#only a small portion of which has made it only AO3

[daemoninwhiteround2]

yall the new Linkin Park is real fucking good

[preeningpisces]

Report - Kenjaku x F!Reader

Kenjaku shows up unannounced, and makes himself all too comfortable in your apartment. Pwp, 4k, Crossposted on AO3

A/N: At first I referred to him as Geto in this, as I found it unlikely YN would know his real name, but then figured this has no plot and there isn't many Kenjaku x reader fics without Geto & swapped it to Kenjaku ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Shoutout to this lovely anon for giving me a reason/the drive to write something for my favorite hoe 💚

Content: p-in-v, m!oral, sex toys, size kink, unprepped sex, edging, choking, biting, spit/cum stuff, degradation--personally I think this is more tame than it sounds

18+ content below, mdni, implied chubby!reader, enjoooy!

The figure seated at your dinner table makes your soul leap from your body.

Tonight you planned a date with a hot shower, your favorite snacks, and three seasons’ worth of TV to binge. You’d only completed step one, so recently that your skin hasn’t finished absorbing the lotion, leaving your calves and thighs tacky.

His back is to you, but you know he’s aware of your presence. For once, he isn’t wearing his signature robes, and instead sports simple black clothing. Seeing him dressed down is comforting, makes him seem less untouchable, and more like a regular person.

You lament the change in your evening plans, knowing your guest will occupy a decent portion of your time. 

“You take awfully long showers,” he says without turning. “I’ve been here for over an hour.” 

Springing up at random isn’t out of the ordinary for Kenjaku, though it’s more common for him to send messages from unknown numbers or ‘coincidentally’ run into you. He’s never showed up at your apartment before, let alone at such an odd hour of the night. Briefly you wonder how he knows where you live, but then dismiss this as a foolish thought—of course he knows.

“I’m just thorough,” you say as you round the table and sit across from him where he reads one of your books. A silly romance that was popular online; hardly revolutionary or life-altering, but it was a sweet, endearing story and you enjoyed it quite a bit. With how far he’s in, you wonder if he picked a random spot or simply reads that quickly.

“That you are.” He glances up, and a shift in his eye tells you he wasn’t expecting the cotton bathrobe with matching shorts. It’s a favorite that you got off a discount rack, lying somewhere between the lines of sensual and comfortable. Flattering, but hardly scandalous; you don’t feel indecent in his presence. 

“I’m surprised you enjoy this drivel,” he says, judgment evident. “You seemed more intelligent than that.” 

“They’re just for fun. Sometimes it’s nice to read something simple,” you reach for the book, beginning to feel defensive. 

He leans back, now flipping through its contents. It reminds you of a schoolyard bully holding your belongings above you and taunting you for being too short. 

“Are you here to antagonize me, or are you here for something actually important?” As soon as you say this, you know you made a mistake: the ire in your voice will only encourage his pestering.

“I came for your report, but now I’m more interested in your terrible taste.” He gestures to your bookshelf—small, and housing a modest collection of varying genres with the occasional knick knack. “I’ve gone through several already, but saved what I suspect to be the worst for last.”

“Then you can follow me on Goodreads, if you’re so curious. Now give that back,” you hold out your hand, growing agitated. The light catches the ridge of his scar, and taunts you to tug on one of those stitches, which look much less secure than they should. 

“Embarrassed?” He smiles, and makes no move to relinquish the book. 

“If I say yes, will you give it back?” 

A snide puff.

“No.” 

Knowing how fickle he is, you relent; he’ll grow bored with the book soon enough and move on. But minutes of his skimming pass, wholly ignoring your crossed arms and impatient tapping.

“Ah, I see. Is this why you’re so fond of these?” He turns the book for you to read: it’s one of the few sex scenes, and his finger points to a questionable line of dialogue. 

You can’t resist the bait, and indignation rises in your chest. You spring forward in your seat, aiming for the book. Unfazed by your aggression, he avoids you with ease and an infuriating smirk. It only provokes you further, now motivating you to one-up him.

There is a sudden pause in his movements that allows you to snatch the book. As you look at him triumphantly, you notice his eyes aren’t directed at your face; instead, they’re fixed on your chest. Following his gaze, your heart sinks when you discover your robe hanging open, revealing your right breast. 

When you look at him again, his eyes are on yours. Heavy and lidded, they freeze you in place with their weight. The playful energy from before halts, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his hand in the opening, and cups your breast.

Shocked, you drop the book with a muted thud, more from his boldness than the sensation. A gasp escapes you when he pinches your nipple, rolling it slowly, and your hands fly to his shoulders, not wanting to topple over from the awkward position.

His other hand joins and teases your unexposed breast through the cloth; you fall against him, and a soft noise warms his ear before tracing the stretched lobe with your lower lip. Whether it’s ticklish or it’s your interest in his ear that entertains him, his shoulders thrum with amusement. The plastic clacks between your teeth as you toy with the plug, seeing how far you can rotate it before he becomes irritated.

It doesn’t take long, because a hand winds itself in your hair and pulls you forward, but the table creaks in protest under your weight. 

“Not here,” you say, husk already tinting your voice. “It’s a shitty table.” 

He releases you and follows you down the hallway to your bedroom. You don’t even have time to flick on the light before he pulls you backward, connecting your ass to his groin with his large hands fondling your breasts.

The eager touch surprises you—he hadn’t seemed at all bothered when you stopped him before. You can’t help but shiver when he sucks on your neck, fixing it with hickeys and bites. A renewed focus on your nipples makes you whimper and squeeze at his forearms. 

“Sensitive here, or are you just desperate?” He punctuates with a pull of your left nipple. 

“A bit of both,” you say, and press your ass against him. It’s been some time since you’ve felt this kind of touch, let alone by someone as attractive as him. 

“Cute,” he hums, and grinds his forming erection against you. 

Cool palms slide beneath the robe again, making your nipples so peaked they sting. Deft fingers are quick to melt the cold with slow rolls that morph into pinching and dragging from areola to tip. The attention makes you squirm in his hold and rest your head against his shoulder, weaving your fingers through his glorious hair—which is every bit as silky as it appears. Needing an outlet for your rising desire, you detach him from your neck and angle his head so you can force your lips together. 

The kiss is more passionate than you expected, and it only makes you melt further in his hands. You scratch his scalp and earn a surprised moan. His right hand trails upward, wrapping around a considerable portion of your neck. Air isn’t cut or restricted, but he squeezes enough for your pulse to quicken and make your head fuzzy.

A twist of your nipple makes you arch your back, and he sucks your lower lip until it bruises. Teeth scrape it briefly, before he pushes his tongue into your open mouth and greets yours unabashedly. 

Kenjaku has an air of grace to him, of superiority; you’d think him above such things as these. But he doesn’t flinch or show any disgust when drool pools from the messy kiss—he even licks the bit that trickles down your chin. He breaks the kiss, parting slowly to appreciate the strand that connects your mouths. 

A tug of the simple knot at your waist peels your robe open, and you help him by shrugging your shoulders free. The hold on your neck tightens, and he feels down your stomach, dipping below the waistband of your shorts. Your skin prickles with embarrassment when he squeezes the full softness above your pussy. A pleased noise comes from the back of his throat when he realizes you have no underwear and finds slippery arousal. 

“Look at me.”

You feel how heavy your eyes are, how blatant lust must be on your face. His middle finger finds your clit and traces a single rough, short line, making you flinch. Almost imperceptible circles soothe the rough sensation, leading you to loosen your grip on his hair and hold his wrist. The featherlike strokes feel like static, and every tingle of your flesh touching makes you wetter. 

When your eyes shut, he squeezes your neck again, demanding you keep your focus on him. Even in moments like this, his eyes are full of condescension and superiority; the lowliness you feel in his presence only stirs your need. 

Awkwardly, you feel around behind you for his cock and rub your palm over it as best you can. Despite the clumsy touch, his breath hitches, and his clever fingers pause. Thrill dances in your chest and you stroke him more firmly.

His hand flexes around your neck, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or a green light. Whichever he intends doesn’t matter to you, because you squeeze his bulge. The firm tap of his finger on your clit reads as chastisement, but you ignore it, already deciding your next move. 

“I want to suck your dick,” you say. You aren’t too prideful to kowtow to his desire for control. “Can I?” 

Dark eyes shelter his thoughts as he considers your offer, and for a moment you think he’s going to turn you down, but he dips his finger in your hole and briefly skims the edge before swiping back up to your clit. A small noise comes out, and your face must be comical because he looks more amused than before. 

“How polite.” The lack of heat and touch as he steps away are disappointing, but the sounds of his belt and zipper more than make up for their loss. “I suppose I’ll let you.”

“Let me,” you snort as you watch him undress. “As if you didn’t start this.”

A broad hand presses down on your shoulder, urging you to kneel—which you do eagerly, not minding the cheap carpet scratching your knees.

“I did, and now you’re exactly where I want you,” he removes his sweater, bearing the impressive muscles of his abdomen. You wonder if this was his true intention coming here tonight and that he played you like a fiddle.

These thoughts disappear when he pulls his trousers and underwear down; you can’t help when your face twists in shock: his cock is huge.

“No wonder you’re so full of yourself.” 

He smirks, and you dread what this affair will do to his already inflated ego.

You scoot forward, assessing the beast, and idly rotate your jaw to prepare for the task at hand. Despite most of his head being exposed and dripping with pre-cum, you push back the remaining foreskin to fully reveal the dark head. You lean forward for a kiss, but land it on his groin instead. 

The click of his tongue and the twitch beneath you is reward enough for the entire night; you’re confident he would never beg for anything from you, but this disappointment feels close enough to claim the satisfaction all the same. 

Still positioned at his tip, your thumbs softly stroke the sides, more soothing than pleasurable as you continue to mouth everywhere but his cock. Fed up, he grips your hair and pulls you back. You get the message, and eagerly suck his head in your mouth, where you set your lips and tongue to work; it’s difficult with his girth, but you manage. He grunts and loosens his hold, allowing you to do as you please. 

To show your gratitude, you plunge him deeper, tongue now rubbing along the seam of his cock as you flex and contract your lips. The muscles in his thighs jolt, and you feel energy rolling off him—the urge to do something, to react.

Steeling your resolve, you slide him further in and pull back, never stopping the pulse of your lips or tongue. It’s then that you suck around him, creating the wet sounds of suction that fill your small bedroom.

The light from the hallway glows behind him, making him radiant; like he’s a god, and this is your offering.

You cup his balls gently and rub a thumb over them to test the waters. Your curiosity is rewarded when the single hand in your hair becomes two, and he moves your head for you.

They cover your ears, cutting out all sound. Whether this is intentional, you can’t say. All you can hear is the wet sounds of your mouth molding around his cock. It’s as if this is your entire world, that this is the only thing you’re good for, and the thought makes you drip. 

Lewdly, you hum and moan your prayer around him. Noises of his own join yours, but you are not worthy of hearing them. Overeager, he pulls you down further on his cock, poking dangerously close to your gag reflex. Your second unoccupied hand wraps around the portion not in your mouth preemptively, and stroke him in time with your mouth. Seeing right through your attempt, he holds your head still and begins fucking your mouth.

It takes only a few thrusts for him to push deeper than before, making you gag softly, which causes him to throw his head back and continue the deep thrusts. It’s uncomfortable, but not so much that you feel the need to stop him. Watching him loosen up is so hypnotic you don’t register how worryingly deep he is in your throat. Until he surges himself all the way forward, forcing your nose to meet his groin. 

When you choke, he groans deeply, and rolls against your face as your throat convulses around him sporadically. You’re about to beat at his thigh, but he pulls you off his cock entirely.

Quickly, you recover and recapture him despite the pull on your hair, doubling down with a soft mouth, tonguing all the sensitive spots you found. And to your surprise, hot cum spurts down your throat with a low groan. You drink it all until he pulls your head back and strokes his cock, shooting the remaining spurts on your face.

You didn’t think he’d be so quick to cum, and it seems, neither did he.

A painful yank of your hair forces you to stand before you can comment, and full of surprises, he licks a line of cum from your chin and smears it over your tongue with his own. The dirtiness of it makes a raw noise come from your abused throat.

Not breaking the kiss, he walks you to your bed and pushes you back; you scoot yourself to the headboard and barely shimmy your shorts off before he crawls atop you, flaccid cock in hand. With a surge of reversed cursed energy, he urges it to re-harden. 

“Is this the difference between special grades and the rest of us?” 

He doesn’t acknowledge your taunt, and after two pumps, positions his cock at your hole. Unprepped, his tip presses against the ring of muscle for several moments, unable to breech despite ample lubrication.

“The Viagra tech-”

Your pussy finally yields, and his cock spears itself to the hilt.

“Fuck!” 

Mercifully, he doesn’t rail you, and instead rolls his hips, stroking your most receptive spots. It aches, his cock stretching you to what feels like your capacity, but it’s the sort of ache that makes you crave more. You meet his hips with your own, desperately chasing more of the electric feeling. He grabs the underside of your knees and leans forward, putting his weight on them. The position angles his cock upward and fucks you with more fervor. 

“Jesus, it’s so big,” you say, legs trembling in his hold. 

Needing a distraction, you cup the back of his head and pull him as close as your breasts and stomach allow. You kiss at whatever flesh you can reach, starting at his damp hairline, and following up immediately with the seam on his forehead. The simple kiss earns you a sharp cant of his hips and a hiss, tempting you to fixate on the scar.

Your tongue traces the divot faintly, careful not to press too hard and minding the sutures. The effect is immediate, as he ruts into you, slow, deep, and hard, surprisingly loud moans spilling from his pretty lips. Even his moans are rough, as if they scrape his throat on their way out. Like his vocal chords haven’t made such sounds in some time. 

“Sensitive?” You murmur your tease against the raised flesh. 

“Wounds tend to be, yes.” He kisses you tenderly, and when you sigh, bites your lower lip with a crunch. Teeth pierce, and copper flavors the kiss. You part with a hiss, and his thumb swipes at the puncture. “See? Or do you need further demonstration.”

“You’re such a dick,” you mutter, batting his hand away from your sore lip.

His attention falters, and you follow his eyes to your nightstand. You live alone and have no need for secrecy, so your vibrator charges in plain sight. Owning sex toys is something you’ve never thought twice about, let alone felt any shame towards, but you become flustered when Kenjaku leans over and unplugs it.

Excitement overpowers your embarrassment when he turns it on. To your surprise, he doesn’t place it on your clit, and instead keeps it in a low setting and traces it along your labia. His hips slow, but they maintain a steady pace. Your body tenses with anticipation anytime it nears your clit, but it still doesn’t touch you. The stretch of his cock feels amazing, but your clit practically burns with need, swollen and begging to be touched.

“Now, what do you have for me this week?” he asks, full of mischief.

“What?”

He pushes your chubby mound upward and finally places the toy on your clit—you gasp. 

“Your report. It’s what I came here for, after all.” 

He circles the vibrator around your clit in time with his hips, looking all too amused when you struggle to respond. You ignore his question, and instead squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm approaches at an alarming rate. You’ve waited so long, you’ve been so pent up, you just need—

“Ah, ah, you’ve got a job to do. Stay focused,” he tuts, and lifts the vibrator. You swear loudly, and your hips chase the toy, but he pins you with a hand on your hip. 

“T-the first year,” you begin, legs trembling with pent up anticipation, “students–” you whimper when the vibrator returns. 

“Go on,” he coos. 

“They-they…” you trail off when a slow and delicious drag of his cock steals your mind. The vibrator moves, and you throw your head back. “Theywentto–fuck!” 

“Speak clearly; this is vital information.” He presses it on fully, directly, gleefully watching you struggle. 

“They wen-went to Ro-oooh,” with a click, he turns it up a notch. “Fuck, you’re–” he nestles it between your lips and rotates it teasingly. Only a few hums more and he removes it again. 

“Please, please don’t stop.” Your voice warbles pathetically, “please let me cum. I need it–”

“And I need your report,” he smiles, as if he isn’t torturing you. 

The hopeless look you give him must spur him on, because he fucks you with the most vigor he’s showed thus far. Ripples roll across your soft stomach and thighs, and your breasts bounce wildly, but you’re too far gone to pay them any mind. 

“They went to R-roppongi!” You manage, and before he can torment you, add, “it was just—third-grade curses.” 

Even now, as he fucks you hard and fast, he doesn’t pull out much, and instead focuses on stroking your all of your sensitive areas relentlessly. It’s so different from what you’re used to, and so, so much better. You don’t know if you’ll be satisfied getting fucked any other way now. 

“And what of Satoru Gojo?” he grunts when you squeeze him particularly hard.

“A meeting–he had a meeting,” you breathe heavily, trying to catch your breath. The pause must displease Kenjaku, because he slaps your wet clit with the buzzing toy, making you jerk beneath him. 

“Wednesday!” you yell. “The Higher uh-” you’re cut off with a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue, agitating your bloody lip. 

“No need to shout, I’m right here,” he says cheekily, and grips your jaw, demanding your attention. “I’m sure you’re eager for your reward.” You nod the best you can.

A large palm spans your lower belly, pressing the plump flesh down to meet his upward thrusts. It feels like you’re even fuller, even more sensitive; your eyes bulge when a deep pressure builds. 

“Can you feel it?” His eyes look wild, more unhinged than before, and it makes you squeeze him in apprehension. “How large this cock is—incredible, isn’t it?” 

If you weren’t on the verge of exploding, the way he marvels at his own dick would make you roll your eyes. 

“Hmm?” He pulls all the way out for the first time, and sharply thrusts back in, meanly stabbing your deepest, most tender area.

“Yes, yes—I feel it!” He repeats the motion, aiming higher. “It feels so fucking good!”

He chuckles and ups the vibrator’s setting, rocking into you faster. All you can do is hold on to him, your mind too scattered and pliant for anything more. With each powerful thrust, he hits the spot near your cervix, causing your pussy to clench around him and draw melodic sounds. You force your eyes to stay open, fully aware that this is a sight you’ll never forget. His disheveled hair clung to his sweaty skin, with most of the strands of his top knot undone. Pink tinges his cheeks, and his brows crease ever so slightly. The sight causes a sudden leap of pleasure, and you feel yourself dancing at the edge.

“Are you ready to come?” He asks, as if sensing the sudden development.

“Oh, god yes!”

A smile is the only warning you're given before he withdraws the vibrator again. The cruelty almost makes you cry. Before you can plead, he pushes the hood of your clit back and the vibrator returns.

“Then come.”

Everything you held onto breaks as you come, abdomen convulsing deeply, and mouth wide open. You soar so high you forget he’s with you for a moment. Your pussy gushes, and clenches him so hard it feels like it’s trying to push his cock out along with your release. The euphoric sensations quickly become a sting as the vibrator doesn’t falter, and you claw at his back and wail.

With a click, he turns off the toy as he tosses it aside, and traps you in his arms with his head nestled in the junction of your neck and shoulder. Teeth sink into the flesh hard enough to draw blood and a shout. Only four pumps more and he fills you as deep as he can reach, as if his cum seeps directly into your womb.

He lies on you for several moments, his cock softening and twitching occasionally. It’s pleasant, and oddly domestic, feeling skin against your own and listening to the sounds of each other’s breathing. Eventually, he slides free, and you’re reminded that he came inside you when it trickles down your ass. 

“I’m not on birth control, you know.” You eye him as he flops next to you, making himself comfortable, as if this is his bed and you’re the guest. “Unless you want some kid of yours running around, you owe me a Plan B.”

He shrugs.

“Makes no difference to me. It wouldn’t be my first child or my last.” 

“Ha, right,” you stretch your legs, sore from being bent for so long. After a pause, you turn to him again.

“Wait, really?”

[magenta-embers]

My Jikook Journey

Part 2 of my intro.

From "multi-shipper" to "...wait a goddamn minute."

This will be a messy and detail-lacking overview because I could easily do an individual post on each thing I mention here and delve deeper (AMA!).

When I became an ARMY in 2018, I was excited about the treasure trove of fanfics now available to me. The ship didn't really matter, but my bias was/is Jimin (bias wrecker Tae then) so the very first fic I read was a vmin camping one (there was only one sleeping bag, gasp!). For me, shipping meant I'd read fanfics or save fanart of certain pairs together because in a fictional sense/in another universe, they make a good couple. I think this is a healthy approach, keeping that boundary between reality and fiction.

When I mentioned to my k-pop fan step-sister that I was reading vmin, she gave me a weird look. She said taekook is THE ship of BTS, which confused me because vmin seemed to be closer and have better chemistry than Tae and JK. Turns out, she was right. Searching by most kudos on ao3, you get a shit ton of taekook. I accepted it readily and just thought I must be missing something since I was a baby ARMY, so I read those super popular fics and started to enjoy taekook too. I started to focus more on them because... it felt like that was what I was supposed to do.

It's a common problem, isn't it? Baby ARMY who are open to shipping are quickly found and "guided" to taekook before they have a chance to glance in another direction. If they try, taekookers, who are the majority in the shipping sphere, will convince them that taekook is THE ship. Even if they aren't ARMY (my step-sister), they know that much. As a new fan, you just want to fit in, so you'll go along with what's most popular. Some people eventually find their own way, but many don't. Asking questions is vital, but if you do it aloud, you risk getting attacked by a small but extremely aggressive portion of the most infamous fanbase.

Even back then while just innocently reading any well-written fic I could get my hands on, I noticed that Jungkook was usually portrayed as a lot edgier and darker than he really was (manifested the 2023 JK aesthetic) and Taehyung was constantly portrayed as... Jimin. Especially in fan art. For some reason, a lot of the time, the appearance/vibe/personality of Taehyung was truer to Jimin than to himself, and that confused me. "Why not just make it Jungkook x Jimin?" I kept seeing them trying to force Taehyung into the dynamic that Jimin has with Jungkook when their own dynamic was perfectly fine.

Slipping down the pipeline, I started to watch taekook moments/analysis videos because I thought gotta be missing something, right? That's how I found out people are convinced they're dating, and it wasn't just a fun fic/art thing. The videos themselves were... something. There were just way too many red circles, too much slow-mo, and too much mind-reading going on for me to take any of it seriously. Plus, the moments that weren't exaggerated were just close friend skinship. Hell, Taejin were doing more sus shit together than taekook.

And yet people insist on taekook even when taekook do nothing to insist on themselves.

At this point, it was deep into 2019. Jikook were wilding in 2019. Even I was noticing all the... little things that made me raise an eyebrow. The touches that lingered just too long in rather intimate areas, the fond/awed looks at each other, the shameless flirting, the complete lack of physical boundaries, and the normalness of it all between them. That's telling. Even though I was mainly a taekooker with a shit ton of fanart and fics saved to my phone, if you looked at my liked YouTube videos around that time, I had jikook moments videos saved, not taekook, because their moments were just more fun/juicier to watch overall. They just interacted differently than they did with other members.

A quick example would be a video compilation of taekook holding hands. Sure, they're holding hands, maybe even interlocking fingers, but they're usually standing side by side and looking in different directions or just having a neutral expression. But if you watch a jikook one, not only is it much longer, but it's just different. I feel like I'm interrupting sometimes. Even in such a simple action like holding hands, there's a softness, an intimacy there that doesn't exist in taekook. Jikook wouldn't just be holding hands (usually for absolutely no reason), they'd be looking into each other's eyes, smiling sweetly, fully turned toward each other, attention completely captured by the other. How can I explain the look in their eyes? It just doesn't exist with vmin, yoonmin, jihope, etc.

Sidebar: All of those pairs have flirty/sus moments as most really close friendship dynamics do, but they're lighthearted to me and never invoked a true sense of.... whoa whoa whoa, hang on. If Jungkook and Jimin were my close friends IRL and I saw the way they are together, my alarms would go off. As either, "Oh my god, they're fucking," or "Oh my god, they wanna fuck each other." People always say, "Oh, Jimin's like that with everyone." No. No, he's not. Pay attention. Really pay attention to the differences in the dynamics between members. None of them have the "same" relationship. Especially pay attention to how the rest of the members react to Jikook.

Anyway,

So here I was noticing this... deeper intimacy in simple interactions with those two (because I'm a human being with eyes and life experience), and yet my Twitter timeline would just dismiss them entirely. "I love their friendship," "Wow their brotherhood is so beautiful," and "They're all so close," and normally these statements wouldn't bother me because technically they're true, but I started noticing that taekook or yoonmin would brush shoulders and everyone would be like, "Omg taekook/yoonmin married/boyfriends/real," over nothing. Their moments are cute/sweet/funny, but never more than that. The blatant hypocrisy did frustrate me a little, but ultimately I didn't overthink it; I didn't want to be delulu or look too deeply into anything because I still thought I must be missing something. Taekook is the most popular for a reason, right? Right?

But Taekook died for me when Tae told Taekookers to get out of their imagination. I respected that from him and took it at face value. It was the most aggressive shutdown of shipping we've ever had. I couldn't brush him off. It's disrespectful. He's uncomfortable.

Meanwhile, over the next couple of years, Jungkook and Jimin only got more suspicious in the minor interactions and in the big staple moments. Rosebowl. Hickeygate. Etc. Everyone was bending over backward trying to explain away the things these two did with each other, and it's always the same excuses. I was also trying extremely hard to think of any reason other than the simplest one because I didn't want to be delulu.

Because there was no way two members of a boyband were actually in a long-term relationship together. Especially in a conservative country.

Ridiculous. Unrealistic. Delulu.

I was basically telling myself in a mirror that they were just extra super duper close friends with muddy boundaries that meant sucking ears and giving neck hickeys was okay. I did allow there to be the thought that, maybe they're friends with benefits and that unavoidable intimacy now bleeds through into their regular interactions.

That opinion carried until 2023.

Isn't that funny?

2023.

The year so many jikookers gave up and bemoaned that those two weren't close anymore or had broken up is the year that finally convinced me.

What tipped me over?

Jungkook's vlives.

The way he kept watching videos of Jimin when he could just phone him. It reminded me of me watching Jimin, but I'm just a fan; I watch those videos because it's the only way I can appease my yearning to be close to and connected to Jimin, and absorb everything that he does or says or is.

Jungkook doesn't have that limitation, so why's he sitting there like a lovesick puppy with the fondest/most loving eyes when he could have Jimin over with just a call? Why's he sitting there looking like he's also yearning for something he can't have like us, the fans, when he can have it? He has Jimin's number. You don't need to watch yourself tease Jimin. You can just go do it. Just text him, bro.

It felt like he just wanted to bask in Jimin without interruption, without distraction, without having to force his attention elsewhere. Beyond being incredibly sweet, it also felt like Jungkook was making a statement, a point, because he kept doing it. Why? Is he somehow obsessed with his friend and bandmate whom he's seen almost every day for over a decade? If it was to promote him, he really didn't have to do all that? He didn't do it for the others, not to that extent.

Watching Jimin, talking about Jimin, singing Jimin's songs, fkn playing Letter on guitar. (The naked vlive flirting session? Lord, what.)

The man kept having vlives with a significant Jimin focus. He insisted on it enough times that it felt like he was trying to slap some sense into me. His insistence bothered me enough for me to finally do a deep dive into jikook.

Down the rabbit hole, I went. The more I learned, the more my jaw dropped. Where the fuck was all this info on my timeline when these motherfuckers were celebrating the most basic kpop boy interactions as if they were wedding vows? I even ended up seeing pictures/info we as fans were never meant to see at the bottom of that hole. If you know, you know.

Eventually, I ended up on this video (bless this fucking channel).

I want everyone to understand that I had zero knowledge of established relationship timeline theories. I went into this video blind, just trying to find the point in time when JK started to warm up to Jimin. That's not what I found. I found something so much better.

Especially 2013-2015 had me in awe. I think I cried. Jimin and Jungkook had a fattest, cutest mutual crush on each other. Absolutely. And because they were young, not that famous, and still rookies with media and camera training, we get a lot of insight into those two that we wouldn't get in later years when they learned how to mask and behave more "idol"-like. Jimin was especially loud, almost sadly loud. If you haven't watched the timeline of at least those early years, I implore you to. It actually blew my mind and broke/healed my heart. It's really bittersweet to see two teenage boys with little to no experience in anything romantic trying to come to terms with themselves while also coming to terms with each other. It's like watching a coming-of-age romance movie.

I saw clear shifts from when the relationship hit turning points in certain years. I proposed a timeline in my head based on that. Imagine my fucking surprise when I found out other people have also come up with timelines, and more surprising yet, they were all unbelievably similar to mine, down to what changed in what half of the year. I, who had no previous knowledge that this was even a thing. I just noticed it all on my own. We were all seeing the same thing. The same changes. No red circles, no slow-mo, no mind reading. It's all in the body language.

I panicked a little because overall it seemed too good to be true, so I reached out to a taekooker friend to send me her best evidence videos and receipts because I just had to make sure I wasn't going totally delulu here. I needed to see that the other biggest ship had interactions and moments on the same level with that same consistency, maybe even their very own relationship timeline to bring me back down to Earth. But... there's nothing. Really, there's nothing between taekook. Not one moment where I was like, oh? You'll find hours-long jikook content videos that are absolutely jam-packed with content, significant content, but that sort of depth just doesn't exist for taekook. Instead, you get conspiracy theories.

I watched most of the videos on that best of jikook channel and several other staple channels. It wasn't as if I bought into everything presented. I still rolled my eyes at many things that were blown out of proportion by some creators, and jikook isn't free from red circles and slow-mo and bullshit. And yet, I was still overwhelmed by the mountain of crisp receipts dumped on my head.

Jikook have much, much more solid evidence supporting the theory that they are together than evidence against it. I took the facts as they are, took my social experiences for what they are, took my psychology background for what it is, and concluded that they are most likely together, probability-wise. At the very least, they are the ONLY pair in BTS that have ANY legitimate possibility of being romantically involved. If jikook isn't real, then none of the other ships have any hope whatsoever, let's not kid ourselves. It's them or none of them.

They also have much, much more evidence that they are together than with any random man or woman you wanna throw at them. There needs to be valuable evidence or a total shutdown for me to tip the scale. I'm going to need Jimin or Jungkook to state, "I am not dating anyone at all," or "Get out of your imagination," or a bighit relationship announcement, or a clear video of lip-on-lip action or very intimate interaction with someone else.

Frankly, I don't give a single fuck about a grainy pic/video when it's 2023 and there's no excuse for that. I don't give a fuck who owns the same vase or cooking pots. I don't give a fuck if either of them hugged a woman. These are not evidence. These aren't even as good as the worst Jikook evidence.

At this point in time, Jikook is still the only viable option with the information we currently have available to us. This is my opinion and I stand by it.

At the end of the day, the thing I want most is for Jimin to be happy. Currently, it seems that Jungkook makes Jimin the happiest (as Jungkook says). As long as that holds true, I'll be here. If that changes at some point in time, I'd accept it.

But until that day comes, what the fuck else am I supposed to think?

E.

[alexawynters]

Scarlet Whispers pt. 3

Gif not mine

Master list here

Author's Note: Nightmare portion written by @Never_Trick_OnlyTreats on AO3 - I outsourced the nightmare because it was a struggle my first time trying my hand at it, so thank you so much for your help with that scene!

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female!Reader

Trigger warnings (let me know if I forgot to tag anything): Mentions of past child abuse, ongoing adult child abuse, stalking, horror, dubcon, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, gaslighting, angst, smut. There will be bits of fluff tho.

Rating: M. Minors DNI

A few days pass as you and Wanda settle into a rhythm, which you are currently referring to as a roommate situation. You hesitate to label it anything else since other labels seem... unbefitting. Everything feels so complicated, and you find yourself with more questions than answers. Whenever you try to ask Wanda about her plans for you, she distracts and flusters you, causing you to forget what you were trying to ask in the first place.

After casually exploring the grounds, you notice that Mount Wundagore no longer looks the same. Instead of the gloomy stone temple in the mountains, Wanda has transformed it into an idyllic countryside cottage. The weather outside is always perfect, with a gentle crisp breeze and the sun shining just behind the clouds. It feels like a perfect autumn day. The small cottage is surprisingly spacious inside for something so small, with multiple rooms including an office, living room, gaming room, quaint kitchen, and a library that you’re pretty sure resembles the one from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. There is only one bedroom which you and Wanda share, though Wanda frequently reassures you there is no pressure from her to do anything.

You are amazed by the witch's incredible powers and the careful consideration she put into creating your new "home". It seems as though she knew exactly what you wanted and turned it into a reality. The thought and effort she put into making it comfortable for you warms your heart. As always, after some time passes, you can't help but wonder when reality will catch up. You still have exams to complete, job applications to submit, and a life to live. When will you be able to return to that? Surely you couldn’t stay here forever, life simply didn’t work like that.

Wanda made an effort not to leave you alone for too long, especially if she knew you wouldn't be engrossed in an activity that would occupy your time, like playing a video game. When asked where she was going, she would dismissively say she was ensuring your safety, being intentionally vague on the details of what that entailed. You never fully believed her, partly because of the intense look in her eyes. However, she could easily distract you from her plans, and if you insisted, a brief glow from her eyes would suddenly have your mind immersed in another activity, causing you to completely forget what you were originally talking about.

The witch didn’t like to use her powers on you excessively; it felt like cheating. Nevertheless, she couldn't afford to have you scrutinizing her actions and movements too closely, especially when she would return, often covered in blood, from removing any possible threats that might have been trying to take you away from her. She couldn't risk you questioning her and discovering the truth, not until she had complete control over you. Wanda needed you to desire and depend on her, and for that, she needed your trust and happiness.

Most days, you would wake up with Wanda's arms wrapped tightly around you. Early on, you discovered that she preferred being the big spoon, and you had no complaints about it. Once she held you, she wouldn't let go anytime soon. While initially awkward for you because you weren't used to physical touch from others, especially from someone you found so beautiful, she made it easy for you by never demanding more than you were comfortable giving. When Wanda woke up, her raspy voice, and thick accent, would greet you with a good morning, usually asking if you wanted breakfast.

That was another adjustment you had to make - having regular meals. You had become so accustomed to skipping meals and practicing intermittent fasting that you originally felt a bit queasy when you learned that Wanda wanted you to eat three full meals a day. At first, you declined her offer, but Wanda insisted, after she somehow managed to make you admit that you had been practically starving yourself in an attempt to lose weight. Because of this, she was insistent that you would now have three meals a day, and that you would eat all of them in her presence. Although you felt a bit annoyed by said insistence, you secretly appreciated her concern. You remembered how your mother would praise you every time you went down a pant size, unaware of the fact that you were going days without eating to achieve it.

After breakfast, Wanda would ask if you wanted to watch a movie or go to the library to read a book. If you chose to watch a movie, she almost always let you pick. Once in a while she would decide what to watch, you found it endearing to learn that she enjoyed classic sitcoms such as Dick Van Dyke, and Bewitched. If you opted for the library, you both had your own books to read, snuggling together in the nook by the window, enjoying the warm glow of the sun.

For lunch, Wanda would usually prepare it herself, using fresh herbs and ingredients from her garden. At times she would ask you to accompany and help her, you always agreed. Unable to help but follow her around like a puppy. If Wanda wanted you around, you were happy to be included.

After lunch, you would either watch more movies or play video games for a few hours. Some games were multiplayer, where you would take turns beating each other at Mario Kart. Others were single player, where Wanda would ask you questions about the characters and the plot, or why you made certain choices in the RPG. Unlike when other people in your life had asked, you loved answering any questions she posed for you.

This went on for a few weeks, but eventually, you needed to know what the future held for you. One night, while Wanda held you as you were drifting off to sleep, you decided to ask, knowing in this moment there was nothing she could use to distract you.

"Wands?" you asked, quietly. If she was actually asleep, you didn't want to disturb her. Part of you almost hoped she wouldn't answer, dreading breaking the spell of the last few weeks.

The redhead hummed her acknowledgement.

"I-" You curse yourself for faltering so quickly. You knew you should have rehearsed this in your head at least a few more times.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful. The last few weeks have been... nothing short of... the most amazing of my life. But what are we doing here? I've missed finals. I have to go back and reschedule my proctored exams to see if I can still take them or if I have to wait for another semester. I need those to get my degree so I can get a job and start my life. As much as I appreciate spending this time here with you, when do I get to go home?" Your voice is quiet, afraid you have upset the witch who has shown you nothing but kindness. Probably the most kindness you have ever experienced in your entire life.

Although you can’t see it, Wanda’s eyes emanate a deep red as she delves into your mind in search for the source of your thoughts. Once she is satisfied that she has identified the core issue - your desire for independence and refusal to burden others - she begins to reassure you.

“Darling, why would you ever want to go back home to those.. people? After the way they treated you? Besides, you don’t need your degree, a job, or any of that. Everything you need, I can provide for you. It’s no trouble at all, detka, I promise you. You have no idea how… happy… I am that you are here, and I would do anything to keep you that way.” Her grip on you tightens slightly.

You can't fully grasp the extent of the truth of her words, or the extreme measures she has taken to bring you to this point. From your perspective, your parents, the very individuals who were meant to love and care for you have harbored resentment towards your very existence your entire life. The thought that this woman, a mere roommate, who has already done so much for you, could one day develop the same resentment for you as your own parents is agonizing. You don’t want to overstep your welcome in her life.

You have some idea of the lengths she has gone to. You know she has crossed universes to find you, although you still cannot understand why. You are not her deceased lover, and you never will be. Despite sharing the same genetic makeup, you are unsure if you could ever measure up to someone so courageous. It all still feels too good to be true, as if she’s gone to too much effort for someone like you. You worry that she will be disappointed when she discovers the truth - that you are not good enough. Accepting her kindness feels like an act of deception on your part, even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

You fidget uncomfortably. It hasn’t occurred to you that you have been silent for some time until you feel slender fingers running themselves soothingly through your hair. “Oh detka,” she whispers softly, her voice compassionate. “They really broke you, didn’t they?”

Your boy stiffens as you feel the unmistakable sensation of lips pressing themselves gently to the crown of your head, resting there for a moment. Surprisingly, the urge to flee doesn’t come as you had expected, and you allow yourself to relax into the witch’s embrace.

Wanda takes a moment to contemplate her phrasing. "You could never be a disappointment to me, darling. Even if you don't have powers like your other self, or if you never return my feelings, I don't ask for any of that from you, Y/N. All I ask is that you stay here with me, and I will take care of everything. Let me help you, rebuild you. Let me love you, and you won't regret it, I promise, darling."

You consider her offer. It sounds appealing. Nonetheless, you can't help but feel cautious. After all, nothing comes for free. You also feel uneasy about how effortlessly she can read you, leaving you vulnerable and defenseless. While you don't want to offend her, you have reservations about the idea.

"Wanda, I... I appreciate your offer. That's incredibly kind of you, but we can't stay here just the two of us forever. That's not healthy, and it's not how the real world works. I don't want to trade one prison for another, as beautiful as it may be," you add, trying not to offend the witch.

"I like you, and I would love to get to know you, but I also want to go out and live my life. Ideally, I want to have a job, a home, and friends of my own outside of these walls. We can still visit each other. Do you understand?" you ask, turning in Wanda's embrace and hoping she can see the sincerity in your eyes. You've never truly experienced freedom before, and now that it's within reach, you're unwilling to let it slip away so easily.

A range of emotions flicker across the witch's face before a stoney mask settles over it. "The world isn't safe out there, Y/N. Why do you need a degree, a house, friends when you have me?" Her voice grows louder in her exasperation, causing you to shrink in fear. "I can create anything you need. Isn't this house enough for you? What don't you like about it, hmm? With a wave of my hand, I can transform it into anything you desire."

Her voice turns frustrated. "Why do you even want to work? It's not enjoyable. Wouldn't you prefer to spend your time here, with me? You can do whatever you like, and I can provide for us. You don't have to worry about anything. You don't need anyone or anything except me!"

By now, her voice has practically risen to a shout, and you are recoiling in fear. After all this time with the former avenger, you had forgotten how powerful she was. She had only done her best to provide for you and care for you, asking nothing in return but your presence. Suddenly, you understood why she felt like you might be ungrateful, and you only had yourself to blame. Shame and fear roil in your gut. Still, it had been a while since you had felt fear like this, not since she had taken you from your parents. The only thing keeping you in her arms is her unnaturally strong grip on you.

"W-Wanda," you whimper. "Please stop, I'm sorry."

Realizing she has scared you, Wanda takes a slow, calming breath, in an effort to de-escalate herself. She knows that she won't earn your affection if she continues like this, but the redhead is furious at your lack of gratitude. Wanda has put in so much effort to create your ideal life, and yet here you are, wanting to return to the misery of the "real world."

 The witch mentally scoffs. She has grown tired of this argument that she has already had with you multiple times. Not that you recall, of course. Each time seems to end the same, and Wanda is frustrated that she never manages to clearly express her thoughts on the matter enough to convince you.

With a wave of her hand, red phosphenes surround your head, and you unwillingly close your eyes, drifting into a magic induced sleep. The argument is long forgotten by you as she holds you tightly. Something must be done to suppress this independent streak of yours. If you can't be molded to accept her as your provider, then you will be forced to accept it. She considers that perhaps she will have to have a firmer hand in manipulating your mind.

It's not ideal, but Wanda is unwilling to risk losing you. She has already come so far and done so much. As she gazes upon your sleeping form, she contemplates the rules she has broken for you, both in terms of human laws and magic. The people she has murdered.

It would devastate you to know that after those first few nights, Wanda had gone back and eviscerated your parents, and decimated your home. There was nothing redeeming about them. Yes, she had promised not to harm them, but after witnessing all they had done to you and seeing your panic attacks during those first few nights, the witch couldn't restrain her anger. Unbeknownst to you, there was nothing left for you to return to.

To have come so far only to lose you now? Wanda closes her eyes, tears sliding down her cheek as she envisions the consequences if you were to find out. Her heart aches at the thought of your possible rejection. No, the witch thinks firmly. She cannot bear to lose you. She is willing to wait indefinitely, to do whatever it takes. At this point, what do ethics and morals matter?

She would never force you to love her, but Wanda is not above subtly influencing events to win your affection. If that means making a few alterations to some of your memories, so be it. The witch drifts off to sleep, her body wrapped possessively around yours, as you dream on, unaware of the danger you are in. 

You know the minute your eyes open that this dream isn’t like the others. You’re lying in bed next to Wanda, but you can’t shake the sensation that something is wrong. You carefully slip out of her arms and pad softly to the door, opening it as quietly as you can. You can’t quite explain it, but the need to run is screaming inside your mind, an echo of the countless other nightmares you’ve had. As soon as the door latches behind you, you take off. If you can just make it to the front door, you can be free! It should only be a few more feet, after all�� but the hallway stretches before you impossibly, and that dark laughter you recognize all too well rings in the darkness around you. 

Just keep running, you urge yourself. It can’t be much further. Yet with every footfall you find yourself no closer, and her laughter only seems to grow stronger as you push yourself to run faster. In your peripheral vision, something slithers, but each time you turn your head, there is only the dark hallway. The sweat pours from you, and you realize that you will never make it to that door, that freedom. You sink to your knees in that godforsaken, never-ending hallway and feel the despair swell inside you, just as you feel a familiar presence behind you. You turn slowly, terrified to face her… 

You wake up suddenly, your body snapping up in bed, rigid, and ready to run. Although you can't remember the specifics of the dream, your shirt is soaked with evidence of your fear. A cool hand gently presses against your sternum, rubbing soothing circles on your body.

"You're alright, darling. It was just a bad dream. You're safe here with me," reassures Wanda with her soothing, raspy voice, thickly accented in the early morning. "Lie back down, Y/N. It's still early, and we can still sleep." Strong yet comforting arms pull you into a warm embrace, and once again you drift off into the darkness of your dreams, this time blissfully free of nightmares.

Time passes in a similar fashion, with Wanda taking care of you and keeping you entertained. During this period, you found yourself becoming increasingly drawn to her. Wanda had made it clear that she had no expectations of you other than your presence. She didn't want you to replace her deceased wife, nor did she expect you to have romantic feelings for her. The witch simply wanted to be near you and protect you.

This was a new experience for you, as genuine altruism was not something you had encountered often in your life. True to her word, Wanda never pressured you for anything more than you were willing to give. As a result, you found yourself developing feelings for the older woman.

It would strike you with sudden clarity in the most unexpected moments. The redhead would laugh with you during a movie, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. This endearing sight and sound would bring a tender warmth to your soul. At other times, she would be busy in the kitchen, preparing one of your favorite meals. As you helped, you would occasionally feel her hand caress your lower back as she passed by, ensuring you wouldn't bump into each other, while managing to avoid being intrusive to your orbit.

Some of your favorite moments were when you could just exist in your own world on your Nintendo Switch, wandering through the halls of your home. Sometimes, you would nearly bump into a wall, just like you often used to at your old house, but instead Wanda would gently guide you back on track, while she continued doing whatever else she was occupied with - usually being on her phone or reading a book.

She would follow quietly behind you without saying a word. She never made you feel bad for being clumsy and uncoordinated. In fact, she didn't seem to consider it a problem at all. A simple gentle touch to your side for adjustment and a quiet "hmm" to get your attention, but she never made a big deal about it. Her actions made you feel cared for; even if you still worried about inconveniencing her, she continued to insist that you weren't.

Wanda always wanted to know what you were thinking but made an effort to ask instead of simply taking that information from your mind at her leisure. Conversations with her could last for hours, with topics flowing effortlessly between the two of you. Rarely did you two run out of things to say. Even when you did, the silence was not overwhelming. To your delight, you discovered that you could coexist in the same space, each doing your own thing, and still feel content in the other's presence. You had never felt this comfortable with anyone before.

There was one day recently that stood out in your memory. Wanda was making adjustments to the house, and you casually mentioned how the drapes in the library could look prettier if they were a different color. You suggested that a new color would make the room brighter and more inviting. Without hesitation, Wanda took you to the room you had referenced and with a flick of her wrists, used her magic to make the change.

It was these little things that caught your attention and made you feel seen. This particular instance made you believe that she genuinely cared about your opinion and was willing to make the effort to meet your specifications.

As Wanda changed the colors and asked for your opinion, all you could focus on was how incredibly beautiful she looked. She was in her element, completely at ease with herself and her abilities. Put simply, she was stunning, almost otherworldly. Your mind didn't even process that she was asking about the color of the drapes when you replied in a soft, breathy whisper, "Perfect."

Upon hearing the tone of your voice, the witch paused in her actions and looked at you with curiosity. She didn't need to read your mind to understand what had happened. A delighted smile slowly formed on her lips, completely charmed by you. Part of her wished to take this moment and playfully flirt with you, since her favorite activity was causing you to become flustered. Instead, she decided to cherish it as a sweet and endearing moment, and let you get away with it.

"I'm glad you think so, darling," she said in a soft, knowing tone, and you realized you had been caught nonetheless. Bright red bloomed across your cheeks, reaching all the way up to your ears.

You mumbled a quick "The colors look great, Wanda. Thanks," before hastening to escape her scrutiny.

Although she didn't want to, Wanda allowed you to make your escape. She bit her lip as she watched you flee, knowing that you hadn't experienced much kindness after enduring so much trauma. Seeing the progress you had been making brought her a great deal of happiness. Maybe one day you would be receptive to her advances, but for now, she would be patient and give you the space you needed.

She didn’t often actively read your mind these days, you still had yet to master shielding your thoughts from her. Not that she wanted you to. Additionally, being so familiar with your other variant, she was intimately aware of your mannerisms and facial expressions. While there were some differences and new quirks for her to learn, she found that she loved each new aspect she discovered. Wanda almost couldn't wait for the day when you would finally be hers completely and when you would embrace her love for you the way she desired.

You were growing more comfortable with her, Wanda could tell, simply by observing your reactions to her. The way your body would relax and lean into her touch, the way you appreciated the small gestures she did for you and how you tried to assist her wherever you could, even when she didn't necessarily need it.

Wanda certainly couldn't mistake the lingering glances you would give her when you thought she wasn't looking. She knew you would never objectify her; the few times your thoughts did wander in appreciation, were often followed by an immediate scolding from yourself. But sometimes, she wished you wouldn't get after yourself so harshly. Wanda wanted you to see her in that way. Craved it, even.

Unfortunately, you didn't seem to understand the distinction between objectifying someone and appreciating them. Throughout your life, your parents conditioned you to believe that you were a predator of some sort. Consequently, whenever you felt any attraction towards someone of the same sex, self-loathing would kick in almost immediately, accompanied by a deep sense of shame. Your conditioning making you believe that you were no different from a man on the street who harassed women, thereby making them feel unsafe.

As you quickly left the room, you couldn't help but notice the way Wanda's knowing gaze had lingered on you. You intended to spend the rest of the day hiding out in the gaming room, trying to process what had just happened. Your Imposter Syndrome was rearing it's ugly head, making you doubt yourself. While Wanda's constant reassurances that she only wanted your presence and nothing more had been comforting in one way - at least you didn't have to worry about her making any inappropriate advances. However, another part of you had begun to wish she would, inspiring deeply conflicting emotions in you.

What if Wanda never saw you that way? Someone like you could never hope to measure up to a superhero. You were simply... you. Knowing that she was the widow of your Avenger variant left you feeling inadequate to say the least. Besides, what if Wanda was being honest about not wanting anything more from you? What if all you were to her was a means to get over the grief of her lost wife?

It was this thought which sparked a new fear within you: what if, once she finished with you, the witch simply discarded you like so many others had and moved on? Your stomach tightened into knots, and your breathing quickened. Thoughts raced through your mind as you realized how much the idea of being abandoned, now that you finally felt at home for the first time in your life, terrified you.

If she grew tired of you, your only choice would be to return to your parents. Considering the way you left, it was unlikely that they would welcome you back with open arms. While you were only a few exams away from completing your degree, it dawned on you that you had been constantly stressed and overwhelmed long before Wanda had come into your life. Did you really want to go back to that? Was having a job after earning the degree even worth it? You had few, if any, friends, and if they weren't upset with you for disappearing for however long you had been gone, it would be a surprise. You had nowhere to go.

As your thoughts spiraled and your body froze in place, Wanda could practically hear your unshielded anxiety screaming at her all the way from the library where she had remained. At first, she thought maybe there was an intruder within their home, but that was impossible - her wards always alerted her to any external presence. No, she realized the threat must be internal. Fear gripping her, Wanda waved her fingers, opening up a portal directly to you.

The sight she came upon was heart wrenching. You were curled up on the couch, clearly trapped in a panic attack, completely disconnected from reality. Although Wanda had been trying lately to respect your thoughts and not delve into them without permission, she needed to understand the root cause of your fear in order to support you better.

Not that she needed to go far, your thoughts were so loud, but they were also disorganized and scattered, like a whirlwind. It took her a moment to decipher exactly what you were afraid of, but once she figured it out, the redhead regretted not taking more time to reassure you earlier.

"Oh darling, no, hey. Honey, listen to me," she said, kneeling in front of you and taking your hands in hers. She rubbed soothing circles into them, trying to provide comfort. As much as she wanted to pull you into her arms until all your fears evaporated, she knew that unexpected hugs often had the opposite effect on you, as even your Avenger variant occasionally struggled with anxiety attacks.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Can you focus on my voice for just a moment? Please?”

Her soothing voice barely interrupted your thoughts, and if Wanda used her magic just a little to help her reach you, well, that was in your best interest. You didn't move much, but your eyes lost their unfocused look, to meet finally shifting to meet Wanda's, indicating that you were paying attention.

“Darling, you are perfect, just the way you are. I will never discard you, okay? I didn’t come this far to let you go. This is your home now Y/N. Our home. And I’m never letting you go, alright? I don’t expect you to be a superhero, Y/N. I like you just the way you are, and I would never abandon you, lyubov moya.” Throughout her words, Wanda was continuing to rub soothing circles into your hands, occasionally straying up your arms to grip you reassuringly.

“Can you breathe with me please? We’re going to take some slow, deep breaths. In for four, hold for four, and then out for four, okay Y/N?”

You nodded, blindly following her words.

The former avenger spent the next few moments guiding you through breathing exercises. These exercises were designed to calm the parasympathetic nervous system, and as she went through them with you, she continued to speak quiet reassurances and hold your hand. The goal was to keep you grounded in the present moment. She wanted you to focus on what you could hear and feel, while also settling your breathing.

It worked. Within a few minutes, you regained your calm, or at least as calm as you could ever be. This wasn't the first panic attack she had witnessed from you, but it was certainly the most intense one. The way Wanda always came to your rescue, assuring you that it was perfectly normal to have these moments and helping you recover from them, made your heart melt a little more for her. Especially when she brought you back to your shared bed, helped you change into your favorite comfy pajamas, and snuggled up next to you for a nap to help you overcome the episode.

Truly, Wanda was your savior.

A/N 2: I've never done a taglist before so I hope this works? @dorabledewdroop Chapter three, hope it lives up to expectations!

[xiaq]

Steddie outsider POV pt. 5

AO3 Pt. 1 Robin Pt. 2 Wayne Pt. 3 Wayne's Boyfriend Pt. 4 Will

Tommy Hagan isn’t proud of the person he was in high school. If he’s honest, he isn’t proud of the person he was for most of college either. But by the end of college, he’d had enough experiences and met enough people that challenged his previous worldviews to realize who he was wasn't who he wanted to be. And he had the ability to change. So he did. 

He feels like a good portion of the last eight years of his life has been doing penance for the first twenty. So when he gets the Hawkins High School Reunion invitation in the mail, his first impulse is not to go. He hasn’t been in contact with his former friends since two days after graduation when he packed up his car and left Hawkins for good; there’s no reason for him to inflict his presence on the people he used to torment. 

But (and this is the ‘but’ that makes him reconsider).

Steve might be there.

And Steve sits apart from everyone else,  because Tommy does want to see him. Not desperately, not like he’s been pining all these years. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t had thoughts. That he hasn’t wondered. 

He’s learned a lot in the last decade. About himself and his—embarrassingly clear now—preference for men. And in the process he learned that ‘practicing kissing’ with your best friend was not a normal heterosexual activity. Which means Steve, maybe, has realized the same sorts of things about himself. And it’s not like he thinks they’ll see each other again after all this time and fall into each other's arms but…well. He’s Steve. And if Tommy has a chance with him, no matter how small, he’s still going to take it. 

He responds yes to the invitation. He books his flights.

He works out a bit more than usual in the weeks leading up to it.

No reason. 

His primary objective, of course, cannot be hoping to seduce Steve. His first priority needs to be making amends. So when the day finally arrives and he puts on his suit and the cab drops him at the familiar front roundabout, he walks through the double doors, picks up his name tag, and starts his apology tour. 

It takes a while. 

By the time he’s made a circuit of the badly decorated gymnasium and apologized to everyone who’ll let him approach them, it’s been an hour. He’s managed to mostly avoid his former friends and feels he deserves the beer he’s just freed from the slushy water in the ice chest.

And that’s when he sees him: Steve Harrington.

He looks good. Better, even, than Tommy had expected. He’s wearing a plain white T, aviator sunglasses tucked in the collar, and black jeans. Lace up black boots. His hair is almost exactly the same, maybe a little longer, than the last time Tommy saw him a decade before. Not even a hint of a receding hairline, damn him. 

Tommy would think no time had passed at all if not for the full sleeve of tattoos on his left arm and long-healed scars on his right, the fact that his shoulders are a little broader, his chest a little thicker. Clearly he never stopped working out, unlike the majority of the former basketball team members milling about around them.

He looks like a fucking rock star. Or a movie star. And clearly Tommy is not the only one who has noticed. Within seconds Steve has gathered a crowd and Tommy can’t help but push his way into the fringe of it, watching Steve smile politely and gently shrug off more than one woman’s touch. He shifts his cup to his left hand and takes a long, pointed, drink.

There’s a wedding band on his finger.

Tommy knows he shouldn’t be surprised. He didn’t honestly think something was going to happen between them. But then again, a ring might not even mean much. He’s spent weekends with men who play straight Monday through Friday plenty of times. 

Steve meets his eye and smiles cautiously behind the rim of his cup. “Tommy. Hey.”

Fuck. Maybe he does still have a chance.

“Hey,” he says, and then, to the larger group, “ladies, do you mind if I steal Steve for a minute?”

A few of them whine like they’re still in high school, Stacy Ferguson actually twirls her hair, but they let Steve leave with him and they meander toward one of the cocktail tables under the basketball goal. 

“You look good,” Steve says. Tommy can’t decide if he should read anything into that.

“Me? Have you seen yourself? And I thought you were insufferable in high school.”

He laughs, scrubbing a hand through the back of his hair. 

“Listen,” Tommy says. “I know I was a massive dick to you, there at the end, that I was…generally a shitty person in high school, and I’ve always wanted to apologize to you. I’ve been apologizing to a lot of people today. But you were––you were important to me. And I regret how we ended things. So. I’m sorry.”

Steve considers him, a little pinch between his brows that is winding in its familiarity. “I appreciate the apology. What brought about the change of heart, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“College. Maturity. New York, in general.”

“Getting out of the echo chamber that is Hawkins?” He says knowingly.

Tommy points at him. 

“You still in New York?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. Lawyer. Just like dad always wanted. You?”

Steve whistles. “Nothing so impressive. We own a music venue in San Fran, but that sounds fancier than it is. I mostly split my time between playing bouncer and playing bartender.”

San Fran. Tommy tries to catch Steve’s eye. Tries to see if there’s an underlying message there. But Steve is smiling over Tommy’s shoulder at something. 

“We?” Tommy repeats.

“Me and my husband,” Steve says distractedly, like the word doesn’t fucking—doesn’t take Tommy out at the knees.

“Your…what?” he asks blankly.

Except Steve is full-out grinning now and raises his voice to shout, “speak of the devil!”

Someone slides past Tommy, all leather and hair and chains and throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders.

“And the devil shall appear,” Eddie Munson crows.

Eddie. Munson.

Who looks much the same as he did in high school, albeit with more tattoos and scars down his neck and arm that look strangely similar to the scars on Steve’s arm. Tommy gets stuck for a moment comparing them before he notices something else. 

Eddie’s left hand is hanging down to cup Steve’s pec. And there’s a gold wedding band, stark amongst the other silver rings on his hand. It matches the one Steve’s wearing.

“What the fuck,” he says quietly.

“Well, shit,” Eddie says. “Hagan, did we break you?”

Steve purses his lips. “Let’s just give him a minute to process.” He turns to face Eddie fully, speaking quietly into the pocket of space between them. “You still sure?”

“I am literally grabbing your boob right now, I don’t know how much more obvious a claim I can stake here unless you want me to stick my tongue in your mouth. Which even I find ill-advised in this particular setting.”

“Just saying. Rental car doesn’t have a bat in the trunk and we’ve both had too many concussions already.”

“Like we haven’t been up against far worse odds and survived. Don’t worry, Stevie, I’ll protect your pretty head. So would Hagan, I bet. He owes us. Right?”

Tommy thinks he might be dead. That his plane went down and this is some sort of death-bed hallucination. 

But then again, if this was something his brain had engineered, he’d be the one holding on to Steve’s pec.

Eddie’s looking at him like he's fully aware of what Tommy is thinking.

“Say,” Eddie says quietly, not exactly mean, but certainly not friendly, “did you know that shit you two used to get up to was actually really gay?” 

“I…figured that out,” he says faintly, “yeah.”

“Makes the things you used to call me feel a little hypocritical now in retrospect, huh?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, and then, with remembered urgency: “I’m not out.”

The edge to Eddie’s expression softens. “No kidding, buddy. You’re safe with us. Despite the fact that you were a grade A asshole to me and, more importantly, you broke Stevie’s heart a little.”

“He was just apologizing for that.” Steve says.

“I don’t—how long have you two—“

“Eight years,” Steve says.

“Three months, one week and four days,” Munson adds, drumming his fingers on Steve’s collarbone.

“But who’s counting,” Steve says fondly.

“Me,” Munson says, “obviously.”

“Eight years,” Tommy repeats. 

“Three months, one week and four days,” Munson repeats. 

“How?”

“An excellent, and fair, question,” Munson says, gesturing to himself. “Considering.”

“Eddie,” Steve says warningly. 

Munson rolls his eyes. “I fell for him, oh, I’d guess about the same time you did, Tommy boy. Took him a few years to catch up to me, but after my heroic actions during the, uh, earthquake the year after you left, he tended my wounds and I won him over with my subtle wit and ebullient charm.”

“You are a delight,” Steve says. Tommy thinks he’s trying to be sarcastic but he doesn’t pull it off very well. 

“And then,” Eddie drops his voice, leaning into Tommy, dragging Steve with him since they’re still attached, “I kept him ensorcelled with my sexual prowess.”

“Eddie,” Steve hisses.

“Yes dear?”

It is, unfortunately, all too easy for Tommy to picture them…together. He can feel his face flushing, something he’d always hoped he’d grow out of and never did.

“You got anyone in your life, now?” Steve asks, earnest as ever.

“Not currently, no. Are you really��–are you just. Out?”

“Not always,” Steve says. He reaches up, touches the ring on Eddie’s hand like it’s a habitual gesture. “But we’ve got the privilege of not having to hide in our daily life. Makes us a little more stupid when we go other places.”

“A little more brave, darling,” Eddie murmurs. “We’re calling it bravery.”

“You’re calling it bravery.”

“Well,” Tommy says. “I’m here for you. I guess.” He hasn’t been in a fight in a while but he figures it’s like riding a bike. And Eddie is right. He does owe them. Then again, looking around the gym, he doesn’t think anyone here would risk a fight with them anyway. Over half the people present probably still think Munson is a serial killer.

“Just as I suspected,” Munson says. “Welcome to the team.”

“The team?”

Eddie gestures behind him with the hand that isn’t still clamped on Steve’s chest. “Gareth and the boys are in the old Hellfire room, Jonathan should be here in another ten minutes, Nance was talking to someone in the parking lot last I saw her and Robin is––”

“Present!” Robin Buckley chorales, skipping forward to crash into Eddie’s back. She presses an obnoxious kiss first to Eddie’s cheek, and then shoves her face in between their heads to get to Steve’s. She narrows her eyes at Tommy.

“Hagan.”

“Buckley.”

Her eyes narrow even further. “Tommy Hagan knows my name,” she says, sotto voice to Eddie. “Should we find this suspicious?”

“Steve was friends with you senior year,” Tommy explains. And that’s probably saying too much, but he’s already clearly lost his footing in this conversation. 

“Mm,” she agrees. “I sure was. Since other people ditched him for showing a modicum of moral backbone.”

“He was just apologizing for that,” Steve says.

“Good.”

Tommy remembers the beer in his hand with relief. He drains half of it.

“Shall we mingle?” Eddie murmurs, sounding far too excited about the prospect. 

“As you wish,” Steve says magnanimously.

Tommy follows them.

***

He has fun, is the thing.

And he doesn’t have to fight anyone.

Eddie is actually kind of hilarious, walking a tightrope between goading and endearing. And Robin—she’d give some of the guys at his firm a run for their money in quick-witted comebacks. She also can dance, which Tommy finds out about ten minutes after the shitty band starts playing and she grabs his hand, asking if he still knew how to lindy hop. And he does, he just has no idea how she knew that he knew and he doesn’t get the chance to ask before she’s dragging him to the middle of the pathetic dance floor. They stay there for a while, garnering praise and envious glances and they keep an eye out for Eddie and Steve but it’s become clear that no one is going to try and start something. Even the guys who sneer at them when their backs are turned aren’t willing to say anything to their faces. Separately, they’re impressive enough, but together, they’re imposing. And they both move with just a hint of something dangerous in their posture. Something…feral. Maybe. His eyes keep lingering on their scars. They aren’t knife wounds. He’s seen those. These look like teeth. But that doesn’t make any sense. 

Regardless, as the night starts to wind down, he’s pretty sure it’s the most fun he’s had in years. He never could have imagined when he was booking his tickets that he would end up sitting on the bleachers with Robin Buckley leaning against his arm, watching as Eddie Munson—who had cajoled or possibly bribed, the band to let him borrow their guitar—plays an unhinged metal cover of Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! by ABBA. 

When he finishes, Eddie gives a flourishing bow, returns the guitar, and then steps directly into Steve’s arms, hands bracketing Steve’s neck, leaning in to kiss him like they don’t give a fuck they’re in the middle of Hawkins Indiana.

It’s—Jesus. 

He doesn’t know what it is. 

But it sure is something.

“Gentlemen,” Robin calls, “shall we adjourn? Hop and Joyce are waiting and it’ll be their bedtime in another hour.”

“Hop?” Tommy asks.

“Chief Hopper,” Robin explains. “He’s basically Steve’s adopted father. Well. One of them, anyway.”

“Oh,” Tommy says faintly. “Does he…know?”

“For sure. He’s cool as a cucumber. Been to visit us in California at least once a year since we moved.”

“Didn’t he arrest Munson multiple times?”

“Eh, water under the bridge. They’re best buds, now. They talk on the phone every Sunday while Eddie works in the garden. And Eddie is the planner, so he’s the one that schedules their visits. They conspire to keep Steve happy and healthy.”

“That’s…good.” Tommy says.

“It is.” 

Robin pats his arm, pulling him to stand with her. “You know, you could visit us too, if you wanted. Eddie and Steve have a guest bedroom and my girlfriend and I have a very nice pull-out couch.” She eyes him seriously, the levity leaving her voice. “You used to mean something to Steve,” she says, “maybe you could again. If you wanted.”

He does. 

He watches Eddie swing Steve around in a farce of a Waltz, both of them laughing. He watches Nancy and Jonathan join them—Nancy leading. He glances at Robin beside him. He thinks he might want to mean something to all of them. If that’s an option.

“Are you serious?” He asks.

“Yeah, of course.”

“That would be nice,” he says.

Eddie and Steve draw even with them, still laughing, fingers linked together. 

“Hagan,” Eddie says. “When’s your flight out?”

“Not until tomorrow night,” he says.”I’m staying at the Greenbriar.”

“Good, you’re coming with us to Hopper’s, then.”

He meets Eddie’s eyes. He can’t exactly read what’s there, but he’s grateful for whatever it is.

“I’d like that.” He says.

They emerge into the parking lot with a burst of cool evening air and Tommy inhales slowly, face tipped up to the sky. For all the perks of New York, you certainly didn’t get stars like this there. 

“I’m riding with Hagan,” Robin says.

“I’m riding—“ Eddie starts, but he doesn’t get to finish because everyone present aside from Tommy starts shouting over him.

Steve leans in, presses his face into Eddie’s hair and says something that makes him cackle. 

“We’ll see you there,” he shouts to no one in particular, “maybe a couple minutes late, though.”

“And this is why I’m riding with you,” Robin says. “Also why you might want to stay with me if you visit. They got comfortable in the honeymoon phase and decided to never leave which is, you know, great for them and really fucking annoying for everyone else.”

Tommy unlocks his rental but can’t seem to stop watching as Steve and Eddie approach their own car—Steve exaggeratedly opening the door for Eddie while Eddie pretends to swoon. 

He watches as King Steve and Eddie the freak Munson peel out of the Hawkins High parking lot, windows down, a guitar riff blaring, hands linked on the gearshift.

Robin Buckley is in his passenger seat, messing with the radio and giving him largely unhelpful driving directions to Chief Hopper's house.

This is not what he expected from this trip.

But he’s not at all upset about it.

Not at all. 

He’s become pretty jaded in the last few years; a combination of his job, politics, romantic encounters, and existing, in general. But watching Steve and Eddie’s taillights fade as they turn onto the main road, Tommy thinks that maybe he still believes in happy endings. 

[goodfish-bowl]

What Little Remains

Chapter 1: Finding the Pieces

Ectoberhaunt 2024 Day 3: Archeology

AO3 Link

Summary: The Terra Zero Archeology Project has received funding to locate a laboratory of both historical and technological importance. What they actually end up bringing back is something of much greater significance.

Warnings: Dissection, gore, blood

Words: 2,374

They had found it on the planet once known as Earth, now known as Terra Zero. It had been buried in a laboratory of historical and technological importance. The laboratory was the target of their mission and this had merely been something they had discovered along the way, but it was likely a much more significant find than their original goal. It was a miracle, really, that the jar protecting this particular specimen was fully intact, and an even greater wonder that they found a second one to go with it. Despite the atypical building practices found at that location, it had managed to survive the several planetary disasters that had befallen Terra Zero since the lab had been constructed. It was truly an amazingly complex and baffling in its own era. The laboratory itself had been buried under tons of sediment, ash, and debris that had built up on the planet's surface over the centuries, yet it managed to preserve the space from the very passage of time. 

The Terra Zero Archeology Project, shortened down to T.Z.A.P, had only been able to discover it through a related digital archiving project, following mentions of its existence along with digital records from the time, particularly a set of patents that were of interest to the team's investors. They read like utter nonsense, completely indecipherable despite running them through every algorithm available and having sloughs of intergalactic experts look them over. The only hope of figuring them out lay in the lab where they had been created. A myzack-chase through several databases and many long message chains and holos later, the mission was underway. The promise of new technologies was what got the T.Z.A.P. its funding in the first place. This lab was sure to have them keep their funding for a while longer. 

The lab itself had been odd, with unknown radioactive elements non-native to the Terra Zero planetary area found in unusual amounts with a positive correlation with the proximity to the lab. Special suits were created just for this excavation, and entire collections of journals were being written based off of the findings. The interior of the lab looked untouched, only a thin coat of dust covered every surface. It was in a general state of disarray like it had been abandoned in the middle of something, but the walls were intact (except for the portion they had drilled through) with minimal rust and decay setting in. It was an astronomically amazing find. 

Then there were the samples. 

Most of the samples, which looked to be biological samples from a dissection, were degraded beyond use, a millennium beyond expiration. They appeared to be humanoid in nature, which ended up being one of the most unnerving portions of the discovery. It wouldn’t be confirmed until they were actually processed and tested. It wasn’t safe to assume, they had found ones made of ‘rubber’ before. One jar, containing a singular, whole hand, was preserved properly, in what appeared to be an isotopic solution tinted green. The next samples of interest were a set of small vials containing a viscous green liquid that actively rested in a set of a dozen, three of which were intact, the rest exposed to the heavy, damp atmosphere of the lab. It was an unnaturally bright green substance with a dull glow, flecked with red. The intact vials wouldn’t be opened until after the samples of the broken ones were processed first. It would give them a good idea of the decay rate of the substance. There was a heavy containment unit, made from glass that could rival modern war spacecraft windows, with a glowing crystal orb inside, floating in a similar solution to what the vials must contain. All of the other samples were labeled “Phantom” with a time and date on their collection date. This one was marked with the name “Danny”, instead. They were all within two days of each other, with the orb being last. 

The most valuable thing T.Z.A.P. managed to collect from the lab, other than just recording of the finding of an intact lab from the early 2000s era, was the intact digital files located on the ancient external hard drive. Someone on the tech team had managed to reconstruct and restore the files on it and found hundreds of files containing everything from lab journal entries to video recordings, to entire papers. It was an almanium mine of information, shining light on many of the patents themselves, though the blueprints and the construction of the technology remained theoretical at best. Whoever had designed these was using a language all of their own that no one else could decipher. 

The samples and digital files were brought into the in-orbit lab and processed while the systems scanned the antique files for relevant information, matching the patents and the surviving samples. The computer pinged a collection of lab recordings almost immediately, curiously matching the time stamps of the sample collections. 

Zavier, one of the many interns assigned to this project, absently clicked on one at random, sound on, in the middle of the main research room. 

Corroded, the audio snapped and popped, showing its age, but it caught the attention of everyone else in the room. Grainy footage of a woman in a teal jumpsuit, with red goggles covering her eyes, and black gloves covered the screen. A large figure in orange moved in the background. 

“This is Doctor Madeline Fenton, it is June 4th, 2006, at precisely 14:23. I am joined by Doctor Jack Fenton in collecting a whole-piece sample from the ecto-entity known as Phantom.”   

Ecto-entity. It was a term that popped up frequently in the study of this particular laboratory and the related patents. There were at least a dozen sets of eyes on the monitor at this point, several different people scribbling down notes of interest. 

“As mentioned in Recording 632006-334 samples collected from Phantom seem to rapidly degenerate once removed from the central entity. To correct this, we have diluted a solution made from the entity’s own ectoplasm mixed with an isotopic preservation solution in an attempt to preserve the sample for further, future study.”

The woman moved the camera to show a prone figure, heavily strapped down to a mental table, distinctly human, despite their odd features for the time. They appeared young, prepubescent in age, uselessly crying and thrashing on the table they were strapped to. They were covered in past incisions, and missing several fingers from their other hand. Several harsh breaths of horror were taken around the room. Zavier should’ve paused the video there, but he hadn’t. 

“Our intended sample is going to be the entire right hand.”

The child on the table let out a heart wrenching whine, barely picked up through the harsh muzzle on their face. 

Something in the room broke, it sounded fragile, but no one moved, transfixed by the screen. 

The woman, Dr. Madeline repositioned the camera over the child’s right hand. They visibly struggled, straining against the restraint. 

“Jack, the bone saw?”

“Here you go, darling!” The man said with a large smile. 

The boy screamed and it echoed around the entire room, the video filled with bright colors of green and red as the bone saw ate through flesh.

The video was abruptly stopped before it could finish, and someone immediately rushed to the trash unit in the corner. A few people did. The scream still seemed to linger around the room anyways. 

“What in the void of space are you all doing?!” A new voice interrupted.

“H-head Doctor! I didn’t mean to! But it started playing and I didn’t want to stop it so I let it play!”

“And?”

“A… a-and?” the intern stuttered. 

“What did you learn?”

“That… that I shouldn’t click on a random video without permission…” Zavier admitted reluctantly. 

“I meant about our subject.”

“OH! Oh… um. Young, possibly male humanoid, unusual features… they cut off their hand with a bone saw…” Zavier’s voice trembled, unable to focus on the words coming out of his mouth with the scream echoing even louder in his own head than it had in the room. 

The Head Doctor’s eyes darkened. Her grip tightening on her tablet, before snapping down the tech and sending out several messages all at once in a furious efficiency. 

“If continuing on this particular project makes you uncomfortable, please report to the main deck for reassignment!” The Head Doctor announced it to the whole room. “I understand that we’re dealing with humanoid experimentation in this discovery. You will not be punished for wanting to be reassigned.”

Several people left the room almost immediately, practically fleeing in terror. Zavier found himself agreeing, but was firmly rooted in place. Others thought about it, before following the rest out. From the two dozen researchers and interns in the room, less than a fourth remained. Zavier rediscovered his ability to move for a moment, and contemplated joining them before staying in his spot. He couldn’t. 

“Intern. I need you to find the video of the collection of the orb. The video should be labeled 642006-1746.”

“Yes, ma’am. May I ask why?” 

Zavier really didn’t want ot have to watch another video when this one was going to be haunting him for the next decade.

“The sample associated with it refuses to be identified, but it has responded to external stimuli, including sounds and being moved about. Several of our preliminary scans have identified something similar to brain waves emitting from it. We need to identify it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Zavier swallowed thickly before clicking on the video labeled just as the Head Doctor had specified. The video pulled up just like the first, popping and snapping before settling in place. The same woman from the first video appeared in the camera, slightly worse for wear. Her suit was splattered with green and red. Zavier cringed and looked away, but refrained from covering his ears with his hands. He had to at least listen, even if that was the worst part. 

“This is Doctor Madeline Fenton, it is June 4th, 2006, at 17:46. Dr. Jack Fenton and I have just finished our full dissection of the ecto-entity once known as Phantom.”

The camera panned to show the same child from earlier, cut up into pieces, a large vivisection cut splaying their chest wide open, cavity practically hollowed out, and several stained jars littered the free space on the table. They boy wasn’t moving anymore.

“We have made an… interesting discovery concerning its biology.” 

The scientist paused for a moment, glancing behind her before she seemed to hesitate. 

“Not… not only did it possess a perfect copy of human biology, it was a functioning one. However, after considerable loss of ectoplasm and substantial damage to its internal organs, its facsimile of life ceased. We were able to locate its core,” she held up the jar containing the small glowing orb. It seemed so tragic floating in that solution. All that blood and viscera for something the size of a pinging ball. She placed the jar on a table out of frame.

“And have successfully removed it and placed it within an isolating containment unit. Reasons for this have been stated in my husband and I’s previous papers on the nature of cores. However, Phantom’s seems to be behaving differently than expected. It’s fallen completely dormant after drawing in all available ectoplasm. Theories on this will be further elaborated in the paper currently being constructed on the ecto-entity Phant-”

There was a flash of light in the background that glitched out the camera for a moment, before the video returned. There was much more red than there was before. The boy was noticeably different, his appearance much more in line with the humans of the era, black hair and red blood. 

The woman swiftly turned around, a weapon she reached for off screen suddenly in her hand. It clattered to the ground soon after. She made a horrible choking noise, like she was being strangled. Zavier didn’t think she had the right to react like that. She and her partner had done this after all.

“Danny..?”

The Head Doctor reached over Zavier and turned the video off, gripping the bridge of her nose and letting out a harsh breath of her own. Zavier himself sunk further into his seat to process the information that was likely going to continue to plague his nightmares. He didn’t know why he felt so terrible, or why it was all knotted up in the base of his throat. That kid had been dead for over a millennium at this point. There was no saving them, just the bits of what little of them that remained, as samples, recordings, and data. He shouldn’t be this horrified and torn up over someone long dead. 

“Intern, what is your name?”

“Zavier, ma’am.”

“Zavier, go make yourself something warm to eat and distract yourself. I don’t want to see you until it looks like you’ve had at least a full cycle of rest. Senior members,” she signaled the three of the older researchers who had remained, one of which was trying to light a smoke in the corner, “We are going to be having a long night to figure out the nature of this research. If… If this lines up with some of my current conclusions, then we may have a much more… interesting project on our hands.”

“Ma’am… what do you mean by that?” 

One of the researchers asked, coming in closer to relieve Zavier from his seat at the monitor. Zavier hadn’t been expecting his knees to be so weak when he tried to stand and the world spun around him for a moment before he managed to steady himself.

“Simple. We have the current approval and supplies to use the D.R.C.R.A. on a suitable… sample of interest,” The Doctor claimed. 

“You don’t mean… by the void,” The researcher with the smoke cackled. “Oh, this is going to get us in so much trouble!”

“Well, it would certainly line up with our objective to study the era. What’s better than a first-person witness?”

Ectoberhaunt 2024 Masterpost

[scribbling-dragon]

22 with ranchers? >:)

all my love will be your breath

summary:

The first sign that something is wrong. That something is going to go wrong, is the prickling pain in his hand. Tango flexes his fingers a few times when the sensation reaches him, attempting to shake off the pins and needles as he continues working. The first flash of biting cold has him gasping, hand spasming as the pencil slips from his fingers. It clatters loudly onto the half-finished door he’s using as a makeshift table.

(ao3 link)

(3,085 words)

haha some good ol' ranchers angst. haven't written anything for double life in a hot minute so here you go! this was done for these writing requests - which are still open if you have any (and i am still working on the prompt i have left!!)

The first sign that something is wrong. That something is going to go wrong, is the prickling pain in his hand. Tango flexes his fingers a few times when the sensation reaches him, attempting to shake off the pins and needles as he continues working.

His hands ache, his arms sore from the work he’s been doing all day to fix up their ranch, just a little bit. A significant portion of the nearby forest has been cut down in his efforts to rebuild their farmhouse better than before. The previous iteration had been ugly, but good enough to house them. This new version – one that he’s actually drawn plans and created measurements for – will be better than the previous one could have ever been.

He pauses in his sketching; alterations of the farmhouse had to be made, when he realised that it would be too complex to complete within the time frame he currently has. He wanted to complete it before Jimmy returned from his mining session, wanted to have something to show off to him.

It’s a stupid thing to want, but he wants it nonetheless, and it’s looking good. Like it might be finished before night even begins to set in.

Progress has been helped along by Grian lending a helping hand – a helping axe, rather. It’s obvious what he’s going for, attempting to mend the burned bridges between their pairs. Tango had accepted the help with gritted teeth and a strained smile, willing to set aside his own anger for the sake of finishing the house before Jimmy returns.

He shakes his hand again, the bones in his wrist shifting with the force he uses, hoping to dissipate the feeling so he can return to his drawings. Instead of disappearing, the sensation only strengthens, until his entire hand is numb.

The first flash of biting cold has him gasping, hand spasming as the pencil slips from his fingers. It clatters loudly onto the half-finished door he’s using as a makeshift table. That, coupled with his not-so quiet gasp, draws attention to him.

“You alright?” Grian calls over from beside the log pile. He’s stripping the bark from them, forming them into neater planks than Tango would be capable of making with his own hands. He is not designed for the intricate details that builders manage to achieve, preferring complex and sprawling arrays – who has the patience to make sure every single plank is the exact same size? Grian apparently does, and it’s also why he shooed Tango away, his need for aesthetics overriding any sensible thought of this is someone I might have to fight to the death, why should I be helping him? apparently.

Tango isn’t going to comment on it. Not when it will probably reduce the draught that had forced him and Jimmy into one bed, beneath several blankets, to huddle and conserve warmth.

Simply the thought of that evening of closeness, of the quiet, stifled giggles and curling warmth that had nestled somewhere deep within his chest and not yet left is enough to make him feel warm from the inside out, the ends of his hair curling into small flames.

“I'm fine,” he grits out, registering the echoing silence that has stretched between him and Grian, the way the other still watches him, remaining fixated on the side of his face until he responds.

“Uh huh,” Grian tips his head to the side in a very bird-like manner, a wry smile crossing his lips. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

Are they?

He hadn’t even noticed, both hands beginning to shiver and tremble, phantom pains no longer sparking over the backs of his hands and into the fine bones of his wrists. He flexes them experimentally, coming to the chilling conclusion that he can’t feel his hands at all.

Whatever it is that Jimmy’s experiencing, it’s left him with little feeling in his hands. Something that is beginning to crawl up his arms further. It’s startling and uncomfortable and- and not something that should be happening at all.

He feels out along the bond that tethers him to his other half, feeling along the string that has only strengthened during their time here. He pulses something resembling curiosity and worry along it, transmitting the feelings in the same way a redstone line would transmit a signal.

He still doesn’t understand how it works, and Grian is vague with the details of how it all works.

Tango doesn’t think even he knows, thinks this is all something that has spiralled a little out of Grian’s control, into something that he’s still grasping for, still attempting to regain control of. Either that, or his bond with Scar is frayed enough that he cannot transmit anything at all; his lack of knowledge originates not from a lack of control, but from a place of not experiencing it at all.

He waits a few, tense moments after sending the question across, waiting for a response. Any kind of response.

He crumples beneath the weight of what is returned to him, the sheer panic and pain radiating through to him is enough to make his head ache. He cradles it in his hands, in his numb, cold hands, and struggles not to cry out.

He can taste blood in his mouth, though whether that is his own sensation or something from Jimmy is unknown.

“Woah,” someone skids on the grass beside him, coming to an abrupt halt. “You are clearly not alright.”

“Gee, thanks for that,” he bites back, teeth flashing as he glares up at Grian. “What might’ve given you that idea?”

“There’s no need to be so rude,” Grian bites back, wings ruffling in clear agitation. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong or should I just leave?”

Tango remains silent, staring mulishly at the ground he’s currently kneeling on. The grass is charred and ashy; somewhat of a relief that it cannot catch fire again, with the sparks jumping from his flicking tail.

“Fine,” Grian heaves himself back to his feet, the knees of his jeans stained with ash and soot. He brushes at them a few times, something that Tango watches from the corner of his eye, but only succeeds in smearing the ash further over his jeans and onto the palms of his hands. “I’ll leave you to it. Come find me if you improve your attitude.”

Tango feels regret as soon as Grian starts walking away, dead grass crunching beneath his feet.

He opens his mouth to call out behind him, beginning to rise to his feet before a burning sensation floods up his arms. It brings him low again, down to his knees once more in the wreckage of his home.

He cries out wordlessly, the sound transforming into a snarl at the end of it as he bites down on his tongue, embarrassed and frustrated with his own inability to do anything.

He wanted to fix this, wanted to repair the home that he and Jimmy had begun to call theirs, something that belonged only to them. And yet he failed at that, unable to even lift a pencil to fix this.

The burning fades fast, quick enough that he’s left choking on his own breath, throat constricting painfully as he shoves himself upwards.

His head collides with someone’s chin in his haste, and both of them fall back. He glares at Grian, who winces and then glares right back at him. “I just bit my tongue because of you.”

“And? What were you doing so close?”

“Checking to make sure you weren’t about to keel over.”

“I'm fine,” he sniffs. He stands up slower this time, ears flicking back and forth anxiously. He doesn’t know what it is travelling across to him, only registering the numbing pain that’s beginning to snake up his arms again, biting cold against his skin. But there’s something wrong, that much is easy to figure out. “I need to find Jimmy.”

“Obviously,” Grian scoffs. “Where’d he go?”

“Mining.”

Grian gives him a flat look. “You’ll have to give a few more details than that – where did he go? How long did he say he was going to be? What was he going to get.”

“Why do you care?” he snaps. He turns around then and there, shoving his way through the gate, wood clattering behind him as it bounces back into position from where he shoved it. It clicks open a moment later as Grian follows him out.

“Because I'm going to help you,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” Tango doesn’t even bother to turn and face him, heading in the direction he remembers watching Jimmy disappear in. He’d been walking with a pep in his step, and Tango may have been slightly distracted by watching the way the rising sun silhouetted him, the way it framed his face just so-

Heat lances up his arms again, curling around his elbows, gone as quickly as it was there, as though someone dumped a bucket of water over the burning. The blistering cold returns moments later, hands beginning to tremble once more.

Grian snatches at one of his hands, both thumbs pressing into the palm and forcing his claws to splay out. “Hey!” He attempts to tug his hand out of Grian’s grip, but it just turns bruising in its strength and he halts his struggles as quickly as they had begun. He doesn’t want to cause Jimmy more pain than he’s already experiencing, even if his hand is almost completely numb by now. “What are you doing!”

“You have frostbite,” Grian shoves his hand in his face. “Your fingers are turning purple. How did you not notice?”

“I don't know if you’ve noticed, but my claws are dark anyway,” he yanks his hand free from Grian’s grip, and the other man lets him this time. Allows him to retreat a small distance away and observe his hands himself. He grits his teeth and suppresses a small growl when he realises that Grian is right. He’d just been too stupid to notice it before.

“He’s somewhere cold,” Grian surmises.

“Wow, give it up for the genius over here,” he mutters. He thought it was quiet enough that Grian wouldn’t have heard him, but he still turns on Tango with a furious glare.

“I’m helping you,” Grian hisses out. “Be a little more grateful.”

“You're atoning for your soulmate,” Tango fires back. “Don't make up something when we all know it’s a lie. Why even bother when you're one bad situation away from abandoning him entirely?”

He halts the moment the words spill past his lips, born of frustration rather than anything more malicious. Still, it has the effect he was going for a few moments ago – before his rational thinking and decision-making capabilities caught up with him – and Grian’s face closes off, going dark and angry.

“You don't mean that,” Grian tells him. “And you don't know what you're talking about either.”

“Fine, maybe I don't,” he acquiesces. He won’t apologise, not when Grian won’t accept it from him, but he can still feel a little guilty. “But I also don't want to be stood around chatting about this while Jimmy- dies! Or whatever it is!”

“Freezes to death,” Grian corrects. Then pauses and lights up, turning on Tango with none of his previous anger, an inspired gleam in his eye. “Frozen!” He yells, like that makes any sense at all, gives him any clue to whatever leap of logic Grian just made.

“Uh,” he says smartly. “What?” And winces a moment later, heart thudding hard in his chest as the cold retreats for a moment, before cascading back in like- like snowfall. Like snowfall! “Frozen!” He yells back at Grian, grinning like an idiot before he gasps, chest stuttering with the panic that pulses over to him, flooding his senses with a nervous energy.

“The mountain is this way,” Grian tells him, yelling slightly with the frantic energy that has overtaken the two of them. Tango wouldn’t consider them allies – wouldn’t consider them even friendly after Scar’s little escapade at their ranch, but maybe they could start something somewhat like an alliance after this? Provided they manage to find Jimmy. Provided that they're even right. “Come on, come on!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” He breaks into a sprint, even as his chest feels as though it’s being compressed, something heavy weighing down on his ribs and preventing his lungs from expanding properly. The burning in his throat and his lungs only spurs him on further, legs turning numb from both the cold and the exertion as he makes the first leap up the craggy clifface of the mountain.

A blur of colour shoots up past him, Grian splaying his wings out when he reaches the top to slow his descent, touching down delicately as Tango continues his mad scramble up the side. His numb hands falter a few times, but he digs his claws in a little harder as he climbs further, easing himself into it until he’s as familiar with the rocks as a mountain goat.

Grian hops from foot to foot at the top, and as much as Tango wants to haul himself over the edge and lay there for several hours, maybe even a lifetime, he shoves himself upwards onto his feet as soon as he can, ignores the burning of everything. The burning that could be him but could also be Jimmy -wherever he is.

It doesn’t take them long.

Not with the laughter travelling clearly through the cold air, carried to them on a sharp wind. He doesn’t even need to think it through before he veers in the direction of the voices, the taunting that reaches his ears.

He flares so hot that it probably reaches Jimmy over their bond, and clears a circle of snow around him.

“Oh, look who’s arrived!” Joel turns to him with a smile, arms outstretched. “Took you long enough.”

“What are you doing?” He can see Grian backing up from him out the corner of his eye, but can’t find it in himself to care as he flares up. He doesn’t even care if he sets fire to this whole damn forest. All he can focus on is the slight movement of snow at Joels’ feet.

“Nothing,” Joel shrugs. Scar, behind him, at least has the decency to look guilty…Scar?

He whirls on Grian. “You knew?”

“What!” Grian shrieks out, outraged and shocked all at once. “How was I meant to know! Why do you even think I knew?”

“Scar’s here!” he yells, gesturing towards the offending person. “You're telling me he ran off and you didn’t think to check where he’d gone?”

“I was helping you all day! How was I meant to know he came up here to do something like this?”

Tango hisses out a breath filled with smoke and a little flame, uncaring of the way soot coats the inside of his mouth and the back of his teeth. He can scrub the taste away later, when his hands are no longer numb and his heart doesn’t feel as though it’s going to break to pieces.

He surges forward, ducking beneath Joel’s arm when he tries to block him and plunging a hand into the powdered snow. He scrambles around, ignoring the yelling that starts up behind him, grasping and reaching blindly until he finally finds something solid amongst the numbing cold.

He holds on tighter and yanks backwards, using his body weight to pull Jimmy free from the snow. He falls back with the force, when the snow finally releases its victim, allowing him free of the snowy prison he’d been trapped in for however long.

He’s shuddering so hard that Tango’s afraid, for several long moments, that he might just vibrate out of his skin, teeth chattering so hard he might bite off his tongue.

He pays this little mind, pulling Jimmy close to himself and stoking the fire in his core as much as he can, pressing his forehead to Jimmy’s, wincing at the clammy feel of it. He sits there, in his circle of melted snow until Jimmy blinks his frosted lashes open, squinting up at him.

“Hey,” is all he says.

“Don't hey me,” he bites out, frustration from a source of worry and fear and panic and everything but anger, stress making him feel like he’s on the edge of some great drop; any movement would send him over the edge, and then he might do something even more stupid like start sobbing right here. “I didn’t know where you were,” he tells Jimmy quietly. It’s loud enough to carry, now that the yelling behind them has stopped.

Tango doesn’t turn to check on their companions, focusing only on Jimmy, on the way his extremities are no longer purple with cold, returning to a slightly more healthy pink tint, cheeks rosy with the cold.

He steels his resolve then and stands, ignores the small sound of panic that Jimmy makes, the way his cold hands wrap around the back of his neck, as though Tango would ever drop him. His arms are beginning to burn with exhaustion, muscles trembling, but he refuses to release Jimmy. Not when he’d almost slipped away from Tango completely.

He ignores the apologetic look from Grian, ignores the guilty one from Scar. Ignores Joel entirely.

Jimmy presses his face against his neck, speaking words that Tango can only make out because of how close they are. Words spoken so close to his skin that they're almost branded into it. “I can walk,” he says, embarrassment colouring his voice and his face.

“I know.”

“Then…”

“I want to carry you,” a stray feather brushes against the exposed skin of his neck, brushes just below his chin in a way that makes him shiver. “Besides, I think you're quite enjoying this, aren’t you?” he teases, hoping that it might make Jimmy smile, at least a little.

The embarrassment and flustering will keep him warm until they're back at the ranch, where Tango can wrap him in blankets and offer him warm drinks. And maybe he’ll sit alongside Jimmy, within that cocoon of blankets, warm him with the flame stoked somewhere deep in his chest.

Jimmy tightens his grip, though it is no longer from fear of being dropped, and more to press himself closer to Tango. To his warmth.

Despite himself, Tango flushes, and prays that Jimmy can’t feel it.

[highlordofkrypton]

CHAPTER 5 SUMMARY: Lilith leaves the halfway house and tries to survive alone. The only place willing to take in an unwed and unclipped female is a small seamstress shop.

TAGS: @achaotichuman @amalhe-kofee @watcherintheweyr @darah-g @sonics-atelier @viktoriaashleyyx @thrumbolt @itsybitsybluesy

READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT.

Survival depends on erasure. Lilith shears her long black hair, so short that she looks like a boy. Her sharp jawline makes it easier to pass as ambiguously male with the help of stolen clothes carrying the scent of a warrior. She abandons the dresses given to the girls at the halfway house; she leaves it with them, should any of them need it. 

She does not talk unless she needs to, and her habit of looking others in their eyes works in her favour. Lilith takes up odd jobs across Windhaven, earning minimal coin or gifts instead of payment which she barters for things she needs. Her new home is a windowless attic above a seamstress’ shop—one of the few permanent structures of the large village. Its owner is a stern elderly Illyrian female who asks nothing of Lilith, except that her payments be made on time. 

Running errands is, by far, much worse than running an entire household. No deliveries for food and supplies are made at her door, and there is no one else to support her. Her earnings are split with the other unclaimed girls, the larger portion going to them to ensure their survival. She doesn’t need much. The more she says it, the more she believes it. The potion helps stave her hunger, the thought of throwing up what meagre food she can acquire makes her feel worse than the poison running through her body.

Each day ends with Lilith collapsing on the makeshift bed on the floor—a heap of straw and scrap fabrics she scrounged up from the seamstress’ trash. It had taken days to get the smell of food out, and there are stains that will live forevermore, but this is good enough. I don’t need much, she tells herself.

Despite the pain and the hunger, it is the loneliness that wears on her. 

Outside of accepting jobs, and work-related conversations, Lilith is left to herself. The elderly Illyrian beneath her attic is cold; even if she wasn’t, there is no trust left within Lilith to make that first move—to speak that first word. The silence of the night gnaws at her, especially after close encounters with warriors whose eyes linger too long on her and challenge her gaze. She cannot break. She cannot fear.

You should visit them a little longer this time, she tells herself. It’ll do you some good.

Lilith waits until the busiest nights of the week, past dusk, but a little later than supper time. The streets will be full of Illyrians seeking to enjoy the cool weather and crisp mead. She loses herself in the crowd, just a boy delivering parcels as he is told, nothing more.

She raps at the kitchen window, just her fingernails, a light sound while peering into the cabin. The first time, it scared the girls, but they’ve come to know the sound. Lilith creeps through the gardens behind the structure, towards the back door. They let her in and—

Goddess, it feels like all her worries have eased.

“Lilith! Have you come to stay?” Little Andes chirps, and Lilith immediately scoops her into her arms for a hug. Her wings flutter with easy joy. Though she raged against being called unclaimed and unclipped, this is still her home. These girls are her comfort—her family.

“For as long as I can.”

“Come, we have enough food to share,” says Pathia, a fourteen year old girl who has grown into Asmodea’s role as the house cook.

Lilith tips her head as Andes pulls off her hat, and the gaggle of girls gasp.

“You really cut your hair!”

“We thought you did, but you always wore that hat!”

“It is an ugly hat,” Lilith laughs. “So ugly, it’s an excellent distraction.”

Laughter is a symphony to her ears and a balm to her soul. She carries Andes over to the dining table. Most of them have already eaten, but they are content to gather around her and hear the very mundane stories of life outside. Lilith makes a point to turn her miserable life into an adventure; she sees the way they light up at the thought of disguise and subversion, so she leans into it, feeding off their awe to feel whole again. Embellishment gives them hope. Lilith sees no point in telling them what they already know about the world outside.

“Do you think any of us might bloom late?” 

Tatta must have been holding onto that question for a long time. She hadn’t asked it before Lilith and Asmodea left, but it must have been bothering her. The room falls into a hush and all those brown, hazel and honeyed eyes are fixated on the oldest Illyrian in the room.

“I… It’s a miracle Asmodea celebrated her seventeenth year without her bleed.” Lying blatantly is much more difficult, especially with the way all the attention is on her. “As for me, it’s… not safe.”

“But if it gives us a chance.”

Lilith shakes her head. “I have nearly died many times. It’s not a stable concoction. I do not know the effect it will have on each of you, and if something happened because of me. I could never live with myself.”

“And if something happened to us when you could have saved us?”

The sharpness of the question catches Lilith off guard. She looks around the room, and she realizes her mistake. In her flurry of excitement, she did not take a headcount. She should have asked about them, instead of burying herself in the nostalgia of being home. 

“Where’s Pinnes?” Lilith stands, so quickly it makes her head spin. She uses the table to steady herself. She hopes desperately that Pinnes is still out there, somewhere in the forest or the mountains looking for wild herbs to scavenge.

“They took her last night.”

“Shit,” Lilith lets herself fall back into her seat. She runs a hand through her short hair, as if that would sweep the guilt away. “Shit.”

It’s never easy to lose a sister, but she didn’t know how bad she would feel. She put the onus on Tatta, Pinnes and Messor to save everyone else. Yes, it’s a joint effort, but she had singled them out for their skill and their strength of character, but nothing prepares anyone to watch a sister—a child —under your care get dragged away to be…

“When is her clipping?”

“At the end of the week.”

“I’ll be there.”

Lilith used to avoid watching the clipping ceremony. There is no ceremony to it, just a girl tied to the stocks as the King or his Lords cut away the last inch of freedom she has. Then, she started attending in solidarity and defiance. She would hold the gaze of her sisters and will strength into them. You are not lesser. You are strong. You will survive this. She would not cry or flinch; she would bear this weight with her sisters.

“That’s not all,” Tatta says with a wisdom beyond her years. “King Brykos is looking for you. He came to check on your well-being now that Asmodea has been claimed.”

Lilith snorts. “My well-being. What have you told him?”

“You disappeared the night before in grief, unable to part with As. I do not know where you went.”

“Good.” Nothing about this is good, but Lilith has nothing else to say. She sits there, thinking. She will need to be more careful from now on. “Nevermind, King Brykos. Tell me about you all. What is new?”

The rest of the evening is spent chatting away, along with some performances. With little to occupy them, the girls will often put on plays for one another, or one of them will sing a song, or they will dance together with whatever makeshift music they can create. Life is breathed into Lilith once more, and by the time she leaves, she feels like flying. At times, she thinks that she could survive her clipping with the right person, but those times are few and far between.

She slips between the handful of permanent structures, erring on the side of the forest and mountain in hopes of the darkness shielding her.

“Hey!” A male voice calls. “I saw you!” She can hear the slurring in his tone.

Fear sizes her chest in a vice grip. Lilith pulls her hat lower to shield her face as she moves quicker, using her wings to propel her forward. If she can just make it to the seamstress’s—it’s so close.

“Stop right there!”

Multiple wings flap behind her and she has never been more afraid in her life. At the halfway house, there was an unspoken protection. With Brykos, she knows what to expect. These warriors can do anything to her in the darkness of night, under the influence of mead and no one will save her. 

The warriors are faster, snatching her arm and yanking her back with such a force that pain explodes in her shoulder. Lilith falls into the dirt, biting her lip to muffle the sounds of weakness. Show nothing. Give them nothing. She lifts her eyes at them, glaring, male to male.

“What was an eager thing like you doing with the unclaimed ? Have you mistaken it for a whorehouse?”

One of the warriors snorts. “Might as well be. Maybe he’s onto something.”

“That place is for warriors,” snarls the largest male of the three. “But you are a pitiful little creature. Perhaps this was his only chance at a female.” He nudges Lilith with the tip of his boot.

She scowls at him, pulling away from them. It takes every ounce of self control not to hiss at him. Strong, virile males do not hiss. Instead, she lets the anger in her eyes speak for itself.

“It seems like he’s challenging you.”

Lilith will fight if she needs to. She found a discarded, rusted knife. Its edge is chipped so badly, she would have to use her whole body to drive it through the meat of a full-grown Illyrian warrior. She has no qualms about fighting dirty; her fingers are already curling in the ground, subtly grabbing a fistful of dirt. For everything they take, she will take twice as much from all three of them.

There are those whom the goddess has blessed, and Lilith is not one of them. Her heart staccatos in that strange, uncomfortable, way it does ever since she started poisoning herself. She struggles to breathe, trying to keep the traitorous muscle locked in her chest. She coughs, and cannot focus.

“Come to think of it…” 

She gasps as she’s pulled to her feet.

“He is a pretty little thing, don’t you think?”

“A hole is a hole.”

Lilith readies herself for a fight. Anything to survive.

“Hoy!”

A stern voice booms down the alley. The elderly seamstress descends the steps of her shop, through the side door. She brandishes an ornate pair of fabric scissors. Her movements are slow with age, but she seems undeterred by the three large males. 

“Mind your business, you old h—”

The younger warrior is interrupted by a punch in the chest. “Shut the fuck up, don’t you know who that is?”

This is the perfect moment for Lilith to strike, but she’s dropped suddenly. It’s the second time tonight her ass hits the ground and she can already feel the blooming bruise. The warriors lower themselves, and she thinks they’re moving onto her. No, they’re bowing ?

“ Uray.”

Golden one.

Lilith’s eyes widen, and she scrambles to kneel, but the seamstress beckons her up. “Come, quickly.”

“This boy is yours?”

“This girl is my apprentice.”

“Our sincerest apologies. We did not know she was yours.”

“Begone, then, and tell your company to leave us alone.”

“Of course,  uray.”

Just like that, her problem is solved. What she would do if she had that kind of power, if she could send the bad away with her mere presence. She could change the world. Lilith’s heart is still fluttering its off-beat, disallowing her lungs to get enough air and making her head feel cloudy. She sways, reaching out for something to lean on.

The older Illyrian catches her.

“I’ve got you. Come inside.”

Lilith shuffles into the modest shop. It’s cluttered with fabrics, patterns and clothing. She squeezes past the litany of items, letting the Golden One guide her. She is at the mercy of one of the most important figures in Illyrian history.

“How did you know?”

“Girl,” the seamstress snaps. “You are not as clever as you think you are. You are lucky that the males are that much more stupid.”

“ Uray,” Lilith repeats, her way of asking for an explanation without asking for one.

The elderly Illyrian turns her head to spit on the ground. “Worthless title.”

“That’s not true. Your title forced those warriors to yield.” Lilith doesn’t understand. To have any kind of power as a female among the Dardani is nothing short of a miracle.

“Guilt and nostalgia brought them to their knees. It has nothing to do with my title. My son is dead, and those sheep are no people of mine. My worth is no more than dirt to them.” 

Ah, there is the answer Lilith seeks. The mothers of tribe leaders are given the title of uray— golden ones, those who are made of gold. It had been a great honour, once upon a time. These women were thought to be blessed by Alunsina herself to raise the strongest Illyrians who would lead and protect their people. Uray were revered even moreso than now; while their children lead, they would impart teachings that would weave the members of their tribe together. Their knowledge was so important, it might as well be made of gold.

The adrenaline wanes, but another emotion takes hold of Lilith. She searches the seamstress’ face, trying to place her. Mothers could long outlive their children, but she knows that this Illyrian comes from a time long before the current King and his cruel ways. She comes from a time that would have been beautiful.

“Do not look at me like that, little one. I am not your saviour. The moment you are of breeding age, there is nothing I can do for you.”

“You may not be able to save me from my fate, but you are my saviour for tonight. May I… May I ask…?”

Who was your son? Which of the great War Lords had the honour of being your child?

The seamstress inclines her head. “Lakan Ica.”

Lilith gasps, and immediately tries to drop to her knees, but the woman stops her. “I must pay my respects,” Lilith begs.

Ica is the last great ruler the Dardani tribe has seen—a war lord above the rest. The Illyrians are a tribal people, content to exist in smaller communities rather than large ones. Conflicts were dependent on land and resources, as it is with any culture. Ica united several tribes of South Illyria under the Dardani banner, and though he disposed of the largest army, he sought to form a minimal agreement with the two other largest tribes of Illyria. So long as the Autariatae kept to their Mountain, and the Ardiaei remained by the seaside, he saw no reason to fight. They would trade. No single man could abolish war, or conflict, but he was a man of innovation who was equal measures a rhetorician as he was a strategist.

His reign was far beyond Lilith’s time, but his stories are legendary. He did not conquer the tribes, he was chosen to be the leader above leaders.  She would tell his stories to the girls, encouraging them to dream of better Lords and hope for freedom. If not for themselves, then for their daughters.

Succession is a cruel thing. It is an opportunity, capitalized by anyone at the right time and at the right place. In a fair fight, Brykos would have never won.

“ Uray Eia,” Lilith whispers, bowing her head and holding her hand out.

Eia hands it to her, and Lilith brings it to her forehead. The gesture is a blessing, given by the elders of their people to the young. It is an old and forgotten greeting; Brykos had done away with much of their tradition, thinking that the new would carry his name forward.

“I have not heard that name in a long time… Enough,” snaps the old Illyrian. “I am too old to be reminiscing like this. Let me tend to you. Did they harm you?”

[allwaswell16]

Hi lovely and thank for your sharing and caring in this fandom!

A bit finicky question, I'm here with. Don't know if I managed to mention different perspectives enough and contextualize it the way I wanted to, but anyway, do feel free to ignore or maybe just leave some tags:

What are your thoughts, your two pennies and just today (tomorrow is another day and maybe a new perspective), about the conversation going on about the commenting culture (nowadays in AO3):

the lack and/or decline of it

the urgent need for community, engagement, participation and positive feedback loop for authors

but also the growing and changing audience for fanfic

the growing idea that a fic is not a gift (it most certainly is) but some "factory produced and guaranteed content that keeps on coming and you are entitled to it"

the lack of reading comprehension skills

and the lack of skills to figure out the appropriate time and place for giving critique

but also the small but growing portion of authors who demand only certain kind of praise, worded in a certain kind of way and if not delivered accordingly attack brutally on everything and everyone

the cultural differencies as a player in participating, giving positive feedback and even using foreign language words

and of course the ever growing and spreading comment anxiety on "both sides"

and so on...

So how do you see it? What's your perspective? You are both an author and a reader. But then again, you are a reader who writes, so you actually know, what a writer likes to see in their comment field...

Hi, anon! Whew, well this is a lot, but I'm going to answer as much as I can haha. As you said, this is just my own perspective on things. I'd say I also have a little added perspective of being a writer who reads and writes in more than one popular fanfic fandom. So I can't help but compare my experiences in both.

I don't think the One Direction fandom has ever been overly generous with the kudos and comments to be perfectly honest. I think if you talk to writers who are active in other fic fandoms of similar sizes/popularity, they'd likely agree with that.

I want to be clear to start with here that I feel like readers have been very kind to me over the years. I've been here a long time now though, so I get the benefit of the doubt with some long time readers and those who subscribe to my ao3. But I also think that in part I have encouraged comments in a way that not every writer can or wants to do.

I answer every single comment. I answer them in a way that mirrors back the comment that was made. If you leave a long comment, I answer back in detail. If you send me something shorter, (which is fine and I love any and all comments!) I will answer back in a similar way. I also answer back pretty quickly. There are times I get behind, but I rarely get behind more than a month or so. And the day my fic posts, I try to answer every comment that gets posted on that first day.

Am I saying everyone needs to do what I do? Absolutely not! It takes a lot of time and energy to do that! But I do think there's a correlation to be made there. Readers see all the comments, see they're being answered quickly, and feel comfortable or like it's okay to leave one, too. OH, and also I want to say that me answering back (maybe obsessively) quickly is something that probably isn't possible for people who have a fic explode in popularity. I might have some popular fics but none of them were like overnight explosions in popularity. They've all been slow burners lol.

As for concrit with fic...I think it depends on the fandom. It is not something that is looked upon kindly in ours. There are definitely writers out there who ask for it which is fine, but the etiquette in our fandom is not to offer it unless asked for it. In my opinion, this makes a lot of sense for our fandom. Since writers are not getting the numbers of kudos and comments that are given more freely in other fandoms, it's a bit of a hard pill to swallow that we'd then expect them to also take unsolicited writing critiques.

Just using my own fics as an example, by the time I publish a fic multiple other writers have already read it. It's been proofread and betad by a writer with an MFA in creative writing. I'm not going to be taking concrit seriously from someone whose background in writing I don't know. When I publish the fic, it's done, I'm happy with the result, and I'm not going back to it to make changes. So there's not much point in telling me what I should have done differently with it.

Your point about some writers being perhaps overly sensitive about some comments...I wanted to say a few things about. There are a few common comments that immediately came to mind that writers have differing views on, and I think it's worthwhile for readers to think about.

One is something like I wish this was longer or please write more of this. If you comment this on any of my fics, I'll smile and consider it a compliment that you enjoyed it enough to want more. If you go through my comments, you'll see this is indeed what I've replied back to comments like that. There are other writers that are going to be exasperated by that comment or even offended by it. And even though I'm not one of them, I would say try to see it from their perspective.

What if that writer has spent months on that fic the reader considers "short"? I think readers sometimes forget just how much TIME goes into these fics. Just because a fic is 10k, 5k, whatever doesn't mean it didn't take a long time to write. And someone who spent months of time on something who likely didn't receive a whole lot of comments in the first place, and then one of the few comments they get could be interpreted as this wasn't enough. That's disheartening, you know? I think if you have the urge to leave that comment, maybe think first about the writer you're leaving that comment for. Or even think of a different way to say it like, "I could have lived in this fic forever" which is what I like to think is what most readers are trying to convey with comments like that.

Another one is who tops? Just don't, I'd say for that comment. I simply don't answer ones like that. But I'd say check the tags. If it's not tagged, either choose to move on if you have to know to read it or ctrl+F the fic yourself for the word "cock" or whatever. If the writer doesn't tag it, it means they didn't care about that. Or they got annoyed with their fics being reduced to that too often. PWP eh fine, but my 80k amnesia au I had a nervous breakdown writing that has one sex scene...eff off that's not what the fic is about. I once wrote a fic about grief. GRIEF! (well, and Antarctic scientists) that people argued over whether it was bottom Louis. And I resolved to never tag it again after that.

As for the fic as a gift vs not a gift I agree with you...I don't know what else you'd call something that is given for free. That's the definition of "gift." If someone reads the fic, a kudos is like a verbal thank you and a comment would be like a thank you card.

The comment anxiety thing I don't have an issue with myself, but I know writers who do and can't bring themselves to answer their comments. One of my friends feels so badly for not answering but when she tries she says her replies don't feel like enough. It's too bad that she can't answer due to actually loving her comments TOO much! Anxiety is a bitch for sure. For anyone who wants to leave a comment but is worried about it, I promise that super short ones or even keysmashes or emojis are very welcome! I have a mutual on tumblr who leaves the same comment on every one of my fics that simply says she loved the fic and I promise it makes me happy every single time because now I know she read it and enjoyed it whereas I might have missed whether or not she left a kudos. And when I see her on my dash, I think that's the one who loves my fics! :)

I swear I'm gonna stop rambling, but I want to end with one more thing. I think it would be interesting for readers and writers to experience a different fandom sometime if they're only in this one. It's not always a better/worse thing, but it might make people more open to trying new things like commenting/replying more or in different ways.

[jon-snows-man-bun]

By Turns

Chapter Seven

The closer Eris gets to his goals the harder he has to work to keep all plates spinning. Tensions simmer underneath his new alliances, pulling him into the Hewn City where the impact of Rhysand’s rule shapes the future.

Masterlist

Find this fic on AO3

A/N: Chapter contains graphic violence and dubious consent. I was rereading portions of the book to understand where the knowledge of Velaris stands now, and it's not really clear. Rhys reveals its existance to the mortal queens, Hybern finds it, Eris and Keir know about it (after Keir's knowledge is presumably wiped by Rhysand under Amarantha?) but it's not obvious whether the rest of Prythian know about it.

This is also kind of fucked up because it was allegedly a haven for refugees through the ages, but how does that work if all of the traders are essentially under a bargain not to reveal its existence as per the books? How do the refugees find it? What's going on with that? It's also mentioned that the Night Court straight up executes anyone who crosses their border.

I've consolidated the bits SJM has given us and decided that the High Lords certainly know it exists now, other people are starting to find out through gossip and word of mouth, but it's still 'hidden' and can't be found unless Rhys lets you in.

It was during an otherwise uneventful court evening that the two lesser fae were brought in.

Courtiers were mingling loosely, gathered in the throne room under the pretence of petitions for Lord Keir. It was informal; Aisling had been listening to a lady play a lyre and sing an old ballad in which a warrior could only save the life of his lover with his life's blood. Others were clustered in groups, gossiping or drinking.

"The High Lord's child is surely dead," she heard a male insist behind her. "It hasn't been seen. It surely died in labour."

"Just as we haven't seen it doesn't mean a thing. If it were dead he would have gone mad," another mused.

"He's already mad!"

The idle talk and music ceased as the soldiers entered, one in front and one behind the strangers so they couldn't be seen at first. As they passed through the crowd she heard murmurs and gasps, and then she saw why when she caught a glimpse of horns and heard the clop of hooves.

They were Urisks, she realised as the passed her by, but Aisling had never seen this race of fae in the flesh before. Other than pairs of horns nestled in their ruddy brown hair - one's curling like a ram, the other's small and pointed - the two males looked High Fae above the waist, but their legs were those of goats. They were wild-eyed and distressed, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder as if they could make themselves as small as possible.

Aisling always forgot that there was an enormous variety of fae in Prythian, more than she had read about, more than she could imagine. Most lesser fae in the City were confined to the lower levels and the mines. She had only seen the coblynau that mined the diamonds a handful of times, and been permitted to speak to the troll overseer of the Mine of the Moon even less. He had called her Sidhe which may well have been a slur for all she knew. The troll could also write; it was his hand that penned the production reports she read. Her knowledge ran that far and no further.

But there weren’t any lesser fae in Night with the sort of animal features the Urisks had. Aisling couldn’t stop staring at where their goat legs bent backwards into hocks, tapering into their trousers.

“We’ve found a fine pair of goats,” the Darkbringer had said, which made several courtiers titter. One of the Urisks flinched.

The borders of the Night Court were enchanted, and it was well known that the lives of all who crossed were forfeit. Some were executed before the gentry in the throne room; Aisling imagined more were cut down in the forests and mountains along the border. Perhaps it was sport for the Darkbringers lucky enough to patrol the borders.

There had been more and more appearing since the High Lord had revealed the existence of Velaris. The lord steward normally executed them, but lately he had been maiming them before sending them on their way. A message to the High Lord, maybe, or a reminder for all those who dwelt in the city of Velaris: you trod on us on your way to freedom, but it cost you something. Or perhaps just done from jealousy and spite, that others could have what he could not. Aisling didn't care to speculate - the idea of Velaris still soured her.

Was maiming them and sending them on better or worse than the old way, where they mounted branded heads along the gates and borders? She didn’t know. Cruelty was a game that turned morality and reason inside out, asked impossible choices. If the Night gentry could come and go as they pleased, would they still be so vicious? More likely than not, Aisling decided as the intrigued court drew closer to the dais, but at least they would have one less cause.

“And where are these goats from?” Keir drawled, a veneer of icy amusement on his pale face.

“Spring,” one said, finally. His voice quavered, but he had his head raised.

“A long way from home. What brings you here?” The steward enquired, feigning at having a conversation with them, drawing out the pretence of civility.

“Spring is in ruins,” the Urisk said, now casting his eyes down. His shoulders hunched. Aisling wondered if he had a tail. “Autumn reaves the borders. No law to be found there. Too dangerous to stay, so we left.”

“A long way to travel to seek safety. Do not lie to me,” Lord Keir warned from the dais. His silver circlet glinted under the light, eyes cold and dark as his patience ran thin, obviously bored of pretending this was anything but an interrogation. “Even by omission. You’ve trespassed through our borders. Telling the truth is part of the price of continuing on your journey. Where were you going?”

The two Urisks shifted nervously, glancing between themselves; she could see that the quiet one's hands were trembling as he folded them across himself.

“We go to Velaris,” the quiet one finally admitted reluctantly, curved horns catching the grey light. “Some say th-they welcome lower fae there.”

“Are we not welcoming here?” Lord Keir asked with a little smile. The court tittered around her; she heard someone giggle behind their hand. The Urisks didn’t answer, shifting anxiously from hoof to hoof. One kept glancing over his shoulder at the crowd around them.

“Allow me to welcome you fully to Night, then. Please, if you will be one of us, honour us with a dance in our custom," Keir said when they didn't answer, smiling with too many teeth to be friendly. His eyes glittered with malice.

Another murmur zipped through the court, which drew ever closer. This game - Aisling had played it as a child with others, hitting each-other with a leather strop when you fell out of time as the dance grew faster. She still remembered the sharp sting of rawhide as it whipped across the back of her knees and bit at her ankles. But to beat and slap at each other was child’s play; this would go hard for the Urisks.

“And then we can go?” One asked and someone giggled in the crowd again, like a silver bell in the distance.

“Yes, so long as you finish the dance. But step sprightly; mis-steps are costly here,” Keir warned. At that, their faces plummeted; the quiet one started as if to run for the door but his companion grabbed him.

“Lady Aisling,” Keir called. Her own stomach dropped as surely as theirs had and a hard stone formed in her chest as the faces of the court turned to look at her, a hundred pale judges. “You’ve enjoyed dancing of late. Come partner our guests.”

Maeve. Aisling gritted her teeth at the thought of her maidservant selling her secrets to Keir. It was Maeve who brought Eris to her, Maeve who knew of their meeting. Why else would Keir shame her this way? It was almost certainly punishment for daring to slip through the net of his control, even in a small way.

If Maeve were not her mother’s only companion Aisling would have accused her of some small crime or other to have her removed from her household. It would have been suitable punishment for the chastisement Aisling was about to experience before the court.

All she could do was forward obediently. Let them mock her. There would be a new scandal to titter over next week.

The throne room was deathly silent as she approached. She caught Niamh’s eye, who quickly looked away; Padraig stared at her as if she were nothing. Aisling expected it and would deliver the same, if it had been them. It still chilled her.

The energy in the room stretched taut as a tightrope, anticipating. The Urisks were pale, eyes wide in panic as Aisling took her place opposite the quiet one with the pointed horns. She forced herself to look into his eyes, the white of them visible all the way around; his hand trembled in hers, so slightly only she could see it.

She could say nothing to comfort him, not even with her eyes. All of the court watched, dark energy crackling through them like lightning. They were Unseelie; they wanted blood and if Aisling was unwise enough to get in the path, her blood would certainly sate them too.

“Begin,” Lord Keir commanded, and the music started.

Aisling leapt into the jaunty reel, bare feet moving nimbly in time with the other fae; her stomach twisting in anxiety as the Urisk struggled to keep up. They were lesser fae, not of the gentry. They likely hadn’t spent a fraction of the time the High Fae had learning and perfecting dances and had little of their grace.

The fae knew it was coming. The court drew closer, likely without realising; the Urisks’ breathing was ragged as they made it through the first passage, but then -

Aisling kept her face blank as the hoof came down hard on her bare foot. Her skirts were long and with no wince of pain, none watching could tell the error her partner had made. But she could only buy him so long, and when he turned the wrong way in the corner and her opposite’s hand was left empty as she crossed, the music stopped abruptly. He said nothing but his eyes were rolling in terror as Thanatos calmly, casually, without any fanfare stepped forward and cut the Urisk’s hand off.

Blood spattered across the floor noisily, the male shrieking as he clutched his wrist. Aisling forced herself to watch dispassionately, stepping through the door in her mind as the Urisk moaned in pain. She was in a different room, watching through someone else’s eyes, through a screen of glass. She let the images skim past her like a breeze, finding no root in her mind.

Blood pooled on the marble floor and had caught her across the bodice of her dress. His wrist was cauterised quickly with a torch, which Aisling watched without seeing. Someone would notice if she flinched or looked away. She breathed through her mouth carefully, the air heavy with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. Do not gag, she reminded herself and swallowed slowly to keep it down. This close she could see the flesh bubble at the edge of his new stump. For a long moment, the only sound was Thanatos’ heavy steps back to the dias, punctuated by soft whimpering.

“Begin again,” Keir ordered.

Aisling stood into her set, dancing through the fog of a dream. The blood was cooling on her bare feet as she stepped through it. Other couples had begun dancing as well, the frenetic mania of bloodshed curling through the room, whipping them on. They turned and twined about the floor, faster and faster, and it was only after the pair of lesser fae lost another hand and a foot between them that the song ended. They were staggering, faces pale and shocked; blood seeped through their trouser legs and covered their shirts as if they had been dipped. Aisling suspected she was no better; her neck itched terribly, hot with shame and nausea. The one without the foot supported the other, his arm about his shoulders.

“I suppose you are well-versed in our customs and I should let you pass our borders now,” Keir drawled while one trembled violently, swaying. Several of the court hissed, a male laughed, rough as stone tumbling together. “We bid you safe travels to Velaris. And when you get there, please give the High Lord our regards and let him know of our hospitality.”

“Thank you Lord. Thank you. Thank you,” one whispered, bowing as best he could, scrambling backwards after the soldier escorting them away. The other was too gone, leaning heavily across his companion, mute in shock. They were ghostly pale and grey beneath their sunny skin now, all whisper of Spring bled from them.

After that diversion court lasted not much longer; Aisling knew well enough to wait by the dais like a dog to be dismissed lest Lord Keir have some more chastisement to heap upon her. When the throne room was empty save the three of them, Keir finally turned his attention back to her.

"You should take your handmaiden's tongue for selling your secrets," he told her. Lord Thanatos said nothing, but the way he watched her made her hair stand on end. If she looked at him she would panic, so she looked at her bloodied bare feet instead.

“Go,” he bid her, boredly. She curtsied, nearly sagging in relief at slipping out of his view once more. To be alone with him was more dangerous than being in front of the court.

She walked in a daze, wading through the deep water of her own mind as she slipped through an archway and down a set of servant's stairs. Aisling followed the smaller service corridor, needing time and privacy to collect herself; she didn’t wish to be watched as an animal in a menagerie through the busier main passages. Everything felt surreal and menacing, and everywhere she looked she saw the hand as it separated from the wrist.

This way was narrower, used by servants and for clandestine comings and goings. The ceiling was lower here, held up by more carved columns. These provided a useful support for her as she took moments to press her hands into them when she felt adrift and dizzy. The walls were smooth - no gilding, no faelights, only coal braziers. It was a long passage that would eventually spit her out at the top of the level used by palace staff which contained the kitchens and laundry. None would bother her, but they would certainly tell their masters and mistresses that they saw her shuffling listlessly, barefoot and covered in blood.

She was thinking of this in a detached way, paying little attention to anything other than the floor. It was only when long fingers wrapped around her arm that she jolted, ripping back in fright to see -

Amber eyes, alight with arrogance. A disdainful smirk of amusement. The planes of his face, the elegant cheekbones, the hair so brilliantly red it was glowing.

“Lord Vanserra,” Aisling said, and her voice sounded very far away. She tried to curtsy but her legs trembled and her knees seemed wooden.

“Aisling,” Eris said, eyes narrowing as he regarded her, hand still wrapped around her arm. “You are well?”

“Yes, very well,” she answered softly, pressing herself back into the wall. She could feel his magic crackling off him, as it always did; he was rich with the power of his blood and the promise of what would be his one day. Her chest ached at his closeness, at the way his broad shoulders were caging her in, trapping her against the stone wall of the hallway. When had he stepped closer to her? His eyes ran over her, reading her like a map. Checking that the blood was not hers, she realised belatedly, face growing hot.

“Is this some new Night fashion, then?” He asked with a cruel, small smile, tracing her bloodied collarbone with one long finger. She had seen such smiles all her life; it was to let her know that though they were both laughing, the joke was on her. It reminded her of Lord Thanatos’ as his blade flashed silver and her throat ached from keeping herself contained.

“There was a matter of Court business,” she could only manage to whisper hoarsely, skin aflame where he ran his finger along her shoulder. His touch burned. He was his father’s heir and entirely fire, destructive and ruthless, here to consume her whole. The ache in her chest grew stronger, ready to cave in. Blood flaked off of her dress as she sucked in a breath.

“It suits you very well,” he murmured, amber eyes glinting in the dim light. She could not read his face and felt too raw to keep her own expression checked. Her tongue was caught in her mouth, throat still shredded as she worked to swallow. Her eyes kept dragging to the long line of his pale throat, bathed in the orange light of the braziers. The way it worked as he swallowed.

“I fear…” Aisling whispered, struggling to come up with something, some plausible or clever thing to say. “I must be rude and take my leave. Please excuse me, lord.”

“No,” he said, arrogantly. Aisling could have screamed in frustration, in fear, in something she couldn’t name. She closed her eyes instead and felt a tear trickle down her cheek unexpectedly - when had she started crying? She did not move to wipe it away lest he notice, but his eyes tracked it regardless. He seemed to notice everything about her. With one thumb he gently swept it away, a gesture so tender that it made another tear join the first. His thumb was smeared with blood from touching her.

I am weeping blood, she thought stupidly for a panicked moment before she remembered and wondered how bloodied her face was. She could barely breathe. Eris took up all space and air. He was too alive to be here in the dark with her, a force too strong to be contained by stone. Magic hummed between them and she could taste it mixed with blood.

“I do not excuse you,” he murmured again, those uncanny eyes running over her face. She felt exposed and raw and vulnerable, and it was only the knowledge that she could never hope to move him that kept her from shoving past him to flee. The thought that she was trapped twice over made her delirious, made her huff out a broken laugh like a puff of air. He assimilated to our ways quickly, she thought wildly as his eyes narrowed again at her, at her sad little laugh.

“I’ve another gift for you,” Eris said lowly, voice like smooth silk. It carressed her and she shivered.

“I do not want it,” Aisling whispered. The tears fell faster, trailing down to her jaw now. She brushed at them nervously. “You have made me into a target. Lord Keir made it plain.”

“Consider it a gift from you to me, then,” Eris said, catching the hand that brushed at her jaw in one of his own.

He dipped his head down and pressed his lips to hers. Aisling flinched back, startled, but she was against the wall and had nowhere to go. He followed regardless, pressing her more firmly into the smooth stone, as the heat of his mouth seared into her. He tasted like cinnamon, smoke, and something wild underneath that; his tongue swept along hers and somehow her hands found his shoulders and one of his hands was in her bloody hair, the other gripping her waist. All she could see was the crimson brush of his hair as he pulled back, releasing her mouth; immediately Aisling craved the heat and warmth of him again. Desire gripped her as suddenly and ruthlessly as a vice and she felt dizzy and disoriented. He studied her, pupils widening, turning the amber of his eyes into something smoky and dark, then his mouth was on hers again.

Aisling made some noise, a whimper or a moan, something pulled from her unconsciously by him. Eris groaned in response, pressing more firmly against her, the hot iron of his lean, muscled chest against hers - even through the fabric of their clothes he boiled -

Eris released her lips from his once more, their breath co-mingling.

“You witch,” he accused her softly, amber eyes boring into hers. “Have you worked some enchantment on me?”

“I have not, my lord,” was all she could think to say, stupidly. She felt drunk and light, as if his grip on her hair and hand skimming along her waist was the only thing keeping her upright. She felt as if she could float away into air; perhaps he had turned her into a wisp of smoke, burned and charred away into nothing. She could vanish with the wind.

“Liar,” he accused without malice, pressing his nose against her hair and inhaling. He groaned softly again, some noise from deep within his chest. “Your magic is strong, I can taste it.”

“Not strong enough,” she said desperately, eyes falling shut. She could feel another tear arc down her jaw - had she been crying this whole time? Her cheeks were wet and cold as he moved his head away from hers, studying her like a painting.

“It is,” he said, voice a harsh . “You wanted power over yourself. You could have it. Make the choice and step forward to take it. You need not stand at the edge of the dance and wait for permission to join.”

“An ill-timed metaphor,” was all she could say as nausea opened in her once more, suddenly brought back to where she was and the feel of dried blood sticking between her toes. His hands were so warm on her, his touch firm but not enough to hurt.

“But it stands,” Eris said. “The music is already playing. You need only move your feet.”

“If I make a misstep, my life is forfeit,” Aisling whispered, admitting the truth aloud. The terror of doing so was stark but it was as if her head was in fog. He was so unbalancing, the way he needled and pursued her. Eris was cut-throat, a cruel monster who had dumped the naked, bleeding body of his betrothed at the border of his Court rather than embarrass himself. He was vicious and scheming and stroking her waist tenderly, as if his hands had never dealt violence. Blood was smeared across them both now, pressed in speckles into the front of his fine jacket. His fingers smoothed a gentle rhythm into her waist, absurdly reassuring given the circumstance in which he held her. Aisling realised she was leaning into it, unsure when his touch had turned soothing. She thought she saw softness in his face but then it was gone, a trick of the dim light.

“Yet if you stand still, your life will be forfeit regardless,” Eris replied, suddenly arrogant and dismissive once more. He squeezed her waist lightly, teasing her. “Wed to some dark lordling. Would you like that? To be a broodmare while he plunders your inheritance and beats you for the privilege to do so?”

He stepped back from her, releasing her entirely. Aisling felt dizzied by the change in his mood, by the change in her own as anger swept in. The familiar taste of humiliation was a bitter wine to swallow as she tossed her hair back and tried to regain herself from the chaos of the last hour. He was such an absurd mix of savagery and softness - the way he brushed away her tears, the way he belittled her - her thoughts ran in circles so she clung to the clarity of anger.

Eris frowned as he watched her.

“You should go make yourself decent,” he ordered and the weight of command bore down on her. Another look from him and the blood was gone from them both though she could feel the tackiness of it still. “Do not let them see you like this.”

He lingered for a moment, studying her, then took his leave without another word. The tears continued to come silently for a few minutes longer. Aisling felt wrung out, reminded that he was a male who frightened her in his intensity and entitlement, who came and went from her world as he pleased with no regard to her, that he was dangerous and ruthless no matter how handsome she found him.

But he touched you so gently a traitorous part of her mind said, which Aisling squashed furiously. She doubted he would hold her so gently and kindly before Lord Keir or the entirety of the court. And he had dropped his hands from her like she disgusted him and swept away without a backwards glance.

She did as he bade her in the end, and stopped crying enough to continue through the dark halls. Head high, shoulders back, lest someone see.

[cambria-writes]

happy holidays! this is arguably a little late but i’ve had a rough go of it these past few days so i only just finished this tonight lol. Ii insist that i’m not late because we’re still in 2022 and the new year hasn’t hit yet!

anyways this is just a relatively short fluffy feel-good thing because i wanted to feel warm and fuzzy. so it’s absolutely self-indulgent.

word count: 3,229 warnings: swearing, it’s christmas eve and that’s important so that should probably be a warning, no y/n, no mention of gender but ravenloft reader is AFAB, minor ravenloft spoilers if you squint

for reference, this scene (with a bonus crown) is what the reader would’ve drawn.

and for the record, since it was mentioned on ao3, i'm very well aware it shouldn't have been a perception check! ravenloft!reader was never written with the intention of making them a tabletop rpg wiz, they just know enough to get by and follow along if they're sitting in on a game.

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

When the phone rang, you didn’t even greet the speaker. You immediately answered with ‘what do you want you fucking menace’ because there’s really only one person who’d call you near midnight like a heathen. 

“What’s your favourite colour?”

You snort and wedge the phone between your chin and shoulder and sit back down at your dining table to keep sketching. 

“Dunno. Like, all of them?”

“Dude that’s the epitome of unhelpful,” Eddie deadpans, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Right, well like, is there any context to this? Cause you should know I don’t have a favourite colour,” you reply, frowning and erasing a small portion before swiping the eraser shredding away. 

“Come on,” Eddie whines, and you can practically see him throwing his head back in annoyance. “Not even one? Like, something that just always makes you happy when you see it?”

You hum for a second and put your pencil down. “I guess maybe black? I—“

“Nah, nuh uh. Boring as hell.”

“Rude, what—“

“Black’s not even a colour, that’s what you constantly say!”

You scoff and pick your pencil back up, switching the phone to the other shoulder. 

“Did you seriously just call me in the middle of the night to bitch at me for not having a preferred perceptible wavelength of light?”

There’s an unusually long silence on the other end of the line. You frown again and pull the handset away and follow the coiled line. Confused but satisfied that it hadn’t somehow gotten unplugged from the cradle on the wall, you wedge it back where it was. 

“Ed? You good?”

“Yeah, no. Yeah, sorry, just thinking.”

“Jesus, don’t burn yourself out there bud.”

“Oh fuck off.”

The rest of the phone call is relatively short, and colours aren’t mentioned again by the time you hang up. You don’t go to bed until nearly two in the morning, and by then you’re content with having gotten down the main lines of your portrait. 

The snowstorm that rolled in on the 23rd was entirely unexpected but wholly welcomed. You were scheduled to work on the 24th, but with the state of the roads and the fact that nearly half of Hawkins was running off of generators, you were graciously allowed to stay home until the new year. And given that this is your first Christmas in your new home, you were more than happy to hunker down and, ha, weather it out. 

You’d had plans, sure; Harrington had already made sure everyone knew to show up at his place on the 24th, your parents had been expecting you on Christmas morning and the rest of the day would have been spent going around to see extended family. And though the thought of not being able to fulfill your annual Christmas traditions did dampen your mood, just thinking about the astronomical amount of energy you’d save made it a bit more palatable. 

If the same thing were to happen next year, though, you might cry. 

You’d already called Steve to let him know you were staying home. Pleasantly surprised, he’d admitted he’d had a whole speech prepared about how he’s have The Swarm tear you a new one if you even dared thinking about touching your car keys. (Which would have been an effective threat, honestly. You really had no interest in giving Dustin a reason to get uppity at you, and you definitely didn’t want to have to deal with Max’s ire. Girl held grudges like you did trauma.)

Your parents were only slightly less understanding, with your mother trying to insist that your father could come pick you up. A little resistance put that all to rest, though, and with a promise to call on Christmas morning, that was dealt with as well. 

You’d just settled down on your couch, swaddled in the fluffy blanket you’d gotten from Eddie the year before, mug of hot chocolate held in both hands for warmth, when the doorbell rang. Confused, you look at the time—just after dinner on Christmas Eve—and sigh before heaving yourself off the couch to buzzer by the door. You hesitate for a second before pressing the button to let the mysterious visitor in. You’re already on your way back to your couch, having assumed it was just a neighbour who’d locked themselves out again, when you hear heavy footsteps outside your door. 

You quietly walk back up and carefully lean forward to look through the peephole. 

“What the…” you mutter, leaning back, nearly jumping out of your skin when the knocking finally comes. You quickly unlatch the chain and unlock the deadbolt before pulling the door open. “Ed, what the fuck—“

“Merry Christmas,” Eddie blurts out, thrusting a box out at you, though it really sounded more like ‘murr cr’sms’. 

“Merry Christmas to you too but Jesus come inside!” You pull Eddie through the door by his arm, quickly shutting the door behind you and getting started patting the snow off of him. “The hell did you do, walk here? You look like a damn yeti!”

“Y-yeah I kind-kind of d-did.”

You pause in your patting before grabbing Eddie’s arm again and turning him around to face you. You ‘reabout to ask if he was serious, but a quick glance at his face—reddened cheeks and nose, frosted lashes, dry lips—tells you he has, in fact, told you the truth. 

“Fuck me, okay,” you whisper, before shaking your head and getting a move on. “Stay there and take your boots and coat off and then get your ass on that couch, I’m making you coffee.”

You don’t hear any complaints. And though normally you would’ve been glad for the silence, even perhaps proud to have shut him up, Eddie’s silence is, once again, unsettling. And this time you’re pretty sure it’s not because he’s thinking, and most likely because he’s borderline hypothermic.

You try to be quick; you grab that one pair of sweatpants Eddie leant you when you got splashed by a car outside of the arcade. That one metallica shirt you borrowed one time when one Friday movie night turned into an impromptu sleepover. You make your way back to the living room, where thankfully Eddie’s listened to you, and has made himself at home swaddled in the blanket you’d left on the couch. You throw a quick glance to the front door, where his jacket and boots are slowly leaving a growing puddle of snow water.

You definitely need to get a welcome mat or something if this is going to keep happening. 

Your first instinct is to chuck the clothes at Eddie’s head. What you would usually do. But it’s Christmas eve, there’s a god damn storm outside and this maniac walked to your place. For some reason. You feel like you owe him to be nicer than you usually would be. Call it the ghost of Christmas conscience. 

“Here,” you say quietly, holding out the sloppily folded shirt and sweats. “You can change in here. I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

Eddie mutters a very stuttery thanks and takes the clothes from you. You pause for a second to see what’s on the TV—seems like A Christmas Story is about halfway through—before hastily turning away when you see Ed starting to lift his shirt over his head.

Coffee, right. You said you’d make coffee.

You’re being so normal about this, it’s absolutely fine. You’re totally fine. 

By the time you return to the couch in the living room, Eddie’s clothes are exceptionally neatly folded on your coffee table and he’s even more huddled up in your blanket than he had been before. You place his mug of coffee in his waiting hands and have to bite back shocked laughter when, even outstretched, underneath the blanket, he looks like a frozen T-rex.

“Alright,” you huff out when you finally take your seat on the other end of the couch. “You wanna tell me what’s in that box that was so important that you felt you had to walk here in a storm?”

Eddie sputters in his coffee a bit. When he brings the mug back down, he does look a little sheepish.

“Yeah, y’know it sounds pretty stupid when you say it like that.”

You nod and take a sip of your own coffee. “M’hm. That’s cause risking hypothermia to deliver a gift that very well could’ve waited until the storm passed is pretty stupid. No offense.”

Despite your disclaimer and your attempt to sound light about it, Eddie lapses into silence, again. 

“Okay, you keep going quiet, is there something—“

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

You stop yourself, mouth agape. You bring your coffee mug back up to your lips to try and shake off the surprise.

“I—okay. What, uh, what about Wayne?”

Eddie gestures vaguely under the blanket, and you assume he’s waving the issue of. “He’s with the Hendersons.”

“Oh. That’s…”

“Dustin asked me to go. I said no.”

You frown. “In favour of walking though the snow to get to me?”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie starts, but he doesn’t continue until he takes another long sip from the coffee mug. “Walking wasn’t the plan. Van broke down halfway here.”

“Oh thank god,” you sigh, leaning back into the arm of the couch and pulling your legs up and under you. “I literally thought you walked from your place!” 

“God, never,” Eddie laughs, pulling his own feet up on the couch to sit cross-legged. “But I was halfway here and there’s no power at the trailer, so.”

You hum and nod, but otherwise keep your silence. And you both stay like that for a few minutes. And while you’re taking the time to try and bring your BPM down to something a nurse might not scream about, Eddie seems to be appreciating the warmth that you’ve thrown at him.

“So,” you say after a while, clearing your throat and putting your mostly empty mug on the coffee table. “What’s in the box?” 

Eddie grins and puts his own mug down. The blanket falls away from his shoulders when he reaches toward to grab said box, and he turns it around in his hands before passing it over to you.

“Wait,” you rush to say, just as he opens his mouth. “Shit, wait, I have,” you trail off, and nearly jump over the back of the couch to run to your room. You quickly snatch the gift bag you’d left on your dresser and run back to the living room, nearly tripping over your own feet. You throw yourself back down onto the couch and shove the bag towards Eddie.

“What—“

“Gift for a gift,” you explain shortly, a little out of breath.

Eddie laughs lightly but takes the gift bag from you, and you eagerly snatch the box from his hands. You’re about to start tearing into the tacky Santa-print wrapping paper, but glance up to make sure it’s okay. Eddie chuckles and nods and motions for you to go ahead. 

You make quick work of the paper and nearly tear the top off the box before turning it over in your hand and letting its content drop into your palm.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, turning over the giant cut glass piece in your hand. You hold it up to the do lamplight, and it looks like it’s shimmering from the inside. Every which way you turn it, it’s like each facet is a different colour that reveals itself to you with each new angle. 

You don’t miss the fact that there are nineteen carefully carved and painted numbers on each face, and the last one has a little flame where the 20 normally would have been. 

You look up to thank Eddie, throat a little tight, but you nearly choke on your own tongue when you see his expression. 

He’s holding your gifted frame in his hands like it might break if he holds it too tightly. You can’t really understand the expression on his face, and the more time he spends staring unblinkingly at it, the more unsure you feel. 

“I, uh, is it… do you not like it?” 

Eddie slowly shakes his head before lifting his eyes up to you. He tries to start a few different sentences before clearing his throat. 

“Is this—this is really what you see?”

You let your hands fall into your lap and nervously turn the massive D20 around in them and nod. 

“Yeah, I mean. The crown might be a bit much,” you chuckle lightly, looking up and away towards the TV. “But yeah. You look really, uh. You look happy, when you’re DMing for the kids. Really cool. Thought you should be able to, I dunno. See it for yourself.”

When you do muster the courage to turn to look back to Eddie, he still has that absolutely confusing look on your face. You lift the heavy dice in one hand and wave it around a bit. 

“This is why you asked for my favourite colour, huh?” 

Eddie blinks a bit owlishly at first, but laughs and shakes his head. Slowly, carefully, he puts your gifted portrait on top of his folded clothes. Leans forward to pluck the dice from your hand and gently put it down on the coffee table next to your mug. 

“Ed, what’s wr—“

You inhale the rest of your question when Eddie reaches out a hand to grab and pull at one of your ankles. You screw your eyes shut when your head meets the couch cushion below your with a soft ‘thump’. And when you open your eyes, Eddie’s hovering over you, hands braced on the couch arm just above your head. You swallow thickly and promptly forget to breathe for a second. 

The end credit music for A Christmas Story feels like it’s playing from miles away.

“You good?” Eddie asks, quietly, and all you can do is nod. “You sure?”

“Yeah, uh huh. Fine,” you whisper, holding your hands close to your chest. Close your eyes when he leans in to rest his forehead against yours. “Why did you really come over?” You whisper, hesitantly uncurling a hand to place it on his chest.

“Missed you.”

“You see me almost every day.”

“Worried about you.”

You snort and lightly slap at his chest. “Bullshit. I own more knives than you do guitar picks.” 

Eddie exhales sharply before pulling back a bit. When you open your eyes, you almost want to hide from the tenderness you see in his. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, turning your head to the side to watch the TV turns from black to blue, now that the tape’s over. 

“Like what?” Eddie asks, and you can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice when he nuzzles at your neck. 

You grunt. “Like, I don’t know. Like you—like…”

“Like you’re the only person I’d drive and walk through a snow storm to see?” 

You hum but keep your head resolutely turned away. Shiver when you can feel his lips ghosting against your cheek. 

“Like you’re in love with me,” you mutter quietly, screwing your eyes shut. 

Eddie slowly peels a hand away from the arm of the couch to turn your head to look at him. You still avert your eyes. He brushes the hair away from your face instead.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he says, almost whines, tilting his head to try to catch your eyes. “You’re smarter than me, you’re not that dumb.”

You huff and cross your arms and finally look up at Eddie. There was some kind of combative quip on the tip of your tongue but it dies there as soon as the look on his face properly registers. 

“You’re not fucking around,” you say frowning. 

“I’m not fucking around.” Eddie sighs and moves up to kneel on the couch, both knees boxing in your legs. You move up on your elbows and scoot up a bit to lean your back against the arm of the couch. 

“Since when do you—“ 

“Dude, you literally saved me from a swarm of hell bats, somehow managed to team up with a super powered teenage girl to save the world, still don’t think I’m an absolute coward and show up at my doorstep if I call you when I can’t sleep,” Eddie lists off, starting to wave down at your a bit frantically. “And you actually listen to my shitty garage band music!”

“It’s not shitty!” 

“You’re proving my damn point, woman!” Ed shouts, swatting your hand away when you go to slap his chest again. “Merry fucking Christmas, I’m in love with you!” 

You let yourself slide back down to lie on the couch and laugh when you throw an arm over your face. 

“The fuck, this isn’t funny!” Eddie whines, trying to slap your arms away from your face. “This is serious!”

You choke your laughter down enough to say, “Roll for perception.” 

“Excuse me?” Eddie squawks, indignantly, pausing his assault on your arms. You lower them just enough to be able to peek at him. 

“You heard me, roll for perception.”

Eddie scoffs but turns to grab the massive dichroic dice from the table and gently rolls it along your carpeted floor. 

“Huh. 18. Do I get to add my wisdom modifier to that?” 

Though you bring your arms down from your face, you still cover it with your hands.

“You’re the only name and phone number I keep in my address book,” you start quietly, biting down on your lips before continuing. “That portrait of you isn’t the first one I’ve ever bothered trying to do. The photo of us Max took in the hospital is the only one I have framed. I hate cashews.”

“But you keep a tin of cashews in the cupboard on top of the f… fridge…” 

You nod and part your fingers to catch a glimpse of Eddie. He sighs before shouting and shaking his head. 

“Ed, what the—“

“Why are we so stupid complicated!” He shouts again, but it peters out into laughter. “Jesus, why can’t we just say shit like normal people?” 

“We hate normal people,” you deadpan, slowly letting your hands slide down your face. “So, uh,” you start, curling your fingers under your chin. “Merry, uh, Merry fucking Christmas, I lo—I love you too?”

Eddie closes his eyes and tilts his head back to sigh like you’ve just given him a glass of water after spending weeks in the desert.

You move to half sit up on your elbows again. 

“Hey, you—“

“Does this mean I can kiss you now and you’re not going to think I’m just doing it because it’s the holidays and there was mistletoe over your door?”

You blink for a second and pull yourself up on the arm of the couch and twist around to look at your door. Huh. Sure as shit, there it is.

“Oh. Mrs H must’ve put that up when she came over,” you say nervously, but when you turn around you’re shocked, both because of the still-freezing hand that comes up to your jaw and the lips that are pressed almost chastely against yours. 

“God bless Mrs H,” Eddie whispers, and your laughter is a quick huff before you loop your arms around his neck to pull him down against you for another kiss.

[gremlinshitposterthesecond]

Paris, France

Author’s Note: i got the foundation of this from “What’s Mine is Yours” by DoflamingosStrings on ao3 and i couldn’t help but insert my OC as i headcannon that the Fantastic Four plus my OC would have qualifications of a poly!queer platonic (questionable) relationship. A little background, my OC, Adelaide, is an unapologetically black fem who is Johnny’s agent and social media manager. She’s more comedic relief, but also takes no shit. In my headcannon, she follows the quartet into Outworld at Johnny’s request and starts off as more of a spectator (essentially doing all the recording that you see Johnny do in story mode). However, she becomes a kombatant by subduing Mileena, saving Kenshi’s sight. A little joke is that she threatens to get Johnny cancelled for colonial behavior had he not given Sento back to Kenshi. This is more so an extension of DoflamingosStrings’s work, as if the couples’ mingling has gone on for a while now. Everything else remains relatively the same.

WARNING: MDNI. This fic contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity including threesomes - M/M/F, PIV intercourse, anal sex, oral sex (fem and male receiving), dom/sub dynamics and more. Read at your own risk!

————————————————————————

Kenshi hunched over the kitchen counter, reveling in the smell and taste of the freshly brewed coffee Adelaide had made him before she and Johnny left for a meeting about future roles. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, breaking him out of his quiet solace.

“Finally, some peace and quiet, huh?” Kung Lao’s timbre sliced through the silence.

“If you’re anything like me, you’ll learn to miss Johnny and Adelaide’s boisterous voices. Keeps my head clear of dangerous thoughts.” Kenshi straightened his back and leaned into the younger’s touch. Kung Lao placed his chin on Kenshi’s shoulder and breathed in his scent. He had originally woken not to be comforted by Kenshi’s presence, but because Adelaide had also made breakfast. A spread of pancakes, fruit, eggs, and sausage laid covered on the dining table, tempting him with its decadent smell. Small divets signaled that Adelaide and Johnny had gotten their helping before rushing out the door to beat L.A. traffic.

In fact, Johnny had invited Raiden, who remained asleep upstairs, and Kung Lao to spend time at his “humble” abode to allow for proper rest after their endeavors tasked by Liu Kang. They eagerly agreed wanting to spend more time with the trio seeing as their origins in China would not allow for frequent visitations.

“Hmm..” Kenshi began as he felt Kung Lao’s morning erection against the small of his back. Kung Lao raised his head a bit to listen to what he had to say. “Raiden sure is missing out right now.”

Kung Lao chuckled, his breath tickling Kenshi’s ear sending chills down his tattooed arms. “Sure is. Not only would he love this scene right now, but I also might clean the assortment before he wakes up.” His arms made his way beneath Kenshi’s shirt to feel his ribbed abs. His fingernails lightly grazing across, not helping as Kenshi gasped at the feeling.

“I would bend you over right now, but I have to get some sustenance in me first. Can’t please you on an empty stomach.” Kung Loa said, quickly pulling away and grabbing a plate from the cabinet just above Kenshi’s head.

When all was said and done, Kung Lao did indulge in a hefty portion while Kenshi kept his very moderate. The latter shifting in his seat knowing his fate was set after Kung Lao was full.

Raiden awoke to the vulgar sounds that came from Johnny and Kenshi’s shared rooms. The sunlight peaked through the blinds and Kung Lao’s scent in the sheets began to dissipate. He arose to stretch his limbs, the tension nearly gone now as he got the opportunity to relax rather than continuously prove himself as Earthrealm’s champion. He opened the bedroom door which acted as a soundproof barrier, the sounds having increased tenfold. He walked down the hall, the sounds still increasing. But he passed the door to Johnny and Kenshi’s bedroom where they were evidently coming from in favor of taking the stairs to the kitchen.

‘For Raiden. :)’ - From Adelaide

The note made him smile as he picked up the still warm coffee cup on the table. He helped himself to the scraps Kung Lao had left and picked up the newspaper that had already been read by someone prior. Once he made it to the last page and filled out the remaining crossword boxes, he hadn’t noticed that the sounds had stopped. Only lifting his head due to Kung Lao’s heavy steps coming down the stairs. Kenshi followed, sex written all over his body that was now scattered with hickeys and bite marks. In addition, he had a bit of a limp to his gait.

“Have fun?” Raiden leaned back in his chair, amused at the scene that lay before him.

Kenshi raised a finger at him before collapsing face first into the couch in the living room.

“Careful or else I might begin to think that Johnny is rubbing off on you.” Raiden joked, biting his tongue from laughing at his expense.

“Actually I was rubbing off on him.” Kung Lao chuckled as he approached Raiden, leaning in to peck him on the cheek.

“Neither you nor Cage are funny.” Kenshi’s voiced, his usual stoic demeanor returning to him.

Kung Lao gathered the plates on the table and began to clean them, knowing that Adelaide would be pissed to come back to dirty dishes and also as a gesture of appreciation for her work.

Raiden also made work of cleaning off the tables and counters. He would’ve asked Kenshi to help mop, but decided against it knowing that he definitely would be of no use right now. After cleaning, he plopped himself on the couch and turned on the TV, opting for some animal documentary. A comfortable silence came over the trio before Kung Lao spoke.

“You know, sometimes I feel bad that Adelaide is left out of the fun.”

“What do you mean?” Raiden questioned as he used the small of Kenshi’s back as a headrest. His feet were propped in Kung Lao’s lap.

“Like…” Kung Lao scratched the back of his neck, not knowing how to voice what may be a controversial opinion. “Like how me, you, Kenshi and Johnny interact. I feel bad keeping her in the dark after everything she does for us. Do you think she even knows?”

Raiden pursed his lips. He definitely was attracted to Adelaide. In fact, he was the one who pointed it out to Lord Liu Kang about her potential as a kombatant. To say that her fighting style and flexibility in kombat didn’t turn him on would be a flat out lie. Did she know? She didn’t necessarily live with Johnny to be privy to such information. Sure, she had her own apartment, but often times would stay at Johnny’s due to his close proximity to work and city life. He didn’t doubt her intelligence either, surely she would have picked up some clues.

He was broken out of his train of thought as Kenshi’s chuckling caused his head to bounce some.

“What’s funny?” Kung Lao quirked an eyebrow at the unusual response.

“She definitely knows.” Kenshi spoke directly.

“About all of us or?” Lao edged on.

“She knows about everything. I vividly remember her mocking Johnny and I for weeks when she caught Raiden coming out of our room one night.”

Raiden’s face flushed immediately. How would that change the way she saw him? Would she still respect him?

“So she doesn’t mind?” Kung Lao spoke again for him.

“Mind it? She’s an active participant.”


Raiden rose so fast that he got a headache. “What?” he voiced in unison with his boyfriend.

“Sure, its a breach in her contract, but Adelaide has definitely slept with Johnny and I on multiple occasions. It’s like a little treat whenever we’re having good or bad days.” Kenshi spoke so casually about everything he made this whole interaction seem normal.

“And?” Raiden finally was able to find his voice.

“And what?” He smirked.

“Dude, you can’t drop a bomb like that and then not expect us to want more info!”

Kenshi rolled his eyes before filling them in.

“For one, the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I think I could spend hours between her legs, in fact I have. And you would think her body was crafted by the Elder Gods themselves. I think Johnny has pictures and videos stored on a second phone.” Kenshi squeezed the decorative pillow as he began to daydream about the scenarios.

“What else?” Raiden looked over to Kung Lao and rolled his eyes, he playfully reached over to close his jaw.

“I verbally cannot describe to you half of the sinful things our bedroom has seen. I think that’s something you guys have to see for yourself.” Kung Lao and Raiden were hook, line, and sinker. They gave each other a knowing look, wracking their brain for a plan to get Adelaide in bed.

“I can hear you guys thinking from here. Literally just ask her. She’s a nymphomaniac so I highly doubt she would reject the proposition.” Kenshi’s boisterous laugh made the duo blush as he spoke so casually.

“Well at least tell us what her dynamic is like.” Kung Lao had a smirk of his own. In his relationship with Raiden, he hadn’t anticipated that he would be the submissive one, but Raiden knocked him down a few pegs and put his abrasive ego in check. Adelaide was 5’ 2’’ so maybe he would be able to make his comeback.

“She would put you on your ass Lao. She’s a brat for sure and she can take a punishment, but she’s mainly a dominant leaning switch. I never said I was in control when I was between her legs.” Kenshi finally sat up from his position on the couch, he could hear the sound of Adelaide’s car pulling into the driveway. The conversation was over.

The trio pretended as if the indecent discussion never happened as they heard Adelaide and Johnny’s voice get louder as they approached the house. Raiden quickly grabbed the remote and turned up the volume to cover the obvious silence. The door opened and Adelaide entered, irritation heavy in her voice, “Johnny I will rip your dick off if you ever speak without being spoken like that again.”

Kung Lao gulped, his plan of returning to dominance already looking pretty weary. “Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad.” Johnny took his sunglasses off and placed them on top of his head. Adelaide was kicking her black heels off and placed them haphazardly next to the door before removing her blazer and hanging it up in the closet down the hall. She came back and pointed at Johnny, who stood like a toddler being scolded at the door.

“You joked about the co-director being on her 3rd divorce. In what world is that funny?”

“I was trying to relate!” Johnny testified.

Adelaide ran a hand through her sister locs in frustation before taking a deep breath to calm herself down. “I will deal with you later.” A threat which Raiden and Kung Lao know now is probably code for something else.

She turned to the trio and changed her entire demeanor. “I hope you guys enjoyed breakfast.”

“Delicious as always, Adelaide. Thank you. We also cleaned up. Seems like Johnny already has your plate full. Didn’t want to add to it.” Kung Lao looked at Johnny who had made his way to Kenshi for sympathy, the latter rubbing his back as he pouted.

Adelaide crossed the room and placed Kung Lao’s face in her hands. The scent of vanilla encompassed his senses completely. her hands were soft and her acrylic set well-manicured. Kung Lao felt himself burning as she placed a kiss on his forehead, running her nails through his hair which felt great on his scalp, and said, “Bless you, my sweet boy.”

She rose again before stretching, commenting about how she was going to shower and get comfortable. She also declared that she was staying at Johnny’s for the weekend as her place was staring to bore her. Kenshi looked over to Lao who was still dazed by the interaction. Even better, he could see the growing erection in his pants as he watched Adelaide leave the room, paying close attention to her curves as she walked away. Raiden bit his lip at how easily she hypnotized his man.

“Ok. What’s going on?” Johnny lifted his head from Kenshi’s chest. He could smell the remnants of sex on him, but that’s not what had him confused. “Why are you guys so nervous? Kung Lao, you’re gonna need a cold shower at the rate you’re headed.”

“They didn’t know.” Kenshi spoke matter-of-factly.

“They didn’t know? They didn’t know?!” Johnny whisper-yelled when he put two and two together. “Oh, you guys are in for it. You may have saved my ass tonight…literally.”

In another one of Johnny’s guest bedrooms that he set aside just for her, Adelaide was just finishing up her routine. She had slathered on shea oil, vanilla scented lotion, and finished up with vanilla perfume. In addition, she had just discarded her face mask in the trash and finished applying a moisturizer before reaching for her staple product: lip gloss. Just as she finished, there was a knock at her door.

“Come in.”

It was Kung Lao, who looked stressed out of his mind. Adelaide turned from her vanity to take a good look at him. She noticed his tense muscles and staunch posture.

“What’s up with you? Something stressing you?” She placed her lip gloss back on the vanity before opting to sit on the edge of the guest bed, patting a spot next to her. Kung Lao let out a gulp before approaching, trying not to be obvious about his goal. Though, Adelaide was not making it easy with the matching pajama set she chose. She had a tank top on that had cherries on them. The bottoms matched but hiked up around the bottom. Her cleavage, v-line, and undercarriage were essentially on full display. Even in her simple attire, he felt as if she was out of his league in his shorts and sleeveless top.

“Probably not as stressed as you having Johnny as a client. I just wanted to talk.” Kung Lao messed with his hair which was not in its usual ponytail. The ends tickling his shoulder. He was trying to focus on anything else but her to stop an awkward conversation about the tent in his pants. By the Elder Gods, where did his confidence go? “You know, like check up on you and make sure you were good since you already have a lot on your plate and still manage to do stuff for us too.”

“Aww,” she placed a hand on the lower part of his back and leaned in for a hug.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

In returning the hug, he breathed in deep, allowing for the scent of vanilla to fill his senses again, his eyes damn near rolling to the back of his skull.

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness Panda,” the nickname that stuck after they met. ‘Panda” as in Kung Fu Panda. This reminded everyone of just how close Adelaide actually is with Johnny, despite her professional approach with him. “I’m doing well. Johnny may piss me off sometimes, but I understand he comes from a good heart. You can tell him I’m not mad if that’s what he sent you in here for. What about you? How are you and Raiden doing?”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh, no. I hope everything is ok.” She placed a hand on his arm. In this moment, Kung Lao simultaneously loved that her love language was physical touch.

“Everything’s great. It’s just that…” Kung Lao finally looked back her and his words were caught in his throat. As she was much shorter than him, she had to tilt her head to see. This caused her to peer at him through her eyelashes. He also notices just how close she was as she had leaned in to hear him better.

“Lao? Are you feeling ok? You’re running a bit hot.” She reached up to feel his forehead, but he caught her hand. That’s when he leaned in and kissed her. The first thing Kung Lao noticed was that she didn’t pull away, rather she wrapped her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. When he pulled away, the second thing he noticed was that she was smirking.

“You’re so easy to read Panda.”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“I would ask you if Raiden was okay with this, but…” She broke away from him to head to the door. She opened it and grabbed Raiden’s arm and pulled him inside. They were caught like deer in headlights. She brought him to sit at the edge of the bed also.

So now she stood before them, her arms crossed over her chest. “Kenshi?”

They both nodded, understanding the context through a single phrase. They watched in anticipation as she grabbed the chair that she was using for the vanity and placed it so it was facing the side of the bed. She then pointed to Raiden and then the chair. “You. Here.”

Raiden gulped as he realized that she was wasting no time. They were actually doing this. He looked to Kung Lao, a silent ‘good luck’ before making his way over to where Adelaide stood and sitting in the chair. She then walked back to Kung Lao who fiddled with the bed sheets in anticipation. She graciously placed herself between his legs, his hands coming up to roam her legs and backside. While standing, she cupped his face again before placing a swift peck to his lips. She did this a couple more times before deepening the kiss. She ran her fingers through his loose hair again which caused him to moan. She loosely gripped his hair and pulled his head back, allowing a gasp to escape.

“If you found out from Kenshi, that means you know how I play, yeah?”

Kung Lao nodded. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. I’m sure Raiden has taught you better than that?” Adelaide tilted her head.

Ok, fuck regaining dominance. Kung Lao would let this woman use him as her red carpet runway. “Yes, ma’am.” He corrected himself.

“Good boy.” She cooed before pushing him back on the bed and climbing onto his lap. Immediately, Adelaide began peppering kisses on his neck. When she found that spot that made him vocal, she attacked it relentlessly, nipping, licking, and even fully biting. Her hands had made their way under his shirt, tracing and lightly scratching down his abs, much similar to the way he had teased Kenshi earlier. Perhaps Adelaide was his karma to knock him down a couple more pegs.

Kung Lao’s breath became more ragged as he also relished in the feeling of her body atop his. Her core was pressed right up against his erection causing him to hiss whenever she moved. “Take this off,” she commanded, lifting his muscle shirt up and over his head. Once his chest was exposed, she kissed down from his neck and rubbed her hands over his nipples.

“Please ma’am,” Kung Lao accepted his withering state, having been reduced to begging already.

Adelaide chuckled which caused a lump to form in his throat, “But baby, I’ve barely even begun.” With zero hesitation, she took his left nipple into her mouth and reveled in the groans the man underneath her released. She did this until he began to squirm before relenting and showing treatment to the other. She hummed a little as she felt his hands roam her ass before firmly gripping it as if to ground himself. She relinquished him with a pop before kissing further down his abs, tracing them with her tongue. She turned to look at Raiden who had shuffled his own pajama shorts just below his hips and was rubbing himself through his boxers at the scene playing out before him. She’d allow it.

Using her acrylics, she teased by tracing his v-line, barely breaking the seal of his waistband. Her lip gloss rendered was useless as it was smeared across Kung Lao’s lips and waist.

“Please,” Lao whined this time, desperate for her to do something about his affliction.

“That’s not how you ask.” Raiden interrupted quickly. His eyes low in pleasure which presented as a glare.

“Sorry sir. Please touch me ma’am. Anything.”

“Ah, so it is true. Raiden did teach you humility.” Adelaide commented before reaching in Kung Lao’s shorts and pulling out his dick. He hissed at the feeling of the air before moaning as she wasted no time in moving her hand up and down on his already stiff member. Just as Kung Lao was getting ready to beg again, he watched as she placed a kiss to the base before licking and sucking the bottom of his shaft while she stroked the top. He threw his head back in pleasure. However, he felt a grip at the back of his head force him to keep eye contact with her. He didn’t even realize that Raiden had moved from his seated position to the bed. He now sat behind him, his back on Raiden’s thighs with a large hand around his throat.

Raiden then leaned down and began whispering in his ear.

“I thought I drilled manners into your head by now. What do you say?”

“Thank you ma’am.”

Adelaide hummed, a silent ‘you’re welcome”. She then proceeded to take his entire length in her mouth. Even with his impressive length, she pushed herself until her nose pressed against his happy trail. Kung Lao gasped and moaned. He desperately wanted to throw his head back and hide from her sultry gaze, but the pressure around his neck reminded him of the consequences of doing so.

Raiden and Adelaide looked at one another and nodded. Kung Lao in his already fucked out state was unaware of just how much noise he was making. So Raiden sat back a bit letting Lao’s head lay flat against the mattress before doing away with his own clothing. When he returned in Lao’s vision, Lao looked up only to be met with Raiden’s dick. Lao wasted no time opening his mouth and allowed Raiden to slide in until he hit the back of his throat. Raiden let out a hiss as he began to move his hips, effectively fucking his throat.

With his moans subdued, most of the noise came from the squeaking of the bed, though every now and then a soft moan from either Raiden or Lao would escape. However, Raiden noted how the frequency of Kung Lao’s moans increased. He spoke in between breaths and strokes, “He’s gonna cum.”

Adelaide pulled back, the loss of suction releasing a ‘pop’. She pulled his shorts and boxers the rest of the way off, leaving him completely bare. There was little time for Lao to make complaining noises as Raiden did not stop his thrusting. She then rose from her spot on the floor before lifting her tank top over her head. She then pushed her pajama shorts down until they pooled at the floor. Now, it was Raiden’s turn to drool at the fullness of her breasts and hips. She had to have been crafted by the Elder Gods with the way her form invited them to look upon her as if she were a work of art. Raiden gave a couple more thrusts before pulling out of Lao’s throat who gulped for air.

Lao didn’t dare move afraid that the wrong one would prohibit his orgasm for even longer. He then watched as Raiden and Adelaide switched spots. Raiden now stood in between his legs and Adelaide saddled his face looking toward Raiden. There was no talking, only anticipatory silence as Raiden lifted Lao’s legs over his shoulders, and before he could protest, Adelaide shut him up by sitting on his face. And boy was Kenshi right, she tasted divine. He began licking and suckling at her slit which made her gasp and that was all that he needed before attacking her clit and tongue fucking her hole. He drank her wetness down as if it were nectar that granted immortality. Meanwhile, Raiden used the spit that Adelaide left behind as lube before slowly pushing into Lao’s hole. Adelaide was rewarded with vibrations that had her grabbing at Raiden’s shoulders. Raiden set the rhythm, his thrusts medium paced, but brutal in their strength.

Lao could only whimper and gasp into Adelaide’s sopping cunt which in turn had her whimpering and gasping into Raiden’s mouth as they shared a kiss of their own.

“Is he making you feel good, darling?” Raiden whispered.

“Yes, sir,” she grabbed at his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. She shoved her face in his neck, leaving bites and hickeys in her wake. Raiden made sure to keep the interaction in mind to tease her about later.

“Fuck, he’s so good. Good boy, Lao.” She broke away, her moans increasing in volume which let both Lao and Raiden know that her orgasm was approaching. Lao wrapped his arms around her thighs and increased the force and speed in which he circled his tongue on her clit which elicit a squeak from her as she tried to pull away to stave off her rapidly approaching orgasm. Fuck a breath, he’d die here happy.

“No running, baby. Cum for us, yeah?” Raiden had served her the same treatment, threading his fingers through her locs and forcing her to look at him. Lao moans increased as well, letting Raiden know he was close again also. So while Raiden stopped, Kung Lao continue his attack.

“There you go…” Raiden encouraged as he watched her eyes roll back and her breath hiccup and gasp as her orgasm hit her. She shuddered and shook violently as Lao drunk her juices down. He did so until Raiden tapped his thigh to avoid sending her into overstimulation. When she lifted herself off his face, the evidence was pretty damning. From his nose down, there was a glistening wetness and he was licking his lips to commit the taste to memory.

“Don’t you think Kung Lao deserves his treat now?” Raiden looked down at the mess of a man below him, the hickeys and bite marks were beginning to show.

Still in a daze from her orgasm, she simply nodded before lifting herself above Lao’s dick, with her back against Raiden’s chest. She guided his dick until it caught on her slippery walls. There was no resistance as she sat herself fully on his dick. If it weren’t for the fact that he wanted to continue being a good boy for the both of them, he probably would’ve bussed right there. Adelaide gasped at how Lao’s dick sat perfectly against a spot that had her seeing stars. Lao let out a pornographic moan at how Adelaide’s pussy was squeezing him.

Kung Lao’s hands came to rest on her hips while Raiden released his partner’s legs in favor of running his hands up and down her body. He cupped her breasts and pinched at her nipples. He then brought his hand up to the back of her neck to push her down into Kung Lao’s chest, immediately picking up his thrusting again. In response, every thrust caused Kung Lao to haphazardly thrust up into Adelaide. Lao merely wrapped his arms around Adelaide’s body as she reduced to a babbling mess similar to him.

‘WHACK!”

Adelaide wailed in pleasure as Raiden delivered a hard smack to her ass. He grabbed her hair again to lift her back to his chest. One hand wrapped around her neck while the other reached down to circle her clit. He made her bounce on Lao’s dick as the latter did his best to meet her halfway. Lao felt his orgasm fast approaching and after being denied the first two times, he begged for release.

“Please. I’ve been good. Please let me cum.”

Adelaide was a broken record at this point. “Yes. yes. yes” and “good boy” were all she could manage. Raiden also felt his orgasm approaching as his hips began to stutter some.

“Shit. Gonna cum.” Was Raiden’s only warning as he bit Adelaide’s neck to stifle his moans. It was like a chain reaction, Adelaide started as she clamped and squeezed around Kung Lao as her second orgasm hit. This caused Kung Lao to cum as Adelaide essentially milked him dry. For the same reasons, Raiden stumbled into his own orgasm. They each held on to one another as they attempted to collect their breath.

Raiden pulled away from the group first and picked up the towel Adelaide had used for her shower. He began to wipe down Kung Lao before helping Adelaide off of him and cleaning her up too. Kung Lao and Adelaide made no move to get up and in fact, when Raiden returned from throwing the towel in the hamper, he found both of them already fast asleep. He just chuckled and opened a window, allowing the smell of sex to dissipate into the cool night air before climbing in the large bed himself, snuggling up behind Adelaide who laid on Kung Lao’s chest and drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, the breakfast table was silent. There was nothing to say or rather, Kung Lao physically couldn’t speak due to a sore throat.

[darkesttimelinestuff]

"Are you with me?"

Day 5 of Fictober and I'm still going!

Prompt #30 - "Are you with me?"

Find me on Ao3.

She doesn’t visit her mother’s house often. It’s too difficult with her busy schedule. She and Mulder are out of town more often than she’d like to admit. One of these days she’s going to ask him to slow down. Find more local cases. Their caseload and required travel isn’t sustainable for the long-term.

But, for now, she has to admit that there is a certain thrill to their work. She has witnessed things she never thought possible. And Mulder is a damn good partner. She even enjoys spending time with him on the weekends, which they’ve been doing very often recently. This thing between them, this electricity, keeps growing.

And her mom is out of town more and more. Matthew, though clear across the country, is taking up a good portion of Maggie’s time and love. Who can blame her? He’s wonderful. He is the innocence Dana Scully has sworn to protect. 

“Thanks for coming with me,” Scully says to Mulder. 

“Sure thing. I couldn’t let you clear out Maggie’s basement alone.”

“It’s actually not as much junk as I would have thought.”

The dusty boxes are piled almost one Dana Scully high. Which isn’t saying much.

“Accumulating stuff is hard when you move so much,” he says.

Scully considers this, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “I suppose that’s true. ‘Only bring what you need,’ my dad always said. It’s rare we stayed anywhere longer than a year.”

“Must bring a whole new meaning to what home is,” Mulder muses. 

“Home was family and a temporary place to sleep. The four walls or the location didn’t matter much,” she says matter of factly. 

Mulder looks away and she wonders what home means to Mulder. They rarely talk about his family. Besides Samantha.

“So, which box do you want to unearth next?” Mulder prompts and Scully points to a large one nearest her. “You can get started on that while I load these Goodwill bags in the car.”

He ascends the stairs and Scully opens the box, gasping at its contents. She carefully pulls out each item and places them nearly on a nearby table. These are precious objects she hasn’t seen in years. Artifacts of her life with Missy.

When Mulder reappears and says, “Your mom is asking if you want pizza delivery or a sit-down restaurant. Any preference?” she doesn’t hear. 

“Hey, Scully. Scully! Are you with me?” he tries again, giving her shoulder a shake.

“Oh!” she startles. “Yes. Sorry. What?”

“You were a million miles away. Everything okay?” 

He eyes the contents on the table that have a hold on Scully. There are ancient bell bottoms and several shirts from a by-gone era, a set of tarot cards and diaries with little locks, a pillow with a large flower pattern, a ouija board, and a small gray bag. 

“Missy’s things,” she says weakly. “I uh… I thought we donated all of her things. I guess we missed this box. Mom must have thought it was mine since it was in this pile and uh…”

Mulder places a hand on her back and it steadies her. Grounds her mind and her heart. She is able to think more logically.

“I’m sorry. It must have been a surprise.”

“I certainly wasn’t expecting it.”

“What’s in the gray bag?”

She smiles and reaches for the drawstring bag, weighing it in her palm. Its contents rattle. 

“These were Missy’s gemstones and crystals,” she replies, spilling them into her palm. An array of colored stones cover her small hand. “Most are said to be imbued with energy for self-love and protection.”

Mulder made a noncommittal hum. She was probably informing him of things he already knew, but he stared at her and the gems with such an intensity. It meant the world to her. 

“And every full moon Melissa would put the crystals on our window sill to charge them. I teased her every month.”

Scully wiped a lone tear from her eye. 

Mulder didn’t say anything, just sat with her for as long as she needed. They were quiet for a long time. 

Finally, Scully said, “We should finish. I’m starting to get hungry.”

“Do you want to keep this box?” Mulder asked kindly. 

Shaking her head, Scully said, “No, that’s fine. We can donate everything. But I’ll keep the crystals. There’s a full moon tonight.”

[wilgentak]

the quiet pulse of shizume on ao3

okay i wasn't planning to let shizume make me melancholic again but here we are. so. let's talk about the corner of ao3 where shizume still lives. it's a small space with only 37 works. and yeah, i remember when people were more into posting their writing on tumblr instead of ao3, which, considering tumblr’s awful search function, means a lot of those works are lost to the void.

which is kind of heartbreaking, honestly.

the shizume tag on ao3 appears to be a ghost town. an archive that’s being lovingly maintained by ao3's servers but isn’t getting any new additions. it’s like visiting an old library where the books are still there, but no one’s writing new ones.

but that’s only part of the story. sure, if you look at the last five fics, they span a good six years, and quite a few authors have left their works under the lonely "orphan_account", but there’s still a pulse. you can feel it in the slow rise of hits, kudos, and the occasional comment that pops up out of nowhere.

for some context: hirunaka no ryuusei / daytime shooting star wrapped up back in 2014.

comments are pretty sparse. the fic with the most comments only has 11, and that’s counting the author’s replies. but there’s this pattern: fics from 2014 with their last comment in 2018, 2015 fics with their most recent comment from 2020. all these years later, people still find their way to shizume on ao3 and feel so moved they leave a comment.

here’s a little timeline of comments that made me ache:

2018: "hnr was such a big part of my life for a portion of time so it was really frustrating the way it ended. the idea that you read my fic in order to soothe the sadness is the greatest honor"

2020: "when i first read hnr, i rooted for mamura, but older me now realizes how their pairing, lovely as it is, doesn’t quite match the theme established in the beginning of the story. the longing and heart break of shizume was well done by the mangaka, and both characters have already moved on from this relationship, but a part of me wished to see them work out in a universe with kinder circumstances."

2020: "listen,,,,,,,,,,, i don't know what happened but on a whim i felt like thinking about hnr and it's weird how much i can pine and ache for a relationship even five years down the line. i suppose it's bc of the nostalgia. i feel it a lot in your words here. the way you describe how they remember things is the same way i feel when i read the manga so long ago. i guess it'll always be bittersweet but fics like yours make me realize that i'm not the only one feeling like that, if that makes sense? it's like soothing even if it hurts, haha. thank you so much for writing."

2022: "this is literally from 8 years ago but i stumbled upon it now"

2022: "i soooo wish you hadn't stopped updating this since 2015. i'm a shizume shipper and i was devastated that shishio-sensei didn't get back together with suzume in the manga. so, for this reason, i look to fanfiction to ease my heart and read the ending i want for the characters i love... i can only hope you somehow see my comment and that it inspires you to continue with this fic. for me, and other shizume shippers like me, stories like these that give hope are like oxygen."

2024 (responding to the comment above): "i still have a few chapters left with this, and hoping to end it with a few more. one day, i will post it. and i hope you will be there when i finally close this work."

some of these comments got a reply from the author, but a lot didn’t. maybe it’s too embarrasing to look back at something you wrote 10 years ago (why did I use those words to describe that feeling?), or maybe they’ve moved on from the characters. or maybe shizume still hits too close to home, and they’d rather not go back there.

anyway, today i got a kudo on an old fic. no one on tumblr is talking about hnr anymore, but i know for sure that shizume still haunts people. suzume and shishio are still out there, touching the hearts of old readers. the ao3 tag is all the proof you need.

[quillium]

Heya! This isn't really an "ask you"- haha. But I just wanted to write to you- for quite a bit honestly. First of all, I hope you're well. The first piece of work I've read of yours was "Ben & May's". I absolutely loved it. I read it way back in 2020. I was 15 years old, kinda angry at the world lmao. But I found my solace in reading and writing stuff by strangers on the internet. I commented on your story- which in fact was one of the first and only times I ever bothered interacting with someone online. I don't know why, but reading your story made me warm. Warm to the core. And I wanted to share my own story! About how I related to an incident in the fic, because I snuck out of my house with a broken arm to participate in the science fair at school. You responded sometime later and congratulated me and told me to take care of myself. And you said something else too. It might have been in a joking way but you said something along the lines of "You're literally Peter Parker lmao". I don't know why but that really stuck with me. Peter Parker is a character I grew up worshipping, I'd read all the comics and watch every show with him in it with my dad. I've always loved school and learning new things, but it was always hard for me to find confidence. My dad and I are pretty tight but I can't say the same for me and my mom. And for a great chunk of my life, I've had to live with her, which didn't exactly yield the greatest upbringing (which you can probably tell by the way I'm writing to you now haha). So when someone even humouredly made that comparison- I was super taken aback. Super doubtful. But I was awestruck too. I've never been complimented before- in such a meaningful way from anyone other than my dad (that has since changed thankfully, but at the time young me was still recovering from huge life changes). So it really got me to take a good look at my life and actually embrace being who I wanted to be. I started picking up stuff at school again, and I made friends. I started writing. I hung out with my dad more- of course, watched so much Spiderman and read so many comics. I managed to graduate high school early. Now I'm at university. I graduate soon. I took up Biology and Chemical Engineering. And I'm happy. I never really forgot you, or your writing which gave me so much comfort. I logged back on AO3 recently and was super happy to still see you writing. I just knew I had to reach out. Now I apologize if this is like weird, but I just had to put this out there. Thank you, really- thank you for your warm response and the art you put into the world. I don't think you'd even remember my comment on your work or this small interaction, but to me, it made a whole lot of difference. I really hope you're well, and continue to be. I can't believe I made a tumblr account just for this qwq XOXO

BRO I REMEMBER YOU. When your comment came in, I was 17-years-old, living more in the world of my writing than reality, right about to enter university, and even if I was half-joking I was also low-key dead serious that you were literally Peter Parker. I was, and continue to be, incredibly impressed by you. I think I might have told my sister about you in a sort of like, dang, there are some brilliant and crazy people in the world, and they're reading my fics for some reason sort of way.

I'm doing very well! I've grown closer to my family, built lovely friendships, and am also set to graduate university (perhaps predictably, I'm a literature major). As weird as this might sound in turn, a great deal of my confidence and growth was built by comments like yours. There's nothing half as sweet as the portion of someone's life given to you because they saw a bit of their story in yours, and that glimpse of someone else's reality opens up the possibilities for mine. No matter the wonderful little interaction we had, it has been meaningful and a pleasure for me. You've given me a great deal of warmth as well.

Congratulations on the rebuilt confidence, the new things you've learned, the friends you've made, your seriously incredible academic achievements, and the many other delights that I'm sure you've attained. You really have worked diligently, relaxed peacefully (I hope!), and lived wonderfully. Good job, and I hope you continue to live well <3

[mostlikelythedevil]

Haunted. | [Chapter Two]

Pairing(s): Kevin Owens x Fem!Zayn!Reader, Solo Sikoa x Fem!Zayn!Reader

Warning(s): Explicit Language, Angst

Word Count: 2,556

Chapter Summary: After a troubling call from the opposition, Kevin goes to The Reader to talk some things over. 

Link(s): AO3, Masterlist

Note(s): I’ve decided to start doing warnings and summaries per chapter rather than per the entire story since things may yet change. I’m also looking to have a ‘cover’ made for the story so that it sticks out a bit more on the site, so keep an eye out for that in the next few chapters!

The thought of your brother’s proposal lingers in your mind as you begin stretching; you still fail to understand why The Bloodline would have such a sudden, intense interest in recruiting you — assuming that Sami is telling the truth in that the reason is not Kevin Owens. Love him as you may, your brother does have a new habit of stretching the truth to fit his own narrative, and you have all the reason in the world to suspect that your relationship with Kevin has something to do with things after the comments Sami made.

Be that as it may, you cannot afford to pour focus into such trivial matters; in a short time, you would be having the match that could make or break your young career. Yet, the stubborn thought of Kevin lingers even as you try to push everything from your mind — which is oddly fitting, seeing he is as stubborn as he is. Could it be possible that your feelings are as obvious as Sami seems to think? If so, is Kevin truly using you for his own benefit?

You shake your head slightly, positioning yourself in such a way to stretch your back. Kevin, cruel as he can sometimes be to others, would not do that to you; he has never been cruel to you, and you two have only gotten closer with time. Sure, sometimes he can be a bit snippy, but he’s never come across as uncaring or disingenuous with his feelings. In fact, you would be so bold as to say that you seamlessly replaced the hole in Kevin’s heart where Sami once comfortably resided.

Yes, Sami is just jealous that he no longer has the friendship he built for decades.

It’s not your fault, either. Sami did it to himself; Sami chose to betray Kevin, and that was the last straw of a long line of straws. Kevin didn’t deserve his best friend abandoning him for a group of men that used Sami for mere entertainment — men that didn’t value Sami. Had Kevin done awful things to Sami in the past? Yes, but Kevin always came begging for forgiveness when he realized his mistakes. Sami couldn’t be bothered when Kevin begged him to come to his senses, so you filled the void of hurt that he left behind.

Knock. Knock.

“It’s me. Can I come in?” The voice of Kevin breaks you from your thoughts.

Now isn’t the best time. “Yeah, sure. I’m just stretching.”

The door opens, allowing the bright white light of the corridor to fill a small portion of your dim little locker room. Kevin enters the room, closes the door, and sits down on the leather couch provided to you for the night. He seems uncomfortable; his hands are twisted tight around his phone, his brows furrowed as if he’s trying to think of something to say.

“Come to wish me luck tonight?” You ask, a smile on your lips as you pull yourself up from a stretch to give Kevin your full attention.

Kevin smiles, though it lacks enthusiasm. “You don’t need luck.”

“Maybe not, but it sure is nice,” you quip playfully as you take a seat on the coffee table sitting across from Kevin. “You’ve got something on your mind.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on?”

Kevin hesitates. “Have you spoken to Sami recently?”

“Today, actually,” you sigh, “what did he do?”

“What did you two talk about?” Kevin asks, ignoring your question.

You frown. “I was going to talk to you about this after my match, but Sami wants me to join The Bloodline — and he made sure to share his deep dislike of you.”

Kevin nods, looking down at the phone in his hands. “Well?”

“I told him I would think about it so he would get the hell off of my case,” you reply with a skeptical tone. “What the hell did Sami say to you, Kev?”

“Sami didn’t say anything to me.” Kevin admits, still staring down at his phone. “Roman did.”

You furrow your brows, more confused than before. “Roman… Reigns?”

“Good job,” sarcasm drips from Kevin’s tone.

“Don’t be an ass,” you scoff. “What could Roman possibly have to say to you?”

Kevin laughs, a humorless sound, and licks his teeth. “It’s about you, actually.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I thought it was pretty interesting myself,” something about Kevin’s tone seems pointed at you. “Do you have any idea of what could have made Roman want to contact me?”

“No, I don’t — and I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I might,” you reply, frowning.

Kevin nods, head down. “Roman wants me to stay away from you; he threatened me with retirement if I chose not to listen.”

“Roman Reigns wants you to stay away from me?” You almost laugh at the idea.

“That’s funny?”

“That’s just Sami trying to scare me into the arms of The Bloodline. You have nothing to be worried about Kevin,” you put a hand on his arm. “I’m not joining The Bloodline.”

“That’s the thing: I would have expected this to be from Sami, but this — this message wasn’t Sami,” Kevin raises his phone to your eyes, “this is Roman — and only Roman. Listen.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wait— this was a phone call?”

Kevin does not reply, allowing the crackling of his phone speaker to give you the answer you chased. There is a loud, obnoxious shuffling for a few seconds that sounds suspiciously like the inside of a pocket and an angry finger hitting the screen of the phone with such aggression it could have shattered.

“Who the hell do you think you are calling me?” Kevin’s voice rings through the phone, just as aggressive as his attempt to get the recording going.

“We need to have a discussion,” the voice of Roman Reigns replies with an eerie calm. In the background of the call, there are voices; it almost sounds as if this call happened around the time you finished speaking to your brother. “You and Sami’s sister, you’re close. That needs to stop.”

Kevin scoffs into the phone indignantly. “Have you lost your fucking mind — calling and demanding things from me?” He laughs with a humorless tone. “Unbelievable.”

“Listen to me, Kevin,” Roman’s voice is quiet through the phone, “tonight is the last night that you’re going to speak to her if you value the career that you have. Do we have an understanding?”

“Big talk for someone who felt the need to call,” Kevin shoots back.

Roman huffs, almost laughing. “You can consider it, this one time, a gesture of good faith,” he replies with a snicker. “I would hate to break our Little Zayn’s heart more than you’re going to when she comes to realize you were never going to care about her the way she cares about you.”

“I’m not— what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Kevin stutters, confused.

“Come on, Kevin, we both know the only reason that girl stuck around after her brother dumped your ass. It’s why it’s so easy for you to manipulate her into guilt-tripping Sami,” there is a shuffling in the background. “Now, you remember what I said Kevin. Drop her — tonight. Tell her that you want nothing to do with her anymore.”

The call ends abruptly.

“Son of a bitch.” Kevin growls before the audio cuts.

That’s a lot to take in — a lot more than you had initially prepared yourself for. Why would Roman reach out to Kevin about your friendship if not for Sami? Could it be true that he wants you as a member of The Bloodline? Why now? What could Roman possibly have to gain from you? None of it makes sense.

 “Well, you know what I’m going to say,” you begin after a moment of thought, “I believe that this is Sami — or Roman, I guess, trying to force me into The Bloodline.”

Kevin shakes his head. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.” You answer. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Fine, sure. Let’s say that Roman and Sami are so desperate to have you join The Bloodline that they’re calling my phone to threaten me,” Kevin crosses his arms over his chest as he speaks, “that doesn’t explain why they seem to think that there’s something more between us than friendship.”

You sigh, heart dropping to your stomach. “That’s just Sami being paranoid.”

“No. I know Sami. He wouldn’t just suspect that,” Kevin narrows his gaze.

“You haven’t had a conversation with Sami in months. I know what he thinks,” your tone turns annoyed as you continue, “and he’s paranoid that I would choose you over him.”

“Would you?”

“I already have,” you reply curtly.

“Then maybe Sami’s paranoia has some basis,” Kevin replies. “I’m not saying it’s the truth, but I can see where he might get the idea — why he might share that with his Bloodline friends to use as fodder for this whole thing.”

You roll your eyes. “I disagree, but it hardly matters.”

“You’re right. It’s not like I would ever pursue you, even if it were true; you don’t do that to your best friend.” Kevin says casually, as if he did not just rip your heart from your chest.

It takes everything inside of you to not tear up. “Okay, well, now that we have that sorted,” you stand from your makeshift seat on the coffee table, “Sami is going to be here soon to talk, too.”

Kevin does not move from his position on the couch. “You want me to leave?”

“It would probably be for the best,” you reply as evenly as you can, “because I’d like my locker room to not become a disaster zone if the two of you meet.”

In Kevin’s eyes, you can see the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together. His brows are furrowed, and his mouth is just slightly opened into a frown. He looks up at you, really scrutinizing your gaze. “You’ve never asked me to leave before.”

A lump forms in your throat. It feels difficult to breathe.

“How long have you had feelings for me?” The question sends your mind spiraling, and the best you can do to calm yourself is laugh. You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, but Kevin does not.

You stop laughing. “All of this because I asked you to leave?”

“Tell me.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know!”

Kevin runs a hand through his hair, standing. He’s taller than you — and for the first time, you feel intimidated by his stature. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I never expected anything to come of it,” you blurt, cheeks burning with the fire of the sun.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me if that were the case? Why would you lie to my face just a few minutes ago?” Kevin snaps, sounding disgusted with the mere idea of you.

Tears well in your eyes as you take a step away from Kevin. “I didn’t expect you to find out because you were never meant to — no-one was. All I wanted from you was friendship, and I got that; you are my best friend,” your voice wobbles as you speak, “or, well, I guess we’re just good friends, since you still consider Sami above me even after everything he’s put you through for the last forever.”

“I thought you were trying to force Sami and I back together,” Kevin replies as he rubs his temple. “If I would have known about your feelings, I would have never spoken to you.”

“Don’t say that.” A few tears fall down your cheeks, smearing your non-waterproof make-up.

Kevin takes in a deep breath. “There’s no way that things can ever go back to normal.”

“Please, Kevin, I— I value our friendship more than anything. I don’t want to lose you, not to some stupid fucking feelings,” your voice cracks as you speak.

“I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.” Kevin says through his teeth, voice struggling to stay even.

Anger surges through you. “No. Don’t you fucking quote what Roman told you to say to me, you fucking coward,” tears stream freely down your cheeks, “own up to it. Tell me that you’re willing to throw me away because of something that doesn’t matter!”

Kevin does not respond.

“That’s what I fucking thought. You’re just afraid of Roman, and you’re looking for a way out,” your voice strains as you holler, “well, I’m not your way out anymore, Kev. I won’t help you anymore — with Sami, with The Bloodline, with anything — because I’m done with you! You don’t get to throw me away after everything I’ve done to help you at the cost of my relationship with my brother! I throw you away.”

Red in the face with pent-up anger, Kevin storms to the door of your locker room, slamming it open so hard that it stays open. A loud metal BANG echoes through the corridor. You storm after him, standing just outside of your locker room to watch as he walks away from you with such ease.

“You are everything everyone says you are — everything Sami warned me about!” You scream defiantly, grabbing a nearby metal chair and throwing it in the direction of Kevin. It does not go far, only echoing another BANG behind him.

Wet, ruined make-up stains your cheeks as you stare down the corridor. How could Kevin do this to you? Was Sami really right about him? How could Sami be right about anything? This is his fault; he should have never mentioned your feelings to anyone. But maybe this is a blessing in disguise. It’s better to know now that Kevin never cared enough about you as a friend, let alone anything more, to not walk away from you at the first sign of real conflict.

An angry sob rips through your throat as you lean against the wall to your locker room, staring at the last location of Kevin in disbelief. Blush and eyeliner stain your cheeks with the ruin of your tears, mixing and further straying from their intended colors. In the distance, a camera watches you with extreme interest; it perfectly captures the bloodshot horror of your eyes.

Tears continuing to fall, ruining your voice with agitated sobs, you turn to move back into your locker room; you had to fix the mess on your face and force all feelings down — fast. A few meters away, though, watching the entire mess with Kevin, stand The Bloodline; a fresh rage bubbles through your sorrow, drying your tears.

Roman stands front and center, as per usual, with the nastiest smirk on his lips that he could muster; the two twins stand on the left side of Roman, slightly behind him, snickering to one another; on the right side of Roman, Sami is left in disbelief; beside Sami, Solo does not show any immediate emotion with his expression, though his brows are raised ever-so-slightly in surprise. You do not see Paul, though you can assume he is somewhere trailing behind like the good dog that he is.

Mess that you are, you begin your way to The Bloodline in similar fashion to Kevin leaving you behind like trash.