#one day soon Ill get around to making a formal post about them all in order

[cryo-lily]

I've finally completed The Shir family tree. At least for in game. I don't think I have it in me to make more generations of it thankfully. Probably the most ocs I've had formally connected tbh.

[cocklessboy]

Hi there! I definitely don't want this post to scare anyone. I wrote it over a year ago now and I keep meaning to write some new posts with more updated experiences, but for now, here's an update just for you:

Those same friends who wouldn't hug me before... still don't want to hug me. But I have also come to realize some other things about them. They won't talk about their feelings at all. They brag about not crying. They seem incapable of having a conversation that isn't an argument. They can't just state an opinion on something; they have to claim the things they like are Objectively Good and the things they don't like are Objectively Bad. In other words, they're... pretty toxic. From talking to them more I've managed to suss out that they were all traumatized in different ways growing up and have internalized a lot of the harmful lessons of toxic masculinity. They could all use some therapy, but they think of going to therapy as weak, so they refuse.

These guys are a part of a group of friends I still engage with so I see them sometimes, and I wish them no ill will, but they are not healthy people to spend a lot of time around.

I've also noticed that the female friends in that group who I originally felt more comfortable around are a little toxic too. They don't really have serious conversations about their feelings either. They insult each other a lot, they're sarcastic most of the time, and they take the fact that I'm autistic to mean they should talk down to me like I'm a child despite the fact that I'm perfectly independent and fairly socially capable (not to mention I'm several years older than all of them). They do hug me, and they don't behave the same way as the guys do, but they're also kind of bad to be around a lot of the time.

I do still spend time with these people because my living situation keeps me really isolated and they live nearby and are easy to meet up with now and then. But I've learned not to expect close friendship or support from them. Casual conversation on non-serious topics is fine, chatting about the weather, sharing a meal, that's all fine and necessary to remain a functioning human. But I no longer think of them as close friends and I no longer expect proper support from them.

Meanwhile, although covid keeps me isolated these days, I managed to make a new male friend by chance. We met in a situation that required us to keep a bit of a formal social distance, but that situation is coming to an end soon and we've both expressed a desire to keep in touch and become proper friends now. He first met me before my transition, but didn't skip a beat when I told him I was a guy, and now that I'm pretty much fully transitioned, he fully treats me like a man. He's totally straight, utterly unbothered by the fact that I'm gay, and just very genuine and happy to chat about Guy Stuff. When I told him I was having trouble working up the courage to do one of my injections he replied along the lines of JUST DO IT BRO! and it was exactly what I needed to hear to get it done. This guy gets me.

So during a chat with this guy while we were doing some work, I mentioned my frustration with the fact that my guy friends refuse to hug me now that they see me as a guy, because "men don't hug".

He froze and the work came to a screeching halt. He stared me directly in the eyes with an utterly flabbergasted expression and said, ".....Men? Do hug??? Men hug! What are you talking about?!"

I explained to him the experiences I'd had and he was baffled. "I hug my guy friends all the time! We touch each other all the time! We compliment each other's appearance and talk about our feelings! When I go to the gym with my workout buddies we compliment each other's muscles and tell each other how hot we're looking!" This guy, this 100% straight guy, was waving his arms around like a dang muppet (honestly it was really cute), shocked and upset that anyone would have told me that now that I'm a man, I don't get hugs.

Because that's the thing: it's not that men don't hug. It's not that men don't touch or talk about their feelings or cry. It's that toxic masculinity has traumatized and damaged a lot of men (and women too! and I'm sure nonbinary people haven't escaped it either!). That combined with other trauma and harmful societal messages can lead to a lot of people not treating each other or themselves the way they should.

And none of that has anything to do with the fact that I'm a man.

It's true that my damaged male friends treat me differently now in ways that make me feel more isolated. And a lot of men out there feel isolated for similar reasons, cis and trans alike. But that is NOT universal. There are also loads of men out there who don't hesitate to hug their guy friends! Who are sensitive and kind and talk about their feelings! And who are also BROS and very masculine and tough in good, healthy ways! It's just a matter of finding them.

And yeah, that can be tough. There's no getting around the fact that it can be hard to meet new people especially in a world where covid is everywhere but the world is trying to pretend it's not. And I don't have a good solution to that. I met my new friend by pure chance in a situation where it could have been anyone at all. But having met and connected with him, I will soon get to meet his whole circle of friends who love and support and fucking hug each other. It only takes finding one great person to bring you into a group of great people.

Your people are out there. Not knowing where they are or how to find them is scary and stressful and isolating, but they ARE out there. It took me 35 years to figure out I was a guy. It took 3 more years for me to find the right people. But it was worth the wait.

Men do hug. Anyone who says otherwise probably really needs one.

Came out to my friends about a year ago. Let them know that I am fully a dude and they were all very chill with it. Hardly saw any of them thanks to the pandemic, while slowly my voice grew deeper and my beard started to grow. Finally saw a small group of friends a few days ago.

And I discovered something very, very sad.

My male friends will no longer hug me.

This is presumably a way of showing me that they accept me as a man. They don’t hug each other, generally. They only hug their female friends.

But they all have girlfriends, wives, partners. I am alone. I am touch-starved. I miss hugging my friends.

Men? Hug your fucking male friends. What the hell is wrong with you? Hugs are GOOD. Hugs are not fucking GENDERED.

I want to be HUGGED.

[alienelvisobsession]

Himbo Prince #3

Pairing: Elvis around 1956-57 x Reader

Warnings: goofy, flirting, himbo, getting hurt, swearing, heavy kissing

N/A: Sorry for taking such a long time writing this chapter, but I was busy doing some research and then writing some of my other more serious posts. Again, this is just a silly goofy lighthearted fanfic. I don’t really think that Elvis was a “himbo”, it’s just fun to write him when he was a bit inexperienced and awkward. There are some inaccuracies in Elvis’ timeline but who cares. English is not my first language and this is my first fanfic. Be kind!

Plot: You have a small part in an Elvis movie and you can’t believe Elvis asked you out!

Previous episodes: chapter one and chapter two

Now that filming has ended for the movie, everybody can finally relax, even Elvis. He’s leaving soon for his next engagement, but you can still spend a few days together. You can barely hide your excitement, because he has asked you to be his date for the party thrown by the production to celebrate the end of filming. You’re genuinely thrilled when he picks you up in one of the Cadillacs that you’ve seen him show off in movie magazines, but the magic is almost spoiled because some of his guys are inexplicably with him in the car. You find it funny that they are sitting in the backseat, laughing and telling bad jokes even when he’s picking up a girl.

Elvis is wearing dark pants, a pink shirt with frills and an elegant jacket that he explains has been made and designed especially for him. He’s wearing expensive cuff links, a couple of rings on his fingers as usual and he has added a new gold bracelet. His sandy blonde hair is perfectly sculpted in studied waves, this time without his signature rebellious strand over his forehead. Sitting at the steering wheel, complementing you on your outfit, he’s nothing less than dreamy. He tells you that he’s a bit disappointed that he can’t bring his guys to the party, because he’s more comfortable when he’s around them. He has to leave them at the entrance and they decide to go for hamburgers and milkshakes. Elvis sighs and confesses to you that the party is even more formal than he imagined. Waiters are going around serving champagne and fancy-looking canapés on silver trays. 

There are so many people that you don’t know and so many others that you’ve only seen from a distance at Paramount studios or literally only on the movie screen. You’re being constantly interrupted, but clearly he wants to talk to you more than he wants to talk with these Hollywood people. His co-star Marion, who is a young actress with some experience, is there of course. The film director acts like the host of the party and chats amiably with some big-shot film producers and actors from other productions. They all want to shake Elvis’ hand or talk to him out of curiosity. Elvis kindly exchanges a couple of words with all of them. Sometimes he seems ill at ease, but at other times he couldn’t be more charming and relaxed. There’s no way of knowing with him. You’re grateful when he patiently introduces you to everybody and makes an effort to include you in the conversation.

“This is Shopgirl. No, I’m joking, this is y/n”, he tells a movie producer to break the ice.

Astonishingly, there’s talk that a famous actress is going to show up because she’s curious about Elvis. “Some people are saying it’s Jayne Mansfield, because that’s her agent right there”, the producer tells you in a hushed voice. You are curious about the blonde bombshell yourself and wonder what Elvis thinks of her, whether he likes her or not. After all, they’re both on the covers of girl magazines so often that you’re surprised they haven’t met before.

“We almost starred together in ‘The Girl Can’t Help It’, but the deal fell through”, Elvis explains. “Imagine Jayne and me in the same picture. We would break box office records”, Elvis boasts. The movie producer admits that he isn’t a fan of rock n’ roll but that Elvis is indeed a promising actor. You can’t help noticing how quickly Elvis can go from humble country boy to superstar.

“I guess Jayne Mansfield really wants to meet me”, Elvis continues. He’s displaying his cockiness by making sure that the couple just behind you has heard him say that.

When Jayne finally makes her entrance at the party, announced by excited whispers, in a lilac chiffon dress and elbow-length gloves that are too fancy even for this party, she looks like the diva that you’ve always imagined she would be. She looks just like she does in her movies, only the fur on her shoulders is missing, but maybe she left it at the reception. You turn to look at Elvis and you discover that he’s looking at her transfixed, with his mouth open. Jealous, you quickly grab one of those canapés from a silver tray and stick it in his mouth. 

“Bleuch, it’s roe!”, Elvis says horrified, almost throwing up as he spits it out on a napkin.

“Don’t do this ever again!”, he admonishes, but soon chuckles at your audacity, even when he has to take a sip of champagne to get the taste off his mouth. Luckily, the movie producer hasn’t noticed you two being goofy because, like other important people, he’s running to greet the movie star and Playmate to the party. You look in her direction and, surrounded by older movie producers and actors, she’s already waving at Elvis from a distance with her gloved little hand. 

You follow him while he walks up to her as if attracted by a magnet and you cannot help but feel like a silly little girl who’s in over her head. Jayne Mansfield exudes sex appeal, with her perfectly curled platinum blonde hair and her elegant dress accentuating her generous breasts. She kisses Elvis on both cheeks and smiles at him, telling him that she listens to his records every day. He smiles at her, the biggest smile you’ve seen on him until now. He’s surprised and flattered. “W-w-w-what’s your favorite record of mine?”, he asks stumbling on his words like he always does when he’s nervous.

“Oh, all of them. ‘Don’t Be Cruel’ and ‘Love Me Tender’ and ‘Teddy Bear’. They’re all delightful”.

She’s confident, while he looks like a kid next to her, fidgety and awkward, nevertheless he gathers enough courage to tell her he’d like to work with her one day. He believes he’s going to go somewhere in the movie business and so is she. He introduces you as a promising actress and makes you blush a little. The whole thing lasts maybe three minutes, before Elvis decides he has had enough small talk and says he wants to hang out with what he calls “regular people”.

You search for Susan, the costume designer who gave you the idea to wear that blonde wig and play a French actress, since she tends to be more fun and down to earth than most people in the production. Elvis seems more comfortable talking to you two than he seemed with Jayne or the movie producers. 

As a matter of fact, yesterday was the last day of filming and you two had fun together watching Elvis going wild all over the studio lot once he had filmed his last scene, pulling pranks on everybody, at a certain point even driving the camera boom truck around the set and almost running over one of his cousins. Later on, you had lunch with him again. He forbid you to eat a tuna sandwich in front of him, but you didn’t mind because you had a lovely time.

Susan announces that she has brought a coconut cake that she has baked and Elvis suddenly lights up. He tells you excitedly that his mama — he talks a lot about her – makes a coconut cake too. Before eating the cake, he looks around to check if there’s a photographer snapping a picture of him.

“They ain’t gonna take any more pictures of me while I’m eating”, he says defiantly.

It takes him a moment to forget his discontent about the intrusive photographers. In the meantime, Susan has been invited to dance by another member of the crew and disappears. You hoped of having a moment alone with your date, but you’re immediately approached by Elvis’ co-star Marion, who’s accompanied by her boyfriend Ted. He has just returned from the army and looks very elegant in his uniform. Marion makes sure that everybody knows that he’s a sergeant. Elvis is deferential towards him, even when Ted professes enthusiasm for his music, telling him how much his records have meant to him during his lonely months of service away from Marion. The sergeant is interested in Elvis’ fight scenes in the movie. Ted says he’s thinking of inquiring for jobs as a stuntman while he’s in Los Angeles. Elvis confesses that in this movie the fight scenes were staged and they had not required a stuntman, but that he’d actually love to do his own stunts in an action movie one day.

“You can bet I could do almost everything by myself! Yesterday I climbed on top of a scaffolding. Must have been at least 30 feet. Shopgirl here and Lady Coconut Cake were so scared I would fall and break my neck, but once I was on top everybody on the set was cheering and applauding”.

Elvis evidently loves bragging about his devil-may-care attitude, because he goes on and on about it.

“I’ve been climbing and jumping off things all my life. I jump off rollercoasters for fun, ask anybody in Memphis”.

Eager to explain how well he’d do as a stuntman, Ted explains that he’s been studying karate in the army and Marion encourages him to do a martial arts demonstration. Elvis says he would be interested to practice karate one day and welcomes Marion’s suggestion. He shows Elvis some moves and Elvis repeats them effortlessly. After each strike he looks at you proudly, without taking himself too seriously, sometimes almost repressing a little laugh.

The sergeant, maybe offended by Elvis taking his commitment to karate too lightly, wants to show you something more and he disappears for a moment, coming back with some wooden boards. You wonder if he travelled with those so that he can do a demonstration in front of everybody. He explains that this exercise requires a lot of training and patience. He shows Elvis and some other people who have gathered around him how to concentrate before a strike and break the wooden board with one precise strike.

He discourages Elvis from trying, but Elvis says he has done this before and he knows what he’s doing. He suddenly becomes very serious and concentrated, but his strike comes off as a bit uncoordinated and somehow weaker than Ted’s. The wooden board doesn’t break and what is worse Elvis seems to have hurt his hand in the attempt. He twists his body and kneels down from the pain, letting out a faint hiss. Ted and Marion are mortified and they rush to find some ice, which is not difficult because of all the champagne.

Elvis looks suddenly vulnerable with an expression of pain and shame on his pretty face. You are sorry for him, because he seemed so sure that he knew how to do it. He refuses the ice at first, but the sergeant insists and he finally gives in, wrapping a handkerchief around his hand. Once Marion and Ted are gone, Elvis lets out his frustration.

“Why did I ever do that, Shopgirl? Goddamnit, I hurt my hand real bad!”, he tells you exasperated.

“Why do I always make a fool of myself, y/n? Why? I thought I was Captain Marvel Jr. punching Nazi or something…”. You frown at the analogy. “I should have stuck with staged fights”, he mutters, still wincing from the pain every time he tries to open and close his hand.

He’s so upset and ashamed that he asks you to go outside and catch some fresh air. You even offer to help him put on his coat, because he has still the ice wrapped around his right hand, but he refuses it and clumsily manages to do it by himself.

You sit on a bench in the small park just outside the venue. It’s very quiet there. Elvis is sulky, but you find him and his little boy hijinks adorable. He tells you how he always wants to play the hero, he wants to be the best and the most admired.

“… until I decide to do something silly like phony karate because I’m impulsive and dumb”, he says regretful.

“That’s because you have silly bean syndrome”, you tell him affectionately.

“That’s right”, he agrees, resting his head on your shoulder for a moment.

After a minute of silence, he turns his head towards you and starts telling you about the places where he feels most comfortable: his home town and the beautiful house he has just bought. He’s sure you would get along with his mama and her puppy Sweet Pea. He wants to invite you there and meet everybody. He speaks slowly and softly. His face is very close to yours and he’s suddenly paying a lot of attention to your lips. You enjoy this intimate moment with him. When he looks down you can see how long his eyelashes are and you also observe the perfect straight line of his nose and his strong jawline. You have never seen a man who looks so masculine and delicate at the same time. It makes your head spin with anticipation at what is inevitably going to happen now. Finally he kisses you really gently and softly. His bandaged hand is resting on his lap, water now slowly tickling down from the handkerchief to the floor. He starts plantings little kisses on your parted lips and he lets you nibble his plump lips, before doing the same with yours. You stroke the back of his head and play with his hair back there, where there’s almost no hair oil. He parts his lips from yours and strokes your cheek with his free hand, looking you right in the eyes. His face is still almost touching yours.

“Well, at least something good has come from my bogus karate”, he murmurs softly. “You, little girl”, he adds.

You like that he calls you that. It’s better than “shopgirl” for sure. You want to use baby talk with him too. “Have you eaten too much cake tonight, E? Because you’re really sweet”.

He grins like a little boy, then kisses you again, but this time he’s more insistent. Before you realize it, your tongues are rolling together, exploring each other’s mouth, and your bodies are very close. You’re drawn to him like you haven’t been drawn to anyone before. You can feel his gentle warm breath on you while you explore every inch of his mouth and him of yours. You’re mirroring each other’s movements, using the root of your tongues or the tip, rolling or stroking one way or another. The moment of anticipation just before he repeats your tongue movement in your mouth feels like heaven and when he repeats it you feel a pang of pleasure in your stomach. You let him take the initiative and suck your bottom lip, make your mouth disappear within his ever bigger kisses, letting his saliva and your saliva blend together in a mess all over your mouth area. He takes your whole face in his hands and even uses his bandaged hand, which makes you suddenly shudder from the cold of the melting ice and the drops of cold water on your chest. Your shivering excites him even more and he comes closer to you, pushing his tongue deeper in your mouth. You hear noises of people coming out for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, giggling and talking, but you don’t care because in this moment only he and his mouth exist for you. Elvis pushes his tongue into your mouth so much that your whole body tilts backwards.

“Is your hand still hurting, sweet E?”, you ask him once your lips finally separate, a bit numb from long heavy kissing. He doesn’t answer but removes the handkerchief to see if his hand is swollen or bruised, and it is swollen, bruised and something else. His little finger doesn’t look too good.

“Haven’t you noticed your pinky is all bent, baby?”, you ask him apprehensively. “It might be broken”.

[atpaftmoom-bily]

Thoughts about Erik, why Wilhelm wasn't allowed to come out, and more.

Be warned, this is long, confusing, and I'm not even sure if I made any valid points. But I had thoughts on Young Royals, with no one to talk to, so here you go.

I've seen various different takes on Erik and what people thought his reaction would have been if Willie had come out to him, most of them being positive, and some as well saying how sad it was that Willie never got to come out to his brother. I have a different take, but bear with me it's gonna take a second to get there.

Something that I found interesting in the first place was that when August found out it was Simon and not a girl, he just seemed shocked, but not in a homophobic way that I had kind of been expecting.

Additionally, let's take a look at the comments on the video, I've split them up into three different groups. General comments (disbelief, surprise, pity, etc.), comments sexualizing them, and negative comments. (I've translated these as well as I could as they were not all captioned, but if I've made a mistake feel free to let me know!)

General Comments "OMG Have you seen this?? The Prince is gay!!!!" "Who's the other guy?" "I'm dead" "Finally some news to put Sweden on the map!" "Poor boys, I feel sorry for them" "So clumsy to get caught on film" "I know where he lives!" "I think the video is fake" "Love for the boys"

Sexualizing Comments "Royal porn" "Sexy" "Love" "Sexiest video ever"

Negative Comments "How will the monarchy survive this?" "The end of the royal family, time for Sweden to become a republic!" "Never been ashamed about being Swedish until now" "Class traitor! Your mother cries for your sins"

Now, there are quite a few things I want to point out about Sweden that I feel should be taken into account here. Of course, we don't know the exact dates that the show took place, but we do know it is modern-day, and though it is a work of fiction, I am going to assume that anything that is currently true in Sweden at the moment, give or take a few years, would also be true in the Young Royals universe.

The first point I would like to make is that Sweden is one of the most LGBT-friendly countries, even being named the most friendly country in 2019. Looking back in history, 1944 was when Sweden decriminalized sexual relationships between consenting adults of the same sex, though it was still thought to be an illness. However, in 1979 it was no longer considered an illness. Fun unrelated fact, but Sweden was the first country to legalize gender change in 1979. (If you'd like to read more on LGBT rights in Sweden here are some resources. One. Two.) If Sweden is that progressive and is that LGBT-friendly, then I wondered what the problem was with Willie coming out, so I dug some more.

I'm American, so my understanding of many parts of the world is unfortunately skewed or incomplete, but I'm working on changing that. However, because of this, one thing that surprised me in my research was that the monarchy in Sweden is more of a unifying symbol than anything else. They have no political affinity or formal powers, but rather "the King’s duties are mainly of a ceremonial and representative nature." Of course in the case of Young Royals, the Queen inherited the throne, and Wilhelm would after her.

Something else I found interesting about the monarchy in Sweden is that the current Queen, Queen Silvia, did not come from a line of nobility, so when Queen Silvia and King Carl Gustaf married in 1976, it was highly unusual. (See more on the Swedish monarchy here.)

There is one last thing I want to point out about the current King and Queen. "In summer 2000, King Carl XVI Gustaf and Queen Silvia of Sweden made history when they ate under the rainbow flag at Djurgårdsterrassen, a Stockholm restaurant owned by gay owner Arto Winter. At that time, the decision was seen as controversial, and played a valuable role in moving conversations forward – while making the royals’ position abundantly clear." (Source)

Now, of course, I understand the difference between a fictional work and real-life situations, but at least in my opinion, these same ideals should carry through to the show that we see. If the King and Queen in real life have been openly supportive of the LGBT community since at least 2000, then although specifics might not be the same, some of those ideals should carry through to Young Royals, so what is the problem, right?

I'm not trying to erase the reality of homophobia altogether, because of course, that exists. We even see in the show through comments that there are some people who are worried about the state of the monarchy, are disgusted, or downright still think that not being straight is a sin, but we also see other comments as well. If Wilhelm were to come out, what would happen? Would there be some backlash? 100%. Would there be people who would support him? Also 100%. Would it make his life harder? Probably, but would he be happier? In my opinion, yes, but I guess that's a question that Wilhelm would have to gauge on his own.

Now I want to look deeper at the conversation that Wille has with his mother, the Queen, in the car on the way home so he can give a statement to the media. Below is an excerpt from their dialogue.

---

Wilhelm: Why can't I just have a relationship with him? And not say anything. Just live a normal life.

Queen: You're the crown prince. And that's a privilege, not a punishment.

Wilhelm: Yes, but I didn't ask for this!

Queen: Well, nobody has ever, ever asked for this! You are the only one who can take over the throne after Erik. Don't you understand that? You are so young. When you're young, love feels like the most important thing in the whole world. When I was your age, I too had an unfortunate romance. That was before I met your father. What I mean is, is it worth it? If you feel that the attention you've been getting so far is unacceptable, it's nothing compared to what you will endure for the rest of your life. We have a chance to cover this up, I urge you to take that chance. You may not get another."

---

Something I find interesting is how much Willie just wants to live a normal life, which I get. He is under so much pressure, from being a role model, his brother's death that he hasn't even had time to process, preparing to be king someday, and (kind of) being outed to the entire world, but at least his school. It's enough to make anyone want to live normally. I think the biggest thing we have to think about here is the Queen's question as well. Is it worth it? She is right of course, the attention he will get will always be there, but I do think that Willie would be able to find a way to be happy along with being King. It shouldn't have to be a case of either-or, and ultimately I don't think it is.

Now I'm going to move back to Erik, and really, this ties everything back to the start where I mentioned I had a different take on Erik's reaction to Willie being not straight. I think that Erik already knew. It would make sense for a variety of reasons. In the show, it is obvious that the two of them have a good relationship. We also hear Erik tell Willie, "you can trust him, he's like a brother," in episode one when speaking about August, showing that trust is something strong between them as brothers. I'm not exactly sure how old Wilhelm is meant to be in the show, but I estimate somewhere around sixteen. I would like to assume that sometime before attending Hillerska, he may have had a crush or felt some attraction to a guy. We also can see from their phone call in episode three, that they're not afraid to joke around with each other about such things, meaning that Erik would most likely be the first person that Willie would go to about such things.

Another thing that makes me believe Erik already knew has to do with people assuming that Simon is the first guy that Willie has liked. Now, I know things are not the same for everyone, but if we consider what happens when the video is posted, and Willie had to deny it is him, we can conclude that being anything other than straight in their family is not okay, simply because they are royals, and the media attention will be too much. Imagine you've known your whole life, you can't be something, the first instance you encounter that, you're probably not going to give in right away. I'm talking at least some minor internalized homophobia here or something.

So put that into the context of Simon and Willie's first kiss in episode two. Simon kisses Willie twice before Willie says "Well, I'm not... I'm not... Stop! Wait, wait, wait!" and immediately pulls Simon back towards him. Let's reflect back to episode one where Willie says "I’m not… I’m not allowed to speak about political issues." I'm not allowed. Of course, there are TONS of restrictions on what he can and can not do, kissing guys, probably being one of them. But if he was going to say I'm not gay or I'm not like that, why would he instantly pull him back in, contrasting what he was just going to say. In episode three, Willie does say, "I'm not like that," which makes sense. He's had time to think and isn't in the heat of the moment. What other explanation can he give? Sure, he could say he's not allowed to be like that but saying that would admit that he is. It's a circle, a very messy circle, but it is a... loop.

Going back to what I'm supposed to be talking about here, Erik. This isn't Willie's first rodeo, but Erik was there for the first. One last thing I want to talk about is the phone call that Erik and Willie have in episode three. Below is an excerpt from their dialogue.

---

Erik: You've met someone.

Wilhelm: I, uh... Yes, okay, but I... I don't think we're a couple or anything. I don't know what it is but can we just...

Erik: I get it. I get it. You don't have to tell me any... I don't wanna hear any details. Hey. Willie, enjoy yourself. Soon enough people will start having opinions and-

Wilhelm: They don't care about me. 'Cause you're the Crown Prince that they have opinions.

Erik: I don't get it. Why are you sitting in your room sulking when you have a crush to hang out with?

---

Firstly, Erik refers to Willie's crush as completely gender-neutral. "You've met someone" could very easily be "you've met a girl". The same goes for "you have a crush to hang out with". Very well could have been "you have a girl to hang out with". Sure, it could be completely coincidental, but we live in such a heteronormative society that it would just make sense for Erik to use female-gendered words. Unless, of course, he knew.

Secondly, "Hey. Willie, enjoy yourself. Soon enough people will start having opinions". This sounds very much to me like, enjoy your time while you can be yourself without backlash because soon you won't have that privacy. While I feel that, yes, the same may happen with anyone Willie was to date, him having a same-sex partner multiplies that, by a lot.

In conclusion, Erik knew Willie was not straight, Willie should come out, but when he is ready, and August is a really deep character that people don't give enough credit to. Gosh, I hope I covered everything, I probably forgot so much, but it's fine. Please let me know your thoughts if you've made it this far into the post.

One last thing. I hope you'll notice how in this post, I never referred specifically to Wilhelm's sexuality, and I did that for a reason. I often see gay used to label him, and though I am unsure if that's being used as an umbrella term or specifically as in he only likes men, I think it's really important to realize that they're specifically making him unlabeled. In this youtube video Edvin Ryding, the actor who plays Wilhelm, says "What we're trying to do... We're not labeling Wilhelm's sexuality. I think that's good because it's like, it portrays that it's okay that way too. You don't have to. You shouldn't have to come out. It should be allowed to be a bit fluid, a bit out there." I just think that it is important as it's another type of representation that is not seen often.

[bcdaily]

jily childhood friends running into each other years later?

Ta-dah! Thank you for the prompt! Now I have to write shorter things, or I’ll never get another done. XD

She knew that hair.

It was a glimpse—a fleeting hint of familiar dark chaotic strands protruding above the multitude of milling heads inside the crowded hotel lobby. Lily stopped where she stood, certain—certain…but that was foolish, surely? It was hair. Billions of people had hair. Even distinctive hair like that. And what would he be doing here, what were the chances…She darted left, slipping through other conference attendees, following the bobbing head of black. Her fingers toyed absently with the lanyard around her neck. Her feet kept moving. She was closing in. But—shit—he was turning into the next doorway. She’d lose him—

“Potter!” she shouted.

The bobbing black head stopped in the doorway threshold. He turned.

Something pulled inside Lily’s chest.

God, it was.

His mouth—an older mouth; familiar features spread across a matured frame, sharper and wider—formed her name. A question. His head tilted.

She squirmed around the last huddled group of conference-goers blocking her path. A middle-aged skeletal bloke shot her an annoyed look as she prodded past him. A server carrying a tray of canapés swerved around her. She wished the tray had been alcohol. She might need it. She wasn’t sure.

James Potter had grown up to be tall. Cresting six feet, easily. His limbs were long, his chest wide, but his hair—that hair—hadn’t changed a bit. Neither had his smile: bright, crooked, with the same infectious delight he’d managed so easily at eleven, now captured just the same in a man of twenty-four.

Twenty-four. They were twenty-four now. She hadn’t seen him in thirteen years.

“Lily Evans,” he said, audibly this time, and the smile grew brighter. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Lily repeated, laughing. Now that there was nowhere to go, no further crowds to weave through, no mop of dark hair to stalk, she was not quite sure what to do. She hadn’t thought past the part of just confirming it was him. Somehow, magically, him. Strange, strange, strange. Now they were standing before each other and—

And he was good-looking.

Had been, back then, at eleven. But that was eleven, and those things didn’t often last. Features shifted. Bodies changed. Conventions came and went at whim. Who could keep up?

James Potter could, apparently.

Not that that was the point. She hadn’t chased him down because he was fit. She could only see his head, for Christ’s sake. She hadn’t known. Not about the height, about the posh specs and the twinkling hazel eyes, about the tanned, sculpted forearms revealed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down. It wasn’t—

He eyed her, eyeing him. “Do we…hug…or…?”

She snorted. “I don’t know.”

“Reckon I ruined it by asking.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Not as natural now.”

“Yes, quite ruined.”

“Ah, well. Will do better next time. Meet again in another…what’s it been? A decade or so?”

“Thirteen years, by my count.”

“Thirteen? Bloody hell, I can’t wait another thirteen years. I’ll be dead. Let’s just—”

And then somehow he was hugging her, and Lily was laughing again, and her fingers were digging into his back as she clutched him to her.

He had a nice back, James Potter did.

A nice smell, too.

The first boy she’d ever kissed remembered to shower. Lovely.

In the past ten seconds, she’d grown greedy and impetuous. As he pulled away, she darted up on her toes and dropped a hasty kiss to his cheek. Stolen, like a criminal. She was in a hotel lobby filled with barristers, and not a single one could convict her, so stealthy was she.

His fingers trailed down her arm as their bodies detangled. Her skin burned along the path.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, stepping back. She really, really needed to step back. “I mean, it’s good to see you—strange to see you, really, but—you’re a barrister?”

It didn’t fit the James Potter in her head. The boy who’d grown up alongside her, had lived in the sprawling, noble house at the top of the hill, running wild with the lot of them in Cokesworth, until he wasn’t. That boy had certainly had the cleverness and confidence to pull off law, but not the patience or deference to its structures and politics. He would’ve collapsed under the piles of paperwork. He would have crowed agony at the rules, the formalities, the bureaucracy. Had that swotty boarding school his parents’ packed him off to changed him so very much?

James pulled a face. “Fuck me, no. I’m running the catering for the conference. My mum—”

“—owned a restaurant,” Lily recalled, somehow delighted not to have pegged him wrong. She closed her eyes wistfully. “God, that’s right. When you moved, we were all bereft. I think I still smell that eggplant appetizer of hers in my dreams.”

“The caponata?” His grin turned sneaky. “She still has it on the menu.”

“Where?”

“Casa. SoHo.”

Lily had heard of it. To think, James Potter, her childhood friend and mild fixation, just a few tube stops away, for who knew how long. “So you’re in London?”

“Since university,” he confirmed. Then his head tilted, and the sneaky smile turned coy. “So you’re a barrister? In London?”

“Yes.” She waved her conference lanyard like a white flag, surrender. “Wildly disappointed?”

“No. It fits.” Humour weaved through his voice—deeper and cooler now, all grown up. “No one could ever win an argument with you. And I tried. It was fun.”

He’d been a menace. He’d taken such delight from getting a rise out of her. But even as children, talking with him had been addicting. There were so few who could match wits with her, even fewer who didn’t take it personally, who dusted themselves off after a rousing debate and stuck out their hand, a shake of respect for the good time. James Potter had been like that. It’s why she’d cornered him behind a tree in the park where they all used to play, just before his parents had packed up house and he’d left for boarding school. With his back against the tree bark, she’d pressed her lips against his and waited to see what he did with it.

He’d cupped her chin with both of his hands and pressed his lips harder against hers.

It was closed-mouths, mere seconds. A first for both of them.

But to this day, Lily’s knees still went weak when someone held her face.

Silly. Stupid. She talked about work to make the memory go away.

“A bit less fun now. It’s mostly forms and deadlines and”—she waved her hand around the room—“swotty, deadly dull networking conferences. I’m just out of school. I hardly do anything yet.”

“But you’re good at it,” James stated, definitive.

She didn’t bother to hide her preen. Was wary by how much pleasure she took out of his automatic confidence in her. “Yes. I’m very good at it.”

They stared at each other, grinning.

He had a girlfriend. Lily was certain of it. There was no way this man did not have a significant other. Or maybe there was a very good reason, because she knew absolutely nothing about him. She hadn’t seen him in thirteen years. Entire lives were lived in thirteen years. Who knew what kind of person he was now? He could cut a dashing figure, hold a conversation, but maybe he also cut up bodies in his flat for fun. Maybe he bit his toenails. Maybe he liked The Big Bang Theory. Maybe he drank milk straight from the carton and then put it back in the fridge.

“You didn’t grow up ugly, James Potter,” she said.

“I looked you up on Instagram a few times,” he replied immediately. “You never post pictures of yourself. But I like your cat.”

“His name is Bosley.”

“I know.”

Lily squinted at him. “What else do you know?”

Hazel eyes gleamed. “Interesting question.”

James Potter’s hands were much larger now. If he worked with his mum in her restaurant, they were probably rough—calloused from use, nicked with cuts and crevasses from an absent knife or oil burned too hot. Eleven-year-old James’s hands had been cool and soft. This James’s hands wouldn’t be.

Lily quelled a shiver.

“You—”

“James?” A server appeared out of the doorway behind him, looking frazzled. “They left behind a case of champagne. I don’t know how. The quiche is running low, and Darnell is feeling ill. What—”

“Send Darnell home. I’ll—” He let out a dissatisfied hum, glancing at Lily, then back at the server. His lips pulled into a frown. He swept a hand through his hair. “Sorry—”

Lily waved him off, though her spirits sank. “No, don’t be silly. Work calls. Feed the hungry. Go.”

He hesitated, his eyes skimming her. “Will you—we’re just catering the event tonight. Swotty and deadly dull, yeah? So you’ll probably skive as soon as you can.”

“No.” She didn’t have any reason to say it so firmly, so quickly. That was just the way it came out. “Work calls for me too. I’ll be here.”

“Yeah?” The frown righted slowly.

She couldn’t believe how ridiculous she was being. Maybe how ridiculous they were both being. She could be a serial killer, for all he knew. Did he not care for the health and safety of his own pretty little head?

Her plan had been to duck out of this conference opening mixer as soon as was physically possible. They were unbearable. That shouldn’t change.

“Yeah,” she said instead.

She was eleven years old, heart fluttering behind a tree. She was an idiot.

“Good.” His body turned, but he was still looking at her. He nodded and repeated, “Good.”

Lily lifted her hand. “Thanks for the hug. See you in thirteen years?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

She watched his back as he turned through the doorway, stared at the familiar mop of hair until it disappeared around the next corner.

She pivoted on her heels slowly, feeling silly and prickly.

In her pocket, her phone vibrated. She pulled it out and absently glanced at the screen.

She laughed.

James Potter had requested to follow her on Instagram. And he sent her a message.

You didn’t grow up ugly either, Lily Evans, it read.

She was twenty-four years old, heart fluttering in the middle of a hotel.

She shook her head, and pressed ACCEPT.

[joonie-beanie]

Helping Hands

Pairing: Barbatos x Reader

Word Count: 5,526

Preview: The royal butler decides to pay you a visit when he hears that your back is acting up.

However, when he offers to give you a massage, things get a little out of hand.

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter is also being posted on 7/10/2020 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

Obviously, you’re not as close to the residents of the Demon King’s Palace, or the other exchange students, as you are with the demon brothers. That’s to be expected, considering you literally live with the seven demons, and are pretty much around them at all times.

However, your relationships with the others are far from distant.

In fact, for the last two months, Diavolo and Barbatos have been inviting you over for tea every Sunday evening.

At first, you’d found it a bit strange to partake in a tea party so late in the day, and on a Sunday no less, but you’ve grown quite fond of your quiet evenings with the Devildom Prince and his faithful butler. Usually conversation is pleasant. Diavolo loves to ask you about your experiences in the human world, and never gets enough of your stories—even if it’s just you retelling simple parts of your day.

It has also been a good opportunity to get to know Diavolo and Barbatos more. Diavolo is very forthcoming with any information you’d like to know, but still tends to have this…front about him. Like he’s willing to let you in, but just not too deep. After all, he is the ruler of the Devildom, so you don’t blame him for keeping certain things to himself.

Barbatos…also feels like a puzzle, but a puzzle that with time, he will gladly let you put together. In the past month, you’ve managed to learn an array of information about him—his favorite foods, what he likes to drink, what he does when he’s not tending to Diavolo, etc.

Apparently, he enjoys baking, reading, and taking long, hot baths. He’s always formal out of habit, but ever so slowly has begun to shed such formality with you—making little remarks that would have seemed out of character in the past, but are becoming much more frequent nowadays.

In fact, last week when you’d showed up exhausted, he’d quipped about whether you were having any “late nights” with the brothers. The twinkle in his eye had confirmed that yes, he was implying it in a sexual manner, and Diavolo’s full belly laugh when he’d seen the shock and embarrassment on your face had echoed throughout the entire castle.

So, least to say, you and Barbatos are starting to get along quite well.

Unfortunately…you’re not sure that you’ll be able to make your weekly tea tonight—on account of the fact that you can barely walk.

Hand pressed against your lower back, you openly groan in pain as you press to your feet. You need to get to your DDD to let the two know of your predicament, but of course you’d managed to leave your phone on the other side of the room.

With your body curved at a horribly awkward angle, you stagger your way across the wooden floor. You think the source of your problem is a kink in your neck, that is throwing your entire body out of alignment, but you can’t say for sure considering everything hurts.

Sighing, you unlock your DDD and open up the messaging app. You click into your chat with the royals.

You: Hi there. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it tonight. I’m not feeling too well…

It only takes a few seconds before Diavolo responds.

Diavolo: I was actually just about to text you. Something quite urgent came up, so I’m unavailable this evening.

Diavolo: Also, I’m so sorry to hear you’re not feeling well! Please, be sure to get rest and take care of yourself!

Smiling at his kind words, you respond with your gratitude. A moment later, you see ellipses pop up at the bottom of the chat, but they soon disappear. No message comes through, and you frown a little. However, after another few seconds, you receive a new notification.

A text from Barbatos, but outside of the group chat the two of you share with Diavolo.

Barbatos: May I ask what’s the matter? I was intending to still invite you over for tea since I enjoy your company regardless.

Barbatos: If you’re ill, however, I’d like to know if there’s anything I can do to help.

You’d be lying if you said a small part of you didn’t swoon at his concern, and the declaration of the fact that he enjoys having you around.

You: I have a kink in my back, and it’s honestly affecting my ability to do…anything, at the moment. I would have loved to have tea with you, though.

Barbatos responds right away.

Barbatos: If it’s alright with you, I’d be more than happy to bring the tea to you instead. Lord Diavolo has already departed for the evening, and I have nothing else to do.

Barbatos: Plus, I’ve heard that I’m a pretty skilled masseuse, as well. I may be able to assist with your current ailment.

Your heart flutters a bit at the idea of letting Barbatos massage you, since you’ve yet to be physical with the butler beyond hugs, but you can’t deny how appealing a massage sounds right about now. Your muscles are oh so sore, and at this point, you should be accepting any type of help you can get.

You: I don’t want to impose, but that sounds wonderful…

Barbatos: Think nothing of it. I will be over shortly. Do not feel the need to come and greet me, I shall ask Lucifer to guide me to your room.

You text back your confirmation before stumbling back to your bed—rolling onto the messy sheets with a pained hiss as you wait for Barbatos to arrive.

Only 20 or so minutes later, you hear the sound of knuckles wrapping against your bedroom door.

“Y/N?” It’s Lucifer’s voice. “Barbatos is here to see you.”

“Come in,” you call, knowing full well that you probably look a mess—laying belly down on your mattress with one leg hiked high, and one arm hanging low. It’s the comfiest position you could find, though.

Lucifer turns the knob and steps into the room first, a frown tugging at his lips when he notes how you’re positioned on your bed. Barbatos follows him in, worry in his eyes as well, but he still manages to smile.

“My, you weren’t kidding when you mentioned having a kink in your back.”

“I think death is approaching,” you respond, overly dramatic, and your words have both Barbatos and Lucifer chuckling.

“I shall leave you two to enjoy your tea. Please contact me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Lucifer.”

With that, the Avatar of Pride makes his way from your room—closing the door behind him. Now, it’s just you and Barbatos.

“I think the tea may have to wait,” he comments, moving to set the basket he’d brought with him on the table at the far side of your room. You note that it’s woven wood—practically a picnic basket, and smile a little. How cute.

Forgetting about your pain for a moment, you watch as the butler opens the basket up and reaches inside. You expect him to produce some tea cups, or saucers, but instead he pulls out what looks to be a bottle of oil.

Realization strikes you, and your cheeks begin to heat up.

“You know, Barbatos, you really don’t need to give me a massage…,” you tell him quietly, mumbling the words as you watch him begin to roll up his sleeves. He’s dressed more casually than usual—his overcoat and tie nowhere to be found. Instead, he’s simply donning his green button up shirt, and a pair of black slacks.

It’s…a good look on him. Especially with the sleeves folded neatly up to his elbows. And when he slowly plucks off his white gloves, revealing fingernails painted the same color as the highlights in his hair, you feel your heart skip a beat.

“It’s clear that you’re in desperate need of one, and I already reassured you that you’re not imposing,” he tells you, making his way to your side with the bottle of oil in his hands. Per usual, there’s a pleasant smile on his face as he surveys you.

You hope that you’re not blushing brightly enough for him to notice.

“It’s just that…I’ve never had a massage before, so…,” you trail off, and it’s not a lie. Massages have always seemed like a luxury to you, so you’ve never gone out of your way to get one, despite how much you’ve heard about their wonders.

“Ah,” Barbatos hums, a look of understanding in his eyes. “Well, we can always stop if it has an adverse effect on the situation. And I of course want you to feel comfortable.”

His words put your mind at ease. He’s always so kind, no matter who he’s talking to, or who is watching.

“So…how do we…start?” you ask, feeling far too awkward. You already have a suspicion that you know what he’s going to say, and yet—

“Are you mobile enough to take your shirt off?”

Ah, yep, there it is.

If there was any hope of hiding your blush before, there’s certainly none now. And yes, you’re aware that Barbatos is only offering to do this because you’re friends, and because you’re in pain. There should be no reason to be embarrassed by the situation, and yet you are.

You take a second to try and calm your mind.

“I…I think I can--,” you eventually say, attempting to sit up. However, as soon as you place your palms on the mattress and try to push yourself up, a bolt of pain shoots straight down your spine, and a high-pitched cry falls from your lips.

Barbatos’ hand is immediately on your back—a gesture of comfort. The warmth from his palm soaks through your t-shirt, and a small part of you wishes that he’d make a point of touching you more often.

“Well, I will take that as a resounding no.”

There’s a perplexed frown on his face as he looks at you—his worry deepening by the second.

“Can you lift your arms, at the very least?”

You grunt, miraculously managing to lift both of your arms above your head. Barbatos breathes a laugh, the position a little amusing. You’re beginning to look like a horrible contortionist.

“Would you be opposed to me undressing you?” Your brain short circuits for a moment. “Since you were able to lift your arms, it’s likely the easiest option at this point.”

“Sure,” you respond without hesitation. You’re desperately trying to keep your wits about you, and yet, you can’t help the way your body jolts when you feel Barbatos’ fingers grip the hem of your shirt.

He pauses for a moment.

“Did I startle you?”

“No…,” you grumble, causing him to laugh. He drags his hands upwards—the t-shirt slowly peeling up your back. When he gets near your breasts, you manage to inch your body off the mattress so it doesn’t get…well, caught.

Of course, as Barbatos pulls the fabric past your chest, you also realize that you hadn’t bothered to put on a bra today—entirely due to the fact that 1. Your body was too stiff to attempt even putting one on, and 2. Bras suck.

So now here you are—Barbatos finally ridding you of your shirt—which means you’re entirely bare from the waist up. Oh, and the only thing saving you from being completely naked in front of the royal butler is the pair of shorts you’re wearing, which suddenly feel far too short, and far too tight for comfort.

“Are you alright?” he questions. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, and you feel goosebumps rise on your flesh. You’re so used to the sensation of his soft gloves, that the skin on skin contact is making you react in ways you hadn’t expected…

“I’m okay,” you respond, nodding a little. You move your arms so they’re folded beneath your cheek, and you carefully turn your head—facing yourself away from Barbatos. The last thing you want is him seeing how red you’ve become.

“If so, then I’ll begin,” he says. You hear him pop open the cap on the bottle, and you take a quiet breath—trying to prepare yourself. “If you ever feel uncomfortable, please let me know.”

“Will do, Barb.”

You mumble the words without thinking, and it takes your brain a second to realize what you’ve said.

“I-I mean--,” your words cut off, breath hitching as Barbatos grips your sides. He moves his hands gently against your back, spreading the oil on his palms across your soft skin.

“Barb?” he echoes, chuckling to himself. “That’s a first.”

“I--,” you shiver as he continues rubbing his hands up and down your spine. Apparently, you’re much more sensitive to touch than you’d realized. Just great. “—just…I mean. Slip of the tongue?”

“You may call me “Barb” if you so wish,” he responds, and you can hear the amusement lining his tone. The demon drags his hands back up to your shoulders, his thumbs kneading at the tense muscles near your neck, and whine leaves your lips.

“Good or bad?” he questions, and as another shiver rakes up your spine, you realize just how fucked you are. Your body, of course, aches beneath the surface, but your skin is just so sensitive. It takes all of your willpower to keep from writhing against the sheets as he continues his ministrations—rubbing circles between your shoulder blades.

“Um…a little of both?”

He hums considerately at your comment, his eyes surveying you closely. Even as you attempt to stifle the instinctive reactions of your body, there’s a subtle twitch of your muscles—a small intake of breath, or a flex of your toes.

When he reaches your mid-back—his fingers curling around your sides as he presses his thumbs into the muscles near your spine—he hears you gasp. Your body stiffens, fingers digging into the sheets near your head. Barbatos debates stopping, but…he gets the feeling that you’re not in pain.

As the thought occurs to him, a little bit of heat rise to his face. Until now, he hadn’t thought twice about your current position, or the fact that he’s touching you so intimately, but…

Barbatos swallows, yet his hands continue on their journey down the length of your back. He works slowly, doing his best to thoroughly rub every inch of skin—hoping to soothe the tight muscles that lay beneath. Perhaps if he focuses on the task at hand, he’ll forget about the little whines that spill from your lips, or the way your body shivers beneath his fingers.

As Barbatos faces his own dilemma, you find yourself rapidly descending into insanity. Each second that ticks by with the demon butler’s hands roaming your body has tendrils of heat snaking through your limbs. As much as you attempt to ignore the way his touches are making you feel, it’s nearly impossible.

Quicker than you had expected, you feel arousal beginning to pool between your legs. You’d hadn’t intended to get turned on by the massage, but here you are—desperately trying to smother the array of embarrassing sounds that have built in your chest.

However, the instant Barbatos’ hands move to your lower back—thumbs pressing into the muscles near your spine—your lips part.

“Fuck,” you moan, your body curving into the mattress. Your toes curl, knees bending as your calves lift from the sheets.

Barbatos’ hands still. You go stiff, all of the blood in your body rushing to your face.

“I…Barbatos, I am so sorry, I—”

“I’ve never witnessed anyone react to a massage so…vocally,” he says, picking his words carefully. His fingers coast up your sides, once against making you shiver, and you bite your lip to keep from gasping when you feel his hair tickle your cheek.

“Would you prefer if I stopped now?” The words are whispered into your ear. You can feel his hot breath on your skin—the curl of his fingers around your ribcage as he holds you—and your heartbeat quickens.

“I…I don’t want you to stop,” you respond honestly, voice quiet. “But I’m not sure I can stop myself either…”

“I never could have imagined that you would be so affected by a simple massage,” he chuckles, his fingers giving you a little squeeze as he leans back, retaking his standing position beside you. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I didn’t realize I would be either…I don’t blame you if you want to stop.”

“As long as you’re alright, I would like to keep going,” he informs you, his palms coasting down either side of your spine until his grip is once again settled near the sensitive spot on your tailbone. You keen as his hands cup either side of your ass, thumbs working into the tense muscles at the center of your back.

“Hah…,” your fingers once again grip the sheets. Now that Barbatos has addressed your reactions to his touches, you feel a bit more playful. “Are you actually enjoying my reactions?”

He chuckles. “Would it be inappropriate if I said yes?”

The gears in your head grind to a halt. Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips. That’s not what you had expected.

“…Really?”

“Perhaps it is a bit disgraceful for me to admit, but…,” his movements still, his fingers flexing and giving your ass the lightest of squeezes. “…I would very much enjoy it if we could continue.”

You’re surprised to hear such words from him, but you’d be lying if you said they didn’t excite you.

You nod your consent. “Go ahead.”

Barbatos reaches for the bottle of oil at his feet, pouring a little more into his hands. You jolt when his palms encase one of your thighs—his touch dragging down your leg until he gets to your ankle. He then repeats the action on your other leg, a smile tugging at his lips as he notes your body’s instinctual response to his touches.

However, he doesn’t make comment. Instead, he focuses on working at the muscles in your thighs—his thumbs carving a path down the center of the supple flesh. As he does so, you become acutely aware of how close his fingers are to your clothed womanhood.

The realization causes more wetness to pool between your legs, and you bite your lip, wondering exactly how much longer you’ll be able to withstand the massage before you finally crack.

You want to say that your current affliction is entirely your fault—that it’s solely a product of your oversensitive body’s reaction to the massage—but you know it’s not. Barbatos is obviously getting something out of this situation as well, and that something definitely bridges beyond the pride of being a good masseuse.  

Your toes curl as he works at the muscles in your calves—a sigh heavy with need passing through your parted lips.

You want him to touch you more. Where you’re aching to be touched.

“Barb--,” you start, mentally preparing yourself for the embarrassing question you’re about to ask, but you never get there. Barbatos presses his fingers into the back of your knee, and a moan tears from your throat.

The butler pauses, his gaze turning to your face. Until now, you’ve spent the massage facing away from him, but when he glances up, he finds that you’re returning his stare. Your entire face is red, bottom lip tugged between your teeth as a clear sign of your embarrassment. However, he can tell by the look in your eyes—your pupils blown wide—that you’re aroused.

His heart thumps painfully against his ribs.

“Barb, I--,” you don’t know what to say, entirely out of sorts. You’re ashamed, and horny, and a part of you wants to run away, but another part wants him to continue forever.

“Y/N,” he drags you out of your inner turmoil by speaking your name. One of his hands reaches forward, cupping your cheek. He leans in, your faces mere inches apart, and you finally notice the blush on his cheeks. It’s subtle, but there.

His gaze falls to your lips.

“May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you breathe immediately, and he closes the gap without second thought.

The kiss is tender—a little hesitant, but full of need, and not just from you. Sighing pleasantly, you mold your lips with his once more, and then again, but before you can turn the kisses into a full out make out session, you feel Barbatos’ palm on your ass.

His hand moves downward, sneaking between your snug thighs. When he presses his digits against your clothed sex, you can’t help the lewd gasp that leaves you. Your hips instinctively grind against him, seeking more friction, and you feel him smile.

“Shall I stop?” he whispers.

“No, don’t,” you shake your head, and Barbatos leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. He’s pleased to hear those words.

Sitting back, Barbatos surveys you—watching you closely as he drags two of his fingers down the seam of your shorts. He hadn’t noticed before, but your arousal is already soaked into the dark fabric—a clear sign that you’d been enjoying his touches up until now.

When he finds that special bundle of nerves, drawing out another quiet cry falling from your lips, he chuckles. You bury your head in your folded arms, hips rocking back against his fingers.

“Ah, shit,” you breathe, unable to help yourself. You’re already so stupidly pent up from the massage—even him touching you through your shorts feels delicious. And Barbatos can’t help but get hard at the sight of you—your almost naked body curving against the mattress as you lift your hips and rock your pussy back and forth on his digits.

Reaching his free hand down, the demon butler gently squeezes your ass, relishing the little moan it draws from you. He helplessly craves to hear more of your sounds.

His fingers leave your clit, but before you can think to whine at the lost, you feel his digits curl around the crotch of your shorts. You freeze, heart hammering against your ribs, but don’t indicate for him to stop. While you’re nervous, you want this.

And Barbatos makes note of your reaction, giving you a few ample seconds to express any discontent. However, you do not, and so the butler tugs your shorts to the side, revealing your womanhood. You bite your lip, wriggling as his other hand slips beneath your shorts—once again taking hold of your ass without the fabric barrier.

As he holds you steady, two of his digits once more slide between your slick folds, gathering your arousal. You expect him to go back to rubbing your clit, but instead he curls his fingers into your pussy, and a gasp falls from your lips.

“Oh, fuck, Barb.” You groan. Your fingers take hold of the bed sheets, lip tugging between your teeth as you feel him experimentally pump his fingers in and out of you—stretching out your wet walls.

He moves slowly—testing the waters, and you clench around him—enjoying the girth of his fingers. Barbatos can’t take his eyes off of you.

“Is this alright?” he questions, curling his digits. The action has you moaning, and you nod your head.

“More, please.”

Barbatos breathes out through his nose at that, a little amused at the sound of your need.

Kneeling against the edge of the mattress to get a better angle, Barbatos begins picking up his pace. His fingers curl against your walls, and he smiles when he finds your sensitive spot—a surprised gasp escaping you. Immediately your stomach is curving into the mattress—hips pressing back as you attempt to take him deeper.

Barbatos gives your ass a squeeze, eyes sparkling. He debates asking if you’re feeling good, but he already knows the answer.

With his finger still fucking into you—your hips now rocking back ever so slightly to meet him—Barbatos moves his other hand between your legs. His thumb rests against your clit, drawing languid circles, and your breath catches.

“Fuck,” you bite the word out, muscles tensing. The demon butler feels your pussy clench around his fingers—orgasm quickly rising to the surface.

“Barb, please,” you whine, tugging at the sheets. Your heart is racing, breathless pants falling from your lips. Always one to please, Barbatos is more than happy to oblige. He presses against your clit harder, rubbing quicker, and in less than a minute, you’re coming undone for him.

Moan slipping past your lips, you tumble into your orgasm. Your pussy contracts around his still moving fingers, waves of pleasure rolling throughout your body. The butler doesn’t pull his digits from inside of you until he sees your body go slack against the sheets.

“You’re certainly one hell of a masseuse,” you mumble once you’ve regained your bearings, causing him to chuckle.

“I can assure you most of my clients don’t end up with my fingers inside of them.”

“No?” you question, a playful post-orgasm glow on your face as you turn to look at him. He smiles fondly at the sight of your pleasantly flushed cheeks.

“No,” he reassures, eyes creasing as he seats himself on the mattress beside you. For a moment, the two of you simply stare at each other, a sense of peace settling over the two of you. Then, your gaze falls to his lap. The tent against his slacks is quite obvious.

Noting where your eyes have strayed, Barbatos has the humility to blush.

“I apologize for my…reaction,” he quickly excuses himself, glancing away. “I assure you I didn’t intend to take advantage of you.”

Instead of responding, you press onto your hands and knees and turn to face him. With your face dangerously close to his crotch, you bat your eyelashes up at him innocently.

“If you don’t mind, I’d be perfectly alright with helping you in return, Barbatos.”

The butler looks shocked at the offer, but after a few seconds, he lifts a hand and gently cards it through your hair—a soft look of hunger in his eyes.

“Only if you wish.”

Smiling, you immediately prop onto your elbows—knees folding on the bed beneath you—and reach out to fiddle with his pants. Within seconds, you’ve managed to free his length. Your hand immediately wraps around the base of his shaft, and Barbatos closes his eyes at the sensation, taking a deep breath.

You smile at his pleased reaction, your mouth moving to press a kiss against his slit before you stick out your tongue and roll it around the head of his cock. And when you take him into your mouth—your hand still fisted around the lower half of his length, stroking languidly—his breath catches. The fingers in your hair grip a bit tighter.

You giggle around his cock.

“Good?” you question, pulling off. Your hand moves in bolder strokes against him, making up for the absence of your mouth as you turn to stare up at the demon. There’s a blush dusting his cheeks.

“I believe you’re asking a question you already know the answer to,” he responds, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You smile cheekily at his words, fingers tightening ever-so-slightly around his length. You see his jaw clench.

“Good.”

Turning, you once more take the tip of his cock between your lips. You focus yourself on pleasing Barbatos—alternating between trailing your tongue against him, and sucking him into your mouth. The combination of your hand pumping his shaft, and your mouth concentrating on his head is quite honestly devastating, and within minutes the demon butler finds himself nearing his release.

“Y/N,” he warns, his voice slightly strained. He gives your roots a little tug, and you release him from your mouth with an audible pop. You’re seriously going to drive him crazy.

“Yes?” you question, your hand continuing to stroke him. You feel his cock jump in your grip.

“Stay like this,” he says, keeping his hold on your hair. You take that as a sign to get him off with just your hand, and you don’t complain. If that’s his preference, then you’re more than happy to go with it.

Aware of his impending orgasm, you simply continue your ministrations—your fist pumping his shaft until he finally reaches his breaking point. With a shaky breath, Barbatos spills his seed into your hand. His chest rises and falls quickly as you pump him through his orgasm without missing a beat.

You only stop when he’s milked dry—his length beginning to go soft in your grasp.

“Is that fair payment for the massage?” you ask, looking up at him with a smile. He loosens his grip on your hair—his hand moving to cup your cheek as he stares at you. You can see the post-orgasm satisfaction swimming in his green eyes.

“No payment was required,” he tells you honestly. “But yes, that was very much enjoyable.”

A warm feeling of contentment settling in your chest, you move to sit up, but pause when you realize that you’re still topless. Eyes going wide, you cross your arms over your chest, face heating up, and Barbatos chuckles.

“After all we’ve experienced together tonight, you’re suddenly coy about me seeing your breasts?”

“You hush,” you tell him, swinging your legs off the side of the bed. You reach down to fetch your discarded t-shirt, and when you stand straight, an arm wraps around your waist from behind.

“You’re covered in oil, so I would suggest showering,” Barbatos tells you, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. The contact is only for a brief moment—his touch disappearing as he separates himself, taking a step back—and yet your heart flutters. “I’ll prepare the tea while you clean up.”

“Okay…,” you agree, glancing over your shoulder at him. He’s smiling pleasantly, looking far too put together for someone that just came a minute before. There’s not a hair out of place on his head—or even a stain on his trousers.

How unfair.

Turning, you head into your bathroom to rinse off, and Barbatos immediately busies himself with readying your beverages for the evening.

By the time you return from your shower—t-shirt back in place, and a towel atop your damp hair, the room is set up for a tea party. Barbatos is seated on one side of the table, casually surveying a book that you’d left on your desk. One you’d borrowed from Satan.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking up so much of your evening,” he says when he spots you, setting down the reading material.

“Not at all,” you say, moving to join him. Despite the newly shared intimacy between the two of you, the atmosphere feels comfortable, and you’re grateful for that.

Standing, Barbatos pours you both a cup of tea, and things fall into place as usual. You spend a long while chatting—catching up on events of the previous week, and talking about whatever topics cross your mind. By the time the snacks are gone, and the tea has gone cold, it’s quite late.

“I apologize for staying until such an hour,” he says as you help him clean the table. The screen of your DDD indicates that it’s already past 11. You shake your head.

“Seriously, Barb, it’s no big deal. I lost track of time too.”

He can’t help but chuckle at your nickname for him. It’s a nickname that will be solely reserved for you to say.

“Still, it is a school night. I’d best not stay any longer, or I fear Lucifer will have my head.”

“Well, I can’t exactly disagree with that,” you respond with a laugh, holding your arms in front of you. Your eyes trail on him as he finishes packing the basket he’d arrived with. He then picks it up, and starts for your door. You quietly follow after him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you ask, although you already know you will. Of course you will—Barbatos is always at RAD during the week.

Nonetheless, the demon butler smiles at you.

“Yes, I look forward to seeing you.”

With that, he grasps the doorknob and pulls your door open. However, he makes it only one step into the hall before he pauses, turning back to face you.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You blink. “Hmm?”

“If you’d ever like another massage, please don’t hesitate to let me know. It seems to have worked wonders for you.”

A playful grin pulls at his lips, and he’s gone before you are able to fully digest his words. It takes you a good few seconds to realize what he means—your eyes looking down at yourself, and registering that you’re standing and walking without a sliver of pain.

“Ah!” you say, shocked, and you swear you hear him laugh from up the hall.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Spells and Sneezes

I needed to try some Fantasy sickfic, and also practice my “stuffy talk”, so have ~3700 words of a very sneezy, stuffed up sorcerer. This post was inspired by a prompt I saw from this site long ago about a tall, thin, sneezy warlock, but I can’t find that post again to link it to save my life. So generic thanks to whoever came up with the prompt!

“Hehhtt’SSCCHHEEEWW!!

The tickle he thought he’d stifled exploded out of him unexpectedly as a massive, wet sneeze. The tall, young sorcerer groaned and wiped his dripping nose wearily with an already sodden handkerchief. His entire workbench was now covered in the spray. He sighed dejectedly, glancing out the window, the weak afternoon sunlight offering little comfort.

 He had been stuck on this spell for days now, and the deadline was fast approaching. And this wasn’t just any order, this was for the KING. He was preparing to wage war and was looking for chainmail woven with a defense spell for 3,000 of his top officers. The king had chosen him to fill this order because defense spells had been his specialty during his apprenticeship, but for some reason this powerful chain was toying with him. If he could get just one prototype together, making the rest would be the work of a day. But he had not been able to make even one yet.

He groaned again, wincing as he continued to wipe his raw, dripping nose. His head hurt. His throat hurt. His eyes hurt. His chest hurt from all the coughing he’d been doing. But he couldn’t rest until this was done.

He summoned the chair he had shoved aside a few minutes ago. Neither sitting nor standing seemed to help him concentrate better, so he kept going back and forth. He leaned his head in his hand and picked up his quill again, scratching sigils fruitlessly.

A merry knock startled him and he leapt to his feet, his lithe frame quivering. For a moment he imagined it was the king’s advisors coming to collect the spell a week early. Instead, his younger sister poked her head in, waving cheerily. 

“Brother, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost! Did I startle you? I’m sorry. It has been some weeks since I’ve seen you, and I wanted to check on you.”

She bustled in, her cleaning cart clattering behind her and parking itself by the door. Elliamina was a kitchen witch, and renowned throughout the land for her cleaning abilities, especially for never having an apprenticeship of her own. She had helped her older brother with his studies, being the more studious of the two, and had picked up some knowledge of her own, enough to make her own way in the world without formal training. 

She danced over, wrapping her arms around him warmly. She was almost a meter shorter than him, but otherwise they were nearly identical, though there was a 5 year span between them. The length of their hair was the only difference. Elmrador weakly returned her hug, his heart still pounding. 

“Good to see you, Mina. I have missed you. I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you, but I’ve been quite busy with orders of late. I can’t visit long today though. I have much work to do.”

“Well, at least let me give your cottage a quick tidy while I’m here.” She stepped back and surveyed him, cocking her head. “You are ill, brother.” Her mouth immediately quirked down sadly.

It was a statement, not a question. He also frowned. “I am fine.”

As if only to betray him, a hoarse coughing fit snuck up on him, leaving him red and breathless. He rubbed his chest ruefully. “Or at any rate, I don’t need you fussing. I need to finish this order. It’s for the king.”

“Hm.” She looked at him skeptically. “I have the supplies to make a tonic for you. Let me give you that at least. You look miserable.”

He grunted his approval. “As long as you don’t mix it with a sleeping draught.”

“If that's what you want,” she said, rolling her eyes. She flitted back to her cart and began to mix up a simple potion. Meanwhile, he seated himself again and resumed his scribbling. Another dratted tickle was growing in his nose though, which was streaming in earnest. He mopped the drips, to no avail.

“Ah… ah… Ahhkkt’shoooooo!” His handkerchief caught only part of the spray due to how sodden and crumpled it was, and his workbench was once again covered. Mina was at his side in a moment, rubbing his back.

“Poor dear! Elm, you sound awful. You should be in bed.”

“As soon as I work this through.”

She sighed and shook her head, handing him the steaming tonic. He took it with a grateful smile and gulped it down before taking up his quill again, rubbing his hands together to warm them before he did. 

Seeing he didn’t intend to chat further, she began to clean his one room cottage. It was all he needed, just the right amount of space. He kept it cozy and neat for the most part, but when he was busy, cleaning was the last thing on his mind, which is one of the reasons she liked to visit often. She genuinely loved cleaning, especially for people she cared about. She began at the ceiling, sweeping down cobwebs and dusting the corners as she sang to herself. Elm personally thought her singing was a big component of her magic, though she denied it. 

After the ceiling, she moved to the walls and cupboards. Elm found himself watching her idly rather than working. He turned back to his papers, shaking his throbbing head, trying to clear it. The tonic seemed to be affecting his fever. He had previously been shivering in the warm room, but now he was starting to sweat.  The congestion seemed to be leaving his chest but was streaming out of his nose in earnest. 

He didn’t know where his other handkerchiefs were, so he kept using the current one, but it was getting less and less effective as his sniffles got wetter and wetter. It wasn’t long before he started sneezing, both from his overactive nose, and the dust his sister was creating. 

“Errr’sssHUUH! ErrrRIESSH’shew! Ehhhkxxt’SHEEEWW!”

 Mina threw down her duster in exasperation. “I don’t know how you can stand to keep working. *I* can hardly work with you like this!”

He shrugged petulantly, rubbing his red nose. “Well, if you weren’dt kickig ub so mbuch dusdt…”

“Oh! Is the tonic not helping? It shouldn’t make you sound like that.”

“Idt helped the cough. Bud idt mbade mby ndose worse,” he mumbled weakly.

She rolled her eyes. “That tonic works on everyone else, except stubborn sorcerers. I bet your magic is going haywire and counteracting it. Especially without the sleeping effect.”

“Thadt’s ndot mby fauldt.” He shivered and coughed softly, summoning a blanket to wrap around his shoulders as he was suddenly freezing instead of sweating.

She sighed and moved to his side again, rubbing his back some more. He leaned against her wearily.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Ndo. I worgk best adt ndight.”

“Poor dear. You’re exhausted. No wonder you’re ill. What has got you so worked up?”

She glanced at the papers spread before him. “Chainmail woven with defense? Clever. Lucky you, getting an interesting project like this.”

“Idt’s driving mbe to distraction. I can’dt quide sordt it oudt.”

Her sharp eyes roved over the parchment quickly. “Your writing is terrible when you’re ill. I can hardly make it out. Ah, but here’s one of the reasons you're having trouble--half of these sigils appear to be reversed. See these here? They’re meaningless. Don’t tell me you’ve been working with them like this?”

He groaned pathetically. “They weren’dt like thadt whend I wrote themb! I ndo they weren’dt!”

She reached out and tried to feel his forehead. He batted her hand away before she could. She frowned.

“You know your magic is unpredictable when something is wrong with you, brother. My guess is you sneezed on these and they reversed themselves. You’re positively crackling with stray mana. Not to mention you’re probably feverish. You need to take some rest.”

“I can’dt. I have to deliver 3,000 of these in a weegk’s time, and I haven’dt even godden one yedt.”

“You’re not being productive like this though.”

“Ndeither are you. I thoughdt you were cleanig.”

She swatted him playfully. “See to yourself first, Elmrador, before you worry about me.”  

 Shaking her head, she reluctantly went back to her cleaning. The thin sorcerer directed his gaze back to his work, slowly fixing the reversed sigils, but he couldn’t get his eyes to stay in focus. They were so heavy. Everything was blurred around the edges. 

His head was overwhelmingly heavy too, and achingly throbbing. He let it drop to the workbench, the cool wood pleasant on his hot forehead. He let his mouth hang open and tried to breathe, letting his nose drip gently into his handkerchief.

He must have dozed off, because Elliamina’s touch startled him some moments later. He turned to look at her, his cheek still on the bench.

“Why are you fighting yourself? You’re no good to anyone like this. The project can wait.”

“Will you mbake mbe some tea?” he asked pitifully, changing the subject. 

She rubbed his back, surveying him keenly. “I’ll make you some tea if you take it in bed.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, slowly pulling the blanket closer to himself as he rose and shuffled to the corner where his bed stood. He clumsily discarded his outer tunic and boots as he went, kicking them aside before falling onto the mattress and heaping blankets and pillows over himself, dozing immediately. His sister busied herself boiling the water and preparing the tea leaves. 

When it was ready, she shook him awake again and helped him sit up.

“I can do idt mbyself,” he muttered, shaking her off.

“You’re worn out enough,” she chided gently. “So let me help.”

He couldn’t argue with that. The tea was sweet and hot, the perfect temperature to start drinking immediately. But naturally, the warm liquid made his nose stream in earnest. His sister had been fussing around, fluffing his pillows and picking up his discarded clothes. When she noticed his sodden handkerchief, long past its usefulness, she quickly summoned another. He took it with a grateful smile, though the effect was somewhat ruined by his watery eyes. He blew his nose several times, but his sinuses were stopped tight, and blowing just made his head throb terribly.

Once the tea was gone and he had finally stopped shivering, he felt he couldn't keep his eyes open for another minute. He fell back into the bed as Elliamina dimmed the lights and covered him warmly. 

Mina watched as he seemed to slip into a doze immediately. After a moment, she returned to her cleaning. She had made up her mind that she would stay here with him until he was over the worst of this. And since she would be here for a while, she had decided she would scour his cottage from top to bottom. 

However, her brother couldn't seem to settle. He tossed and turned, coughing more and more often, the most awful-sounding fits. Finally he rolled over and opened his eyes, looking at her pitifully.

"I can'dt sleebp," he croaked. "First I'mb sweatig, then I'mb freezig. And I can'dt breathe for the coughig." 

She clicked her tongue, coming to his side. She felt his forehead and cheeks, and this time he let her, leaning his head into her hand. 

“You are so warm, Elm,” she tutted, brushing the sweaty hair off of his brow. “Would you like me to make you another tonic, a stronger one to help you sleep?”

He hesitated, then nodded miserably. 

“Just a moment, then.” She trotted to her cart, ingredients flying to her hands before she had even reached it. She made a potion double the strength of the first one, with a strong dash of sleeping draught. Turning, she made her way back to the bed with the steaming mug as her brother once more struggled into a sitting position, hindered by another coughing fit.

He swallowed the mixture in a few gulps, grimacing, whether from the taste or his sore throat, she wasn’t sure. Then, she helped him lie back yet again, propping him up with pillows so he could breathe easier. The process seemed to wear him out. His eyes drifted closed immediately. 

Elliamina tucked him in, straightening the blankets around him. He mumbled something incoherent as sleep overcame him.

“What did you say?”

“Stay with mbe,” he mumbled, his wheezy exhale turning into a snore.

“Don’t worry, I will,” she whispered, though she knew he did not hear. 

Elliamina spent the rest of the evening puttering around, finishing her deep scour, making soup for when her brother woke, tending to his garden, and other domestic things that she had helped him with since they were children. She gave special attention to his workbench. She cleaned it and sanitized it thoroughly, even using a special cleansing spell on the parchment he had been working on. Sure enough, as soon as it was clean, she saw many of the sigils reverse themselves to what they should be. With a little smile, she replaced the papers where she had found them. Meanwhile, the tonic did its job admirably; Elmrador hardly moved, and he was breathing much easier. The only sound he made for many hours was soft, even snoring.

Evening turned into night. Mina was an early sleeper and early riser. As soon as the sun was down, she made a little nest for herself with extra blankets and pillows on the freshly scoured floor in front of the fireplace. She was weary from her day’s efforts, and dropped off to sleep without any effort, expecting her brother to sleep soundly through the night as well.

Imagine her surprise when she was awakened by him jumping out of bed in the middle of the night and running to his workbench, lighting candles hastily as he went. He banged down into his desk chair, picked up his quill, and began scribbling furiously, muttering to himself.

“Elm? What ails you?” she yawned, getting to her feet and wrapping her shawl around herself to go stand at his side, feeling his forehead. His temperature seemed almost normal, though his cheeks were flushed. He paid her no mind.

“The spell. It came to me in my sleep. I know what I was missing.” He sniffled wetly, wiping his sleeve under his nose, but continued scribbling away. 

“I shan’t try to reason with you, since you’re so determined, though I wonder how you’re awake at all for how strong that tonic was. I don’t want to imagine the state you’ll be in in the morning.” She sighed softly. He seemed fine for now, but the tonic could only mask symptoms for so long.

With a shrug, she shuffled back to her nest. As she went, she mumbled: “Fates help you if you wake me again, though.” In front of the fire once more, she burrowed into her blankets, and was quickly lulled to sleep by the sound of his quill and his muttering. 

It was a harsh cough that woke her again in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise, but not hers. She yawned and stretched luxuriously. For a moment she forgot where she was, until a wet sneeze made her turn. 

Elmrador was just as she had left him the night before, hunched over his workbench. Spread out all around him were what appeared to be hundreds of chain shirts, and more were in the process of being finished. However, her brother looked more asleep than awake as he worked. Harsh, dark circles ringed his eyes, vivid against his pallor, as was his raw, chapped nose. Just as she noted this, the nose disappeared into his handkerchief .

“Hrrr’RUSH’eeww! Ahh’NNXGH’shuuh!”

“Oh Elm,” she murmured fondly. “You are in quite a state now, aren’t you?”

“Mbina… Good mornig. Loogk, I fidished mby prototype. Idt’s mby best worgk, I thingk.”

“It had better be, for you to be working as ill as you areYou look awful. You ought to go back to bed right away.”

“Id a few mbinutes. As sood as I fidish these three, I’ll have 300 done. Thed I cad automate themb to reblicate thembselves.”

Such a long speech made him cough harshly, his voice long gone. She tutted disapprovingly. “You’ll be in bed for a week after this. You’ve done yourself in, stubborn fool. 

“Id was worth idt,” he said, almost smugly. “Idt’s for the king.” 

“So you said,” she said, yet again rolling her eyes. “We’ll see if you can say the same in a few days.”

A hoarse grunt was his only reply. He had gone back to his work and needed all his remaining concentration to finish.

Seeing that he wasn’t moving until he reached his target, Elliamina did her own washing and grooming, cleaned up her bedding, and got coffee and breakfast going. Just as she was putting the eggs on, she saw him toss down his tools with a final flourish. However, as he said, the chain mail materials continued to manipulate themselves to form more armor even as Elmrador wearily stood, scrubbing his face and swiping at his dripping nose with a once again sodden handkerchief. 

A round of rough, barking coughs made him hunch over again a moment later, a hand pressed to his chest. A weak “ow” was all he could manage as he tried to catch his breath, a hand now at his temple.

“I didn’t thingk coughig could hurdt so mbuch,” he wheezed.

“Only when you push your body past its limit. Come along, it’s bed for you for the foreseeable future, you dunce.” She moved to his side and grasped his elbow, leading him back to his mattress.  

“You don’dt ndeed to help mbe walk, I’m ndot an invalid, only full of cold,” he muttered, trying to pull away. Mina was not dissuaded.

“Be that as it may, I’d rather help you get there just the same. You look as if a strong breeze will blow you over, and then where would I be?”

He deigned not to reply and instead allowed her to seat him on the edge of the bed where he swayed weakly as she helped him remove his sweaty clothes and don his nightshirt before propping him up against a heap of pillows, as his wheezy breathing was rather worrying her. She plied him once more with tea and tonic, which he accepted without a fuss. Then she brought over the plate of steaming eggs and toast. He made a face and pushed it away.

“I don’dt like eggs even whed I’mb ndot sick. I cerdainly don’dt wandt themb ndow.”

“Ah, so that’s why you have so many eggs. Well, would you at least eat the toast?”

He grunted noncommittally and took a half-hearted bite, taking a long time to chew and swallow. He only managed to finish half a slice before he pushed that away too. “Can’dt. Throadt hurdts too mbuch. Jusdt mbakes mbe feel sicker.” He gamely finished his tea though as she watched worriedly.

“You never turn down food. You’re already a beanstalk, Elm. I wish you would eat something.”

A rough cough was the only reply he could manage as he quickly coasted toward sleep once again. Mina sighed and decided to let him sleep, putting the food aside. That was what he needed most now anyway. 

And sleep he did, for a long time. Yet his work was not done. He had to get up for a few hours the next day, for once all the shirts were complete he had to do the final quality review of the armor. Elliamina hovered worriedly at his elbow as he did intricate magic to test the limits of his creations. He was so weak he could hardly stand, arms shaking and face flushed as he cast. He had to sit often to catch his breath and wait out bouts of lightheadedness or coughs, but he would be damned before he delivered a subpar product to the king. Mina assisted him as best as she was able, doing whatever she could for his health and ensuring he didn't harm himself.

 After hours of rigorous testing, he finally pronounced them suitable, while Elmrador himself ached with weariness. Without another word, he proceeded to crawl back into bed and bury himself in blankets, immediately beginning to snore as one deeply exhausted.

He passed most of the next several days in an illness and tonic-induced slumber. He was miserable when he was awake, every fiber of his being aching or throbbing. Mina forced him to eat and drink whenever she could, but mostly he wanted to sleep, and she let him do just that. 

He was in fact asleep when the king's men arrived for the armor. A small crew of men rode up to the cottage with much pomp and ceremony. Mina greeted them in the garden, introducing herself as the sorcerer's assistant. They were immediately enthralled with her, as was everyone that met her for the first time, and she utilized this to expertly manage the transaction. Within 20 minutes the men were departing with many sacks of chain shirts in their cart, ecstatic with their purchase, while Mina carried a hefty pouch of gold, more than Elm had originally bargained for, into the cottage. Elmrador was still asleep, oblivious to it all. She knew he had lost track of the days some time ago, and she didn't see a reason to excite him until he was better.

Instead of waking him, she safely hid the gold in his stores. She then pulled up her chair once more to her place beside his bed, took up her needlework, and softly began to hum as she worked while her brother slept on peacefully.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

 “See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

 “That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

[mage-ellie]

His Wish

This is my first request from AO3! People seemed to like it so I thought I’d post it here too :) I’m open for small requests! Feel free to request headcanons/scenarios/prompts! I’ll write about any of the P5R cast. Akechi is just my favorite boy <3 All I ask is that you don’t request abusive/toxic relationships, yandere, smut of underaged characters (I will age them up though), or pieces that romanticize mental illnesses. I prefer to write fem!reader since i’m a girl and it’s easier for me, but if you say please, i’ll do my best to write GN and male!reader pieces! <3 

Warnings: P5R spoilers, lots of fluff

Word count: 2,497

Link to original post: Click me!

Summary:  All Goro Akechi had wished for was to be loved, to be needed, by someone, anyone. He never could've imagined that his wish would actually come true.

In less than 24 hours, Goro Akechi was going to be married.

He never could've imagined that he would live long enough to find love, let alone get married. He had also never imagined that he would be marrying one of the infamous Phantom Thieves. Although, he couldn't complain, she was quite the impressive thief, having managed to steal his heart right out from under his nose.

Goro was currently lying alone on the bed in the hotel room he was staying at. Their wedding reception was going to be held at the Yoshiki-en Garden in Nara, Japan. His fiancée had practically begged him to have their wedding there. The garden was at its most beautiful during the spring time. But truth be told, Goro would've married her any where, even in that little hole in the wall, Leblanc.

The soon to be husband couldn't stop replaying everything that lead up to this moment.

How she had practically forced him to live with her during the whole Maruki conundrum. How she confessed her feelings to him in March when he returned. How he told her he loved her for the first time during their date to the cherry blossom festival in Tokyo. How he proposed to her in front of all of their friends 3 years later at that same cherry blossom festival.

He was so nervous for tomorrow, and yet so excited. He actually found someone who wanted to be with him for who he was, not because of his celebrity status. She knew about all of his flaws and his horrific past, but not once did she let him doubt her love for him. She worked so hard to support him while he went to therapy, to help him make amends with Futaba and Haru, to help him come to terms with the fact that he deserved a second chance.

A few years ago, he would've been terrified at the thought of having someone in his life like this, but now, he couldn't imagine his life without her.

-

The next thing he knew, he was being awakened by the sound of someone slamming their fists against his hotel room door. Akira Kurusu, Ryuji Sakamoto, and Yusuke Kitagawa were currently standing outside of his room, each with a black tux in hand. As well as Morgana, who was sitting on the floor next to Akira's feet, already wearing a cute little handmade formal black vest. They wanted to get ready with Goro, seeing as it was his big day and all.

A little ways down the hall, the group of boys could hear a group of girls squealing about marriage, dresses and romance. It was 8 A.M. and they were already so energetic. The groom and his groomsmen all laughed to themselves, they were excited as well. This was the first marriage in their friend group after all.

Akira, Goro's best man, mentioned that he should try to take as many mental photos as he could, because this day would go by in a blur. Goro believed him, one moment the boys were standing at his door, ready to get the day started, and the next they were all dressed and making their way to the venue.

The normally oh so composed Goro Akechi was sweating bullets. His hands were clammy and his throat was dry. Never in his life had he felt so nervous, so unprepared.

Before he knew it, it was suddenly 3 P.M. and the ceremony was beginning. Only your closest friends and family made up the audience. No media or paparazzi in sight. Goro shifted his weight from one leg to the other, he hadn't seen you all day. His heart raced as music began and you appeared in your gorgeous white wedding gown, Sojiro by your side, walking you down the aisle. He felt a hard lump forming in his throat at the sight of you. You always looked gorgeous to him, but in that moment, he truly believed that you were an angel sent from above.

A soft, teary eyed smile spread across his face as you made your way closer to him. He knew he'd be teased by the others for the rest of his life for crying while you walked down the aisle, but he didn't care. All that mattered, was that you were now standing before him, in a gown he never imagined he'd see you in. A warm, comforting smile made its way to your cheeks from behind your veil as you looked up into his eyes. It was taking all of his self control to not kiss you right then and there.

He could hear the officiant speaking about love and happiness, but he wasn't really listening. Goro was too busy taking as many mental pictures as he could fit into his brain. He only tuned back in when you brought up a small index card filled with writing. It was your vow to him.

"My dearest Goro. Never in a million years had I imagined that I would be spending the rest of my life with you, and to be honest, I'm pretty sure you had thought the same thing." You began, a light giggle coming from your throat. The Phantom Thieves, Sae and Sojiro also laughed, knowing what you meant by that. He had quite the troublesome past with the thieves after all. "Despite our differences in the past, I can't imagine being with anyone else. I vow to you that I'll work tirelessly to show you my love, to always be there for you, and to give you the home and family that you deserve." If he hadn't been so entranced by the way you looked while reading your vows to him, your words would've had him sobbing. "I love you Goro," He froze when your voice cracked, "I'm so happy that you're home." He knew what you meant by that. He remembered how devastated you looked when he told you that he might not have survived during Shido's palace, but he wouldn't dwell on the memory, he was with you now, right?

It was his turn. Shakily, he pulled out a card with his vows on it from his tux pocket. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he began. "Y/N, my love. I truly didn't believe that I would live long enough to find love like this. And you're right, never had I imagined that I would be marrying you of all people." He watched as you lifted a hand to your mouth and laughed, your eyes lit up as you did so, the other thieves snickering along with you. He was glad that you could all laugh about the past like this. It lifted a guilty weight off of his shoulders. "And yet, here I am, unable to picture this day any other way. These past few years, you've shown me a love that I've never known. Today, I vow to you that I'll spend the rest of my days finding ways to bring happiness to you, like you've brought to me. I vow that I'll protect you and cherish you with my entire being." He looked up momentarily, amazed by the fact that a single tear was making its way down your cheek. "I love you Y/N. It's good to be home." He watched as you nearly broke down at his last sentence. You took a moment to close your eyes and take a deep breath.

The officiant started talking about your rings, but once again, Goro was too busy staring at you to listen. The sound of you squealing is what brought him back to reality. He watched as Morgana trotted down the aisle, carefully balancing a pillow on his head and carrying the rings to you both. You had a look of pure delight on your face, apparently, Akira had told you that Morgana wouldn't be able to make it because cats weren't allowed or something, but of course, your kitty friend wouldn't miss this day for the world.

Everyone in the audience cooed at the cat as he sat in front of you both with a smug grin on his face. You both reached down for the rings, your hand lingered for a moment to scratch the black cat on the head.

Goro melted into your touch when you took his hand so you could put the ring on his finger, it was a simple silver band with both of your initials engraved on the inside. Next, Goro delicately took your hand in his and slid the crown shaped wedding ring onto your left ring finger. He was the ace detective prince after all, marrying him made you his queen, right?

The officiant spoke a bit more before saying the words Goro had been waiting to hear all day. "I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride."

Goro gently lifted the veil from your face, but before he could lean in, you had pushed yourself onto the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his, your arms making their way around his neck. You had been waiting just as long for this moment as he had. He quickly slipped his arms around your waist and pulled you close to him, reveling in the feeling of your lips.

Cheers erupted from the small crowd as you two pulled away. "I love you Goro Akechi." You whispered, only loud enough for him to hear. "I love you too, Y/N Akechi." His response was just as quiet as yours. Saying your first name with his last name did funny things to his heart. He wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to it, not that he minded. It would be a reminder that someone out there truly did love him.

The rest of the night was a blur for Goro. His most prominent memories of the night were of Sojiro sobbing when he danced with you, Morgana and Futaba arguing over who got to dance with you next, Ann screaming when she caught the bouquet of flowers you had thrown, and the way you looked, swaying slowly in his arms to a song he didn't know the lyrics to, but you knew every word. He wasn't even sure if he got to eat a slice of the expensive wedding cake that he had paid for.

By the time you both made it to the bridal suite, you were exhausted. Goro was barely able to get your wedding dress off of you before you passed out on the bed. He did his best to carefully remove your makeup so you wouldn't have to worry about it in the morning. He couldn't help but stare at you for a bit as you laid beside him, the light from the moon making your skin glow. His mind was ready to burst from how many mental photos he had taken throughout the day.

Gently, as to not disturb you, he wrapped you in his arms and drifted to sleep while going over the memories he had of this day.

-

5 years.

You and Goro have been married for 5 years now. Goro couldn't deny that he was happy to wake up next to you every day.

However, today was different. He knew that you had planned to meet up with the girls for an early breakfast, but you didn't wake him up to say goodbye. Usually, on the rare occasions that you would have to leave your shared house before he woke up, you'd wake him up and give him a kiss goodbye.

He had noticed that you had been a bit distant lately, and he couldn't help but worry. Were you falling out of love with him? Were you cheating on him? Was it something worse? His mind filled with all sorts of negative questions and concerns in an attempt to figure out why you were acting the way you were.

Goro waited for you on the couch in your home, planning on confronting you about your strange behavior when you got back. In the 8 years that you've been together, you've never once done something like this, so he was incredibly scared.

The familiar jingle of keys and turning of the lock on the front door signaled your safe arrival home. He watched you freeze for a moment when you made eye contact with him, uncertainty and nervousness clouding your once bright eyes. Goro raised an eyebrow, despite the fear that coursed through his veins.

You took a deep breath before approaching him silently, once in front of him, you dug around in your purse for a moment, before handing him a small white box with a red ribbon tied around it. He stared at the box, shocked as you took a seat beside him. Goro could feel you staring at him, burning a hole into the side of his head. A... gift? This wasn't what he was expecting at all.

"Well?" Your voice sounded so small. Were you afraid of something? He took a moment to look at you before untying the ribbon and opening the box, inside sat three pregnancy tests. Each one testing positive. It took a moment for his brain to process this information. You were pregnant, with his child. That's why you had been so distant. The two of you almost never talked about kids. Due to his traumatic past, Goro believed that he would never be a good father, even with all of the therapy and support from you, he could never see himself being one.

"You're pregnant." He breathed, still staring at the pregnancy tests. "Yeah." You sounded so tired, sad even. Despite his original negative stance on becoming a father, he couldn't help but feel joy. He was going to be the father of your child. He was being given the chance to start a family of his own.

Slowly, he turned towards you, staring down at your stomach. You weren't really showing yet. "Well?" You repeated. Your voice shook, on the verge of tears. Goro didn't respond with words, he just leaned forwards and pushed you into the couch, his arms wrapped around your back and his face pressed into your stomach. He couldn't stop the sob that escaped his lips. He never could've imagined this. Despite his initial fears, he would do his best to be the greatest father that he could be.

Your body shook as you began sobbing as well, one hand gripping the back of his head and the other resting against his back, holding him as he cried.

"I'm going to be a dad?" He cried into your stomach, needing to confirm that this was real. "You're going to be a dad, and an amazing one at that." Your response was so genuine, it made it impossible for him to believe otherwise.

His wish of being loved, of being needed, had really come true.

[nightswithkookmin]

BIGHIT vs BTS SHIPS The Difference Between Jikook and Taekook

I think I have explained the commercial value of ships when it comes to content marketing in one of my previous posts. But allow me to use this opportunity to address it in depth.

Bighit did not invent shipping. Shipping predates Kpop and plays a vital role in spiking interest, relevancy and longevity of that interest in a piece of marketed content. It sustains Audience Retention rates and improves engagement rates significantly. It is a powerful marketing tool when used right but I'm not going to get into all that in this post.

Fact is BigHit does benefit from shipping culture because it is one way they keep the audience engaged with BTS content even when they aren't putting out new content for the market to consume. BTS ships serve the same purpose as all the Run, Soop, Bon voyage and myriads of sub content they put out. You may not watch Run every day, but if you are a shipper you will like a ship post at least once a day.

Shipping is organic and costs nothing unlike most other marketing strategies available to the marketer. TV programs such as Harry Potter (Dont lie. I know you shipped Hermoine and Harry. I did too. *tears) Star wars, Friends, Supernatural, Vampire Diaries, Shadow Hunter to name a few have all benefited from shipping culture significantly.

Can BigHit do without ships? Absolutely. They would be a fool to though. Shipping is just one of the many resource options available to a marketer. It bridges the gap in between formal contents and keep interest in a brand going.

I smirk when some people dismiss shipping, look down on shippers or make ignorant and ill informed comments about shipping culture in general. Audience retention and engagement is king in today's economy and BigHit taps into this resource very well.

All BTS ships are thus relevant and valid. All of them. Unfortunately, this is a numbers games. Numbers play a key role in the commercial value of a ship. And it is a fact universally acknowledged that Taekook and Jikook are ships with the most number of fans and as such provides higher engagement rates within a marketing context.

Taekook is the biggest ship not just in BTS but in Kpop. It is followed closely by Jikook. Does that mean all the ships are nothing but shallow interactions engineered to keep us tethered to BTS for as and when they are ready to sell a product to us? NO.

I don't see BigHit actively curating these ships and masterminding them.

What I mean is, I don't think BigHit is asking the members to interact or even forcing them to interact- except in recent moments but that is another topic for another day.

BTS interact with eachother from their own free will. Of course no two interactions are going to be the same as no two relationships are the same. We cannot compare Taegi to Jikook or Taekook to Jikook or even to VMin because the friendship between Jimin and V is not the same as between V and Jin etc.

No one is forcing Jungkook to interact with Jimin. No one is forcing Tae not to interact with JK. It's absurd to think in such a way.

They all interact with eachother and provide that content for BigHit's use. All BigHit does is decide when to show us that content as and if they want to show it to us at all. They are a business and all these ships are just marketing resources and so they will show us a ship's content in a way that advances their business marketing strategy.

However, if two people within a ship barely interact or do not interact at all with eachother then there wouldn't be any content on them for BigHit to promote or use in their marketing campaigns to begin with.

What I'm saying is, if Taekook sells- as in if there are a lot of people interested in seeing their content(which there are) and those two individuals actually have moments together on or off camera, then in their estimation BigHit will market that content to us. If Jikook sells they will sell it to us; as long as none of these ships are damaging to the reputation and business of BigHit.

[CONTROVERSIAL TOPIC BELOW- Proceed with caution.]

A ships value to BigHit, in my opinion, is contingent on its commercial value as discussed above but if that ship causes BigHit to lose money rather than gain, if a ship negatively affects the business or reputation of BigHit then that ship is as good as dead. They will kick that ship off the spotlight real fast.

Taekook and Jikook have both had moments like this where they are temporarily taken off the spotlight or even asked to tone things down. We've all seen it don't argue with me.

Not everything BigHit does is about these ships. BigHit is a brand in of its own. They have several other brands under their brand and they can't afford to ruin their brand image or any of their artists.

They will not hesitate to shut down a ship if it is doing more harm than good. They did it to Taekook when that ship was in it's hay days. As soon as they started recieving a ton of negative press that is when they started getting 'seperated' -on stage anyway. I don't think they were seperated or asked not to interact off camera. Clearly they do. They are friends after all.

BigHit does the same thing to Jikook whenever they start recieving negative attention. But we see them interacting backstage nevertheless and usually this happens at the same event they get 'separated at.'

It's nothing personal, just business.

[Controversial content ahead. Proceed with caution]

At this point, I know you would be asking why Taekook seemed to have dimmed as a ship where BigHit is concerned but Jikook recieve the same negative press and yet they still market Jikook and shine more light on it....

A Taekooker friend whom I had this discussion with pointed out to me that it seems whenever Jikook receives a ton of negative press BigHit claps back with more Jikook content and in an aggressive way yet has it being Taekook we wouldn't get any content outside official content for a whole year.

To be fair, BigHit treats all ships equally in my opinion. Jikook gets penalized for certain moments just as much as Taekook or any ship gets punished. Example, after the New Jersey VLive Jikook were banned(allegedly) from doing a Vlive on their own for a whole year and after the ban was lifted their VLive was monitored the same way Taekook's Vlive was monitored.

Secondly, perhaps they keep pushing Jikook content because that is all they have? Perhaps, they have more Jikook content than Taekook?

Jikook spend so much time around each other and they don't mind their interactions being filmed as content. Not because they are doing fan service but more so because they are lowkey exhibitionists or exhibit exhibitionist tendencies. Lol. More on that later.

When it comes to Taekook; Tae have said once that JK avoids him off camera which I assume by that he meant Jk doesn't interact with him much off camera. Now it could also be that Jk was not on good terms with him during that particular period which is normal because friends fight.

Jk have also said him and Tae's relationship is not for the cameras and I assume by that he meant they are both are not comfortable providing content for Bighit to use as marketing because as I said all these ship interactions are by their own free will. Bighit can't force Taekook to interact and if Taekook hasn't given them permission to air certain moments they just can't.

Or... or....

The reason BigHit pushes back with more Jikook content even after negative press is because Jikook is real. DEADASS.

Hear me out. Calling Taekook out for promoting Homosexuality in S.K will be deemed negative press if Taekook are not gay or in an actual romantic relationship. Calling Jikook out for promoting homosexuality will not be deemed as negative press but an abuse if Jikook are in fact gay and in a gay relationship with eachother.

BigHit is not homophobic. Bang PD is known for his openly support for members of the LGBTQ plus community. If people hate on Jikook because of their moment he will sympathize with them and shove that in your face.

While Taekook negative press will be a nuance, Jikook negative press will be revolution and BigHit will make a statement: a statement that says they stand with LGBTQ plus community PERIOD.

They will do this not for money but for the boys so they feel loved and supported. So Jikook knows they are not in this fight alone especially coming from a highly homophobic society as S.K.

The thing about Jikook is, Jikook is real. That alone gives BigHit a competitive advantage in the Industry. It means Jikook produce more content for BigHit over any other pair and that content is juicy. It's similar to how companies want exclusive access to certain power couples in the industry. If Jikook are real and BigHit have access to them, exclusive access mind you, then that places BigHit above the competition business wise.

Think of Jikook and BigHit as the Kardashians and Entertainment company behind them. Jikook has given BigHit partial access to their private lives extending beyond the access they have over BTS.

If Taekook or any ship give similar access to them we will see more of them. If they give BigHit content we will see more of them. It's as simple as that.

Jikook is a brand and BigHit is their brand manager. This means BigHit gets more content from Jikook and is at liberty to use that content any how they want and milk the shit out of it. In return, BigHit has a duty to protect Jikook and so no. When Jikook gets negative press due to homophobia BigHit is not going to cancel them.

May be chill on them for a while, because that exposure they give Jikook can be traumatizing for Jikook especially if the feedback is negative.

What I'm saying is, where Taekook would be asked to chill and lay low from public scrutiny it will be because BigHit wants to protect their business interest whereas in Jikook's case it would be to protect Jikook themselves. If Taekook are both gay and in a relationship with each other BigHit would do same for them.

I don't think BigHits marketing tactics however affects the status of Jikook, Taekook or any other ship's relationship in any way. Jikook is real whether it is made the center of attention or not. Taekook could be real regardless of whether they are marketed or not. Just because a certain ship is put under the spotlight doesn't mean that ship is 'real' neither does that negate the genuine friendship that exists between members of other ships.

It is weird to me when people associate BigHits business tactics to the validity of their ship. There is no correlation. BigHit is a business, BTS are their artists that make them money- all BTS not just two members from a ship. BTS is one of the most powerful brands in the world right now.

BigHit will explore and exploit all the relationships within the group, platonic or otherwise, if that will help them sell more albums or even Icecream.

Jikook gives BigHit a competitive advantage more so than any other ship in BTS not just because they are the second largest ship in South Korea but because Jikook are shaping out to be a power couple and Icons for the LGBTQ community. There is a reason why companies rush to support Pride month parades. I'll leave it there.

So no, I don't see it as BigHit highlighting the ship of the era as you put it or alternating between Jikook and Taekook as and when. BigHit has a business to run, shipping plays a vital role in its business marketing strategy but not everything is about these ships.

The members have a role to play in creating content for these ships and Bighit won't hesitate to market it if the content is quality entertainment, consensual and plays to their overall marketing scheme.

This means if Jikook ship content are boring they will choose to show a much entertaining ship content over them. Nothing personal.

I just think they treat Jikook differently because as much as they want to pander to our delusional shipping interests, they owe Jikook a duty to protect them from homophobic people. When you hate on any ship in BTS, BigHit assumes you are nuts but when you hate on Jikook BigHit will immediately assume you are both nuts and homophobic.

Promoting Jikook is business but it is also validation and acceptance and support. Bighit has a proclivity for sensitizing us to Jikook and normalizing their relationship.

If Taekook are also in a gay relationship they will be treated the same and I will support them the same. But to me, I believe Jikook are real and therefore Taekook and Jikook are mutually exclusive. Both cannot be real at the same time.

Ship whatever you want but support Jikook and stan all seven.

Signed,

GOLDY

[lady-charinette]

Adrien Agreste =/= Sociopath - About Adrien Salt

I've seen a lot of posts going around about Adrien being a sociopath or the other (harasser, abuser...etc.)

What I find most of those posts lacking is looking at the big picture, or just zeroing in on certain moments of the show and even disregarding the context of those selected moments to unfairly rule judgement on a child (in canon) no less.

Definition of sociopath: A sociopath is a term used to describe someone who has antisocial personality disorder (ASPD). People with ASPD can’t understand others’ feelings. They’ll often break rules or make impulsive decisions without feeling guilty for the harm they cause.

People with ASPD may also use “mind games” to control friends, family members, co-workers, and even strangers. They may also be perceived as charismatic or charming.

We have to analyze the context and the surroundings Adrien is in.

Family, social life, relationships (platonic and romantic), personality, age, environment...etc.

Family:

We know Adrien has a father who is controlling, preferring to micro-manage every aspect of his son's life to continue to have a semblance of control at all times. We assume (heavily implied in the show), that his mother was kind, warm and emotional (whether that emotional is the "out-there" kind her twin sister has, it remains to be seen.)

According to a snippet from "Simon Says", Adrien also has "Quite a temper, you remind me of someone" according to Gabriel's own words, we can assume the "someone" is Emilie, Gabriel says this when Chat Noir refused to follow his orders and told him to basically "get off his high horse". In this context, anyone who defies Gabriel in such a way would either be branded as "disobedient" or to "have quite a temper".

According to Adrien himself in "Adrien's Double Life" (from Miraculous Secrets) he describes being Chat Noir as "...I can finally do whatever I want to do, say whatever comes to mind." He doesnt feel as restricted and controlled since that's the one aspect of his life his father has no knowledge of.

Social life:

Adrien has had no or very little interaction with peers.

Evidence: Chloe being his childhood friend. Felix commenting on Chloe's appearance in the video she sent for Adrien's birthday, saying "Chloe. Just as annoying as usual." suggests he knows her from before, maybe even as early on as their childhood days.

This makes Felix and Chloe the only kids, of spoiled and rich background, with whom Adrien interacted.

Felix is shown to be good at manipulating people and keeping up appearances (potentially connected to insecurities within the family? Not confirmed), Chloe is openly mean and bullies others (with underlying insecurities also connected to her parents).

The only positive adult (if Gorilla isn't as involved and Nathalie had been solely Gabriel's secretary and not Adrien's caretaker since there was Emilie) in Adrien's life would be his mother, who also fell into a coma during Adrien's formative years (and still during a time where he's figuring himself and his emotions out: puberty), leaving him with his father.

Moving on, even if the writer's sometimes may not always successfully show Adrien being awkward in social interactions, it doesnt mean they dont exist.

This interaction between him and Marinette, asking for her autograph, very formal in his question, awkward in posture:

He's picked up on some speech patterns from his frequent interactions with Nino ("dude", "Hey man." "Totally dude.") showing he's, like many people, mimicking his friend's behavior and speech to grow more favorably in their eyes.

The same pattern can be observed with Gabriel and Adrien: Adrien adopts his father's formal speech whenever talking to him, since that appeases him.

Adrien has had very limited friendly interactions with his peers, romantic interactions are basically non-existent. The scenes where Adrien is being chased by his fans, who obsessively adore him, cant be linked to Adrien experiencing healthy romantic contact (Lila doesn't count since she only uses Adrien to further her goals). Marinette doesn't count since Adrien's isn't even aware of her romantic feelings for him. (Again, difficulties picking up social cues due to only ever being homeschooled > limited social contact with peers)

So no, in my humble opinion, Adrien sometimes doesn't understand other people's feelings not because he's a sociopath, but because he's an awkward kid with very little experience about making friends and having healthy relationships with them.

Relationships:

Let's be direct here: Gabriel is an abusive as*hole.

If the writer's wanted to show Gabriel struggling or having remorse for his actions being Hawkmoth and putting his son through danger, well... They blew it. "Gorizilla" was a 5 second reaction of Hawkmoth showing concern after letting Adrien fall from a skyscraper. Applause. After that? Not much.

Nathalie: Adrien likes, she takes care of him, his schedule, was the one to convince Gabriel to let him attend public school. There are moments in the show where she softens up towards Adrien, but always carries that air of professionalism on her to (possibly, assumption) not grow too close. Gorilla is...Gorilla, but at least the man tries with his nonverbal support and affectionate grunts. Lol.

Gabriel: He loves his father. It's his parent, after all. However, Adrien's reactions to him are vastly different than to how he reacts when thinking of his mother. He shows signs of fear (tensing up, growing obedient...etc.), he excuses his father's excessive controlling tendencies to just be "he's just worried about me", "that's the way he always was", "father cares and protects me". Adrien shows to be frequently disappointed with Gabriel, one of the first scenes being that Gabriel couldn't attend parent's day at school, Adrien was talking on the phone alone in the school hallway. He was genuinely surprised by the blue scarf his father gifted him (not knowing it was Marinette), since all he used to get were pens (again, not even from Gabriel, but Nathalie). This is my assumption but: Adrien has previously begged his father to go outside more or attend public school, but this time it worked only because Nathalie managed to convince him.

Friends from school: Nino is his best friend, Adrien seems to be good friends with Alya too, basically everyone in class, with varying degrees of closeness. Chloe is a childhood friend whom Adrien is fond of but also grows exasperated with and corrects her behavior if she's too harsh.

Marinette: likes and respects her, but can't read her well or at least when he thinks he's got her figured out, she claims the opposite. Marinette has been sending mixed signals, on one hand even making Adrien believe (and fear) they weren't friends. "Chat Blanc" contrary to popular belief, showed that Adrien is delighted at the prospect of Marinette being Ladybug (he'd severe doubts when Chloe or anyone else was brought up as a possible option).

Kagami: likes her, respects her, admires her fencing skills, learned to have fun hanging out with her and playing as kids usually do since she also has a controlling parent and they both know some ways/tricks around their boundaries to sneak off and meet their friends. Adrien and Kagami have similarities in that respect, Gabriel pushing Adrien to be a model, Mrs. Tsurugi pushing Kagami to be a master fencer.

Lila: At first defended her, was friendly towards her since she was a new student from overseas he sympathized because surely it would be lonely? The new girl would need a friend who supported her through all this things that were new for him too. However, as soon as he caught wind of Lila's schemes, he changes his tune. He feels uncomfortable around her overstepping his boundaries, expresses anger when Lila accused Marinette of crimes she didn't commit and even makes a deal with her to not bother Marinette again (but use him instead, doing photoshoots together...etc.) to keep her safe.

Age:

A 14-15 year old, having lost his mother, the only positive, healthy relationship in his life. Surrounded by a controlling father, not much free time, many extracurricular activities and being a superhero alongside Ladybug.

Some of the signs of being a sociopath include: Breaking rules and being impulsive.... Didn't Ladybug do those too?

Breaking the rules: (since LB and Marinette are the same) stealing phones, sneaking into places where she shouldn't, using the miraculous for personal gain (latest example: getting Kagami away from Adrien), giving Adrien the snake miraculous due to personal preference instead of drawing logical conclusions. Sneaked into the Agreste mansion.

Impulsiveness: Marinette's daily fantasies (sharing a future life with Adrien and their hamster-who-must-not-be-named), when Lila's "precious family heirloom necklace" was "stolen", Marinette was quick to include her classmates in the list of potential perpetrators for it (without ill intent, but still..)

You know who the real potential sociopath in the show is?

Gabriel

Some of you might include Lila too (since she fits all the criteria for being a sociopath), but the key difference is: Lila is still just a kid.

We don't know much about her family life. Just that her mother is busy with work, we don't know where her father is, who her friends were/if she even had them. She might be lying and manipulating people to follow her own agenda, but she thrives in attention, when people notice and praise her. In some aspects, that could've been Adrien. With one neglectful parent, a missing parent, no friends (prior to going to school)...etc. There is also a lot we don't know about her.

[ms-march]

And I Tolerate it.

Yes!!!! This is the second little scene I’m posting for Adrienne’s birthday and it is once again John Adrienne!! There’s some more obvious spoilers in this one but nothing too major! Thank you to @tallmadgeandtea for beta reading this!! Make sure to like, reblog, and/or comment if you like it!

Adrienne was, frankly, at her wits end.

It had been almost two full months since John was released to Philadelphia. It was a month and a half since they had taken residence in the Laurens’ house, just across the street from Independence Hall. It had been three weeks since John Laurens, his wife, and young son had become the only occupants in the house that rested in the Old Philidalphian version of Grosvenor Square.

Adrienne was at her wits end, but one could hardly tell unless you looked at her for just a second too long.

It had been almost three months since she arrived in Charleston to see her husband released into her custody. It had been almost three months since she had known any semblance of peace. Or patience.

“They are coming at 5 tonight for dinner, and I need you to at least try not to be a complete asshole.”

She never cursed. It was not proper. It was not ladylike. More importantly, she never cursed at her husband. That was flat out obscene. Blatant impermanence that any other man would have never tolerated from his wife. But she supposed she could make an exception just this once. Her husband was never one to fit the definition for “normal.”

Adrienne was at her wits end.

Before he left, Henry Laurens had forced his son to interact with those in the city he was familiar with. Adrienne had met all of the men in passing as they came in and out the doors of the large house at all respectable hours of the day.

They stopped appearing when Henry disappeared.

All except Charles.

Charles. Charles and ‘Lina. Charles and Caroline Pinckney were the only ones to remain of the callers, much to John’s relief and Adrienne’s distress. They were family friends of the Laurens’. Charles had gone to school with John in London. Charles and his sister, Caroline, would be over for a small formal dinner in just under two hours and John was still in his cotton breeches and banyan.

“And just lie to them?”

He was starting to get on her nerves.

She knew she should take it slow with him. He had seen things.

None of the others had seen the things he had.

All except Charles.

Except Charles appeared fine. He was not shaken, ill-humored, poor tempered, or reclusive. John was every one of those things. If it were not for the Pinckney siblings visits he would have been seen by none but her in almost a month now.

It has been three weeks and Adrienne was at her wits end.

“Yes.”

She should not have snapped at him.

She should not have let the response fall like a serpent’s hiss from her lips

She should not have, but she already had. Just another thing for him to add in his book of aggravating habits or behavior of hers he was constantly making in that head of his.

She often thought that he did it only to annoy her more. Other times she supposed that perhaps being angry at her was the only thing keeping him from being angry at himself. She never was able to fully understand him.

No one could.

No one except Charles.

Charles assured her it would pass. He assured her that John would come around soon. Eventually. He had said eventually. Not soon.

Charles and his sister, Caroline, would be over for a small formal dinner in just under two hours and John was still in his cotton breeches and banyan.

Caroline was nice. Pretty in the face and quiet. She preferred to listen rather than talk. She was economically patriotic, refusing tea and insisting only on wearing “American gowns” or whatever that meant. Adrienne found her rather boring. She was too involved in this war.

Adrienne had friends who would admire that.

Unfortunately, she herself did not.

Adrienne was at her wits end, and John was still in his cotton breeches and banyan as he sat right beside the suit she had laid out for him to wear that evening.

He was just about as interested in the suit as he was in her. That was to say, he would not have noticed if the suit miraculously disappeared from its perch with a poof, for dramatic effect.

Adrienne was at her wits end. She knew she should take it slow with him, he had seen things.

He had seen things, but it was unfair to take it out on her.

“Hurry up and get dressed— before they arrive, preferably.”

She had to place distance between herself and him. Fussing over the menu and set up in the dining room would do just the thing.

“My empty glass of whiskey begs for a better evening than dinner.”

Adrienne should not have whipped around as quickly as she did, seeing him visibly flinch at her harsh movement. She could not bring herself to care very much for it at the moment.

John Laurens was a well known recluse in the city of Philadelphia. He also happened to have the most social wife in the colony of Pennsylvania.

John Laurens could sequester himself into the familiar halls of the house all he wanted. She could care less if he socialized or not, but there was no chance in heaven or hell that she would allow him to stop her from socializing.

“You have had quite enough of that monstrous substance today. If you would like any kind of drink to touch your lips, then you will be forced to join us for dinner.”

“Wine isn’t the same. Not strong enough.”

“Well, it is all you will get.”

She should have asked him what he had need of a strong drink for. She should have asked. The words were on the very tip of her tongue. She did not ask.

“Yes, mother.”

He was grumbling now, the glass in his hand making contact against the side table with a dull thud as he stood. She stood taller, pride straightening her already perfect posture as she left him to dress.

The dining room.

She needed to check in on the dining room. And the kitchen.

It would distract her.

He had seen things, but it was unfair to take it out on her.

She had a hunch that he felt the same way.

Philadelphia was different from Virginia. It was more like Charleston than it would ever be like Williamsburg. So, it was odd that Adrienne was far more comfortable in this paved city then John was.

Williamsburg was greener. There were plenty of free standing buildings, and no need for townhomes over the city’s vast space and freedom of movement.

Virginia smelled better. This time of year the sun would fuel the buzz of the late bloom honeybee, summer blossoms would be in full bloom along every walkway and in every backyard.

Philadelphia was not green, and it had the horrible reek of a highly populated city.

Philadelphia was brown. There were the occasional groomed bushes in a backyard or a public tea and pleasure garden among the city’s brown landscape, but not hardly enough. There was more brick in this city than in Williamsburg. Bricked buildings, homes, lanes, and alleys. Paved roads and busy business, as well as the import of mahogany to the patriot city, made it brown inside and out. All the floors were lacquered hardwoods. And various houses, including the Laurens house, had mahogany paneling and furniture in several rooms. Some, including the Laurens house, even had brown painted trim, classic to the Georgian colonial style.

Philadelphia was brown, but Adrienne did not mind.

Philadelphia was alive. Philadelphia was a bustling city of business and trade with society and a calendar of enough events to never bore her.

There was always something to do.

Always someone to see.

Someone to see.

Charles and his sister, Caroline, would be over for a small formal dinner in just under an hour.

Adrienne could have fainted with the amount of relaxation that drifted over her when John appeared, fully dressed, in the green and gold three piece suit. The kitchen was right on track and the dining room was dressed to perfection. And John was dressed in a green and gold three piece suit she had laid out for him.

His hair was tied back in a basic and barely styled queue, a black velvet ribbon keeping his blonde locks at the nape of his neck. She so rarely saw him so cleaned and polished in presentation.

He looked respectable.

He looked handsome.

It was marvelous.

Adrienne was at her wits end, but she still found a moment to send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, begging for this one evening to pass without any particularly noteworthy catastrophe.

She pleaded, prayed.

She prayed. That was something she rarely bothered with now. She had not prayed since her wedding night.

Her prayers had not been answered.

She had not prayed since.

But here she was— truly, at her wits end— praying in her own house that her husband would be able to restrain himself till after their guests were gone to take it out on her once more.

It was not fair to be mad at her for things out of her control.

He knew this.

So did she.

It was ironic, really.

She had not prayed since her wedding night, and that prayer had not been answered. There was no disputing that.

Not now, anyway.

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Emma Darlington AGE & BIRTH DATE. 376 & September 3rd, 1645 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Vampire OCCUPATION. Singer at Ambrosia FACE CLAIM. Olivia Holt

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death, blood, violence, nazis ) In a small cottage in the English countryside, a young girl came wailing into the world. Colicky, fidgety, and desperate for her parent’s attention; Emma Haywood was well-loved and adored by both her mother and father. Her father was a physician, not in study but in practice. He was known for splinting broken bones and using tonics and salves to stave off infection, while her mother was an artist. Creative and carefree, Marie was a force of nature. Emma’s earliest memories came of her father’s distance, it was around when she was two or three that he grew apart from his family. At least, that was how it seemed. He would never hold his daughter, or coddle her, nor did he show his wife any physical attention that Emma could see. To her, that was simply the norm. Where her father lacked, her mother picked up. Marie reminded Emma daily of her father’s love for them, of how he worked hard for them, and how he had demons that needed to be contended with. 

It was a few months after Emma’s seventh birthday that her mother fell terribly ill, it was not long after that she passed on. Her father, Leighton, was a mess and clearly unfit to raise a young girl properly. She was passed off to a neighboring family, close friends who had a son only two years Emma’s junior. They had grown up together already, and at the very least Emma would have someone who was like a brother to her. For a time she kept expecting her father to come back, like it was a visit to the neighbors like any other. Every night in secret she would light a candle and leave it in her window so that her father might see it and find his way through the dark to her. In the morning Emma would find the candle burned down to the wick, a pool of deflated wax over the sill that she found she had something in common with. It too had learned to pour itself into a new shape, and so should she. 

Days turned to weeks turned to years and Emma’s father never returned, but by now she had a new family. People who played with her, a brother who loved her, and more and more the sting of her mother’s death and her father’s abandonment became but a distant memory. There were more happy Christmases than sad, and when times were hard there was an ample supply of love between the four of them to keep them afloat. 

Much like her mother, Emma was naturally creative and had a talent and ear for music that others in the village lacked. It was for her fifth Christmas with her new family that they revealed that they’d scrimped and saved to procure her a lute. It was nothing fancy, but to Emma it was the entire world. She played it day in and day out, not well, but she learned. They had no formal sheet music, so Emma would make up her own tunes - she’d mimic the sound of the river, or the whistle of the baker, and the hum of the church choir. 

Years passed and Emma grew older and proved herself a formidable young woman, there was an expectation that she would have to marry, but at every turn she deflected the advances of the locals. She was not without her girlhood crushes and romances, but the thought of settling down as her mother had, of having a daughter of her own. It didn’t sit well with her when she still had so many dreams of the outside world, her adopted mother would tell her to get her head out of the clouds. She told Emma that she was living in a fantasy world and that someday she’d need a man to take care of her. Like the rolling hills of the countryside, Emma could see all the years of her life stretched out before here. She’d marry the baker’s son, or maybe the blacksmith’s and she’d bare for them a batch of cherry-cheeked children. Perhaps she would continue to play the lute, but most likely she would become too old and too tired, then Emma would simply pass on. Perhaps of sickness like her mother, or perhaps she would grow old and her children would care for her like the fisherman’s mother. 

Emma saw all the years of her life before her and thought of her father, he had left, and despite all the whisperings that the locals made of him at least he was free. Emma convinced her brother Sterling to leave with her, to move to use what money they had scrimped and saved and move to London so they could have a shot at a real future. Emma was nineteen at the time, a woman grown, and Sterling was a man. They made their choice together and despite their parent’s wishes slipped out and made for the big city. 

In London Emma found work at a pub, she played her lute and sang for the patrons and earned a few tidy coins as she did. Their life was meager, but it was theirs. Together Sterling and Emma found a place together and for a few years everything was peaceful and seemed to be as it should. It was late one evening when Emma was mugged on her way home from work, they wanted the money she’d earned and she refused to give it up. Bleeding and weak in the street, a shadow swept over her, the person fed her his blood but not in time to save her from death’s embrace. Emma died with the vampire’s blood in her system and awoke later that night as one of the undead. 

Bloodlust was not something the young vampire could control, but people disappeared everyday in the bustling city. Emma could not walk in the light of day, but her work at the tavern only brought her out at night. Sterling was the only one who knew her truth, and even he needed to keep his distance because she simply couldn’t control herself. Years passed and gradually Emma got a hold of her new found condition, but she noticed that Sterling was still growing old while she remained the same. Emma had already been abandoned twice in her life and the thought of spending any amount of eternity without her brother was painful. It took some convincing, but after her own experience she knew that she could turn another if she tried. 

Sterling’s transformation was not without consequences, Emma killed more liberally now as she took some enjoyment in her newfound power. She and her brother had a terrible falling out because he grew to resent what she had convinced him to do. Sterling left, and he was the third person to abandon her. Angry and resentful, Emma took her anger out on the world and clung to the first person she met who could even remotely relate to what she was going through. This came in the form of a newly-turned vampire named Jamie Price. Emma had grown up with nothing and watching high society types bend to the will of her compulsion was endlessly enjoyable once she learned how to exercise it properly. There was a part of her that might have loved him, but he was as reckless and violent as he was sweet and charming. It made for an intoxicating combination and the two of them flamed out just as quickly as they had begun. 

For over a century Emma terrorized London and the neighboring countryside and for this she earned the ire of a coven who called upon a fury to enact vengeance. She’d have died if another vampire did not save her life, Deucalion protected her and taught her what she needed to not only be a vampire, but to survive as one. She procured a daylight ring and for the first time in over a hundred years Emma stepped out into the light of day once again. A feat that she’d long given up hope for. She was powerful and she was sated, it would have been her wish to travel with Cal for longer but it was not his nature and she was not his progeny. A term she only came to learn while under his care. 

No longer the ripper she’d once been, Emma began to ponder what more there could be for her. The world was continuously changing but what she’d never really experienced was true love - nor did she ever have the best example for it either. Her adopted parents had loved one another, but somehow she still wanted more. She fell for men and women alike, and there was one man in particular who captured her interests though she soon found that she was not the only one who shared his bed. Emma confronted this other woman and made a lifelong friend out of yet another vampire named Harlow. Unlike Sterling, or Jamie, or even Cal there was nothing that Harlow wished to change about her and nothing that Emma would change about the other. The philandering man happened to have a wife, and he paid for his insolence dearly. 

Though they were not always together, Emma was a natural wanderer and kept in touch with those she’d come to know. Jamie was difficult to peg down and their history was... Complicated, but Cal was easy to find, and Harlow perhaps the easiest. They continued to keep in touch via letters with Emma keeping a home in London where she’d have all of her post sent to. The songbird would travel now and again, extending her exploration of the world a little more each time. France, Sweden, Ireland, Spain, and eventually Germany. The more the world turned the more she knew how women were treated as second class citizens. She’d known several men in her extended lifetime and had never met a single one that was her equal, and yet, socially and politically they held all the power. Men of science claimed that a woman’s brain was smaller than a man’s, but the men she’d known didn’t seem to use it often if at all. 

The right to vote was hard won, but the more Emma found herself taking to the streets, the more alive she felt. Immortal and young forever, she was easily dismissed but she had a voice and a right to be heard. She was in Munich studying political science when a friend of hers recruited her into The White Rose; this non-violent, intellectual-resistance group created an anonymous leaflet that actively spoke out against and opposed the nazi regime. Emma’s friend Sophie and her brother were caught distributing these leaflets and as a result were executed. She watched on as the crowd cheered, and as her friend said her final piece. Galvanized, it was clear that the world was capable of innumerable cruelties and she was not free of it. Words were not enough, so she enlisted as an army nurse after she escaped Germany. Not able to fight on the frontlines, Emma instead opted to tend to the soldiers that had been wounded. She saved all those that she could, and provided comfort to those that she could not. 

It was here that she fell in love once more, and here that Emma decided to follow the young soldier to the United States. Despite the fact that he was human, she told him everything. Her history, her family, and of course that she was a vampire. He proposed. She asked him to spend eternity with her, but he was a simple boy from the South and wanted no part of immortality. Emma’s lesser self wanted to convince him to change his mind, but after what happened with Sterling she knew that she couldn’t, and if she did then he would resent her. So, instead she settled down: despite the fact that she promised she never would. The two got married, adopted a couple of children, and Emma watched as they grew old. Her husband passed away, and then her daughter was mistaken for her sister, then her mother, grandmother. Emma’s family grew and they all took after her in some form, they marched for civil liberties, they cared for friends and loved ones during the AIDS crisis, some were present at Stonewall. The world moved on, and Emma had no choice but to move with it - she thought of Sophie who died for a cause, and her friend’s last words haunted her: What does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?

Over the years Emma put some distance between herself and the family she’d come to create. She was a vampire, and they were better off not knowing the truth of the supernatural world. Though time dragged on, Emma always kept in touch with the family she’d made for herself along the way: Cal, Harlow, and the others who had known her at her worst. 

With the sundering of the veil, she died. And in the river Styx she had nothing but time to reflect in absolute isolation. When Emma was brought back into this world she wanted to find the source of this, and the reason for her death. She opted to follow Harlow to Corinth Bay, where it was rumoured to be the source of all magic, and there she got a job as a musician working at Evie’s latest: Ambrosia. There was another reason for her trip though, a face she saw in the river that was just out of reach, and out of range of her voice. This river was a place for the souls of vampires to be trapped for eternity - so then why did she see her father there too?

PERSONALITY

+ charming, creative, thoughtful - gullible, single-minded, prim

PLAYED BY SHANE. EST. He/Him.

[ethereal-not-occult]

patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine​ !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

[argylemnwrites]

Fight or Flight - Chapter 12: Forward

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Liu)

Book: The Royal Heir (canon divergent from the end of book 2)

Word Count: ~4800

Rating: PG (language only)

Summary: Two weeks since The Walker Absconding

Author’s Note: I’m back! And I hope to stay back and posting! It’s been a while since the last chapter, so as a quick refresher - Hana has been named Duchess of Valtoria by King-Regent Rashad, Amalas was somehow able to track down the Walkers in Xanthi, Greece (and wants to turn that knowledge into an alliance), and the Walkers are heading onto Athens as their options for survival as fugitives are not looking great.

This series follows the Walkers, their friends, and Cordonia as a whole after they flee the country with their daughter during Barthelemy Beaumont’s attempted coup. To catch up on this series, check out it’s masterlist. (link can be found via my bio - sorry, Tumblr is once again not putting my posts with links in tag searches)

Hana glanced around the palace ballroom, taking in the groups of people milling about the room. In so many ways, tonight was just like any other ball or gala. How many events had she been to in this room over the past three years, with mostly the same guests, the same food, and the same music? But tonight was different. Not only was this ball being thrown in her honor, welcoming her as Cordonia’s newest duchess, but it was the first event she’d attended without Riley by her side. Since that opening masquerade ball of Liam’s social season, they’d always been together for every formal event. But not tonight. Tonight, she was back to doing things on her own.

She stood over towards the front of the room, greeting the last of the nobility and well wishers. Soon, the dancing would start. It was strange how everything felt routine and totally different at the same time. She supposed that when Rashad gave a speech acknowledging her new title, things would really seem different. But for now, it was just a weird mix of emotions she was trying so hard to keep at bay as she shook hand after hand, nodded politely over and over again, and kept a gentle smile locked in place.

“Congratulations!” Penelope squealed, scurrying across the ballroom and throwing her arms around Hana, “This is so exciting! Isn’t it exciting, Zeke?”

Ezekiel nodded briskly and gave Hana a small little smile as he held out his right hand for her to shake, “Yes. Congratulations, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, both of you,” Hana replied, giving a nod that she hoped conveyed the right blend of gratitude and authority. She needed her first appearance as a duchess to go well for many reasons.

She knew intellectually that her appointment as the Duchess of Valtoria was a desperation move from Rashad. His first week and a half as king-regent had been far from smooth and calm. The groups of protesters in front of the palace had grown in number every day, the citizens of Lythikos were organizing, and the unrest in Valtoria was spilling into neighboring lands. Rashad had needed to do something, but as a temporary leader, making changes that were too aggressive would be poorly received and could possibly worsen the protesting. He had to walk a very fine line, and presenting Hana as a new regional leader looked like he was taking action without actually requiring him to stick his neck out and take a stand. For someone who hated courtly politics, his maneuver was pretty brilliant.

But because of the fact that her appointment to duchess was done by an interim leader, Hana knew she would be subjected to increased scrutiny. Not just from Barthelemy’s allies, who would likely object to the title going to someone with known close ties to the Walkers and to Liam, but also from Liam’s supporters, who were likely to object to any use of the powers of the monarch by Rashad, someone they considered an illegitimate king-regent. Part of her worried that she was being set up to fail, albeit unintentionally.

Still, she knew she was ready for this. She had prepared her whole life to hold a title at this level. She had trained and studied and practiced for years. This was the job she had been preparing for since she was a child. Granted, she had been taught that she would rise to this title through marriage, was told that her job would be to be a diplomat behind the scenes, supporting a husband in his role. But the concept was the same, even though this title was hers and hers alone. And maybe it was crazy and naive, but there was a part of Hana that felt proud. Someone had seen her talents and skills and contributions to Valtoria and decided to recognize them. No, to recognize her.

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Given the method of her appointment, she was likely going to need to prove herself over and over again. Her mother had seen fit to remind her of that twice already this evening, as if that wasn’t already running through her brain constantly. If she was even a mediocre duchess, so many would get hurt. Rashad would find it difficult to gain any support to make any decisions if his first major one proved to be a poor choice. Liam’s bid to reclaim the throne would be damaged if one of his known close associates was an unpopular and ineffective duchess. And probably most importantly, the people of Valtoria deserved some stability and support in a time of national upheaval.

As much as Hana felt for Riley and Drake and understood why they made the choices they did for their family, she also felt for the citizens of Valtoria acutely. They didn’t ask to have their duchess and duke abandon them, did nothing to deserve this degree of political instability. Of course, that could probably be said for all the citizens of Cordonia. A power struggle amongst the nobility had triggered the loss of the country’s heir to the throne and a power vacuum that was going to leave them without stable national leadership for months. The whole thing made her feel almost ill to think about, but all she could do at this point was do her best to serve Valtoria and it’s citizens with her whole heart and mind.

“How are you doing, Hana Banana?” Maxwell’s hand on her shoulder jolted her out of her moment of introspection. She gave him a smile, accepting the glass of champagne he offered her and tapping it lightly against his.

“Tonight has been… a lot,” she said after taking a sip of her drink.

“Tell me about it. It feels like it was just yesterday that we were here for Riley’s ball, naming her the Duchess of Valtoria.”

Hana hummed lightly at that, and suddenly, Maxwell was rambling.

“Not that you took it from her or don’t deserve the title or anything! Because you absolutely do! Like, you are so wise and smart and crazy talented and -”

“-Maxwell, I know what you meant. I was just thinking about how I could do without a recreation of the end of that night.”

“Oh. Yeah. Me too. To be fair, I don’t think my dad’s hired a bunch of assassins. Of course, I didn’t think he was plotting a coup underneath my nose either, soooo…” Maxwell trailed off with a little shrug.

Hana glanced over, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. “I feel like we haven’t had much of a chance to talk. How are you doing with everything?”

He shrugged again and took a sip of his champagne. “Yeah, I haven’t been able to get away from Ramsford really at all this week. Bertrand is losing his mind prepping for Dad’s inevitable attempt to forcibly retake his title. He’s hunkered down in the west wing, while Dad’s taken the east. Bertrand’s already fired about one third of the staff because he’s caught them over on Dad’s side for no good reason, so Dad’s taken to firing staff he’s sure are loyal to Bertrand in retaliation. Soon, it’ll just be the three of us. Actually, the five of us. Savannah and Bartie get back tomorrow.”

“Have you decided whether to give her Drake’s number yet?” Hana asked, making sure she kept her voice low. Ever since Savannah had booked the tickets back for her and Bartie, there had been a bit of a debate over whether or not she should receive a burner phone and be told how to get in touch with her brother. Olivia firmly believed there were already too many people who knew, whereas Maxwell brought up that it was wrong to prevent her from talking to her brother when she was only coming back to Cordonia earlier than planned to help Bertrand fight his father’s bid to reclaim the title of Duke of Ramsford. He insisted that meant she had already proven herself a trusted ally, while Olivia remained unconvinced. Both Hana and Liam had taken a more neutral stance on the matter, but he had expressed to her that he didn’t think it boded well for them that their group was already facing such strong differences of opinion. Quite frankly, it was a significant sticking point that felt like it could implode at any moment.

Maxwell shook his head. “Not right away at least. Bertrand honestly is so engrossed with trying to align support for his claim to our head of house title that I don’t think he’s even realized we’re in contact with Drake and Riley at this point. When I talked to Savannah, she was pretty worried about him, so I don’t think she’d want to risk hurting his chances by talking to known ‘traitors and fugitives’ at this point.”

All of it just made Hana sad. More families torn apart by this scheme, more pain and paranoia in all of their lives. “Well, that will make Olivia happy at least.”

“One can only hope. She’s been in fine form lately.”

He wasn’t wrong. It seemed like Olivia’s small reserve of patience was used up on dealing with Liam and Leo. She hadn’t lashed out at Hana yet, but the only thing Hana had done to annoy her was arrange that meeting with Kiara, and all was quickly forgiven when Hana told her she had fostered a line of communication on that front. Maxwell, on the other hand, seemed to annoy her regularly even at baseline.

“She just has a lot on her plate, Maxwell.”

“I know, I know. But that shouldn’t give her the right to take it out on us.”

“It doesn’t, but right now I think we are all just trying to hang on and hope for the best we can.”

“Yeah, well here’s hoping for better soon.” And with that he clinked his glass against hers yet again. “Speaking of better, do you need me to cause a distraction so you can sneak out and chat with Kiara?”

She shook her head. “No, Hakim is officially representing their family tonight. She texted me that he is on high alert and that it would be too risky for us to meet tonight. She’s coming alone next week.”

“Ahh, for social season kickoff, take two?”

“Yes, so I should be able to speak to her then.”

“What do you think her endgame is? Or Hakim’s?”

Hana tilted her head to the side and let out a small sigh. She’d speculated endlessly for the past week, ever since her meeting with Kiara, but every idea felt just as improbable as the one before it. “I honestly don’t have a clue, Maxwell.”

“That’s alright, even you are allowed to not know the answers every once in a while,” he said, winking at her. “Now, come on. We’ve been moping here for too long. Tonight is your night, Hana! So what do you say? Dancing? More drinks? Grab some food? Or did I hear someone suggest dancing?”

She smiled, grateful that Maxwell understood the power of a morale boost and proud that he was still able to cheer up those around him, even as his family was falling apart before his eyes. “Maxwell, would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

“Why, Your Grace, it would be my honor,” he replied with a flourish, grabbing her champagne flute and placing both their glasses on an empty tray before accompanying her onto the dance floor.

As they settled into the rhythm of the song, Hana gave Maxwell’s hand a friendly squeeze. “Thank you, Maxwell.”

“For what?”

“For still being you.”

He beamed brightly at that. “Same to you, Hana. Definitely same to you.”

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

Liam stood off to the side of the ballroom, nursing a glass of water. It was his first public appearance in about a week and a half, and even though he had never had a problem handling his liquor, the last thing he needed tonight was to have his judgement at all altered or impaired. This whole evening was going to be stressful enough without having to worry about imbibing just a little too heavily.

He knew it was important for him to be here. He needed to be seen again, to show strength and resilience and fortitude to any who might doubt him. Additionally, Hana was one of his dearest friends, and he wanted to be present to support and celebrate her. This night was key for a variety of reasons. 

However, that didn't change the fact that tonight was just plain hard. He was surrounded by people he knew he could no longer trust. How many of them were plotting against him at this very moment? Were whispering how pleased they were about recent events over their drinks? Were watching him closely, latching onto any change of his expression as a sign of his suffering?

Other than Olivia, Leo, Hana, Maxwell, and Bertrand, people seemed to be steering clear of Liam tonight. It was clear they had no concept of how to handle interacting with him at this point. His circumstances were fairly unprecedented. Sure Leo had abdicated, but that had been his choice and he hadn't been the reigning monarch when he made that decision. Additionally, he had left the country for months after his abdication. But Liam was still here, in the heart of it all, after being stripped of the crown.

He wasn't used to having so much time to himself, both at formal events such as tonight's ball, and just in general. In the simplest sense of the word, he was unemployed. And while some, such as Leo, seemed to thrive without the pressure and responsibility that came from having professional duties, Liam was finding he didn't much like having… well, nothing. He had no career, no obligations, no partner, no children. He just… was. He existed.

He knew he needed to shake off this attitude. The social season would be officially, finally, starting in one week, and he needed to hit the ground running. He was essentially going to be campaigning for many months. The issue was that he had no desire to campaign. He had been born into his role and raised to serve Cordonia's people since he was a child. He wasn't supposed to have to fight to even have a chance to put that training to use.

Taking another sip of his water, he leaned against the bar, just watching as the rest of the nobility talked and laughed and enjoyed themselves. If he had opted for whiskey instead of water, he would have been doing a good Drake impression. Well, a Drake-of-several-years-ago impression. Ever since Bridget's birth, or maybe even Riley's pregnancy, Drake had been much more engaged at events like this one. Now that he had more time to contemplate that fact, he wondered how much of that came from Drake's own personal growth and opening up and how much of it was forced on him by the nature of Bridget being named heir to the throne. 

He scanned the room slowly,  his eyes eventually settling on Olivia dancing with his brother. She was wearing a grey dress, not a red one for once. He supposed that was a testament to how much she had come to respect Hana over the years - she had decided to forego her signature color and instead wore a less eye-catching one so that Hana could own the spotlight on her night. Eventually, the song came to an end. Liam watched as she laughed and rolled her eyes at something Leo said before stepping off to the side and making her way over to the bar. She slid up next to him, requesting a glass of Bordeaux before she turned to talk to him.

“So, how are you… uh, doing?”

He couldn’t help but smile at her awkward attempt at emotional comfort. She was trying, had been trying for days, in fact. But Olivia was just not well suited for gentle emotional soothing. Tough love was much more in her wheelhouse. It was nearly disconcerting that she wasn’t using tough love, he realized. He must not be coping as well as he wanted to be if this was the approach she was taking.

“I will admit that it is strange to be back here without my title. Coming to an event here, not hosting an event here is even more unsettling than I thought it would be. Of course that could be in part due to the fact that the exact same menu, music, and decor that was used for Riley’s ball welcoming her to the nobility is on display.”

“Did your assistant not think it might be wise to change it up at all?” she asked as she accepted her glass of wine from the bartender with a nod. 

“I’m guessing Rashad didn’t care to make any changes, and Stefan isn’t exactly motivated to enhance the perception of Rashad as a leader. After all, he stayed on to help him at my request.”

“Touché.” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

“Of course, this Duchess of Valtoria seems far less likely to leave her citizens and her country in a lunch by fleeing and abandoning her post.” Liam regretted the words as soon as he said them. The look Olivia was giving him was an unbearable mixture of pity and frustration. “Sorry, you know I didn’t mean that.”

“Liam…”

“Okay, I might have kind of meant it, but I don’t want to mean it. I am trying not to mean it. At the very least, it wasn’t something I should have said aloud.”

She paused for just a moment, running her bright red nails along the side of her wine glass before responding, “Maybe it would be helpful to frame your frustrations with those two differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, instead of being mad as hell that Riley didn’t take her responsibilities to Cordonia seriously, maybe be more frustrated that someone as impulsive as her took on all those responsibilities knowing she would never be able to stay true to them. It makes the whole thing seem a little more abstract and annoying, less personal and infuriating. At least, it does for me.”

He frowned at that. Her strategy was an interesting one, but he wasn’t sure it was going to help with the storm of emotions he was trying to keep locked away tonight. “I’m not saying you are wrong, but Olivia, the only reason she carried that title was because I offered it to her.”

“She could have turned it down. Don’t put this on yourself.”

Liam didn’t know if that was exactly a fair assessment. Of course Riley could have rejected his offer of the duchy, just like Drake and her could have turned down his request to name their child heir to the throne. But he had been the one who decided that she was a good fit to be Duchess of Valtoria, that they were good options to raise the next King or Queen of Cordonia. With the benefit of hindsight, those decisions looked terrible, so wildly ill-conceived and poorly executed. How had he convinced himself that both those choices had been for the best?

He’d been so focused on being a compassionate, trusting king. He hadn’t wanted to turn into his father, cold and calculating, seeing enemies around every corner. But maybe he had swung the pendulum too far in the opposite direction and become overly trusting and complacent. Would anyone else in his position have made the choices he made? More often than not these, he doubted that many of his decisions as king were sound.

His silence must have made Olivia uncomfortable, because she wrapped a hand around his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Liam, come on. Forget I said anything. You know I’m not great at the whole pep talk, emotional support thing. It was probably bad advice.”

Liam shook his head, feeling a sad sort of smile tug across his face, almost against his will. “No, I think it was good advice, Liv. It just has given me a lot to think about.”

“Liam…”

“I’m fine. I just am going to take a walk and clear my head.” With that, Liam set down his empty glass of water and turned around, walking out towards the doors and into his mother’s gardens. He knew he needed to be moving forward, not dwelling on the past like he was at the moment. The social season was only a week away, and with it came his bid to reclaim his title. Still, it was hard to be energized and optimistic about that prospect when all his failures and shortcomings seemed more numerous and prominent than they had ever been in the past. Or maybe he was simply more aware of them at this point. Either way, he couldn’t help but question how he was going to convince other nobles that he deserved the crown when he barely felt like he could convince himself.

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

Riley tensed as she heard the door creak open. Even though she was expecting Drake back around this time, she still half expected it to be Greek authorities, Montoressan spies, or Cordonian agents bursting through the door of their hotel room, ready to arrest her and take her baby away.

But it was Drake on the other side of the door. She let out a little sigh of relief when she saw his face. He, on the other hand, frowned. “What are you still doing up?” he asked as he closed and locked the door behind him. He kept his voice quiet, clearly not wanting to wake up Bridget.

Riley just shrugged. The truth was that whenever Drake went out, she was scared. Scared that he would be found and picked up and extradited back to Cordonia. Scared that she would be left alone in a country where she didn’t speak the language with a 10 month old baby. Scared that her family was going to be torn apart. But she couldn’t tell that to Drake, not when he was the only thing keeping them afloat. She knew him. He was already carrying enough stress without having to soothe her panicked and frazzled nerves every time he left to go earn them a little cash.

They had been in Athens about a week now, but Riley and Bridget had not left the hotel since they checked in. Bridget seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that her life now did not extend beyond these four walls and was usually content to play with her blocks or to listen to Riley read her the same three picture books over and over, which was both a blessing and mad depressing. Drake, however, had been venturing out daily, looking for places that would hire him under the table, without checking his ID or anything that might get them caught. She’d had to coach him on how to find these jobs, having looked for cash paying jobs many times when she needed to make rent back in New York. In some respects, it might have been better for her to be the one to go out job hunting since she had more experience, but they’d decided she was way more recognizable than Drake, particularly now that he had grown a beard to make facial recognition harder. Her inability to speak more than eight Greek phrases also clearly made Drake the better option.

He hadn’t had any luck the first four days, but then he found a restaurant owner who was willing to pay him straight cash every night to work as a dishwasher. Sure, the hourly pay was garbage and he didn’t get home until very late, but he also got to bring home leftovers every night, which meant that they had to spend less money on food. At this point, even slowing their bleeding of their minimal money supply was essential, particularly since the social season hadn’t even started yet, which meant that the earliest the Conclave could happen would be almost six months from now. Riley honestly didn’t know how they were going to feed themselves for that long, much less find shelter in the winter.

It’s not like Riley had never known poverty or living paycheck to paycheck before. But doing it now, with her baby girl, just felt so much more draining and awful. Bridget was just a kid, she didn’t ask for any of this, and she definitely didn’t deserve to suffer. But there was little Riley could do to make things better other than try and keep things happy and joyful when they were playing. Drake was doing everything else.

He handed her a bag of food before stripping out of his shirt and going to wash it in the bathroom. She peeked inside, seeing some dolmadakia, some bread, and some sort of chicken. A decent variety tonight. Trying not to rustle the bag too loudly, she pulled out some of the food and started eating, making sure to take less than half. She was sure Drake was lying when he told her he didn’t need much because he ate at the restaurant. She’d worked enough shitty, under the table jobs in her time to know that eating while on the clock was the quickest way to get yourself fired.

“So,” Drake said as he came out of the bathroom, taking off his pants and folding them neatly before climbing into the other side of the bed. “Olivia texted me while I was at work. She has a possible plan to get us our passports and some money, but she wanted to run it by us first.”

Riley knew her eyebrows had practically shot up to her forehead as she took in his statement. She handed him the bag with the rest of the food, turning onto her side to face him fully. “What’s the plan?”

“Well, Leo’s been back in Cordonia since we… uh… left. But he’s planning to take off before the social season kicks off.”

“Okay?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for him to spend a few days in Athens, taking in nightlife and clubs, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Riley wasn’t sure what to make of that. She always found Leo friendly and easy to talk to, but she’d heard enough stories to know that he was exactly the most responsible man on the planet. “You know Leo better than me, Drake. Is this a good idea?”

Drake let out a long breath, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he answered, “I don’t know, Walker. Him being here would not raise too many alarm bells, but he sometimes can draw the attention of the paparazzi - the “Party Prince” is usually good for a scandal or two, that sort of shit. And uhh, well… let’s just say I would count on him being an hour late if we went to meet him somewhere.”

“So not exactly your first choice to hold on to our passports then?”

“Not so much, no.”

Riley chewed on her lip for just a moment, her hand gently running over the back of Bridget’s head. She was sound asleep, nestled on the bed between them. Even though this hotel had a crib for them to use, Riley just couldn’t bring herself to fall asleep without her daughter right next to her. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?”

Drake shook his head. “We need money, Riley. Badly. I don’t know if Olivia is financing this or what, but I don’t think it matters anymore. We aren’t going to make it until January at this rate. Hell, I don’t think we’ll make it to September.”

She reached over and gave his wrist a little squeeze. He was trying to do so much to keep them surviving on their own. She knew it was killing him that they were having to take this risk, to potentially get themselves caught in some weird clandestine meetup with a former prince in order to get some more cash and their passports so that they could try and get forgeries made. It really was their best chance at being able to hide out through the Conclave.

“Well, then let’s do it. Work out the details with Olivia and get what we need to try and keep going.

Drake stared at her for just a brief moment before giving her a little nod. There wasn’t really much to say. All they could do was keep moving forward, day by day. So, Riley slid down into her pillow, finally ready to get some sleep now that she knew Drake was back and safe. The last thing she saw before her eyes fluttered closed was Drake letting out a heavy sigh before reaching into the bag of food.

Permatag: @walkerswhiskeygirl @riley--walker @bebepac @oofchoices @octobereighth @drakewalker04 @kimmiedoo5 @mfackenthal @thequeenofcronuts

TRR/TRH: @iaminlovewithtrr @ao719 @mskaneko @katedrakeohd @axwalker @jovialyouthmusic @marshmallowsandfire @kingliam2019 @dcbbw @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @princessleac1 @ladyangel70 @yaushie @debramcg1106 @masterofbluff

Drake/MC: @no-one-u-know @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @iplaydrake @gibbles82 @drakewalkerisreal @notoriouscs @drakesensworld @drake-colt-lover-99 @twinkleallnight

FoF: @burnsoslow @bobasheebaby @shz256​

[goth-girlfriend]

Hear me out: Reader who is richer than Shoto and Momo combined. They have a reputation of being stuck up and transfer into UA by STRONG recommendation. Everyone avoids her out of fear of being caught in rich wrath. But it’s not until the Bakusquad make a joke with her they realize what a complete idiot/nerd/funny person she is. Denki *makes joke about reader being to rich* Reader *pulls out hundreds to wipe tears and throws them on the floor when the tears are gone* If you can please? 😊❤️❤️

Request: “Sorry to message you! I but I sent a recent ask! I was going to ask if you could add the reader having like mesmerizing long black hair and killer brows and false lashes? Bonus if she ends up with Best Boom Boy!

I love this honestly! I’ll do my best to answer this the best I can! I’m assuming Bakugo right? I hope so, ☺️

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader + Friend Bakusquad

🖤💥❤️🧡🖤💚🖤🧡❤️🧡🖤💚🖤🧡❤️💥🖤

Class 1-A was bustling with conversation at the news they’d just gotten. A new student would be joining the class Mid Semester. The daughter of a well known known man in Japan.

The Family name foreign, (L/n), It’s been in Japan no longer than four generations. And they’d already come to sit on the top of the money empire. Being rich and known would be a good thing for anyone aspiring to become a hero. It was a lie, often times press would take chances to start rumors and make false accusations leading the newest generation of (L/n) to be held to a new standard.

“I know! Everyone makes her out to be stuck up, snobby and rude!”

Morning

“Aren’t the (L/n)’s the family the Hero Times magazine compared to other families? If I’m right they said Her family dwarfs the Yaoyorozu, Iida, and Todoroki families combined!”

“I heard she had press locked up and cameras destroyed for taking her picture!”

“Oh! I saw a video from her middle school days! You can’t really make her out, but she brought a girl to her knees in-front of the school! For something she did....”

“Oh! She must be the girl who took down a group of boys because one of them brushed shoulders with her!”

“No way! I heard she got a boy expelled because she thought he was looking down on her!”

“She s-sounds scary, I don’t think I want to talk to her.”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna run the risk of getting kicked out of U.A., not after all the hard work I put in to get here.”

The chatter continued, on the other side of the door, hearing every comment stood (Y/n), her brows furrowed slightly in anger. She released the tension in her brows, they rested in their usual place. Her brows fell into her natural RBF as she sighed, she looked at the Principal, the dog/bear/mouse beside her smiled and knocked. It was answered by the Teacher she had met not to long again Erased Head, or as she’d be introduced. Shota Aizawa.

“I’ll leaver her in your capable hands, make sure she gets a good view on what U.A. iS really about.” He smiled and waved at the teacher and left without word.

Aizawa let the girl enter and stand at the front of the class room. He stepped over to his desk picking up a black folder with a golden crest printed on the front. It was the information U.A. has asked for when you applied.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself.” Aizawa said staring at at the first part of your folder. A record for my our old school, no tardies, no absences, no missing work, no violations, no record punishment, no reported incidents, No grade under a 98. Class representative, president of 6 clubs, President of Student Body Council, 4.0 GPA, in quirk control you placed number one in your school, In your school Sport festival you came in first, Cultural Festival you’d brought in the most donations and had a recommendation letter from almost every teacher and both the principal and vice principal.

I stood silent for a minute staring the class over, recognizing every weak point. I didn’t bother smiling, they probably would be scared anyway. I looked through the corner of my eyes to the window.

“I’m (y/n) (l/n), call me (l/n), I don’t have time to waste on friends, formalities. You bunch of extras would probably just drag me down, I don’t expect much from any of you. I reached the top of my class with ease, and by just looking at you I can tell it won’t be any different.” I scoffed and looked over the class. I

It definitely struck some nerves.

“WHO THE HELL DID YOU JUST CALL AN EXTRA YOU TRASH.” A blonde boy with red eyes glared at me popping up from his seat.

Pops coming from his hand, I stared his down, “What are you doing?” I scoffed, “With pop rocks like that the only thing you’d be scaring it probably a kitten.”

“I’ll kill you!” He screamed bringing his hand up.

“Bet.” Was all is said, a watched his hand and the bright light starting to form, with a quick hand sign he fell face first into the floor arms bound behind his back.

I watched him struggle, explosions forming in his palms. Everyone watched him, stares no longer on me I turned to Aizawa.

“Take a seat in the back by the window, it’s the only open desk.” He said closing the file.

I looked ahead not bothering to look at anyone or make eye contact, I say down and moved my hair so I wouldn’t sit on it. I brought my hands to my nape and pushed them back pushing my hair over my back and into the space between my back and the chair. It felt pooling into the part of the chair I didn’t take and overflowing on sides where he chair didn’t catch. It dangled just an inch from the floor. I held my bag beside me. As I got adjusted to my seat and finally looked ahead to the front of class. I felt stares as I started to pull out my notebook, pen, and pencil. 🖤

I ignored it and went about my business, by the end of the day I heard whispers of why the things I used were so expensive. They hadn’t seen my phone yet, it’d definitely kill them if just a brand note book had them like this. The day was finally coming to an end, during lunch I stayed in class, afraid of sitting alone, I’d rather be alone and unseen rather than alone and stared at.

I sighed and looked at my bag, class was coming to an end for the day, and Aizawa was standing at front in his sleeping bag. Everyone was talking, some sitting on desks. I pulled out my phone, over a thousand notifications on my public social media’s, my dads manager saying I need to become friendlier with the public because of the appearance the press keeps trying to force onto me.

‘I set up some social media accounts for you just post about your day, make some friends post about them, just show the public you aren’t who they’re trying to make you out to be.’

I scoffed at his words but nodded just agreeing, if it’s for my dad I’d try my best. So here I am switching between accounts and now on public Snapchat scrolling through chats answering a few and adding people back so it feel more ‘personal’

“Do you see that?” I heard a whisper.

“Do you think it’s real?”

“It’s huge! If it’s real it must cost a fortune!”

“Look it up.....”

The room was silent for a minute,

“No way, the company only made a few and they sold for 48.5 million, and that was an IPhone six, that’s literally the newest iPhone, so it ages to be worth double even triple what the six was!”

“Go ask,” “Dude, no you go ask.”

“I’m scared,” “You probably should be.”

The bell rang and I was up and gone, no point in sticking around. I found a stair case, it led up to the roof. I followed it, it was so high. I walked over to the railing, I watched people pour out rushing to dorms or wherever else. I dropped my bag on the gravel floor and reached for my phone in my pocket, I held up my camera to the sun, the sky was turning orange. I took a picture, the sun rays peaking through the clouds.

I waited it out a bit longer, I felt a smile graze my face for the first second time today. My friend was posting on her story pictures we’d taken last year today. We skipped school to go to arcades, she met her boyfriend of one year now, we had boba, bought a bunch of merch, and just stayed out till night had claimed the sky. We walked home, bags in tow, uniforms scrunched up, cheeks sore from laughing and smiling the whole day.

Just as I finished the story I got another notification, a message from her. I opened it it was a video, unknown to us it was my last day at my old High school.

“Awww, I love you!” She hugged me, I hugged her back, “Love your too loser.”

“We’ll be best friends and together forever right?” She smiled as we rocked back in forth in the hug.

“I wouldn’t leave you for the world.” I laughed.

“Well just act like I’m not here,” her boyfriends voice in the background.

“I will, bros before.....hoes.....” she laughed and I smiled shaking my head.

“Come on, ill pay dinner.” I said and the video stopped.

‘You loser 😭 I didn’t feel like crying today, it’s my first day of school.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have left me 😭

‘I didn’t even know 😢’

‘🤔 Mhm, we need to meet up soon, it’s only been a day but I already miss you 😢’

‘Aight Bet.’

‘A challenge? 👀’

‘Saturday the usual? 😎’

‘I accept your invitation.’

The conversation ended and I headed to the dorms. This repeat for the next few days, I met with my friend Saturday and told her about my dads managed, she agreed every weekend we’d meet up and feed the public. After a month of this I was sitting in class minding my business, I cracked a smile at my phone and quickly wiped it away realizing I was still being watched.

“Sooo, (l/n)?” I looked up, the boy everyone called Denki leaning on my desk.

I cocked a brow, “Hm?”

“I’m in need of money, and I’ve been shot down twice, sooo, let’s make a bet a gamble really. If you win I’ll pay you, but if I win you pay me.” He sounded so cocky, I squinted at him brows furrowed.

I reached into my bag bringing out my wallet “I don’t waste time just take a donation.” I pulled out six hundred and handed it over like it was nothing.

“Oh....thanks? I guess it’s easier to pay people off when your loaded,” It sounded more like a joke.

I felt a small smile and pulled out another hundred, “Sometiwms you have to buy friends, it’s sad I know.” I patted fake tears and dropped the money ont he floor.

“But you know what they say,” I held the hundred out to him, “You feel better when you cry in a Ferrari.” I let out a single laugh, and then realized the mistake I made when I smield as he laughed.

“I knew you weren’t completely heartl-” I cut him off,

“Don’t talk about it, I’ll pay you off to never mention it.” He laughed and smiled a hand reaching to the back of his neck.

“Call us friends and you won’t even have to pay me.” He smiled.

“Deal.” I answered.

He opened his phone and held it out, “here add your number.”

I sigehd and added my number, he sent me a message and I saved him number.

“Alright new friend, I’ll see you later.”

He waved and walked off as the bell rang.The next day I was dragged to lunch and sat between Denki and Bakugo. I don’t know what to do, so I just drank water, I tried to talk to Mina when she talked to em but they all seemed so tense except for Denki.This became my schedule for the weeks to come.

“I’m hungry,” I grumbled into my phone.

Denki had FaceTimed me at 2 in the morning.

“Then go eat, nobody’s up except you and me.” He shrugged sitting on his bed under his blanket.

“Alright, I’ll be back. so just stay here.” I propped my phone up he had a view of my room from the prop my phone was on.

“Oooo, even your room looks like it belongs to a rich girl. Definitely fancier then Yaoyorozu’s.” He looked around to see what he could.

“Nice, I’ll be back I’m going to find.... dinner?”

“MKay.” Was all he said as he yawned.

I grabbed my second phone and popped in my AirPods, I started to play my music on shuffle. Making it to the Kitchen I was vibing with my music and getting into it. I started to make a sandwich and doing weird dances. I smiled and finally started to Clean up.The song Falling for you, started to play and for some reason my mind went to a certain blonde. I smield to myself, thinking about him. I fluffed my hair and ran my finger over my lashes. I felt the tips of my hair brushing my bare legs.

I smiled and picked up my sandwich and started a new dance with hip movement when the song Hotel Room Sevrvice came on. I started to turn to walk away stopping when I met familiar eyes.

“So, the edgy princess isn’t who she acts to be.” I swallowed, staring at him, his biceps were huge, especially in that muscle shirt.

I got a message form Denki, I’d given him my second number, “SOMEONES HEADED YOUR WAY!”

“Heeeyyy Bakugo....” I was caught, no point in hiding.

“What are you doing up this late?” He asked unamused.

“Well,” I looked at my sandwich, “I was looking for food but an even better snack walked in.” I winked at him.

He made a grunt.

“No? Not Good enough?” I asked an dlwaned against the counter.

“No.”

“How about are you a tombstone cause is nat you on top of me,” I did finger guns this time putting my sandwich down.

“Anything better?” He asked his eyes narrowing.

“Are you a sinning ship? Because I really wanna go down on you.....” I didn’t fight back the smile.

I heard him cough, and I smiled as I noticed a very faint blush.

“Want me try again?” I asked with a cheeky smile.

He didn’t answer he just looked at me,

“You can call me a coffin cause I want you be in-“ I couldn’t finsh I looked and licked my top lip, I assume she understood what I meant but wanted to finsh “inside me.”

At that point I forgot my hunger, I was hungry something else, nothing particularly dirty but some attention.

“Well Katsuki,” I casually walked over to him pushing myself into his side tilting my head onto his shoulder and looking up at him. “I know we definitely have a lot of bad reactions, but I say we should experiment with this chemistry we have going on.”

I pulled his left arm from across his chest and held his hand between my palms, “You look like you’d enjoy someone who would totally dominate you.” I pulled back and placed a soft kiss on his shoulder.

“What do you say?” I asked squeezing his arm.

“Yeah right,” he scoffed and looked down at me.

“Come on, from what I’ve heard you wanted to be called a king, I can make you feel like a king.” I nuzzled against his shoulder.

“I’ll give you one date, but after that you’ll just be an extra so you’ll have to stay out of my way.” He said and brushed it off like it was nothing.

“Ill make sure you don’t regret it.” I stretched and kissed his cheek and booked it out of there sandwich in tow.

“YOU WONT BELIEVE IT.” I screamed at Denki who was still on face time.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

“Soooooo?” I hugged Bakugo’s waist as the class gathered around in the gym.

Everyone in costume, “You look so fine dressed in your hero uniform.” I said and trailed my hand up the giant gauntlet on his wrist.

“Hm.”He grunted ignoring the stares of disbelief. “Whatever.”

The moment we broke of into our Duos to play an all to competitive game of catch the flag we stopped in the middle of the trading grounds, I was pulled into his chest, his right hand brushing my hair from the top of my head to my lower back. “Your hair is so long,” He mumbled I felt him take a hand full and pull on it, I was weak in the knees almost instantly.

I looked up at him batting my eyelashes, “There you go batting your fake lashes just to distract me.” He grunted.

“I’d agree with you if they’re weren’t real.” I smield and blinked slowly.

“Well aren’t you just gorgeous.” He snarled and he kissed the top of my head

“Now out of my way Extra I’m leading you so don’t leave my side or get in the way.” He stepped aside and looked down at me.

“You and I both know your better at taking Commands. But I’ll play obedient, only for you Katsuki.” I winked at him.

He turned with a growl, “Let’s just go beat that damn nerd.”