would just stop beating and give up on her too.

“Do I disappoint you, my lord?”

There was no mockery, no snippy retort in her voice, only pain.

*******

“I’ve always wondered how the law would work out in the long run,” Darth Labrys said, her voice lilting through the holocall. She was referring to the law to bolster Imperial ranks with worthy slaves and aliens, the law which also applied to the Sith. “You can’t expect a slave or a foreigner with no background, no exposure to Sith culture or history to integrate smoothly into Sith society without intervention, much less demand top performances from them.”

Not to mention the consequence of overwhelming power suddenly awakening within someone never taught to wield it, Darth Kharopos thought. The dark side was intoxicating, and one could lose themselves to everything from bloodlust to misery.

“I’m not advising you to go easy on her… but do be understanding, Tyrkos.”

His mother warned that even with the best medicine or therapy available, it would take time, and heavens knew that the Sith journey was already difficult enough, requiring one to fall apart and be reborn from the ashes, to kill who you were for what you could become.

Trust between Sith, especially master and apprentices, was rare. Now, he doubted she’d ever place her faith in him beyond hoping to one day take his place.

*******

Is this how I die? Darth Kharopos thought.

Every breath felt like hot knives stabbing his lungs. The rebreather was dying on him, for he could taste soot in his mouth. Collapsed against the cool floor of his hideout, back leaning against a bloodied wall, his apprentice loomed over him. How embarrassing, for his apprentice to see him so helpless.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried out. “Master!”

He thought he’d take that secret to the grave, to ensure that the fallout was minimal. Sith Pureblood, heir to the Rosokor family, involved in a light-side conspiracy. Should he be exposed, the Dark Council would have his mother’s and sister’s heads.

He pleaded for her to understand.

And if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her.

Her left hand clutched his holocommunicator where the damning evidence of his treachery laid, and in her right hand was the scarlet lightsaber, poised for execution. In the months under his tutelage, she’d grown into a stunningly beautiful Sith assassin indeed.

He closed his eyes.

“Tell me how to help.”

In shock, his eyes snapped open.

Her eyebrows were scrunched up but whether in anxiety or concern, he could not tell. There was a flush in her cheeks, and wildness in her eyes. Against his every expectation, Yennevyr chose mercy. She chose a chance at the Light. She chose him.

Master, did you not choose me, on Korriban? You saw something in me. I see something in you, too.

*******

Yennevyr hated mopping up blood. She had watched her late father’s maids do it all the time, his underlings scrubbing a crime scene clean. She later played the role of the domestic servant, doing the same back when she was enslaved under the Hutts, whether it be with spilled drinks or bloodstains from a brawl. She wasn’t afraid of blood- the coppery stench just smelled revolting.

Her master bled liters, the liquid forming sticky pools beneath his broken body. Sealing the wound wasn’t too difficult once she found the medkit, although her clumsy handiwork would definitely leave a scar. What was even more concerning was her master’s breathing, the fact that it sounded agonizingly labored and worryingly irregular.

With effort, they managed to haul their way to the hideout’s medical wing before he slipped into unconsciousness.

When his armor was stripped away and it was only his form in plain robes on the simple bed, her master looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. Heavy fatigue was written all over his sleeping face. It reminded her of those times she woke up especially early to see the Kaasian sunrise, the soft orange peaking through grey, stormy clouds. Some days, she deduced how master had been running some secret errands the night before, and she’d spot him limping home, his feet dragging, with an uncharacteristic slouch burdening his usually proud posture. Logically, she knew her master was no more or less a person than her, but to glimpse him tired and worn out had shocked her.

She spent the night by his side, the implications of her actions becoming clearer with each passing moment.

To reform the Sith society from inside out, she thought. A lofty dream. When did I become such a cynic?

With curious eyes, she glanced at her master’s resting form, the sound of his still ragged breathing filling the room. She wouldn’t even need a lightsaber; all she had to do was wrap her hands around his neck, and squeeze. She wondered if suffocation felt like sleep.

Oh, will I ever see you this vulnerable again?

Instead, she gingerly placed a palm on top of his limp hand, entangling her fingers with his. His hand was warm.

*******

After the suspicious death of Darth Jadus, Darth Zhorrid - in her sick ways - sought to consolidate her position as a Dark Lord of the Sith.

As if the Council would stand her, Yen scoffed. After they’ve sucked her dry of whatever knowledge Jadus may have passed down to his daughter, she’s dead.

It was no secret that her master disagreed with many of the actions taken by Darth Jadus, but he’d always respected the chain of command, bowing whenever the Dark Councillor requested his presence, amicable before his superiors. This time, however, Darth Zhorrid asked for her master and would not expect anything less than absolute submission.

“Wait outside, Yennevyr. Do not interfere no matter what happens.”

Many may claim force cloaking to be an act of defense, like the Jedi Shadows who’d rather sneak past their foes than needlessly spill blood. Perhaps she truly was like that, in the past. Eager to run, to dart in and out unseen. Conflict-avoidant.

But a cloak was also a tool, like a viper’s green scales that blended into the grass, obscuring fangs and venom. To take it a step further: force cloaking was manipulation. It was to force upon someone a false visage, to bend the mind of onlookers to the point of them rejecting the evidence of their own eyes, denying the existence of a sword pointed at their head. On Korriban, Yen had figured out how to twist her force cloak, inverting it so that her opponents’ visions were plunged into darkness and the world became invisible to them.

It only took hearing her master scream for the first time for her cloak to become a dress.

The scent of ozone reeked through the semi-closed office door. By god, no matter how many times in the past she’d angrily fumed - fantasizing of sweet it would be to give her master a taste of his own medicine - actually hearing her master who had just barely recovered from his previous ordeal now screaming under the powers of some bratty Darth who probably did not even deserve that title...

Yen’s hands curled into a fist, and she was surprised by the anxious lump that formed in her throat. She took in a sharp inhale and when she breathed out, the Force coiled around her like serpentine tendrils, slick and cool. Shadows rested around her shoulder blades like a fashionista’s scarf.

Or for her enemies, a noose.

When her master stumbled out of Darth Zhorrid’s office, a hand clutching at his side, she took the opportunity to peer into the slit of the half-opened office door and caught the Dark Councillor’s sadistic gaze. Yen gave a smile.

*******

Yen had always been good at force cloaking. But this time, instead of projecting the lie of invisibility, she’d chosen an illusion- a glamour, a mirage. To project something false into the world required unwavering will and mastery over that image.

Her mask was fueled by hatred.

Never had she thought she’d one day hate anyone more that she hated the Hutts or herself, until she met Darth Zhorrid. That pathetic mix of insecurity and sadism was infuriating. She had read up on Darth Jadus’ treatment of his daughter. It took everything for her not to barge into that office and wring that sick woman by the neck and ask her if she thought she was the only one who had ever faced abuse. Everyone faced pain at some point in their life. Suffering was the story of all beings, especially so if you were Sith. Yet, when she hated herself, Yen only hurt herself. Unlike Zhorrid, she’d never tortured others as a way to lessen her own pain, to hide her weakness.

And for that, Yen wished Zhorrid was dead.

But not before providing use for her and her master, of course.

Wearing the Force - the fabric of the universe - as if it was a garment, was an act of complete domination. With a smile, she had sparked a flame of interest within Zhorrid. With a light touch of her fingers, she’d quicken or calm the Dark Lord’s pulse, the woman’s heartbeat hers to command at her pleasure. In a blink of an eye, Zhorrid would forgive her master for any misdeeds he’d supposedly done, and most importantly, Zhorrid would leave him alone.

Why pay attention to some grumpy old Sith when the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was standing there in front of her eyes?

A drugged cupcake ready to be eaten.

Darth Kharopos felt his stomach sinking when he received the holocall requesting that Yennevyr go meet Darth Zhorrid in her chambers. His muscles tightened, as if readying for battle. He wasn’t scared of that snooty brat; anything she threw his way he could take. But Yen, his student, his ward, his protege, his apprentice-

She was smiling.

The Force swirled around her, draped all over her form like a dress blowing in the wind. It was as if she wore a robe of woven flesh, of slithering serpents and tendrils that wrap and cling and coil. There was a gleam in Yen’s eyes, her russet eyes mirthful, radiating confidence. The last time he remembered seeing his apprentice so self-assured was when he was bleeding on the cool tiled floors, her red lightsaber hanging over his head like a bloody guillotine.

“My lord, I am every bit your apprentice. Trust that you’ve taught me well.”

When Darth Kharopos was later summoned to Darth Zhorrid’s office, Yennevyr sat on Zhorrid’s lap like an overpriced poodle. What Zhorrid did not see was the undulating threads latching onto her, their ends sinking into Zhorrid’s skin like a snake’s fangs, or parasites whose teeth pierced her bloodstream, draining her dry.

“Ah, you’re here, Darth Kharopos,” Zhorrid said with a grin. “Very good, you look very nice indeed, perfect for the job.”

Darth Kharopos only nodded, his eyes glued to Zhorrid’s pale hand which stroked Yen’s hair as if she was some exotic pet.

“I need you to look into two places: Belsavis, and the Arcanum.”

Belsavis was a tightly guarded secret he was privy to knowing, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the name ‘Arcanum’. The Emperor’s property. Jedis have died to get a glimpse of the space station, and there were words of a rogue Dread Master recently robbing the place. Was it even under Intelligence’s jurisdiction?

A squeal snapped him from his thoughts.

“So you do know about the Arcanum!”

Her voice went from a slimy purr to an abrupt shriek. He felt a hard shove and invisible cold fists pinning him to the wall. His legs hung in the air, and he glared at that wretched woman.

“My lord,” Yennevyr murmured, her doe-like eyes widening at Darth Zhorrid. “My master’s a Darth of Imperial Intelligence. Is it not his role to know all that is going on?”

The pressure released and soon he was free. Zhorrid made a noise of agreement, muttering ‘Yes, yes… you’re right, of course.”

Zhorrid began ranting, a semi-coherent monologue punctuated with giggles and sudden screeches on the unfairness of her fate and the need to prove her worth to the Dark Council. Before her anger boiled over, a force tendril planted soft kisses on Zhorrid’s lips, quieting the woman’s anxiety in one swift move.

When the Dark Councillor appeared distracted, Darth Kharopos broke eye contact and glanced at his apprentice. He suppressed a shudder, seeing the predatory glint in Yennevyr’s eyes. Everyday, they grew more scarlet.

You will drink my words, or I will pour them down your throat.

*******

Belsavis he took care of alone, but as per Darth Zhorrid’s orders, he allowed Yennevyr to accompany him on the mission to the Arcanum. It was perfect: with every eye glued to the young rising-star commander, a Sith not-yet-a-lord with the bewitching presence of a black hole, nobody noticed him slipping away, leaking whatever information he could find on the Emperor to Republic SIS. His heart thundered the whole way, but every time he looked at Yennevyr - black hair tied up in a bun, a saber and light armor ready for combat - he felt like he could breathe easy again.

The mission was a success. They tracked the thief, Lord Tagriss, down to Ilum. His dualsaber stabbed a hole in the Sith Lord’s chest, and he felt his apprentice’s pride flared through their bond the moment Lord Tagriss’ dead husk fell into the snow.

When they returned home, she was ready to be a Lord.

“From this day onwards, you are known as Lord Soteira,” he declared, his apprentice kneeling before him. “It means savior.”

His apprentice stood up. When she looked at him, something swirled in his chest.

You honed my blade and sharpened my edges until they are lethal. You scrubbed away the rust, and revealed the blood-soaked truth. Master, don’t feel guilty thinking you turned me into something I already wasn’t. I’ll try to reach for the Light as you want me to, my lord, but don’t pity me if I fail.

[robinskey]

Steve x Nancy’s Childhood Friend! Reader (pt 6)

Part One//Part Two//Part Three//Part Four//Part Five

A/N: Even if you haven’t read the rest of the series, you can totally read this part! It could pretty much be its own stand-alone one-shot. The series just adds a little more context.

If you have been reading the series, (yay! hi again!), you’ll notice that the formatting is different than usual. I started doing this part in bulleted points, but I decided to go with a more traditional format since this part of the story focuses on one main scene. It’s also a HECKING LONG part (at least for this series-it’s about 3K words), so I’m going to put it under the cut for anyone who doesn’t want to scroll through the whole thing.

Warnings: Swearing

Half an hour later, you and Steve are sitting in a little red booth and squinting at menus in the dim lighting of the diner. Posters and framed pictures line the teal walls, along with colorful neon signs and license plates from just about every state. Elvis Presley croons from the jukebox in the corner of the room. His voice mixes with the sound of feet shuffling across the black-and-white tile as servers bustle between tables. The tantalizing smell of juicy hamburgers lingers in the air, mingling with the sweet, fruity scent of the freshly-baked pie.

Your stomach growls in protest. If the waitress takes much longer to get to the table, you’re going to start slobbering all over the menu.

“What’s good here?” you ask casually.

It’s more of an attempt to make conversation than an actual question. At this point, you don’t care what it is, as long as you get food in your mouth ASAP. Fortunately, Steve assures you that “everything’s good here. You can’t go wrong.”

“Okay,” you say, laying the menu down on the table. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

Steve lowers his menu and raises his eyebrows.

“Are you sure about that? I can eat a lot of food.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“So can I, asshole.”

That was probably a little harsh.

But if anyone can take it, it’s Steve Harrington.

“Fine, fine,” he sighs.

Over his shoulder, a busty waitress makes her way toward your table.

“But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, then proceeds to order half of the items on the entire menu. “And the same for the lady.”

The waitress peers over the top of her cat-eye glasses at the boy in front of her.

“Now, you’re not about to order all this food and then skip out on the bill, are you, Harrington?”

“Now, Janet, have I ever cheated you or this fine establishment?”

The woman’s tight corkscrew curls bounce as she shakes her head gently, the whisper of a smile on her lips.

“Not that I know of. But you’re full of surprises, Steve,” she says, then directs a wink at you.

You’re still staring after Janet when Steve’s voice tears you from your thoughts.

“Don’t mind Janet. She’s a little loony,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes.

“How do you know her, anyway?” you ask, swirling the straw around the glass of water Janet’s just delivered.

“Oh, I’ve been coming here for years. My parents used to take me here after Little League games for a celebratory milkshake when my team won. That stopped around the age of ten, when I finally admitted to my dad that I didn’t actually like baseball, and my mom convinced him to let me quit,” he says, laughing despite himself. “My parents quit coming, but I eat here at least once a week.”

“Yeah?” You’re still staring into the glass as you add, “I guess you bring all the girls here, then, huh?”

“I don’t, actually. I brought Tommy H. and Carol here once, and all they did was complain about the jukebox because they’re assholes with no taste in music,” he says, and his matter-of-fact tone makes you laugh.

“I thought they were your friends?” you ask. You knew he hadn’t been hanging around them much lately, but you figured they still partied together, at the very least.

“Nah. Not anymore. To be perfectly honest with you, I shouldn’t have ever been friends with them,” he says. His tumultuous chocolate eyes meet yours for a microsecond before his gaze flickers to his own drink. “The only person worse than Tommy H. and Carol is ‘King Steve’ Harrington.”

“Was,” you correct him. He looks back up at you for clarification. “‘King Steve’ was the worst. But just because you were a piece of shit in high school doesn’t mean you have to be for the rest of your life. You can change as a person, evolve as a human being-in fact, I think you already have.”

Steve stares at you for several moments longer. His lips finally part, as if he’s about to speak, and-

“Hot stuff coming through!”

The steel kitchen doors swing shut behind Janet, who pushes a metal cart stacked with plates of steaming fried foods across the tile floor. To your surprise, she stops at your booth and unloads the contents of the entire cart onto your table. By the time she’s done, plates cover every square inch of the surface.

“Hope you’re hungry, sweets,” Janet says, throwing another wink your way before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You’re so overwhelmed by the mountain of food in front of you that you completely forget about the conversation you and Steve were just having. Thus, when you notice him still watching you,

you figure it’s because he’s smugly waiting for you to admit that you’ve made a mistake-that there’s no way in hell you can consume even half of this feast.

But you, being the ultra-competitive, incredibly stubborn person you are, refuse to accept defeat without putting up a fight.

“I bet I can eat more of this than you can.”

Steve simply blinks in disbelief.

“Don’t look at me like that. I can. I’ll prove it to you,” you say, picking up a fry and popping it into your mouth. “We can make a little competition out of it. And whoever loses has to pay for everything.”

You reach for another fry, but Steve swats your hand away.

“Stop it. You’re getting a head-start.”

“Oh, a two-fry head-start. Consider me the world’s biggest cheater,” you say, waving your hands in the air mockingly.

Steve uses this opportunity to grab a fistful of fries and shove them into his mouth.

“Hey! That’s not fair, jerk!”

“Fight me,” he says, the words muffled by the food.

You kick him under the table hard enough to give him a dead leg.

“Ow!” he yells, just loud enough to make an older couple at the next table shush you both. Steve glares at you.

“What? I thought we were playing street rules.”

“When have you played this game on the street, Y/N?”

“Shut up.”

It takes a whopping twenty-three minutes for the two of you to polish off the buffet of food. And by the two of you, I mean Steve. You tap out about ten minutes in, after devouring your third plate of greasy goodness. As much as you don’t want to foot the bill for this meal, you definitely don’t want to vomit all over the floor of Steve Harrington’s BMW.

Janet’s not nearly as impressed by Steve’s food feat as one would expect her to be when she returns to check on you. Apparently, this isn’t even the most Steve’s eaten in one sitting. Clearly, you were doomed from the start.

Janet even has the audacity to ask if either of you would like dessert.

You answer with a resounding “no.”

But Steve practically yells, “Hell yes!”

“Mr. Harrington! Language!” Janet says, tsking with her tongue. “What would your mother say?”

“Oh god. Please don’t tell her. She’s already on my ass about college-damn it, sorry! Wait, sorry again, sh-shoot.”

Janet laughs at her flustered customer.

“You want your usual?”

“Of course-”

“Now, wait a second,” you interrupt. “I’m cutting you off, Harrington. Unlike your stomach, my wallet isn’t a bottomless pit.”

A denim-clad knee bumps against yours under the table.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I got this.”

“But the bet-”

“-that I never even agreed to?” he says with a disarming smile that makes it impossible to argue.

“I’m lost. Am I getting you ice-cream or not, baby?” Janet asks.

“Yes, please, Janet. And the bill, whenever you get the chance, so I don’t have to bother you again. I know you’re swamped.”

Janet nods, still half-confused, and wanders into the kitchen.

You glance around the diner. Aside from a group of college students gathered around a corner booth and a couple sharing a banana split at a nearby table, the place is completely vacant.

“Swamped?” you ask, raising your eyebrows at Steve.

“Well, not exactly. But Janet...she takes her time. She’s one of those waitresses who will promise to ‘be right back with the bill’ and then disappear for an hour,” he explains. “I figured you probably have some sort of curfew, so it would be best to avoid that.”

“That was really considerate of you,” you say, and the shock in your tone is probably evident, but Steve doesn’t comment on it. “And speaking of considerate, thank you for paying for dinner. We could have split it or something.”

“Don’t worry about it. I ate most of the food, anyway,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “Besides, it’s a small price to pay to spend an evening with a pretty girl.” 

Thank goodness for the dimness of the lights hanging overhead, because your cheeks are as red as the scarlet booth you’re sitting on. At this point, you’re pretty sure he’s flirting with you. Then again, flirting is Steve Harrington’s main mode of communication, so it probably means nothing. 

You remind yourself of this enough times to finally get your blushing under control-until Janet returns with a tall strawberry milkshake with two bright red straws sticking out the top.

She drops it off at the table and tells you two “lovebirds” to enjoy. Steve’s too interested in the milkshake to notice your coyness. It isn’t until he’s drained a third of the glass that he realizes you haven’t had any.

“Aren’t you going to taste it, Y/N? I ordered the larger size for us to share.” 

“I didn’t want dessert, remember? That’s your milkshake.”

“There’s two straws for a reason.”

“Yeah,” you say, flicking yours toward him. “Use both, and maybe you can give yourself a brain freeze even faster.”

“Come on, Y/N. This is the best shake in town,” Steve pouts.

You swear the strawberry milkshake is turning his lips more pink.

“Fine,” you huff, leaning forward and taking a sip.

A stream of sugary yet slightly tart ice cream flows into your mouth. It’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted. You’re so distracted by the deliciousness that you  don’t notice Steve bending down for a sip until his lips are curled around his straw, inches from yours. You jolt back so fast that you choke on milkshake. Steve watches with wide eyes as you cough violently into the fold of your arm for a few seconds. Finally, you get your cough attack under control, and Steve asks if you’re okay.

“Yeah,” you say, voice raspy, “it’s just-mm. Too...too sweet for me.”

“Really?” Steve asks, tilting his head slightly in confusion. Then he shrugs and says, “More for me, I guess.”

You watch with secret jealousy as Steve finishes off the glass.

You offer to leave the tip, but Steve insists on covering it.

“My dad would kill me if he knew I let a girl pay for anything.”

“Well, your dad’s not here. And besides, isn’t that a rule for, like, dates or whatever?”

“Not necessarily. It’s just a rule of chivalry.”

He lays a few extra dollars down on the table and gestures for you to lead the way out.

“Steve Harrington: Master of Chivalry,” you tease, elbowing him as you walk past.

On the drive home, Steve cranks the music up and the windows down. The two of you sing along to just about every song. When he doesn’t know the words, Steve makes up ridiculous lyrics that clash terribly with the melody.

You cackle with laughter almost the entire ride home. And when he pulls in your driveway, there’s a part of you that wants to stay in the car forever. You unbuckle your seatbelt, dial down the radio volume, and rotate in your seat to face Steve.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say. “I had a lot of fun.”

“Me, too,” he says, beaming so bright that it seems to glow in the dark. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Yeah, we should.”

There’s a pregnant pause, interrupted only by crickets chirping in your yard and an owl hooting somewhere down the street. You look out the car window. Outside, stars are sprinkled across a velvet sky like sparkling confetti, but none shine as brightly as Steve’s eyes as he looks at you

Finally, Steve shatters the silence with a simple offer that comes out as more of a request:

“Can I walk you to your door?”

You can’t stop the giggle from escaping your lips.

“My porch is literally right there, Steve. Nobody’s going to jump out and murder me on my ten-foot trek to the front door.”

“You can never be too safe, Y/N,” he says with the most serious expression he can muster.

“Fine, dork. Walk me to my door,” you laugh.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t force your stomach to digest the butterflies currently swarming around in it.

After approximately eight steps, you’re on your porch, and that nagging feeling of I don’t want to leave you returns. Unfortunately, you know you can’t stay on your front porch forever, so you tell Steve “goodnight” and start to twist the doorknob

“Wait!”

“Yes?” you ask, hand still on the knob.

“Could we talk for a minute?”

“Yeah, of course,” you say. You gesture toward the porch swing.

As soon as the two of you are seated, Steve finds the planks of your porch fascinating. His eyes scan them as if there are letters carved into the wood. He speaks slowly, as though he’s reading those words.

“Do you...do you remember what you said earlier? About...the whole ‘King Steve’ thing?”

You rack your brain for a moment. You eventually recall the conversation at the diner that Janet’s appearance had cut short.

“I don’t remember my words verbatim,” you say, “but yes, I remember the gist of it.”

“You said that just because I was a piece of shit in high school doesn’t mean I have to be one for the rest of my life. You said I can grow and change as a person-that you think I already have changed,” he says. 

“I did,” you say, scooting slightly closer to Steve, “and I stand behind everything I said-except for that last little bit. I don’t think you’ve changed. I know you have.”

Finally, he turns to look at you. His eyes shine with years of regret.

“You really believe that?”

And suddenly, it’s not King Steve sitting on the porch swing on your house. It’s not the idiot who broke your best friend’s heart. It’s not Steve “the Hair” Harrington, whose mane is almost as high and mighty as his attitude.

It’s just Steve-a broken boy yearning to be better.

And that’s when you wrap your arms around his neck for the second time today. This time, you’re much more gentle. Steve only freezes for a millisecond before his arms twine around your waist. It’s been so long since someone’s held him like this, and Steve’s starved for physical contact, so he pulls your body flush against his. He buries his face into your neck as a single drop of water soaks through the sleeve of your shirt. One of your hands gravitates toward his hair; you comb your fingers through his soft curls soothingly.

You stay like that for several minutes, embracing the boy you could have sworn you hated two days ago. 

When the tears stop falling, Steve raises his head. His damp face shines in the moonlight. Before he can pull away, embarrassed by this show of emotion, you reach up and lay a palm on his cheek. You tenderly dry his face with the sleeve of your sweater, then press a kiss to his forehead. His eyelids flutter shut, and you can’t resist making your junior high fantasy come true by pressing another kiss to his mouth. Steve’s lips are as velvety as you imagined and even sweeter than you could have dreamed, thanks to the strawberry milkshake residue left behind.

Steve’s eyelids peel back as soon as you pull away. His eyes flicker between yours, focusing on one and then the other. Clearly, he’s panicking. He didn’t want to kiss you. And now-

Steve’s lips crash onto yours like a tidal wave. He tightens his hold on your waist, and you tangle both your hands in his hair. You both break away at the same time, breathless. Steve leans his forehead against yours. The two of you admire the stillness of the night.

“Bark! Bark! Bark!”

“I’m coming, Rufus. Mama’s going to let you out to potty.”

Steve leaps out of your embrace, nearly falling off the porch swing, as a light flickers on in your kitchen.The luminescence spills out of the window and onto the porch, darkened only by the silhouette of a woman in curlers.

“That’s my mom,” you hiss at Steve. “You gotta go.”

Steve pecks the top of your head, then sprints to his car. He peels out of the driveway and takes off down the road as your mother swings open the front door. The family dog trots out and onto the lawn to do his business. Mom squints at you, and you offer a tiny wave.

“Y/N? Is that you? I didn’t realize you were home.”

“Yeah, it’s me. I haven’t been here long. I was just-looking for constellations,” you say, pointing to what you think might be the Big Dipper.

Your mother narrows her eyes at the sky. But considering she can barely recognize her own daughter’s face a few feet away, you know the bodies of gas in the sky, light-years away, are all a blur to her naked eye. 

“Did you have a good time tonight?” she asks.

“I did,” you answer, standing and brushing off your jeans. “I really did.”

“Good,” she says, then grimaces. “It wasn’t your boyfriend who made that god-awful screeching tire noise a few minutes ago, was it?”

Her question’s annoying, sure, but you can’t keep the smile off your face as you say, “No, it wasn’t.” 

Technically, it was his car. 

“And he’s not my boyfriend, Mom.”

Not yet, anyway.

A/N 2: So that’s that! I think this is a pretty good stopping place for the series, but if you guys want more parts to it, I could probably do a few more. I love you all. Thanks for reading. :)

Taglist: @novaddictx  @irreplaceable-ecstasy @swiftxdreams @ahoycapnsteve @write-from-the-heart @yllwtaxi @httpakasha @asheseiler @broadwayandnetflix @readinthegarden12 @yessii-i 

If you want to be added to the tag list for this series/my writing in general, leave a reply or send me a message! Thanks again for reading. <3

If you want to read more of my fics, here’s my masterlist. :)

[planetsam]

Can you write something about Alex dying with them being broken apart because of Maria and not knowing how Michael feels about him but then Michael wakes up feeling like a wreck because it was only a nightmare, he didn’t die and so he makes a decision.

The first time he kills Alex, it’s an accident.

He uses his powers and he intends to kill Alex’s dad, but he kills Alex instead. Crushes his chest, breaks his neck—he leaves him laying there twisted and still. Alex stares at him blankly but he always stares. And Michael always knows that he did it. He bolts up the first time and practically headbutts Liz. She rolls back with grace and flexibility he hopes his brother appreciates as he gasps for air.

“I killed Alex,” he tells her, “he’s dead.”

“No, no, no,” she says, coming back over to the bed with far more kindness than he deserves, “Michael you’re going through withdrawal. Alex is fine.”

“You don’t know that!” He says.

“Hang on,” she says and dials his number, pressing a finger to her lips so show he should be silent. It rings several times and goes to voicemail because Alex is dead. He killed him. She dials again. This time it connects, “Alex?” She says.

“What?” Alex’s disgruntled voice comes from the other end, thick with sleep.

“I was just calling to see if you wanted to get coffee,” she says, floundering for an excuse.

“It’s three am, can’t you drunk dial anyone else?” He asks.

Liz sours but Alex can’t see.

Michael remembers the last time he shared a bed with Alex. After the sex. How his hair stuck up in every direction and he made soft sounds even in his sleep. How he wasn’t a still sleeper but when Michael banded his arms around him to keep him from falling off the narrow bed, Alex curled against his chest like a cat and it was the most adorable thing Michael ever witnessed. He tries to cling to that as Liz grabs the bin and shoves it under him and gets out of the room so he can be violently ill again.

Fuck withdrawal.

The next time, Alex dies alone in the desert. Instead of coming back in pieces he doesn’t come back at all. He’s on some special mission so it’s not even on any of the usual channels. There’s no parade, he just gets a phone call weeks after the fact from an attorney who presses a guitar and a handcuff shaped necklace into his hands while Jesse Manes glares at him like he’s the reason Alex is dead. Maybe he is, maybe he always is.

“Everyone’s there for a reason,” he says as Isobel presses a cold towel to his forehead, “right? Maybe that’s why I was there.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Isobel says. She shifts so Michael’s head is in her lap and carefully combs her fingers through his hair, just enough so he can feel it, not enough for her nails to get tangled, “you did nothing wrong.”

“Why does it fucking hurt then?” He says.

“Because you did something stupid,” she says, tugging on his earlobe just to remind him he’s not dying or getting away with it.

“I’m a genius,” he reminds her, “remember?”

“Okay genius,” she says, easing him up and reaching over to grab a glass of brightly colored liquid with a straw in it “take some baby sips and see if you can keep this down.”

Spoiler alert, he can’t.

God he misses the acetone.

Alex kills himself, which is new. Michael knows the statistics but Alex is so much more than that. It doesn’t stop him from doing it. He finds out when Max brings him in for questioning and stands with his arms folded as another detective says he’s a person of interest until the toxicology reports come back. After all, he was named in the note. When Max says they should look at Jesse Manes, the detective says Jesse wasn’t there and he wasn’t named in the note. It’s just Michael. Only Michael is a suspect. It’s fine with him because he knows it’s his fault.

“Michael, Michael I need you to look at me!”

“Go to hell, Valenti,” he says. Or tries to anyway. He also tries to swat him away but finds his arms are pinned down. His power is an echo in his head, he’s being blocked, “Izzzz” he says, the slur as accusatory as he can make it.

Fingers in latex gloves are on his face. Michael has spent his entire life trying to keep out of gloved hands like that so he doesn’t wind up in worse. He grapples past the warm blanket of Isobel’s mind and focuses. He hears Valenti’s outraged squawk as he shoves him back and there’s a thud. Sure Kyle’s probably a good guy and a fucking doctor but Michael’s been dissected and stuffed with cotton wool. He doesn’t really care. Isobel’s power roars up not like a blanket but like a tsunami and Michael’s only qualm with the waves taking him is what he’s going to dream of when they do.

Obviously he dreams of Alex dying.

It’s a slow one this time. Bullet, knife, psychic power—Michael doesn’t know. He just knows there’s blood everywhere. In so many different shades of red. It bubbles from Alex’s lips even as he tries to keep it in the hole in his torso. It’s useless and he stops trying, choosing instead to cup Alex’s cheek and tell him he loves him so damn much and he’s so damn sorry. The blood chokes Alex and the only thing he can do is leave a streak of it along Michael’s shirt when he tries to touch him one last time and is denied even that.

Michael wakes up gagging this time.

He’s fine with dying at this point, honestly. But hands push him to his side and stick a bucket under his chin. When other hands open his jaw and swipe his mouth. He can’t throw them off because Isobel has brought her A-game like an annoying mother hen for her acetone addicted chick. Maybe, he thinks, he’s an ugly duckling. But then he remembers Isobel’s just being a pain and he’s already grown up and still every bit as ugly.

“Where’s Max?” He asks.

“Max is sick,” someone familiar tells him, “he’s getting better, just like you.”

“Not like Alex,” he mumbles. Fingers push through his curls, “where’s Alex?”

“Alex doesn’t know you’re sick,” the nice voice tells him, “do you want him to know?”

“No. I’ll kill him,” he explains, “I always kill him. He can’t see me like this.”

“But do you want him?” the voice repeats, kindness edged in something. You don’t mess with a voice like that. Hazily he gets his eyes to open and looks at the face that belongs to the voice. He doesn’t deserve Maria’s smile, “hey stranger,” she says.

“I fucked up,” he rasps.

“What else is new?” She asks. His eyes are stinging, “Guerin,” she sighs, “come on,” she glares and then moves and suddenly Michael finds himself behind big spooned, “you fuck up all the time,” she says.

“Not like this,” he chokes out.

“Yes like this,” she says and grabs his hands, pulling him close, “breathe with me.”

“Why?” He says miserably.

“Because you owe it to me. Breathe.”

So he breathes.

Alex dies again.

He drowns this time or he floats away. On an iceberg. And MIchael can’t get to him because all the dumb foster homes he went to never thought it was important for him to learn how to swim. He can just yell and grip the impossible cold and try to get Alex to hear him. Alex has to hear him. Even as the water closes over him, even as the ice gets colder somehow. He gets pulled away from Alex again and again and again. He can’t stop the sob this time and it chases him back to consciousness along with the cold.

Along with Alex.

“Hey, hey, hey it’s me,” Alex says, scrambling up. Michael recognizes the white tiles and the lights of Isobel’s guest bathroom. The lights are dimmed. He’s in the bath but the water isn’t very hot. Not iceberg cold but it’s not a great feeling either. Alex touches his cheekbone and he wishes the guest room had a bigger tub so he could get away, “you’re going to be okay,” Alex says, “you’re running a fever.”

This is not how he wants to see Alex again. He tries to think of how he could have found out, but it’s hard to piece anything together from the past few days. It’s a haze. He thinks he may have had nightmares about Alex dying but that’s nothing new. Alex can see how tense he is and his hand leaves his cheekbone. Michael almost wants to grab it back but he also doesn’t and the inability to choose anything makes him feel helpless. He dips under the water and comes up to see Alex still there. He knows he was barely under for a moment but it still seems wrong that he’s here.

“What are you doing here?” He asks finally. If he called for him—then Michael realizes his own body isn’t safe.

“Liz called,” he admits finally, “she said you were running a fever and she didn’t think you’d use your powers on me.”

Michael presses his lips together but that assessment isn’t wrong. Alex is the person Michael is best at not using his powers around. Especially in situations were he otherwise might. His fingers ache even with Max’s healing. Alex sits there and Michael isn’t sure how to feel about how calmly he does. He wonders if Alex thinks he’s an addict or that it’s ridiculous he has to be there to make sure Michael doesn’t use his power. There’s nothing but kindness and ache in Alex’s gaze as he looks at him. It’s been a while since they saw each other, a lot shorter than it feels. But he’s not used to the way Alex is looking at him.

“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he says, realizing that standing up is probably a bad idea, much as he wants to. There’s only one person in the room to catch him, “I didn’t want you to—“ he stops and curses under his breath.

“Do you want me to go?”

Michael looks at him so fast the world spins for one nauseating second. Alex looks back at him steadily. Michael suddenly gets the sense that he could tell Alex to go and he would. He usually tells himself that he does things to make Alex go anyway, but that’s his own stupid coping mechanism. He has a lot easier time believing that if he tells him to go he can pass off Alex’s choices as his own desires. He doesn’t know if he can ask him to stay, despite dreaming of doing it for the past—however long alien detox is supposed to take. He begs him again and again like he long since forgot how to do.

“Do what you want.” He says instead, looking at the yellow ducky that’s bobbing there and wondering which of his asshole friends has such a twisted sense of humor. Alex shifts his weight and Michael tells himself a hundred stories about how this is better, but Alex just shifts his weight into a new position, “what are you doing?” Michael asks.

“My foot’s going to fall asleep,” Alex says, rearranging his legs.

“Oh,” Michael says lamely, “how much longer do I have to be in here for?”

“A bit,” Alex says. A long time then, Michael realizes if Alex isn’t quantifying it, “you want to start with Tolstoy?” He asks, producing a massive book from nowhere. His face is completely serious and Michael takes back every nice thing he ever thought about him, “or a movie?”

“Just drop your phone into the bathtub and put me out of my misery,” he pleads.

Alex gives him a look full of false sympathy and Michael flicks the water at him. Alex scoffs and rolls his eyes, a swift one two punch of nostalgia that sends a wave of longing over Michael.

“You can stay,” he mutters, finally arriving at the decision, “just don’t read the Tolstoy.”

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On-Chapter 8

In which the tension boiling just under the surface threatens to erupt several times, but our heroes manage to stifle it down -- because if we’re going to get anywhere, we’re going to have to get along. ughhh...e.e

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/57864718

Chapter 8

The lake’s surface was still. An ink black mirror for the night above, reflecting the trees, the stars, and the figures of the elves and hound gathered upon the shoreline, all rippling shadow figures in Telperion’s light.

“Do you see anything?”

“Nothing. It’s…” The air shifted beside Fëanáro, Tyelcormo’s form flickering into the corner of his vision, striding forward and wading through cat-tails, leaning forward. He could picture his son’s eyes narrowing, even without looking up himself from the water’s glassy surface. Tyelcormo let out a low curse. “Do you think he’s drowned?”

“Even you do not sound like you believe that.” Curvo drawled.

“Well, where else could he have gone? One does not simply….” Tyelcormo’s hand swatted through the air, as though he were grasping for flies, “Well, vanish. It makes no sense!”

“And neither does stepping out into the middle of a lake to drown oneself. Nothing about the man could in any way be construed as ‘making sense...’” Curvo went on, still speaking, but Fëanáro wasn’t paying attention. His eyes had flickered upwards, drawing towards Tyelcomo. He frowned.

No, the man would not have drowned here. He should not have disappeared here. The water was too shallow, only lapping at Tyelcomo’s knees as he stood amidst the weeds. Where…

Fëanáro’s eyes narrowed, staring down into the water as the voices of his sons passed back and forth above his head, small things battling back the uncaring silence of the night. The water’s surface remained just as uncaring, just as unchanged. Opaque as any dusky mirror glass and promising just as few answers.

He pushed his breath out all in a sharp snort. No. It was not that simple, and he did not simply turn aside just because the truth of things was not immediately apparent. Nothing was ever accomplished that way.

What was this trick then…?

As he inched forward, nearer towards the water Fëanáro found himself moving to his hands and knees, leaning over the lake’s surface. So still and flat, seeing his own reflection as it was, on the threshold of this darkness, it could have almost seemed a window...a door into another place entirely….

But…

No.

It could not be so simple!

He reached his hand out, slowly slipping it beneath the surface. The tips of his fingers met those of his reflection, before cutting through and sinking down, only….

Fëanáro’s eyes widened. He snatched his hand back, suddenly sitting there kneeling on the shoreline, staring at his hand.

“Atar what is it? Did you find--” Curvo,speaking up. Curvo suddenly cutting himself off, likely finding that he too was starting to sound just as mad as everyone else that night and catching himself before he could finish.

Completely dry….

“Atar? Atar!” Tyelcormo this time.

Fëanáro looked up glancing between the both of them. He shook his head, reaching for his knife again.

“Down there.” He carved the words into the earth, “Follow.”

“To the bottom of the lake? Atar…” Curvo stood blinking at his father, groping for words. Fëanáro had to grit his teeth to see it! Oh, it was a dead end a child could see, he was sure, and here Curvo was, searching for any way to give his father an out. To prove he had not entirely lost his mind as well!

Quickly shaking his head, Fëanáro dug his knife into the earth again. “No.” His fingers danced along the knife handle as he searched for the words. “Not beneath water.” Beneath what then? Through what then? His eyes flickered out towards the lake again, and the images wavering over it’s surface…

His breath came in sharp.

“Refection.”

“‘Reflection?’ What--”

The rest would never be spoken. Impatience at Curvo’s questioning, The need to find his grandson again, or perhaps merely his own impulsiveness -- that need to know what lie beyond if it was not the water of the lake, how his hand was left so dry and unaffected by the pool surrounding it -- Fëanáro couldn't have said which it was. Perhaps it was some combination of all of them. Perhaps it did not really matter.

Fëanáro had risen to his feet and was leaping through the reflections shivering upon the lake’s surface. Falling, water crashing all around him, his sons calling out --

His feet landed upon solid dark stone. A chill breeze cut through, stirring at Fëanáro’s hair. And there, arms crossed over his chest and brows raised, as though to ask what had taken so long, stood John Uskglass.

~*~

His sons and Tyelcormo’s Hound followed not moments later, breathless and glancing about as though...well, as though the entire world had changed in an instant.

How was he to describe it? It was a place unlike any Fëanáro had ever seen before, had ever imagined to see -- well, any save one. Wide stone corridors and branching pathways all stretching off far and away past the horizon, towering archways and winding staircases that drew up to levels he knew not where -- the overwhelming impression of the place was one of vastness, of an entire realm unto itself.

As a child, his mind would be given to wander back to his mother, to wonder where it was her spirit now roamed, what it was that lie within those fabled, western-most halls of the Doomsman of the Valar, ever growing as the world aged, prison to Melkor, unseen by mortal eyes. It would be an endless, labyrinthine place, his child’s mind had decided, all of dark stone and lit with it’s own gloomy light. Impossible to escape from -- was that not how all of the tales went? -- not merely for the impenetrableness of the fortress itself, but for how easily one could get lost within it’s endlessly twisting corridors. That image of Míriel wandering an endless journey through those halls, unable to return to either Fëanáro or his father, her figure so small, nearly devoured by all that surrounded her, was one that had so often haunted Fëanáro’s nightmares as a child. A nightmare that had returned to him again and again throughout his life.

And now, here he stood, in a place that could have stood alongside any one of those nightmares, and he would not have been able to tell any difference between them. Again another chill breeze blew through, raising goosebumps long Fëanáro’s arms. The air smelled of rain.

“Where...What….” That was Curvo’s voice, the words murmured so quietly as his eyes flickered about and he took a step back. “How…?”

Huan’s nails scraped across the stone floors of the corridors as he and Tyelcomo wandered, pacing up and down the way, the hound’s nose and Tyelco’s eyes taking in all that surrounded them hungrily, as if to see more of this place, to gather more of it’s sense about them, were to somehow assure them that it was all real, that they were not still dreaming after all.

“The road.” Uskglass said suddenly, his voice, soft as it was, still managing to drag Fëanáro’s attention back to him, if only through the shere assurance it possessed alone. The assurance of a man who is the most knowledgeable in the room -- Fëanáro knew it well. And it was not an attitude that earned the man much of Fëanáro’s favor.

Uskglass was, as ever, unbothered by the flat look he received from the Noldorin prince however, merely continuing on. “I kept the gate open for you, that you might step through.” He was nodding towards Curvo as he spoke the words -- an answer to the questions flashing through his son’s mind. Through all of their minds. A translation clearly was not necessary, not in this moment to understand what they all must have been thinking.

Fëanáro did not translate Uskglass’s words back for Curvo, however, instead simply staring the man down.

Uskglass quirked a brow at him, which quickly morphed into a flicker of realization. “Ah, Right.” The man gave a careless wave of his hand, making a motion towards Fëanáro’s throat, turning on his heel even as he did so, and motioning for the others to follow after him.

“No.”

It was the first word Fëanáro had spoken since their meeting with the Huntsman, that...Sacha earlier that evening and it felt almost to rise to his lips of it’s own accord. The eyes of both of his sons had fallen upon him, as Fëanáro stood his ground. As Uskglass stopped, turning a glance back over his shoulder towards him, both Tyelco and Curvo closed in nearer to their father. Forming a knot around him. There to stand by his side as they ever were.

Uskglass simply quirked his brow. His head canted just to the side, he might have looked almost amused, not even turning to fully face Fëanáro or his sons. He said nothing, however, simply waiting.

“Do you expect us to follow you not knowing where it is you lead?” Fëanáro demanded.

In response the man simply spread his arms, as though to gesture to the winding corridors and pathways stretching out all about them. As if to say, ‘You already have.’

But Fëanáro simply pushed on, “No. My son has said it already, we have had enough of these games. This is our family --my grandson, Curufinwë’s son -- that we are trying to free from the hands of whatever being has stolen him, and if you are on our side we must know what it is that we are doing, that you are planning. We are not pawns on a playing board to be pushed about, we are not unquestioning servants to do as we are told --”

Uskglass sighed, now finally turning more fully towards them, “No,” he said, “You are a Prince and a Prince’s sons.”

“Uskglass…” The warning in Fëanáro’s voice was enough that Curvo lay a hand at his shoulder -- a reminder to keep his own head about him, or to hold Fëanáro back should he need to?

Shaking his head, Uskglass simply took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “The boy is not in a region of Faerie so close to your realm any longer -- not, at least if what we have been told is to be believed. The Sidhe Lord who took him holds his realm in a region much closer to my own. That is where we go. To find him, in England.”

For a long moment more, both men stared one another down, Uskglass’s expression unreadable, whilst Fëanáro’s gaze was searching, as though if he only looked hard enough he could simply read off whatever other answers he wanted from somewhere within the man’s soul.

“This is your road?” It was Fëanáro who finally spoke, breaking the silence between them, “The one that you built?”

A shrug, the faintest of smirks. It was the only reply the man gave. It said enough, however.

“Then lead the way.”

~*~

There was the distant sound of water, rushing off somewhere Tyelcormo could not quite place. Beside him, the clack of Huan’s claws against stone. All else was silence. By now, of course, even in as short a time as they had known him, Tyelco supposed nothing less was to be expected of Uskglass. Even now the man could very well have been walking on his own and Tyelco doubted it would have made very much of a difference at all. He stood apart (at a perfect distance -- Tyelco could not help but take dry note of -- for Atar’s iron-hard stare to bore into his back) only glancing back at distant and random intervals in order to ensure he had not lost his companions along the way. No words of comfort or attempts at conversation, no word on what this Engelond (for that was how Uskglass had pronounced the name of this distant region, this...entire world other than Tyelcormo’s own) of his was like or what they could expect there.

Atar, of course, was much taken up with his own brooding, silently fuming at the man leading them onwards. Perhaps he was even plotting some new way around Uskglass’s silence, and his damned refusal to say anything more than what he wanted to say. It was only Atar’s way, after all. To plunge into the unknown and crack open the secrets of creation -- why should the will of one man prove any stronger than the adamant and granite? The pressure and heat in the depths of the earth? The very nature of light itself?

And meanwhile, Curvo remained as unreadable as ever, his pace even and keeping in stride with the others, his mouth shut and silent. But his eyes...his eyes kept flickering about, from Uskglass to Atar to the twisting stone corridors and pathways about them. As they came approaching a bridge, the end of which they could not even see from the side they stood upon, the wind picked up again, and the sky opened up above them. It stood a dome of leaden clouds, tinged a deep blue -- the sort of color the sky would turn at the Mingling, though lacking the gentle hints of silver and gold that twined through the air. A wide, desolate moor stretched out beneath them, also tinged in that strange, gloomy light.

“Where does it come from, I wonder?” Curvo asked, sounding more as though he were speaking to himself than anything else.

“Hrmm? What?” Tyelco asked him.

“The light. It looks like nothing I’ve seen from Telperion or Laurelin. It cannot be starlight either…”

“I..I don’t know. It is strange isn’t it?”

Curvo gave a bitter laugh. “It makes no sense! None of this does. Ai! My son has been stolen and all that has come after it has been complete madness! Perhaps this is all simply...perhaps I am still….ai! perhaps…” But whatever it was that was on his brother’s mind, Tyelcomo never learned, for Curvo drew up into himself once more, falling again to his unfathomable silence.

More time passed. Tyelcormo sighed. “And what is it you think of all of this?” he asked, turning to Huan.

“He is strange, this Raven King, and this forest of stone that he calls his own…”

“A forest?” Tyelcormo teased, “Ai! An odd sort of forest this is!”

“And what else to call it? For it stretches in all directions and ways, where one could so easily become lost.”

“A Road he says it is. Though where it might lead…”

“Perhaps it might be better to question where it does not lead.”

Despite himself, Tyelcomo could not help the sharp snort of laughter that escaped him. But he soon had Atar and Curvo’s eyes turning on him, quickly sobering him once more.

“Still. It is...dreary here.” Tyelco murmured.

“Fitting for the man. Although….dreary does not necessarily mean wicked.”

“Hrmmm…” Tyelco’s gaze turned out to watch Uskglass ahead of them, “Do not tell me you are beginning to like him.”

“No. I...do not know what to make of him. But…”

“What?”

“You know what.”

He did know --or rather, he did not know at all, and that was exactly what the problem was. But Uskglass had done something with his knife. Might have even saved him, protected him -- though from what exactly and how…

Tyelcormo merely shook his head, turning back to Huan and absently flexing his hand.

“Come.” He said, quite suddenly.

“What?” The hound asked, “Were?”

“Huh. Likely to find ourselves empty handed and disappointed again!” Tyelcomo responded, and yet still he began walking on ahead anyway.

At first the approaching sounds of Hound and elf seemed to have gone unnoticed by the man, yet after a moment or two his eyes flicked back towards Tyelco.

“Tukafinwë Tyelcomo,” The man murmured, “And how does your hand feel?”

They were not the words Tyelco expected to be greeted with at all, and he found himself blinking, staring at Uskglass for a solid minute. He couldn’t see much of the man's face, turned away from him as it was, yet, just briefly he was sure he’d seen the corners of his eyes crinkle as though he were smirking!

“Do you find me amusing, then?” Tyelcormo snapped.

Uskglass simply shrugged. “Not the question I had expected of you at all…”

Tyelcormo bit his tongue, grimacing back at the man.

The moment stretched out, silently. Uskglass turned facing Tyelcormo more fully, looking him up and down, before sighing. Turning away again.

“I have come to speak. ” Tyelcomo pressed.

“Then do so.”

Shaking his head, Tyelcormo tried quickly to collect himself. “You know what it is I would ask. You’ve already made mention of it.”

“Huh. Yes. Perhaps. The Hunt then? You would know of them? Or is it what I have done to you?”

“Yes.” A pause, long and reluctant. He did not like to have to speak these words, not to a stranger, and to this stranger perhaps the least. And yet…

And yet who else could he ask of this?

“They...I felt...something when they were near. It was like…”

“A call?” Uskglass supplied.

“I suppose.” An irresistible call, a pull that reached out for him, summoning something in his very blood itself… Just to remember it, he could feel the echoes of some distant ache. Huan leaned down, nuzzling his nose against Tyelcormo’s shoulder.

“They would have had you ride with them. Join their hunt, and leave all else behind. But I imagine you have gathered as much.”

Tyelco shrugged. “Why, though? To what end?”

“Because they wanted to. Perhaps Sacha took a liking to you. Or perhaps it was because of who you are that you felt it. He called you a hunter….”

What was he to make of that answer? Tyelcormo couldn’t have said! So, he simply allowed his gaze to travel off, towards the horizon. “And you?” Tyelco asked, “What did you do? How did you…”

“Old magic.” The Raven King replied, allowing his gaze to turn out ahead again. For a moment he paused, before briefly glancing back and adding, “Steel is stubborn. It is the iron in it. It does not particularly like magic, but it is stubborn --in it’s loyalties especially.”

And if Tyelcormo did not know what to make of the man’s previous words, these he could do even less with. But...they were answers. And honest ones, he felt, as well.

“Why do you tell me this?” He found he could not help but ask, “Why are you giving me such answers now?”

“Because,” Uskglass replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Now you are asking the right questions.”

~*~

He couldn’t have told you how long they had been traveling. Some distant part of him, far removed and struggling to hold to the facts of his current situation felt as though hardly any time had passed at all, that if he were to suddenly somehow return to that clearing where he’d slept beside his wife, he would find her there still, resting as peacefully as ever. The worried father however, the man who wished for nothing more than to find his son and the creatures that had snatched him right from his arms….for him, time seemed to limp forward, staggering towards the future.

It was the way time traveled in a dream - and more and more it felt all too like a dream -- a nightmare. It was the only thing that made sense when all else did not -- when his son had been stolen away by the creatures from the stories he’d been sent to bed with, when one could leap through a reflection cast upon a lake and find themselves in a labyrinth of twisting stone corridors, when the light itself seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, and did not change. It was a grasping hope and desperate, that at any moment he could simply wake up and all would be well, so he could not believe that either.

He simply pushed on.

At some point Tyelcormo disappeared, taking Huan with him as he strode up to speak with Uskglass. He would gain more by attempting to speak to any of the stone walls surrounding them, Curvo could not help but think, and yet...and yet Tyelcormo remained up there, ahead of them all for some time. Curufinwë traced his brother’s path back to his side as he returned, and the expression upon his brother’s face was...odd.

“What is it?” Curvo asked him, “Have you gotten anything out of him? What did he say?”

Tyelco opened his mouth, only to shut it, blinking, his gaze turning inward. He was silent for some time, seeming to consider his answer. “I….am not sure.” He said at last, before shaking his head, “Nothing. Nothing of interest.”

Curvo eyed his brother, narrowing his gaze. The silence that stretched on between them bore a crushing weight, but Tyelcormo said no more.

A frustrated sigh escaping him, Curvo simply shook his head and went back to staring at the horizon line.

“Curvo--”

“You say he said nothing. Fine.”

“No, you do not understand. I don’t--”

Curufinwë breathed out a sharp huff. “No. I don’t understand, Tyelcormo. You are right.”

He said no more afterward, despite how his brother continued to prod at him -- more gentle appeals growing sharper and angrier, until at last, grown frustrated himself, Tyelcormo simply threw his hands up and fell silent.

Eventually, finally -- or perhaps sooner than he thought -- they came at last to a stop. It was a tall, arching gateway, Curufinwë could see as he neared, the shadows that fell over it just as dark as any others that lurked, yet shifting, sinuous and twining, broken through only briefly by flickers of deep orange and red as though it were burning. Curufinwë could only narrow his eyes at it in suspicion

It did not help matters the way Uskglass was looking at them all as he stood there, waiting for them, arms crossed over his chest and head canted just to the side. Eyes narrowed just slightly. Thinking. The a was considering something.

And worse still, Curufinwë thought, it was his eyes that the man’s gaze seemed to linger on the longest.

Atar way saying something, once more in Valarin, the words and alien sounds of the tongue lending even more power to the warning tone in his voice. Making the hair on the back of Curvo’s neck stand on end.

Uskglass simply ignored the words however. Striding forward, lickig at his thumb and drawing a sign across Curvo’s lips, then his ears. Even as he stumbled back, and too quickly for him to react in time. And all with the same manner that Curvo himself or Finyanís might have wiped a smudge from Tyelpë’s face.

Atar and Tyelco cried out, both of them turning on Uskglass, looking read to reach for their knives again.

“Eru, Ai! What are you--” Curufinwë cut himself off, blinking then staring at the man before him.

Those were not his words, not Quenya at all. And he could understand them…

“I have lived long enough, having to have my words translated for others. It is…inconvenient at best.” Uskglass replied, shrugging.

“Curvo? What are you saying?”

Tyelco, now unable to understand him. Atar meanwhile was barking something else in Valarin at Uskglass, who merely sighed.

“Tell them to calm themselves. I will have to do the same for them. We enter an entire world where their language is unknown…”

“You cannot just--” Curvo began, but Uskglass only looked back. Waiting, and growing impatient. As if the idea of suddenly altering another man’s speech --- language! -- and the accompanying invasion of his space meant nothing at all to him.

“Would you rather be left able to grasp only half of what you hear and see?” The man asked him. He sounded fully prepared to remove whatever trick it was he’d placed over Curvo as he said it, as well.

“My father and brother have served well enough thus far in allowing me to understand.” Curufinwë replied, cooly. Perhaps it was stubborn - his entire family were well known for it -- but he knew, at least he could trust them far more than the man before him.

“And once I must translate for them, so that they may understand?”

A pause. A beat. Curufinwë hesitated, and he knew in that moment he’d already lost, if only in showing that hesitation. That uncertainty. Better to trust his own ears than whatever came filtered through this man -- and Uskglass knew it.

He glowered at him. Silently cursed the man. But finally, briskly, Curufinwë turned to his father and his brother. It took him a moment. He had to think to speak in Quenya. “Allow him to act. It is...a means of translation.” he said to them, reluctance clear in his voice, “It could prove...useful…”

~*~

Flamelight, warm and glowing flickered golden over the walls -- He could see as he twisted around the mirror’s frame and strode out into the room. In the snapping crackle from the hearth there was a greeting as he stepped into his study, ‘Hail, King, and well met!’ The scent of the herbs strewn over the rushes and crushed beneath his feet drifted up around him, and he breathed it in, absently brushing off the dirt from the road.

“My Lord?”

William. John glanced up, towards the man now stood there beside his desk, bathed in the grey winter’s sunlight filtering through the windows.

William sighed, shaking his head and running back a hand through the length of the chestnut-colored hair that fell about his face. “You are returned sooner than we expected. Ah. Well. I-”

John held up a hand to silence the man. To signal for him to wait. Even as he did so, however, William’s gaze was already turning upward, back straightening, eyes turning alert. The expressions that flickered across the Earl of Lanchester’s face read clearly enough as to why. Interestingly, it wasn’t untill the grunts of the Hound pushing it’s way through and the scrabbling of it’s feet against the floor reached John’s ears that William’s eyes really went wide. There was a moment’s beat, and then:

“You’ve brought guests.”

The Raven King simply inclined his head in accent. Already he was striding his way across the room , pushing aside the parchment laid across his desk to make room for the silver basin he was about to put in their place. “Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro and his sons.” He said. “Have the servants see that they are made comfortable, William.”

[tea-cake-and-melancholy]

Skull and Shackles-part one

Hello everyone! Stuck here in quarantine after finishing college (graduation, woot!) and decided to practice my heavily rusting fictional writing skills. Skull and Shackles is an Adventure Path from Pathfinder Roleplaying Game® owned by Paizo. The only thing I own is the original characters. Any writing advice would be welcomed. Hope you enjoy.

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This adventure does not start with the busy chatter of a tavern, no heroic call to arms against some great evil, not even with being arrested by a government that didn’t appreciate this group for sticking their noses where they don’t belong. This adventure starts with a dark room. The sensation of swaying and an incredible headache that may have either been accompanied by the taste that numbs the tongue or a whack. Impressment wasn’t just restricted to the Cheliax Navy, it extended to pirates as well. It’s been known that Press Gangs are known to skulk about inns, taverns, the streets at night and even pluck unsuspecting men and women from their very beds after a short chat concerning their sailing ability. That was the situation for this group of adventurers. 

The first to awaken was a catfolk thief named Gumqu, a lanky feline looking humanoid creature with the head, paws, and tail of a cat. With grey peach fuzz and mismatched blue and gold eyes, she looked about to try and remember how she had gotten there. Ah, yes. She had just returned from her latest voyage on the “Old Renegade”, a ship that she had served for 5 years working on the rigging. Coming across a rather fat merchant ship, she decided rather foolishly to spend her earnings alone at the Formidably Maid a rather popular pirate tavern. Gumqu absent-mindedly rasped her tongue against her sleeve to take away the numbing and bitter taste off her tongue, feeling rather embarrassed to having fallen for such an old press-gang tactic. At least she can feel the outline of her thieves’ tools in her hidden pocket. Another from the pile stirred with a curse and a spit, human looking and irate to boot.

Anne Salis angrily looked about with dark eyes, cursing her luck and possibly fate for not being careful. Her husband always did warn her against drinking at the Formidably Maid with all those wayward pirates. Being the resident shaman for the Besmara, there was a priest though he took a 12-year fishing trip and had not returned yet, it wasn’t uncommon to getting free drinks from old salts who appreciated fair weather charms. She shook her headful of honey curls and clutched her unprotected scalp when the throbbing headache was aggravated by her swift movements. They took her hat but not her dagger in her belt, typical. She gnashed her sharp teeth and tried to stand but was prevented by the moving room and tangled bodied. Nevertheless, with that she inadvertently kicked a rather large half-orc in the ribs, shocking him to consciousness.

Ausk Oddfellow never failed to live up to his name. A shocking giant that can easily take up the length of the room. He slowly sat up while rubbing his now smarting side, looking like a picture out of those risqué nobles’ romance novels. Tall and muscular with a tiny waist, the symbol of Cayden Cailean (a flagon) hung around his neck and slightly messy black hair caused by the welt in the back of the head. He was tavern hopping, singing about various pirates and legends with his bestest best mate in all the world, Skender, who always works in his dark little alchemy shop. So, as any best friend would do, he dragged with away for a good time and maybe show him the meaning of fun. Well, on the way from Suffering Tiger Pub, The Boot and Helm, The Forest and Shield, Hovering Drake and The Clam and Whale Tavern, and the Formidably Maid, there was a scuffle in a dark alley between 2 blokes and a lady. Being the dashing bard that he is, of course he rushed to the rescue. Right before being knocked on the back of the head. Hard. He quickly looked around in panic! Where’s Skender?! As he is reaching over, his hulking green mass squished the figure next to him, causing an indignant shout.

Now Mordren Paella was typical for a pit-born tiefling; some had one or two minor imperfections that can be easily hidden or explained away, some are more…drastic. The only normal features she possessed was her height, black hair usually tied back and olive skin. Unfortunately, her abnormalities were drastic enough to detract from those features. From golden cat eyes, exposed fang-like teeth that frame her entire jaw, a left arm that resembled a blue dragon’s claw, bird’s legs to the barbed snake’s tail. Many had expressed that she was most likely the product of a god after a very heavy night of drinking. She was a witch that worked on various pirate ships as a cook. Never had a bad reference and no complaints with her small book of recipes that she can feel she still had on her person. She had left her hometown of Ilizmagorti, due to the heightened Red Mantis activity, to Port Peril. To celebrate, she went for a small meal and drink for the smooth trip. Seeing some sketchy characters at the corner of the tavern she and decided to leave, until the world started spinning and the floor was incoming fast. Nearby her was a rather angry “Must you be such a bumbling bugbear? Move over, you green lummox” a thwack barely missing her head and swatting the half-orc’s back.

The person in question was Skender Korzha; a half elf with mocha skin and high contrasting white tattoos on his arms that appeared arcane in origin. His black hair was halfway taken out of his ponytail and he feels a crick in his lower back after hours in an odd position. He knew that he should not have gone out with Ausk. Nothing ever goes well when he goes out with him. Granted, he is a flamboyant, needlessly boisterous, optimistic glass ¾’s full kind of bard but really he’s not a bad friend. However, based on the pounding headache and possible concussion, he’s gotten them into trouble again. He needed that brain, damn it. He checks himself to find what he had left, only to find a health kit. Wonderful. Trying to pull himself to sit up, he felt his sleeping leg being weighed down by someone who may just have beaten his friend in height.

The last in this room was a peculiar species of troll called the Va’al, hailing from the islands closer to Freeport. Though not nearly as muscular as Ausk, Hau'ri’s musculature was overshadowed by the sheer height. This was hidden by him being currently curled on the floor of this room. He slowly sits up and rubs his sore jaw, luckily his tusks were still intact for they were a pain to regrow, almost as bad as a leg or the inconvenience of a missing finger when you only have a max of 3 to start with. The only hair was the short light blue fur covering him from head to toe, bat like ears ringing from the beating he received just the other…time? Honestly, he doesn’t know what time it, not that it matters. His amber eyes scanning the room, satisfied that there’s more than him in this situation. He clenches his fist and quickly hides the brass knuckles that he always kept on him, chuckling at his luck.

 It was at that time; a series of heavy footsteps came from above to then slam the door open violently. Bright light pouring from the handheld lantern blinds everyone inside, causing some to curse and some to hiss in discomfort.

             ““Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!” roared the stranger. He stands tall in typical pirate garb, this human male had probably has seen salt water more often than clear water used for more than cooking or drinking. Skin cracked from long days in the sun and gold teeth gleaming in a cruel smile as he used his whip to motivate everyone onto their feet. This took a bit of time before the group proceeded to follow him up the stairs of the ship.

 As they were walking, Anne spat on the ground to her right, finally deciphering the taste in her mouth as taggit oil. A favorite of press gangs if they think they can get away with it. Put it in spicy food or particularly strong grog and you have between 1 to 3 hours with a dead to the world body. Cheap, easy to obtain and hard to overcome when ingested. Both Hau’ri and Ausk must bend down to clear their heads from hitting the beams above.

Once they’ve reached the top they were once again blinded, this time by the tropical sun hanging high in the sky. Looking about, they find themselves surrounded, 10 pirates not including the one that guided them there and ocean as far as the eye can see. Some were up in the rigging while others were scattered about on deck, all stopped to gawk at the new arrivals. Skender looks at the ship and can tell that it’s a three-masted sailing ship, 100 feet long from stem to stern, and 30 feet wide amidships. Decent but just one person short of manning it effectively without hardship. At the ship’s mainmast, on a high platform than the confused party in question, there stood two individuals. One was a broad, muscular human man with Garundi descent; a shaven head, long beard bound with braids and gold rings, and an eye patch. Based on his standing and finery, this was the captain in charge. The other to his right was a younger, balding man with a long black ponytail, wearing a long coat and carrying a well-used cat-o’-nine-tails.

The group was corralled towards the middle with 4 other recruits, a red headed human woman with a lovely tricornered hat, a muscular halfling brunette that could possibly bench-press Ausk, a human male with a blue varisian scarf wrapped around his head to protect his scalp and a rather fabulous male gnome bedecked in dandy purple attire. While the group was placed in a row, the captain smirked and finally addressed them.

           “Glad you could join us at last!” his rasping voice bellowed over the crashing waves “Welcome to the Wormwood! My thanks for ‘volunteering’ to join my crew. I’m Barnabas Harrigan. That’s Captain Barnabas Harrigan to you, not that you’ll ever need to address me. I have only one rule—don’t speak to me. I like talk, but I don’t like your talk. Follow that rule and we’ll all get along fine.” He made his way to walk away, paused and spoke over his shoulder, “Oh, and one more thing. Even with you new recruits, we’re still short-handed, and I aim to keep what crew I have. There’ll be a keelhaulin’ for anyone caught killin’ anyone. Mr. Plugg!” addressing the man with the ponytail “If you’d be so kind as to make pirates out of these landlubbers, it’ll save me having to put them in the sweatbox for a year and a day before I make pies out of ’em.” Before walking away from sight. The new overseer, Mr. Plugg, descends to the Amidships where they stood.

           “Now” he unhooked the cat-o’-nine-tails from his belt as he surveys the crew-to-be. “Time to see where you lot belong.”

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