#really don't want to turn this into a debate

[ladyfocalors]

Trappola's Guide To Winning (Your Heart)

summary: Ace overhears that you have a crush on someone, and for whatever reason, it bothers him. His solution? Offering to "help" you impress your crush, all while acting like he doesn’t care. His advice is half-serious and half-sabotage, but as time goes on, you notice his mood shifting.

pairing: ace trappola x gn!reader

warnings: miscommunication(?).

word count: 2.3k

ace trappola time! he is such a lying liar and a big denier. writing him was a bit tricky so i went a bit with my gut here. i will just have keep writing/reading about him until i get it! also thank you so much for the love on the riddle fic. i promise i read all your replies and reblogs! they make my day <3

Ace Trappola wasn’t the type to get so hung up on things (that was debatable). So when he overheard you telling Deuce and Grim that you had a crush on someone, he should’ve just let it go.

But he didn't.

"You have a crush?" he had repeated, standing behind you with his arms crossed.

"Were you eavesdropping?" You had turned around, startled.

"Not my fault you were talking so loud," he had shot back, avoiding the question. "Who is it?"

You had pressed your lips together, glancing at Deuce and Grim for help. Grim just cackled and said, "Why do you care? You jealous or somethin', Ace?"

Great question. Why does he care? And no, he was not jealous. Imagine being jealous of an idiot you liked! (He actually didn't know why he cared. Maybe because he was curious. Yeah. That was it.)

"I don't," Ace lied immediately. "I'm just shocked, that's all. I mean, really, Prefect? I thought you had better taste."

You narrowed your eyes. "You don't even know who it is."

"Exactly!" Ace threw up his hands. "I'm already questioning your judgment. What’s so great about this mystery person anyway?"

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I don't know. They’re just… fun to be around, I guess. They always know how to make me laugh."

"Sounds like an idiot." Ace scoffed.

"I like idiots."

Ace scoffed but found himself momentarily stunned into silence. That was the kind of thing people said when they were absolutely down bad, wasn’t it? His stomach twisted uncomfortably. Gross.

"Prefect, you should just ignore him," Deuce advised, probably sensing trouble. "He's just messing with you."

Ace was messing with you, sure. But also, not really. Kind of. His stomach was twisting in an unfamiliar way, a strange discomfort settling into his chest. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this one bit.

Why did you have to go have a crush? Most importantly, why did he feel like he was losing to someone?

But he was Ace Trappola, and Ace Trappola didn’t lose. Not even to some mystery crush of yours. So he grinned, masking whatever this weird feeling he didn't want to feel was, and said, "Well, whoever it is, you’re in luck. Because, out of the kindness of my heart, I’m willing to help you win them over."

You gave him a questioning look. "Kindness? You sound like the Headmage with that talk."

"That hurts, Prefect. Comparing me to Crowley of all people?" Ace looked very offended.

"Well, forgive me for not trusting your kindness."

"Wow. No faith in me at all, huh?"

"Yeah, ‘cause you're totally not up to something shady." Grim snickered.

Ace shot Grim a withering look before turning to you. "Listen, I'm a romantic genius. Who better to help than me?"

You gave him a flat look. "I can think of a hundred people off the top of my head."

"Wrong," Ace said, leaning in with a grin. "You won't find better advice anywhere else."

"Okay, fine. I will take your so-called advice." You said with a defeated sigh.

Ace had won. Well, sort of.

Winning would be getting you to drop this whole crush thing entirely—something he was starting to want more and more as each minute passed. But for now, he’d settle for the next best thing: being the one you turned to for help.

That meant he had the advantage. That meant he could steer this however he wanted.

(And definitely not in the direction of some other loser getting your attention.)

"Alright, first things first: you gotta get their attention." Ace said, laying on your couch as you busied yourself with assignments, while Deuce peeked at your notes and Grim laid flat on the bed. "Make them notice you. You know, stand out."

You frowned at his words. "I feel like I already stand out. I'm the only magicless student in the whole school."

Ace waved that off. "Yeah, but that’s not the right kind of standing out. Make them curious about you. And you make them jealous."

"What?"

"You heard me." Ace said, tilting his head smugly. "Nothing gets people to realize their feelings faster than a little jealousy. Trust me, works every time."

Deuce looked dubious. "That sounds kind of–"

"–like bad advice?" you finished.

Ace scoffed, sitting up on the couch now. "C’mon, it’s basic psychology. If they see you getting cosy with someone else, they’ll start thinking, ‘Oh no, I’m gonna lose them!’ and boom, feelings unlocked."

"And how’s the Prefect s’posed to do that, huh?" Grim asked.

Ace shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe flirt with someone cool and charming." His grin widened. "Like me, for example."

You felt uneasy. It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. Ace didn’t know he was your crush, which meant you had no right to be upset. Still, hearing him offer you advice even if it sounded terrible and also offer himself so casually made your stomach sink.

You forced a laugh. "How noble of you to volunteer."

"What can I say?" Ace grinned. "I’m a giver."

Deuce frowned. "I don’t think lying is the best way to-"

"Okay, okay, plan B then," Ace cut in. "You should act a little harder to get."

"Harder to get?" you repeated.

"Yeah. Make them work for it." Ace leaned forward with an amused glint in his eye. "I mean, you’re not easy, right?"

Grim made a noise of disgust, and Deuce turned pink. "Ace, that sounds–!"

"I mean personality-wise, you weirdos," Ace huffed, cutting Deuce off for the umpteenth time. "Jeez, get your mind out of the gutter."

Ace ignored him and then turned to you. "But yeah, you should be a little distant. Y’know, act like you don’t care too much."

Act like you don't care too much. The words echoed in your mind. If he liked you, he would be jealous and wouldn't try to help you. Right?

It was fine. You would just take his advice and use it on him. After all, he was your crush. And if he really didn’t feel the same way, then at least you’d have your answer.

For the next few days, you followed Ace’s advice to the dot.

And Ace didn’t catch on. At first.

You made sure to get his attention, like he had said. Not in an over-the-top way, which would be very weird for you, but just enough to throw him off. Like sitting next to Deuce more often during lunch. Smiling a little too enthusiastically at other people. Being just out of reach whenever Ace tried to tug you into whatever ridiculous scheme he had cooking up that day. When he complained, you shrugged and told him, "I’m busy, Ace."

"Oh, busy now, huh?" Ace had scoffed, but he didn’t seem too bothered. Not yet.

The jealousy part took a little more effort, mostly because you weren’t great at flirting and Grim had outright refused to help you with any ideas, calling the whole thing "a pathetic excuse for a love scheme." But you had to be committed to the bit, so you pushed on, casually dropping compliments around Ace—never to him but always near him.

"Deuce, your hair looks nice."

"Jack is really strong, don't you think?"

"Isn't Silver so pretty? He looks like a prince."

Ace didn’t think much of it at first.

Well, he thought about it, but not in the way that meant anything. It was just weird, that’s all. A little annoying. Maybe a tiny bit irritating. But not because it bothered him. No, he wasn’t one of those weirdos who got all jealous just because their best friend was paying attention to other people. That would be ridiculous.

It was just that… who even complimented Deuce’s hair? Deuce had the most normal hair. And Jack? Sure, the guy was strong, but you sounded way too impressed about it. And Silver? Pretty? Like a prince? Okay, maybe, but why did you have to say it out loud?

And why were you so out of reach?

It wasn’t a huge difference, not really. Just enough that made him confused. He’d reach for your sleeve to drag you somewhere, and you’d slip away with some excuse. He’d call your name, and sometimes you’d brush him off.

It didn't matter, he told himself. (He told himself a lot of things lately.)

Things didn't change until Deuce had to smack him (not physically) out of the denial phase.

"You’re so obvious."

Ace blinked out of his daydreams. "What?"

Deuce stared at him like he was the dumbest person alive, which Ace took immediate offense to. He was not dumb. He just… hadn’t figured out whatever Deuce was talking about yet. Which wasn’t his fault, obviously.

"You like them," Deuce said, as if that explained anything.

Ace scoffed. "Duh, I like them. The Prefect is my friend."

"How do you know I was talking about the Prefect?"

Oh… crap. When did Deuce get so smart?

"Because who else would you be talking about?" He tried to play it off, but the heat rising to his face betrayed him. "You’re making weird assumptions, Deuce."

"You like them," Deuce repeated.

Ace let out a sharp laugh, crossing his arms. "You're insane. I don't, I helped them. With their crush. You think I'd do that if I actually liked them?"

Deuce gave him a long, exasperated look, then exhaled through his nose. "Okay. Let’s say you don't like them. Then explain why you have been sulking so much and acting so bothered?"

"I am not!"

"You nearly bit my head off when they complimented my hair."

"Well, maybe I don’t like lying," Ace shot back. "Your hair is just hair, Deuce."

Deuce’s eye twitched.

"And anyway," Ace went on, louder, "you’re ignoring the important part here. The Prefect has a crush. Not on me. So whatever you’re implying is wrong."

"No."

"What do you mean no?" Ace burst out. "What happened to backing up your friends?"

"You’ve been helping them impress their crush, right?" Deuce asked. "Then why does all your advice sound like sabotage?"

"That’s not–" Ace began, then stopped. The words stuck to the roof of his mouth, unwilling to come out, because… well.

He liked you.

Ace felt the world shift uncomfortably. That gross twisting in his stomach he had been ignoring for days? The irrational irritation every time you looked at someone else for too long? The fact that he had been so convinced that you having a crush was some sort of personal loss?

Everything made sense now.

"This is bad." he stuffed his hand into his pocket, turned on his heel and left his dorm, setting off on a long, aimless walk. Maybe fresh air would clear his head. Maybe it would make this realization feel less like a punch.

You didn't like him. You never told him who you liked and he was so caught up in denial that he didn't even bothered you to ask.

No, no. That wasn't fair. He liked you and made you follow his terrible advice (you didn't have to but you did). He already came so far and he didn't want to pretend he didn't like you.

The least he could do was be honest with you.

And, Ace Trappola wasn't a coward.

(Okay, maybe he was. A little. But not about this. Not about you.)

So after what was possibly the longest walk of his life, he turned back toward Ramshackle, his heart thudding against his ribs.

Ace had already spent enough time being an idiot. He wasn’t going to waste another second.

You had just finished dealing with Grim’s latest round of whining about dinner when a knock at the door made you pause.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Grim was still sulking about his empty stomach, so with a sigh, you moved to open the door, only to be met with the last person you expected.

"Uh," you started. "Are you in trouble with Riddle–"

"I like you." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He looked vaguely horrified, like he hadn’t planned on saying it so fast. But now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back. "Like, really like you."

You froze at the admission.

Ace sighed but continued. "Look, I get it, okay? You like someone else, and I already dug my own grave, but I had to tell you. Because, because if I didn’t, I’d be lying, and it sucks, and–"

"Ace–"

"–I mean, I probably made things worse by trying to help you and made you follow bad advice, which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, and–"

"ACE!"

He finally shut up.

You exhaled, heartbeat loud in your ears. "You are my crush. I used your advice on you, idiot."

He stared at you, a dumbfounded expression on his face.

"Huh?" he said, very eloquently.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. You moved ahead to pull him in a hug. He immediately froze, standing stiff as a board. It took a few seconds for his brain to finally catch up to him and he returned your hug with a laugh.

"So all of that–"

"–was me following your advice." you finished his sentence, pulling back enough to look at his face. "You sabotaged yourself without realising it."

Ace groaned dramatically, letting his hands drop to his sides. "I played myself. I actually played myself!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "But at least now you know I like you back?"

Ace looked at you, then his usual cocky grin came back to his face. His hands settled awkwardly on your arms. "Yeah… yeah! Of course you like me. Who wouldn't fall me?"

You smacked his arms away. "Don't get too smug about it. Just be grateful I like idiots."

He could only smile at you, happy to have you back again.

He felt lighter, his heart fluttering with joy.

© ladyfocalors

[scarlett-draws]

Elsje Wodan/Jazker Gailladria

Prompt: "Simply Impossible"

Rating: G

Tags: Pre-Oathbreak, Non-Canon, Pining, Forbidden Romance, Fantasy, D&D setting, Military

Captain Wodan commanded respect. She was thick set, and built like brick wall. It was rare to see her out of her fitted, full plate armor and even rarer to see her out of parade rest. That was a privilege that only her closet squad members could see— even then, she was likely to be dressed in her military formal attire rather than a threadbare shirt and linen pants. The latter was attributed more often to her lieutenant, Jazker Gailladria. Those who have barely heard of him knew him as the second son of a noble house, those who have met him knew him as a skirt chasing lay-about. Those who were friends with him? Well.

Those who were friends with him knew him as all of the above, as well as stupid, hardworking, talented, kind, and above all else— cunning.

Elsje Wodan belonged to the category of 'friend', alongside their two other squadmates Runishta and Polus. At this current moment, however, Elsje was thinking about revoking the friendship status.

"You really don't think we could get like, a herd of horses?" He asked, downturned eyes somehow looking up at her through his lashes despite their over-a-foot height difference.

"Once more I will ask, what for?" Elsje's voice was getting strained with exasperation. This conversation has been going around in circles for almost fifteen minutes and she was getting tired of it.

"Morale." Jazker blinked pleadingly, looking so much like a puppy that she wondered if she could stick him in a pitiful box, leave him in the next town, and someone would adopt him into a new loving home just so that she wouldn't have to deal with his stupid pretty face anymore.

"Right. You want us to tame an entire herd of wild horses... to boost morale."

"Yes."

"Request Denied." She said, voice thick with authority and finality.

He threw up his hands in exaggerated defeat, "Damnit! I was SO close this time!" He seemed to pout for good measure.

Elsje narrowed her eyes at him. He'd been bringing up this ridiculous 'request' every week for the past two months. They then get into a near twenty minute long debate about it before she inevitably turns him down and he finally leaves. The only question is WHY. He isn't dumb, despite his best attempts to appear so. She knows that he knows they can't ACTUALLY get a random herd of horses. So why? Why have this whole debate every week? Was it to shirk his duties? She glances at her reports. He's done everything asked of him, so it couldn't be that. Her gaze bored into the words 'Gailladria' on the report page. Each instance of the name had a 'Task Completed' and then a date next to that. She kept staring at it for another few moments as if it could give her the answers she was looking for. She only looked back to her lieutenant when she heard a small, contented sigh. The kind she was sure he hadn't even intended to make.

When she did look up, however, her eyes met his. He looked... happy. In a gentle way. He had a small smile on his tanned face and his eyes were soft and kind. It wasn't the kind of look she'd ever seen on him, not on any of his numerous dates. It made a tingling sensation go down her spine and a heat rise to her face.

"Jaz?" Her voice came out softer than it should have. She was supposed to be authoritative right now.

"Yeah?" He more sighed than said, eyes not leaving the soft curve of Elsje's face.

Elsje opened her mouth to say something, it died in her throat before she even knew what it was so she closed her mouth. The flush in her face was getting hotter and more irritating the longer he looked at her.

In the end, she could only bark out: "Don't look at me like that."

His smile grew a little wider, and he teased softly, "Simply impossible."

Her shoulder's stiffened and her lips pursed. His eyes danced with mirth as she did so and she just knew he was enjoying watching her squirm.

"You shouldn't look at me like that." She scolded again, but it came out sincere instead of cold.

A mote of sadness- no, yearning danced in his eyes like dust motes in sunlight as he softly answered, "I know."

They both knew.

They both also knew that Elsje was never going to do anything to stop him, because they both knew that she looked at him the exact same way.

Dialogue Responses

"Don't look at me like that."

"I can't help it."

"Simply impossible."

"Just don't look back."

"I'm not looking at you."

"Then stop being so cute."

"How am I looking at you?"

"Why? Does it bother you?"

"Can't take my eyes off of you."

"Sorry, but it will happen again."

"How would you like me to look at you?"

All the Dialogue Responses can be found here.

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[kilesplaysthings]

how the boys would react when you have a migraine

yeahhh third one babyyy! i swear these all popped into my head one after the other, in this order, actually! This one was really fun to write, because Zayne!!! 🥰 sorry, my bias might be showing here lol

Part III: Zayne (you/MC x Zayne)

It was your day off, and boy, were you ever grateful for that. Last night as you got ready for bed, another headache decided to plague you. You had hoped a good night's rest would make it go away - you even slept in and stayed in bed for longer than usual. But no, the headache was still there and it persisted until it turned into a full-blown migraine that was a continual throbbing with such an intense amount of pressure that you wanted to scream.

What's worse, when you went to grab your prescription medication to try and chase this pain away, you realized you had run out. You requested a refill as soon as you could, and thankfully, the doctor was prompt in filling it, but that meant having to drag yourself off the couch and out to the pharmacy. Of course you didn't want to keep suffering, but you also really didn't want to go out. Over the counter pain medication wasn’t helping so all you could do was lie there debating with yourself about whether you should go or not. You also hadn't eaten all day and knew you should fix something, but again, you didn't have it in you to move.

It was a crummy way to spend you day off, but such was life. You felt like the kid from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, lying there listless, staring up at the ceiling, contemplating your life's choices and feeling like you were dying.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed. You groaned at the effort you had to make to pick it up from the coffee table. Your hand slowly slipped from under the blanket to blindly grope for the device. It fell on the floor, and you let out the most pitiful whine. Bending down to pick it up made your head throb harder.

You didn't even look to see who it was before you swiped on the screen to answer the call.

"...Hello..." you croaked out.

"Well, hello to you too," came the amused voice of your boyfriend on the phone.

Your eyes widened. "Oh. Hey, Zayne."

"I just got off of work. Are you still interested in going to that cafe we talked about?"

Your eyes slid shut. You had totally forgotten that the two of you had made plans to try out a new cafe that had opened up downtown recently. But with the way your head was hurting, you weren't up to going anywhere, even if it was with Zayne.

"I'm so sorry, I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that," you told him. "I'm not feeling well."

"What's wrong?" He asked, his voice now laced with concern. "Do you have another migraine?"

You couldn't help but laugh softly. "Correct, as usual, Doctor. I've had it since last night. I thought sleeping on it would help, but it won't go away."

"All right. I'll be right over."

You sat up a little. "Oh, you don't have to-"

"No, I don't," he agreed. "But I want to. That is, unless you'd prefer being alone?"

You sighed. He knew the answer to that. "I look gross right now..." You warned him.

"I'm sure I can handle it," was his warm response.

You decided not to argue any more. As you ended the call, you couldn't help feeling relieved that he was coming over.

"Go ahead and let yourself in." You texted him so you didn't have to get up. He knew the code to your door anyway.

It wasn't long after that Zayne appeared, striding through the front door. He was carrying two bags and also holding a cup holder that held two drinks. When he saw you, his face lit up with a gentle smile.

"How are you feeling?" He asked quietly. He knew to keep his voice down when you had a migraine.

"Bleh."

He sniffed out a short laugh at that. "That bad, huh?" He placed the bags and drinks on the coffee table. "Where is your medication? Did you take it yet?"

Your eyes skittered away from his face. "Well..."

"Well?" His tone became firmer. He was going into doctor mode. "Does that mean you haven't?"

You turned to bury your face in the cushions. "I ran out..."

"Do you need it refilled, then? Have you contacted your neurologist?"

"I did," you replied. "I just haven't gone to pick it up yet."

"I see."

You peeked up at him, worried you'd see that stern expression he'd give you when you were being lax with your health. Instead, you saw him slipping his overcoat back on.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to pick up your medication."

All of a sudden, you felt your eyes tearing up a little. Guilt flowed through you. "I'm sorry, you don't have to... I'm not trying to make you go get it for me..."

He turned to you and smiled. Then he walked over to your side and placed his hand on top of your head. His thumb gently swept aside your messy bangs.

"I know. It's fine, I want to go. In fact, you could have just asked me to get it for you while I was on my way here. I know how bad your migraines can get, so I want you to rest. Doctor's orders."

He took one of the drinks and handed it to you.

"I got you a chai with cinnamon and oat milk, just how you like it. Just relax. I'll be right back."

You sniffled a little and nodded, taking large sips of the drink so you wouldn't begin to cry. Zayne was the sweetest boyfriend you could ever ask for and there were times when you wondered if you really deserved him.

He soon returned with a small paper bag in hand. Inside was your prescription for your migraines.

"Before you take it, let's make sure you eat something. How's your stomach today? Have you been feeling nauseous?" He inquired as he pulled out two styrofoam boxes from one of the bags.

"Fortunately, no. I just haven't felt like eating," was your answer.

"Good. The cafe we were going to go to today also offers soup, salad and sandwiches. How does tomato soup and grilled cheese sound?"

Your mouth began to water and a sudden growling noise erupted from you. Zayne's green eyes sparkled amusedly.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said. He opened one of the boxes and handed it to you. Inside was a sliced grilled cheese sandwich wrapped in napkins as well as a cup of tomato soup that was covered with a plastic lid.

"I'll get you a spoon," he told you.

While you waited, you took off the plastic soup lid and dipped the sandwich into the cup of soup. It was still warm and extremely delicious. You weren't sure why, but this was the perfect soup and sandwich combo for when you weren't feeling well. It was comforting.

Zayne came back from the kitchen with silverware, dessert plates and some napkins. He settled down into the couch beside you and picked up a plastic container that held a fresh-looking salad, with a cup of dressing on the side.

"That's all you wanted? A salad?"

"This is enough for me," he replied. "Besides, this isn't the main course. That's reserved for the desserts I brought." He nodded to the second bag. Inside you could spy cutely designed containers, all in pastel colors with elegant writings and cute symbols on them. You could only imagine what kind of cupcakes, macarons, and cheesecakes were inside.

Shaking your head with a smile, all you said was, "Oh, of course."

Once you were finished with your meal, Zayne retrieved the medicine from the paper bag. He read the directions on the bottle and handed you the proper amount of pills for you to take. Once you downed them with a swig of your drink, you decided to sit up on the couch, now next to Zayne, so you could lean against his side.

"Thanks, Zayne," you uttered softly.

He turned to look at you. "For what?"

"For everything; coming over, bringing food, going to grab my meds..." You sheepishly smiled. "You're always so sweet to me..."

He smiled and shook his head a little, his hand reaching behind you to rub your back. "You never need to thank me for anything like that. If you're not feeling well, of course I'm going to take care of you."

You felt yourself getting emotional again and, a little embarrassed for him to see you get all teary-eyed, you decided to lie down on him, placing your head in his lap, your face pressed against his stomach. You could hear Zayne's sweet, soft laughter and felt his hand upon your head.

"Perfect timing. I was going to ask you if you wanted a head massage."

You took hold of his free hand while he ran his fingers through your hair and massaged your scalp. You nuzzled his hand in thanks.

"I might fall asleep like this," you told him.

In return, he pulled the blanket over you and sat back into the couch to get more comfortable.

"Go ahead. We'll eat the desserts when you wake up."

[lonely-moons]

♡୭something good | sam winchester x reader

title: something good

pairing: stanford!sam winchester x socially anxious!reader

warnings: lotssss of overthinking, reader is awkward and a nerd but also lowkey a little cool, social anxiety, sam winchester being a cutie patootie, references to fandoms i'm not in rip lotr fans and dnd players my bad

summary: when you're forced to tackle a group project, you briefly debate throwing yourself in a pit of fire - you're not much one for working with other people. but maybe this is something you needed after all

wc: 2,412

when your professor first mentions the words 'group project,' you have to physically bite down on your tongue to avoid groaning. they're the bane of your existence, and you allow yourself a moment of wondering whether education is really worth all of this. but you force it down as your class ends and make your way to where the list of names has been tacked to the wall, a sigh crawling its way up from deep in your chest.

you find your name next to one you can't place a face to. it's not surprising - you don't really have any friends in college, something that's followed you through from school even after you'd tried so hard to evade it. the college emails of each student are in a column beside the names, so you take note of it and hope to god that whoever sam winchester is, he's at least going to pull his weight.

you get the email from him before you're done with classes for the day, a simple one asking you when you'll be free to discuss the work. you both decide on tomorrow evening in the library, you moreso hoping to just get this over with rather than being particularly eager.

the time rolls around quickly, and at 7 p.m. the next day, you're heading to the library with a dread roiling in your gut. it's not that you hate meeting new people - you're just bad at it. you never quite know what to say, and even if you think you do, it always seems to come out wrong. like the words somehow scrape along the sides of your throat as they crawl their way up, get tossed about on your tongue until they're coming out completely unrecognisable from how they started. it's something you've always dealt with, but it seems to get worse as you get older, while everyone else prances ahead and you're left behind in the dust.

you don't have much hope as you're greeted with the musty smell of the library, your eyes scanning around for someone who looks like they could be there for a group project. you spot three candidates, three guys on their own, but two of them you vaguely recognise from classes.

it's a brief moment, but the panic sets in so entirely that the seconds seem to stretch on for minutes. you're so desperate to escape the embarrassment of going up to the wrong one that you consider leaving, sending sam some message about an emergency coming up and hoping that this goes better next time. but then one of them turns around, his eyes catching on you, and he smiles in your direction.

he shifts in his seat to face you a little more, his hand raising into small wave. your panic flushes out entirely, and you mentally chide yourself for being so dramatic. you're okay, you tell yourself as you head for the seat at table. you don't need the adrenaline levels of someone being hunted for sport.

"hey," he says when you're close enough, slinking your bag off of your shoulder. "y/n, right?"

"yeah, hey." you send him a smile that you hope looks okay. in your head it's still tinged with the remnants of some of your previous panic. "sam, i hope?" you wince; who the hell else would he be at this point?

but his smile remains intact. "yeah. it's nice to finally meet you. i mean, i've seen you around in classes and just on campus, but you usually look pretty busy."

you've slid into your seat, the uncomfortable wood making you want to shift around, but you remain still. if you were on your own, you'd probably have your feet up on it by now, shimmying around to find some kind of position that works. but you are not alone. "busy time of year." you shrug, knowing that he probably hasn't seen you around and is just being polite - maybe he has, but you're positive he wouldn't remember. you've never been one to make much of an impact.

"hey, i get it," he says. "sometimes it feels like they expect us to just give up on sleep entirely."

you think of the dark circles under your eyes that you'd half-heartedly tried to cover with make up. "tell me about it."

he perks up a little, remembering something. "by the way, speaking of, i got us some fuel." with the pen in his hand, he gestures to the share bag of m&ms that's beside his water bottle. "apparently chocolate helps with concentration levels."

you look at the bag, and somehow your simple comment of thanks turns into - "isn't it dark chocolate that does that?"

sam doesn't miss a beat. "yeah, well dark chocolate would make this even more miserable."

your lips twitch slightly. "fair."

"so, anyway, you wanna get started on this?"

you begin to look at the project guidelines, silently reading over the instructions even though you've done it about ten times today alone. but you appreciate the minute to gather your thoughts, trying to keep your eyes on the paper and not glancing at sam.

he's sweet, is the first thing to come to mind. you've witnessed plenty of college boys who act as though they run the place, who treat anyone different than them as lesser creatures. you thought people were meant to grow out of all that crap after high school, but evidently they had missed the memo.

you think that sam would be a nice friend to have, if only you knew how to go about doing that. the entire future of your interactions play out in your mind: you'll meet up a couple more times to do this project, maybe say something to one another in the class where you submit it. at most, any passing greetings will last a week before he manages to shake you off, and then you'll be back to another face in his class once again. even if you did ask for his number under the guise of project work, you know you'd never be able to text him after it was submitted. he wouldn't text you either. not only would you be a forgotten name, but also a random set of digits in his phone. the thought feels heavy in your head, refusing to budge.

"hey, are you okay?"

you blink, startled slightly, and find sam looking at you. there's a small crease between his eyebrows that makes it look like he genuinely wants to know.

"yeah." you clear your throat, wondering how you'd managed to zone out for so long. not for the first time, you wish the ground would swallow you whole. "yeah, i'm good. sorry, just got lost in thought."

"no, don't worry about. have you thought about which sections you want to cover?"

you spend the next few minutes dividing up which of you will cover the different topics of the paper. he's sweet about that too, always letting you have the first choice and triple-checking that you're okay with what you've landed with. by the time you're getting ready to move onto the next step, he's opened the packet of m&ms.

you worry that he's noticed your glance in their direction, because he takes a few for himself and then nudges the bag in your direction.

"concentration myth might be a bust, but they do taste pretty good."

you let a reluctant smile crawl up your face and grab one to pop into your mouth. turning it down would feel mean and, besides, you do really want some.

"so what classes are you taking?"

you glance at sam, not that surprised. the typical round of polite questioning has happened before, mostly during the first weeks, but they still pop up occasionally. especially when you don't have your crowd and every exchange is with someone new.

you list off your modules like second nature. "and for extra credit this semester i'm doing occult studies."

his eyebrows raise, like he's a little surprised at the fact. "occult studies, huh? like supernatural stuff?"

your polite smile turns a little sheepish now. "yeah. i've always kinda been into that kinda thing and they had space, so..."

he nods a little, like he finds it interesting, like it answers something he's been wondering. "oh, i get it."

"get what?" you ask, taking another m&m if mostly just to give yourself something to do.

"you're a nerd."

you crunch down on the shell in your surprise at his words. but they're not laced with mockery or any kind of insult. if anything, they're just a little teasing, interested, and the grin on his face makes you believe he doesn't mean any harm.

you look down at your outfit on impulse. "was it the spider-man shirt or occult studies that gave you that impression?"

you hadn't noticed that his grin was a little tight, but now it loosens completely. he seems glad that you're leaning into this. "actually," his eyes flicker down to your backpack, "it was more the 12-sided dice key chain."

"technically it's a die because it's only one -" you cut yourself off at the amused look on his face, wondering why you were becoming so free with trusting your mouth to open. it's all his fault, stupid sam winchester and his stupid smile. "never mind."

"no, tell me about it. you play, uh..." he thinks for a moment, "dungeons and dragons?"

it's the first time you've given in to shifting in your seat. you know how people view the game, how often people make fun of it. your small group in high school hadn't even lasted two years before disbanding. you'd kept it up as a solo hobby ever since, even if it'd been way more fun with the extra three people.

"... a little." you hate that it comes out almost defensive, like you've been conditioned into having to explain yourself. you wait for a follow-up comment, something you'll dissect late into the night as you look from every angle at how it's further ruined his perception of you.

"what's it like?"

your pre-prepared wince isn't needed. "the game?"

he nods.

you wonder if he is genuinely curious or just that good at acting. "oh, um... it's fun, i guess. kinda like an interactive book or something, you know?" now you get to use that wince.

"you like to read?"

"you've already called me a nerd, i think you know the answer to that."

his laugh comes out as a huff of air. "i'll join the club, then, i like to read too."

"what kind of stuff?"

"oh, you know, just the classics. i don't really go near anything written after the nineteenth century."

"oh." you clear your throat, any hope of relating vanishing. "that's, um... cool."

"i'm kidding," he says lightly, eyes flickering to your hand that's still clutching the pen you haven't even used in fifteen minutes. "i like lord of the rings."

your hand clenches, the ring on your finger suddenly feeling heavy. for your last birthday your parents had gotten you a replica of the one ring. you wore it almost every day. you're surprised sam had noticed.

"you like fantasy?" it comes out more bewildered than you'd like, but you really wouldn't have guessed it to even be in his top three genres.

"yeah, i've read a lot of it."

"huh."

"what?" he raises an eyebrow, amused.

"didn't take you for a fantasy guy."

"why not?"

you know your real answer, the one that remains firmly locked inside your head: he's attractive. annoyingly so. and, yeah, you know that looks don't dictate what's inside and all that crap, but from your experience, people who look like him don't go for that kind of stuff. then again, lots of people who look like him aren't generally so nice either.

you shrug. "you're a law guy. that usually means pretentious."

"we take the same classes, you know."

"which means i've witnessed all that pretentiousness first hand."

he releases a small laugh and something about it warms your chest. it hits you then that you're really just having a normal conversation. maybe it's sad, but it's been a while since it's come this easy. you blink and go for another m&m so that you can tear your eyes away from his face.

"you're something else," he says.

your hand pauses for just a second in the bag and you ask, as though the answer doesn't even matter to you, "is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"good," he answers, like he hadn't even considered the alternative. "it's definitely good."

you grow a little uncomfortable under how genuine he sounds, and it certainly doesn't help that his stupid smile is still there, still directed right at you.

"you'll take that back once i've eaten all your m&ms." you steal another for good measure.

"well, what chocolate do you not like? i'll bring that next time."

the dig is what registers first, which you're glad for as your body automatically releases a mock gasp. it's a much better reaction than being surprised he wants to meet up again, which is what sinks in now. this project doesn't focus too much on the group aspect; you easily could've gone your separate ways and just emailed one another if you needed to check anything. one more meetup, max, if any problems came up, but nothing long enough for a study snack. you half assume he just said it for the joke - you usually would - but there's something that tells you he means it.

"and here i was thinking you're not half bad."

his smile is more of a smirk now. "is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"bad." your expression half matches his. "definitely bad."

the conversation keeps up until before you know it, the librarian is ushering you out for closing time. you don't even know how it happened, but somehow underneath those fluorescent lights and across from sam, you actually enjoyed meeting someone.

sam asks for your number before you head your separate ways. you try not to act surprised, but something about the way his own smile widens at the light in your eyes makes you think that he knows you'd been hoping for it.

you go to bed that night the lightest you've felt in weeks, with sam winchester's number in your phone and his stupid smile ingrained in your mind's eye.

[candyswirls]

I saw someone had requested for a thing of Gadriel being turned into a child. I wanted to see if I could ask for a version of that with Guilliman and Dorn and maybe the two are on Mcgrag being looked after by Tarasha Euten until Big E and Malcador figure out a way to turn them back.

I left what age they were reverted to up to interpretation. Dorn came off as very autistic coded in the natural flow of writing, so I leaned into it. I also pulled some habits that one of my own siblings had. For example, if you gave them a cookie or cracker and it broke, they'd cry and claim they couldn't eat it. Tarasha is best mom.

"That's boring."

Guilliman frowned at his brother, "No, it's not. It's more fun than-than-than... stacking blocks together and trying not to knock it over!"

Rogal folded his arms, "I like that game. I don't want to swim again. The water is too hot."

"But it's a bath house," Roboute explained. "It's supposed to be hot!"

"I'm not going," Rogal stated before planting himself on the ground.

He tried keeping his regular stonefaced expression, but his eyebrows betrayed him.

Roboute slumped, wishing his brother would open his eyes to see his sad, sad face.

"Why not go by yourself?" Offered Tarasha.

The child picked at his tunic and looked down, "But I wanted him to come with me..."

Dorn puffed his cheeks, "Hot water is meant for cold weather to keep you warm."

"But we can still go play!" Roboute insisted. "You're being so mean!"

Rogal whipped his head to his brother, stuck out his tongue, and blew a raspberry. Roboute's jaw dropped in shock. His bottom lip began to quiver, and his face turned red. Rogal glared back as he stood and marched away.

The thirteenth Primarch's mother stepped in, "Alright, that's enough. I think you two need to take a break and have some alone time."

Roboute looked up at her with tearfilled eyes, "But why?"

She smoothed back his hair, "You're both overwhelmed. How about we head to the far side of the gardens for lunch? There's a pond there. You both can swim and it won't be too hot."

Roboute looked hopefully at his brother, holding clenched fists to his chest in anticipation.

Rogal glanced to the side and pondered it for a moment, still unsure.

Tarasha added, "That part of the wall was built before most of the palace. It was also done with a different method and materials."

"Okay," Rogal nodded.

"Head to your room, Roboute," Tarasha told her son. "I'll get your brother settled and be back. Would you like to see the library, Rogal?"

He nodded and let her lead him out.

Roboute stood there, debating if he really should pout. Even if no one was there. Was he in trouble?

He let out a loud sigh and trudged back to his room. It felt bigger than ever. He had never realized how great it was to have someone your age and just like you. He now felt incredibly lonely.

***

Lady Euten ensured Rogal nestled in the chair he chose. She had the librarian bringing him various texts on inventions of the infrastructure of Macragge. She also ensured they had some pictures in there.

"Is there anything you need?" She asked.

He shook his head. He didn't like making eye contact with her.

"When will Father and Uncle be back?" He asked quietly.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "But as soon as I hear, I'll let you know. If you need me or anything else, just ask the librarian."

The boy nodded and picked up a picture book.

She smiled as she scurried out.

Roboute was lying face down on his bed. She leaned against the door and folded her arms.

"Roboute, are you pouting?" She asked knowingly.

He didn't answer for a second, "...no."

She came in and sat next to her son, stroking his head.

"Why is he being mean?" Roboute questioned.

"He's not," she assured. "He's just upset."

Her son rolled over to face her, "But why? I got turned into a kid, too."

She cupped his cheeks, "Well, where are we?"

"Macragge?"

She nodded, "And who's home is that?"

"Mine."

"And who is here with you?"

He glanced to the side and answered, "You are."

"I think Rogal misses his home and his family," She elaborated.

"Oh..." He whispered, now feeling guilty.

"We just need to remember to be patient and kind," she told him as she kissed his head. "Do you want to help me pack for our picnic?"

"Yes, please."

***

Rogal was in the middle of a riveting tale about tar being used to seal aqueducts and how to produce it when Lady Euten came in with Roboute.

"You can bring the book with you," she said.

Rogal nodded and climbed off the chair. He bowed to the librarian who bid them goodbye.

As they entered the garden, Roboute ran over to Rogal's side and offered his hand. When he took it, his brother practically skipped the rest of the way.

He pointed out patches of flowers bushes he'd helped plant.

As they approached their destination, Roboute muttered, "Sorry for saying you're mean when I was being mean."

"It's okay," Dorn said, staring at the ground.

He looked up to see the wall of the guard, and his eyes grew wider.

"That's really old," he stated.

He pulled away and ran forward to look at it. Tarasha laid out the blanket and began pulling out food from the basket.

"Is this wall climable?" Rogal asked her, whilst pointing.

"I don't think so," she hummed. "It's sturdy and stable enough to be patrolled upon, but I don't want you to accidentally grab somewhere with loose brick."

Rogal nodded and looked back at said wall, "They're rocks instead of traditional brick. Sometimes, that's used when a proper brick baking oven isn't available. Sometimes, it's stronger than regular brick walls."

He started telling about the process of making bricks and their variations. Roboute listened closely.

"Come eat!" Tarasha called.

The two came running back. She handed Roboute his own pita and an unmade one to Rogal.

"I figured you'd want to put yours together," she deduced.

The white-haired boy nodded, "Thank you."

He began meticulously constructing it just how he wanted it. The bread ripped when he tried picking it up, though. He pushed the plate away and pulled his knees to his chest.

"What's wrong?" His brother asked, sauce smeared across his lips.

"It broke," Rogal said quietly. "I can't eat it now."

Roboute wrinkled his nose and cocked his head, "Yes, you can?"

His brother shook his head.

"I brought extras," Tarasha told him. "Do you want two to double up?"

Dorn nodded and tried to hide tears that welled in his eyes. He reconstructed it, albeit slightly different, and ate it with no issues.

The blond decided to go look at the pond.

"Rogal look!" He called. "There's a fish!"

He pointed at it so his brother could see it.

"We call that Blue Skylar."

Rogal nodded, "It's part of the Siluriformes family of fish. A genome type from Terra."

"Ohh," his brother nodded. "Can we swim now?"

To his delight, Rogal nodded.

"Take off your outer clothes and leave them over here," Tarasha told them.

"Yes, mother," he replied, pulling Rogal over.

Roboute had his off in an instant.

In repeated routine, Rogal carefully removed his outerwear, folded it gently, and stacked it in a specific order before laying them upon the blanket.

They held hands as Roboute brought him to he waters edge. They gently tested it by dipping a toe in.

Roboute spoke, "Oh, it's kinda cold."

Rogal suddenly jumped in, forming a cannonball. Not wanting to be left out, Roboute did the same. Rogal surfaced, now holding the fish.

"I caught it."

The fish looked utterly surprised at being held, leg alone caught.

Guilliman laughed, "Look at its face!"

A smile crossed Dorn's lips.

Tarasha smiled as she watched the two splash in the water, and Dorn recited facts he'd read earlier. She loved hearing their little voices and giggling. This age was a fun one.

[thepenultimateword]

The Worst Kind of Medal Part Two

Part One

Absolutely nobody: …….

Me: Alright, you’ve convinced me, I’ll post part two

***

Umbra sipped at the bitter mug of coffee and rubbed her blurry eyes. Unfortunately, last night's tea had not calmed her stomach or her nerves. She'd spent the entire night tossing and turning, wondering if this was a mistake, debating whether to write to the King–a stupid idea really–and insisting to herself that Prince Waylon’s…heritage, was nothing to get so worked up about. After all, he only looked Auskerian. Underneath it all, he was still Lyrissi. And the war was over anyhow, so there was no reason to have problems with the Auskerians. To have her heart race so over a simple tail and fangs was silly.

The consequence of all this thinking was the exact opposite of last night’s problem: she had to drink something to stay awake, and she was more nervous and on edge than ever.

Umbra dropped her face tiredly into her hand, but a firm, polite knock on the door jolted her back to attention.

"Enter."

To her surprise rather than Arlin or Madeline the door opened on Ryann, stiff as a statue in a crisp olive suit, hair slicked neatly back, and smelling strongly of vanilla and amber. Umbra expected this was his usual look when he wasn’t disembarking from an 11-hour flight.

"Ser Umbra," he said with a short bow. "Do you have a moment?"

Umbra’s gaze flicked to the wall clock. 6:45.

"I don't leave for the military headquarters for another hour, so yes."

She motioned to the wooden spare chair alongside the window, and Ryann smoothly grabbed it by the back, setting it down right at the lip of her desk, before settling primly on the seat.

He cleared his throat genteelly. "I'm sure yesterday was a shock.”

His voice was measured. Gauging.

So that was the purpose of this visit.

“A slight surprise,” Umbra said. “But I never requested a picture of the prince, so I had no preconceived expectations.”

“You don’t need to pretend diplomacy. The King is set entirely on the match, and His Majesty the prince has grown too attached to the idea. No matter your response, I won’t say a word, and even if I did, I doubt it would make a difference.”

Umbra took another sip of coffee, pinning her lips together as she swallowed in case the wrong words pushed out from under her practiced professionalism.

Ryann stared at her expectantly.

Fine. Why not? The truth was unsaid, not secret.

She set the coffee mug on its saucer and folded her hands in front of her.

“Alright then. Yes. Prince Waylon was a more surprising match than I bargained for. I understand why King Esmond would want to remove him from court with the war so freshly ended, but he must have had some idea of how I–a soldier who has been fighting the Auskerians for the better part of six years–would receive this. Not only that but sending him here, right along the border of Auskeran, where tensions are highest, doesn’t make any sense.”

Ryann tapped his index finger idly on the desk—was it idleness? It almost seemed like a practiced filler between statements.

“King Esmond has kept Prince Waylon at an arm's length his entire life. Extending that distance to half a country’s length is not much of a surprise to anyone who has spent more than a week at the palace.” He offered the barest of shrugs. “Kings and their children.”

“Even so, surely someone informed him of the dangers.”

“Ha!” Ryann smiled humorlessly. “Yes, well, it turns out pointing out such things are what get you escort duty. The King is not so oblivious as to not know the political standings of his own cities; he merely doesn’t want to think about it.”

“Does King Esmond wish him to die?”

Ryann frowned severely. “Don’t be garish, Ser Umbra.”

Umbra checked herself internally. She’d let her annoyance get the better of her, but she couldn’t afford to be so blunt with a royal servant, especially not when talking about the King.

“No,” Ryann proceeded. “I don’t think he actively wishes him harm, but he certainly would rather not worry about his existence. However, that is what I want to talk to you about.”

Umbra raised her brows.

“You saw how people looked at Prince Waylon in the port. And I’m sure you know how it may escalate. Dirty looks only last so long.”

“Yes.”

“In the capital, no one could say anything to his face. He certainly felt the disdain in other ways, but direct disrespect to a prince meant death. But here, without the King’s presence looming overhead, and more, on the border, where people are familiar with Auskerians, it’s more dangerous.”

“What are you asking me?” Umbra said. She had a good idea already, but she hated all this talking around the issue. Obviously, Ryann wanted to hear something specific from her, so why didn’t he just come out and say it?

“I need you to promise that you will protect him.”

Umbra frowned. “You don’t need to make a personal request for something I assumed was self-evident.”

Ryann folded his hands on the desk and fixed her with an intense stare. “In two weeks, I’ll be back at the capital, and he’ll be here amongst the wolves. I need to hear the words directly. Promise you will protect him. Promise you will use all the influence and physical power necessary to do it. Even if you never come to care for him.”

Umbra didn’t like demands, but there seemed to be little point in resisting other than her own hubris.

She picked up the coffee cup once more. “I promise.” She downed the last gulp and winced at the bitter dregs settled at the bottom. She should’ve waited for Henrietta to get up and make the pot for her.

Ryann relaxed a fraction. “I can tell you aren’t noble born, Ser Umbra, but in spite of that, you seem the honorable sort. So, I will grant you my trust. Until you prove otherwise.”

“An honor,” Umbra said, summoning any scrap genuineness she could find. “Now, if you’d excuse me–”

A new knock sounded on the door, this one fast and rhythmic. She didn’t know a knock like that.

“Enter,” she called out and braced herself for the inevitable visitor on the other side.

The door cracked open slowly and then swung wide all at once.

“Ryann! You’re visiting Umbra too?” Prince Waylon cried.

He was the picture of dishevelment: his long silver hair, so perfectly braided the day before, was now collected in an ill-kempt tail and tossed over one shoulder. The frizzy kinked tangles reached well past his waist and several stray locks tickled at his face and neck. It looked like he’d attempted to dress himself, but the cuffs of his white dress shirt were unbuttoned, and his vest, a burgundy leather sort with straps instead of buttons, hadn’t been closed tight enough, so now the straps hung in loose u-shapes, showing gaps of rumbled shirt underneath. Even his locket hung a little crooked on its chain. Did he wear it to sleep?

“My prince!” Ryann said, shooting to his feet. “Come with me at once.”

“I’m fine, Ryann.” He tilted to look around the escort. “Good morning, Umbra!”

“Good morning, my prince. I hope you slept well.”

“Waylon,” he corrected. “And yes! I could hear crickets out in the meadow all evening, and the bed is so quaint!”

Ryann fussed over Waylon’s sleeves. “You should have waited for me. What are you even doing up at this hour?”

Waylon allowed Ryann to begin tidying him up, even spreading his arms a bit wider to give him better access. It showed how accustomed he was to having someone dress him. Was Umbra going to have to hire a manservant once Ryann left? Would Arlin be willing to fill that roll? He already had far too many duties. And what other intimate tasks did the prince need help with? She really hadn’t thought through the finer details of his marriage.

“I was so excited I woke up early,” Waylon said. “So I thought I might as well get ready.”

“‘Ready’,” Ryann harumphed under his breath. “What a mess. Just look at your hair, did you even brush it before mangling it?”

Waylon shrugged. His tail swished leisurely back and forth, the long curtain of hair on the end practically sweeping the floor. Umbra had never seen an Auskerian with their tail hair unknotted.

His eyes flicked to Umbra. “Now that it’s morning,” he said casually, as if there wasn’t a man tightening the straps of his vest right now. “perhaps we could get to know each other better. We could tour the house, or take a walk into town, or chat in the drawing room by the fire–no, wait, that’s better for the evening. Oh, we could have a picnic!”

Umbra stood and offered a short bow.

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” she said, “but I’m about to leave for headquarters.”

He drooped a little, but she averted her eyes to look past him instead of directly at him.

“I will return around 5 o’clock. Feel free to explore the grounds in my absence. Henrietta will prepare any meals you require, and both Madeline and Arlin can answer any of your questions.”

“I thought you didn’t have work for another 45 minutes,” Ryann said, tightening Waylon’s last strap and turning on her with raised brows.

Umbra fought the urge to glare. Did he want to ruin the prince’s image of her or was this just his idea of fun?

She drew her shoulders straight and stared the escort right in his glinting eyes. “The drive takes some time, and in light of my absence yesterday, I would like to arrive a little early to look over any reports. If you’ll both excuse me, I will take my leave.”

She offered a bow to each of them, and Ryann tilted his head in return. Waylon followed her.

“We’ll talk when you return then?”

“Yes.”

“And we can take a walk? Maybe into town?”

“It will be evening by then. But we will have dinner together. I will show you the town on the weekend.”

“Oh, that’s good. I was thinking we could buy some things for the wedding.” He panted a little trying to keep up with her stride.

By this point, Umbra had reached the backdoor, the exit closest to the garage. She rested her hand on the door handle. “I believe your father and the Lord Streiss have already arranged most of it, but we may shop if you wish.”

“Only if you want to too,” Waylon said, staring at her earnestly. His eyes were less gold in the morning, more muted, but they still felt like they were piercing right through her.

“Of course.” She eased open the door and edged one foot onto the porch. “I’ll see you at 5.”

“At 5,” Waylon repeated clutching his locket.

Umbra spared the barest of bows, barely a head tilt, and closed the door quickly. She couldn’t get those watchful eyes out of her head the entire drive to headquarters. She thought if she avoided being near him after dark she’d be fine, but for whatever reason just the intensity of his stare made her uncomfortable. As adoringly as he stared, it was almost like he was picking her apart at the seams.

She turned the automobile through the barred iron gates winding around the circular drive to her designated space along the side of the long, long rectangular building.

She slipped through a side door and up the first climb of the platformed staircase but only managed to make it halfway to her office before a loud voice called, “General!”

Umbra turned begrudgingly toward the rangy man approaching her, auburn hair tied up into the shortest of tails and mechanical hand flexing twitchily at his side. “Lieutenant Osgood.”

The man frowned. “Lieutenant– You know, General, when I let you promote me I didn’t realize you were going to start calling me Lietenant all the time. Are you ever going to go back to calling me Os?”

“When I’m demoted or you're promoted. Or if we’re ever bleeding out on a battlefield again.”

“You know we were in training together.”

“Of course, how could I ever forget.” Umbra turned back to the next set of stairs. “In the first week of training you over-cranked your gun until the water chamber shattered. You cried for days.”

Osgood followed behind her. “You’re conveniently forgetting the part where General Jarvest made me take apart and clean all the gun valves for the entire armory until the new chamber piece for my gun arrived. A burnt arm does not go well with body aches.”

They breathed in silence for a moment. Lost in memory and exhaling too much to keep hold of any words.

“You were looser then,” Osgood said eventually, drawing up by her side. “Never cheery of course…but less…”

He didn’t finish. Maybe he couldn’t think of a word that encapsulated her current self. She was just…less.”

“Yes,” she said. “You lost your arm and I my heart.”

“Ever the dramatic.” He peered at her sideways. “Does this romantic metaphor have to do with a certain engagement to a certain prince? You met him yesterday, right?”

Umbra knocked his twitching arm with the back of her hand. “Your meter’s too high again.”

Osgood clapped his hand over the metal circle embedded into the wrist. “It’s fidgety.”

“It’s overworked. You're lucky the king’s engineers manufactured it for you, so be careful with it.”

“These fancy rich people ones have so many valves and tubes to keep track of,” Osgood complained. “It’s a lot for a palm and some fingers. I would’ve been happy enough with one of those clawed ones on Steambell. Those only open and close. Or better yet, tying a knot in my sleeve and let it be.”

“Alright.” Umbra pushed into her office and sat down behind her desk. “I’ll write the engineerial doctor to have it removed, and we’ll be sure to keep you stocked with plenty of long-sleeved shirts.”

Osgood jolted. “Well, hey now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like you said, it was an expensive gift. It would be rude to simply discard it. No, a gift like this needs to be used for–” he counted on his fingers. “–a good 7 to 10 years before it can be thrown away inoffensively.”

“Your sense of decorum wins out again,” Umbra said, flipping through the first few pages of yesterday's reports. They were all fairly short. Good. No emergencies or major discipline issues in her absence.

“Did the prince not arrive?” Osgood asked, hovering at the edge of her desk.

He wasn’t going to let her escape this, was he? She was certain he was acting as informant for half the troops anyway. Probably better to get it over with once now than have the entire base gossiping. She couldn’t really blame their fixation. Aside from her, Osgood, Langdon, Rhoda and Tram, none of the soldiers had witnessed royalty. Many probably deserved to. It had taken many soldiers…many lives…to accomplish what they had. But they’d only awarded medals to the five who’d physically crossed into the enemy camp. And only she had sat face to face with the King.

“No,” she said, setting the pages back down. “He did. He’s at Graystone.”

“How is he? Dreamy? Covered in jewels?”

“He’s fine.”

Osgood raised a brow. “The prince. The King’s son. The heir to the throne –”

“Fifth heir.”

“--is fine?”

“Yes. The engagement had to be pushed back two weeks because the royal officiant has been delayed, but there haven’t been any other issues.”

Her second tilted his head to the side, gradually reading her expression. “Is he ugly?”

Luckily, he’d never been very Umbra-literate.

“...No.”

“You paused! Wow, what’s wrong with him? Too short? Weird face? You know apparently, he doesn’t move in and out of the palace like the other princes and princesses, and he wasn’t at the celebration banquet while we were in the capital. Is he possibly too deformed to be seen?”

“His appearance is of no concern,” Umbra said firmly. If she really broke it down and thought, that was the truth. He might have looked Auskerian, but no one with such a delicate face and lively spirit, could be called ugly.

“Ah, is he a snob then? Did he complain about downsizing from a palace to a country estate?”

“On the contrary, he’s rather taken with the estate.”

“Ok, so he’s being cold with you? Was forced into this marriage. Hates every moment in your company?”

Umbra hesitated.“He gifted me a locket…and wants to go wedding shopping… I’m telling you he’s fine.”

“Then why don’t you like him?” Osgood asked incredulously.

“I never said I didn’t. The subject simply isn’t of great import to me.”

Osgood took a few steps back toward the door and leaned his shoulder on the frame.

“‘The subject simply isn’t of great import to me,’” he mimicked haughitly. Anyone else and she would have censured him, but Osgood’s respect ran deeper than what he showed in words. He’d been in constant trouble with their first general because of his mouth, but by the time he’d ended up under Umbra’s command, she had come to the conclusion that curing his loudness was infeasible and of little importance.

“I wish the king would have awarded me a beautiful princess for my bravery.”

“It was never about that,” Umbra said.

“I know, but come on. Royalty. Even you have to get excited by that.”

Umbra set aside the reports and procured a sheet of paper an a steel-nib pen from her desk drawer. She jotted down a short note stating that Prince Waylon had arrived safely. “I’m more anxious to hear from the military council.” She folded the paper and held it out. “Deliver this to the telegraph room for me. Be sure to tell them to send it directly to the palace line. That way the council will intercept it. ”

Hopefully that was enough of a nudge to begin moving things forward.

***

Waylon rested his head on his arms, watching the little mantle clock in the drawing room tick away.

5 o’clock was taking forever.

After Umbra left, Ryann had dragged him back to his bedroom to brush, oil, and braid his hair for an excruciatingly long time. Waylon had comforted himself with the thought that at least once it was over he’d be closer to Umbra’s return, but as Ryann tied up the end of his braid with a burgundy ribbon and released him downstairs, he’d found only 30 minutes had passed. Breakfast lasted another mere 30 minutes and then they’d retired to the drawing room, the most boring room in the house, and not romantic at all, despite what The Gentleman’s Cottage had implied.

Ryann sat in the armchair beside Waylon’s sofa, quietly reading a book from one of the shelves. He’d encouraged Waylon to do the same, but after a quick perusal of the titles, he’d decided none of these books seemed like novels. Pointing this out had only prompted an imploration for patience. How could anyone be patient when true love was on the line?

Waylon flipped onto his back, tilting his head backward over the armrest. “I’m going to give myself a house tour.”

Ryann snapped his book shut. “I’ll notify one of the staff.”

“You don’t need to. This will be my house too in a couple of weeks; I’m allowed to walk around.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t be encroaching on Ser Umbra’s privacy.”

“Umbra isn’t Father. She wouldn’t keep secrets.”

“You’ve known her a matter of hours. In any case, it’s impolite. Aren’t you trying to make a good impression?”

Waylon sighed. “Fine, I won’t open any closed doors; I’m just going to get a feel for the layout.” Ryann moved to rise with him, but Waylon held up his hand. “Read your book. I’ll be right back.”

Ryann must have been tired because instead of resisting, he settled back in his seat. “Don’t poke into anything you shouldn’t.”

Waylon nodded and slipped out of the room before Ryann could press him for a verbal promise. It wasn’t that he planned to be intrusive, but if he happened to end up somewhere off-limits by accident while exploring, he couldn’t be blamed.

He padded down the hall, peeking into a broom closet and a privy before reaching the great oak door of Umbra’s study. The maidservant, Madeline, had pointed it out to him this morning, and it seemed he’d found it again subconsciously.

He hesitated over the door handle. Somehow the door was more nervewracking now than this morning when Umbra was on the other side. Maybe that was because the staff had reacted so normally to him being here. No one shooing him out of the way where he wouldn’t disturb. No sneaking; they’d given him directions. The door was just a door. But now, in this moment alone, it felt more like standing outside Father’s office. Feeling small. Hoping nobody saw. Too worried to knock. Wondering if the door would even open for him if he did.

Waylon let his hand fall to his side. He wanted to look more closely at the sort of things Umbra kept in her space, but that would definitely be poking…

Instead, he forced himself to the main foyer with its main staircase and crossroads of halls. Standing at the center, he mumbled the handful of rooms he remembered under his breath. Drawing room and study to the right, dining hall to the left, who knew what else straight ahead.

Time to find out.

His exploration of the first floor quickly revealed the kitchen, a laundry room, another privy, and the servant quarters. While in the kitchen he’d found a strange door with a downward staircase, but he’d only descended a couple of steps before deciding it was too dark to continue. Apparently, those two steps had been long enough to activate the ‘fireglow’ in his eyes; when he reentered the kitchen, the sight had made the cook curse and drop her basket of onions. After she’d calmed down she’d explained that the dark room was the cellar–“A cellar? The kind with ghosts and bodies and tortured prisoners?” “No, nothing but storage down there.”

Waylon wasn’t certain if that was disappointing or not. He probably didn’t really want anything horrible down there, but it would have been interesting.

The upstairs was more uneventful, mainly bedrooms, though there were two more privies, these ones with deep porcelain baths. After exiting one such washroom, he found himself at the end of the hall in front of a sliding double door. Rather than solid wood, the doors was a crisscrossed skeleton with cloth panels within each space.

Waylon pressed his palm to a square, the white cloth yellowed by the light inside, soaking in the warmth.

It looked like the doors did have a latch, but when he pushed one side, the door folded in on itself like an accordion.

Waylon only opened it wide enough to slip through sideways.

It was another sitting room, though much smaller than the drawing room and considerably brighter. One wall had an enormous rectangular window, while the wall adjacent sported a large circular pane above a window seat.

What a romantic reading spot. No books in here though.

He sat down at the small round table in front of the hearth and traced his finger around a faded water ring on the wood. Oh, it was a morning room.

Waylon inhaled a deep breath through his nose, searching for notes of coffee or breakfast. Burning wood in the hearth. Dry, dusty sunbeams.

Eyes closed, he imagined a presence in the chair across from him. A clink of cups in saucers. A hand over his own. No talking, but a warmth in simply being.

When his eyes opened again, he was alone.

“Oh, well,” he said aloud as he pushed to his feet, not totally sure what he was ‘oh welling.’

He didn’t think about it long because as he stepped away from the table, his gaze landed on a great white sheet draped over a piece of furniture by the window. He cocked his head and, when he was close enough, took the sheet by the hem, whipping it off with a flourish.

“A pianoforte!” he cried, blinking in the dull rosewood and ivory.

Immediately, he dropped the sheet on the floor and pulled out the music bench from underneath the instrument. He gently tested a scale.

Hm, a little out of tune, but it had been under a sheet. The servants at the palace did that to his siblings' rooms whenever they were away for a long time to protect against dust. Perhaps Umbra didn’t play the piano. But if she owned one she must at least like it.

He played a downward scale. Then a few notes from one of Asparin’s songs.

A thought struck him: maybe Umbra would like it if he played something for her. A surprise something. He could write Asparin to send him some sheet music, something not too hard but pretty enough to look impressive.

Waylon stood up from the bench. If a surprise was what he was after, he shouldn’t let anyone hear him playing until he had a chance to swear them all to secrecy. He’d only met three servants so far, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more. Servants were great at being unseen.

He grabbed up the sheet and did his best to spread it back over the pianoforte the way it had been. As he stretched on tiptoe over the wide lid, he noticed a second door beside the hearth.

Strange. He didn’t think he’d missed any hallway doors.

The knob turned easily, so he pulled the door open wide and stepped inside.

He blinked in the dim lighting. A wardrobe. A bed. A nightstand.

He sighed heavily.

Another bedroom.

He stepped in a bit further. It wasn’t much different from his room, bigger maybe, but less decorative. A sword hung above the head of the bed, and a vanity was pushed against the adjacent wall, but it had none of the fresh-cut flowers or wall art, and the oxygen was stale like it hadn’t been aired in a while.

Waylon crossed over to the vanity and picked up a wooden hair comb, turning it over in his hand curiously. A little bowl of jewelry sat further in the corner, a pair of half-hoop earrings that looked made of iron, a robin egg blue broach, a gold locket with its chain hanging over the side of the bowl…

He stopped. He knew that locket. He’d spent two weeks agonizing over it and choosing that floral engraving on one side and on the other…

He tentatively turned the locket over.

W/U

Waylon dropped the locket abruptly, backing away so quickly that his tail lashed the vanity chair, knocking it to the ground with a dull thud.

Stupid. He was so stupid. Why hadn’t he realized sooner? Why hadn’t he been paying attention? He’d looked inside every single guestroom on the floor, only avoiding one, and it was right next door to the morning room: Umbra’s bedroom.

His heart picked up speed.

He should leave. He should leave now. He would not be like Thom from The Duchess’s Rose, creepy and pushy and intrusive.

He hurriedly bent to upright the chair. As he did so, a glimmer of gold on the floor caught his eye.

Great, had he knocked a piece of jewelry on the floor as well as the chair?

Tucking the chair back in, he dropped to his knees.

It wasn’t jewlery. It was a little black box underneath the bed, its latch blinking in a sunbeam that leaked through a crack in the drapes.

Waylon squinted. The box had the royal coat of arms imprinted on the lid–two swords crossed over the neck of a grinning wolf.

No. You’ve looked around too much already.

He swung his body back to ward the door, half-rising before stopping again.

What if it had something to do with him?

More reason not to look at it, he scolded.

But Umbra did say that Father had already arranged most of the wedding things. And there were only so many things small enough to be kept in a box this size.

Waylon had his cheek pressed to the floor before he could think about what he was doing, gripping the box in his fist.

A small peak wouldn’t hurt, right? It might even set him at ease. It seemed a bit like Umbra was avoiding him. Of course, that didn’t make sense, she’d agreed to this marriage wholeheartedly, Father said. As a general, she was simply busy.

And yet…if there really was a wedding band inside, some proof beyond his own memories and his father’s words…

He’d just open the box a sliver.

He flicked open the latch with his thumb and held his eye up to the box’s seam. He raised the lid slowly, catching a glint of gold.

Agh, he couldn’t help it, he opened the box all the way.

Waylon blinked at the contents.

A medal. Not just any medal, the medal of honor she’d received for ending the war. Why in the world was that under the bed? Did it fall from somewhere and get kicked under? A medal like this should be displayed in the open where everyone could see it, not hidden.

Waylon thumbed over the raised laurel leaves.

“Your Majesty!”

Waylon jolted at the sound of Ryann’s voice in the hall.

“Com–” he started then threw his hand over his mouth. He wasn’t supposed to be in here!

“Prince Waylon?” Ryann repeated.

Waylon snapped the box shut and shoved it back beneath the bed then scrambled for the door.

“I’m coming!” he called grabbing the door handle and swinging it behind him. He caught himself before it slammed, easing it slowly shut so it only made a light click.

“Waylon?”

The main doors made a shushing sound as they slid against the floor.

“What are you doing in here?” Ryann said.

“Just looking around,” Waylon said, feigning interest in the window. “It’s a nice view.”

He did not have to feign for long. The meadow was beautiful, not uniform and trimmed like the palace gardens, but wild with long bright grass and colorful flowers,

“Maybe out there next.”

“No.” Ryann caught his arm, “It’s lunchtime.”

One cheese and tomato sandwich and glass of tepid milk later and Waylon excused himself to his room to rest. Truthfully he was a little tired after getting up early and walking the house, but he mostly couldn’t get the pit of deceit out of his stomach, and he didn’t want anyone to ask him what was wrong. He’d been excited to see Umbra, but now he wondered what she’d think of him if she knew he’d trespassed into her private quarters. He’d promised himself he’d become better here, but it seemed doing things he shouldn’t was embedded into his very being.

He flopped his head onto his pillow and clutched his hands together around his locket as he stared at the wall ahead of him. He couldn’t get the image of the medal out of his head, then unexpectedly, the locket in the jewelery bowl.

Maybe Umbra didn’t like to accesorize.

Or perhaps he and medal were one and the same. Reminders that needed pushing away.

I’ll be better now, he thought purposefully. Then everything will be alright and no one will have to hide me away.

He closed his eyes tightly and repeated it like a vow. I’ll be better.

[backpackingspace]

Guys listen I'm once again having ideas that I cannot draw. Consider:

A brief look of rage on Calypso as odysseus calls out for /a different goddess/

[acerikus]

OKAY OKAY BUT THE WEIRD 'FLOWEY IS AN ADULT' TWITTER THING. SAW MORE W THAT THIS MORNING AND WAS LOSING MY MIND

People were using some claim from toby in the artbook or something about being happy when people call god of hyperdeath asriel hot as 'evidence' that he must be an adult or it's weird and it's like???? God of hyperdeath is what he's supposed to look like/wants to look like as as adult if he'd survived manifested. Asriel is canonically an adult in DELTARUNE. Toby was probably delighted to know that people will probably be all over deltarune azzy when he's revealed it's not that deep 😭

[celestetcetera]

hmm. do people still make "secret" art? Art that when you click it, the image is something else. I feel like tumblr dark mode options have maybe made this a bit hard to manage

[vynegar]

behind-the-scenes rambling now that part one is FINALLY posted

[numetalkids]

*inhales*.....................DEEP SIGH

[rotisseries]

omg guys my narines playlist fucks so hard

[voidbornesys]

hnnnnnhnnn,,,,, guys do we think it's reasonable that i don't want to sleep (effectively a front restart) becuase i'm scared of what the host will think of me, particularly her latest doubt/fakeclaiming streak for us- or am i just being a whimp???

[dummerjan]

unfortunately i have absolutely noone and nothing but myself to blame for my lack of sleep

[webism]

pornstar!choso has a curated look that throws off a lot of his costars. strong build, straight-set face, hands made to choke and tear… most of those he film with don’t expect to be doted on the entire time.

people joke that pornstar!choso falls a little bit in love with every costar he fucks or gets fucked by. that glossy look that always pulls at his face by the time a scene ends, how his lip trembles with a need to be kissed raw when he cums. he says it's just the bliss of his orgasm—that he gets emotional in the moment, but it doesn't mean anything. well, until he meets you.

pornstar!choso who looks you up before his shoot because your name sounded vaguely familiar when it left his agents lips. he could have sworn you'd fucked before, because when he rolls the syllables of your name on his tongue they're nostalgic and taste like the sweat and laboured breaths of a long night between satin sheets. had you shot a scene together before? or had it been a one night stand?

pornstar!choso who realises that no, he hadn't slept with you before. but the familiarity of your name isn't a coincidence—he's fucked his fist to your videos more times than he can count. your name hits him like lightning, he had typed it into his search bar late in the night, cock hard and in need of instant relief. it's almost scary how well he knows you, what sounds you make when you get close to cumming, how you often arch your back and try to run from the overwhelming pleasure, how your eyebrows knit together when you're feeling so good it almost hurts.

pornstar!choso who realises with a now-red face that you probably don't have a clue who he is, and yet he's cum in time with you for months now. he's pretty sure he's drained his wallet at least twice on your cam shows... what if you recognise his name and piece it together with his username that he donates under? he debates cancelling the shoot, faking covid to get some time at home to hate himself endlessly.

but pornstar!choso realises that this is his chance to get to know how you really feel. he's imagined it so many times, as he fucked fake pussies or his closed fist using spit or his own cum as lube. you'd be warmer, undoubtedly tighter... so much prettier. and he wants to know more: would you prefer to take control and turn him into the toys he so often pretends are you? would you lay back all pretty and let him ruin you on his cock? how deep could you take him he knows he's big but you seem so eager, would you take him to the base with ease or would he have to force it in? bully your pretty pussy until it stretches to his shape?

pornstar!choso who hates the fact that your first, and possibly only, time together would be in front of a production crew and under the unsympathetic lights of a porn set. but he'd fuck on a stage in front of thousands if it means a taste of you.

pornstar!choso who makes it to the shoot before you do, comes ten minutes early to settle his anxieties and get a feel for the scene ahead. the director tells him its a simple shoot, that choso is meant to let you ride him for a while until you pull off and suck his cock for a nice close-up facial shot. the way the director speaks so clinically about sex with you makes choso grimace, he feels pathetic for feeling like this. like he'll be a changed man after feeling you around his cock, which is already painfully hard.

pornstar!choso who hates himself for stumbling over his words when he meets you. he wishes he had never looked you up, though he doesn't doubt seeing your pretty face like this would have wrecked his confidence regardless. you're kind, greet him with a shy smile as if he isn't about to slip balls deep inside of you.

pornstar!choso who, once he has you sitting on top of him on that bed—cameras pointed dutifully as you start to play your role and hike your skirt up so you can sink down on his cock—he can't handle the thought of fucking you like it's nothing, like it's not been the crux of his fantasies in the dark hours at night.

pornstar!choso who, probably to the detriment of his career, pushes you backwards onto the bed and connects his lips to yours in a kiss that surpasses every single fantasy he's had in his mind. you taste good, and he wants more. he speaks against your lips, asks whines a question that makes your stomach coil. 'can i eat you out first? please?'

pornstar!choso who is chided by the production team as he gets his head under your skirt and laps at your pussy in the most desperate act of need he thinks he's ever displayed. those that claim he falls in love with each shoot would be wholly correct in this case: he is in love with the taste of you, with the way your legs trap him in and ask for more. he could eat you for hours, run his tongue from your clit to dip it inside of you in reverence of the goddess he believes you to be. and you laugh at the absurdity of his hunger, at the courage it takes to run off script, and the pure need in which he eats you out.

pornstar!choso who only stops once the director threatens to cut the scene entirely. his cock hurts with how hard it is though, and he thinks the redirection of blood has made him lightheaded, because when he's made to sit back and let you sink down onto his length he swears he meets god.

pornstar!choso who can't help his whines as you ride him, an addiction already laying down roots in his brain. he has to try and think of anything less godly than you to hold on to his orgasm though, because the combination of your body and having subconsciously trained himself to associate you with climaxing is all too strong, and he's a hairs breadth away from cumming prematurely and ruining the scene.

pornstar!choso who realises as you continue, however, that your moans arent the same as he's heard them before, though the speakers of his phone. you're more breathy with him, your moans are less honeyed, more raw—as if coming from your chest rather than your throat. he wonders for a moment if he's not good enough, if you're having to fake your pleasure to save face for the cameras. but you're soaked, and even above the sounds of your shared pleasure he can still hear the squelch of his cock rutting in and out of you.

but before pornstar!choso can question himself further, your eyes are widening and you're latching a hand onto his throat as your pace increases. he can feel the way you tighten impossibly around him, the way your hips stutter and your pupils blow out with lust—you're cumming. and of course he remembers his instructions, to let you climb off of him and take his load over your face... but you're not climbing off of him.

pornstar!choso who understands the pointed look you manage to give him, that it's your turn to bypass the scene direction. you want to be greedy, to feel him finish inside of you, even through the confines of a condom. your moans arent fake, they're the first real ones you've let sound on a porn set—and choso is pulling them from your lungs like a choir's conductor.

pornstar!choso who can't last a minute longer, now with the way you lean in and coax him to climax with your voice, the soft praise that leaves your lips is an aphrodisiac and all too powerful. he sees stars when he cums, full blown galaxies too complex to imagine. call it an out-of-body experience or not, but choso is lost in his orgasm for long enough to warrant you bringing him back down with a soft kiss to his lips. he looks sinful: his hairs come loose, messy and stuck to his forehead. his eyes, though, are what's going to be the subject of a few screenshots taken by his fans: he looks totally infatuated.

pornstar!choso who, after taking a few minutes to settle himself after the shoot, watches as you walk over to him, a very pretty smile pulling at the corner of your lips before you lean down and peck his lips goodbye. he assumes it's the last he'll see of you, that there's no way he's worthy of every tasting you again. that night, he's scared to brush his teeth, to lose the way you linger on his tongue.

pornstar!choso who debates fucking his fist to the memory of you in bed that night. he thinks you've ruined masturbation for him, or sex in general: nothing could quite be the same. and as if its a sign from god that he's done enough good in his life to deserve some positive karma, his phone dings.

a photo of you, a pretty vibrator laid over your stomach. your laptop open in the background, his porn playing on the screen.

attached, a message that makes the poor boy cum in his pyjama bottoms. 'lets meet up again. i want to tie you up and film how stupid you get with a vibe strapped to your cock—a movie just for us, though. no audience.'

pt 2 in the works :p

[jemandrr]

Concept: Reverse-Reverse magical girl anime where perhaps a sort of p5 phantom thief magical girl with relatively regular magic that works for all ages moves to a new school as the exchange student and finds that this city's magical underbelly has no fixed society (ie, no hogwarts, no place where people who are all magical live) and operates under a system where youth with particularly strong internal delusional/ungrounded perspectives are secretly taught to harness that power in a magical girl(/boy) system to protect the town.

They bend reality to their own viewpoint to give them powers, but it also near-inevitably causes them to be more and more warped by their perspectives and become more extreme, reducing their ability to perceive social cues, progressing to less ability to understand the normal nonmagical world, and possibly causing their perception of reality to start seeping into reality subconsciously.

The main character, who just straight up has regular magic and comes from her own underground magic subsociety where regular magic without weird drawbacks is normal, has to navigate this unfamiliar terrain, carefully and slowly learning both the local culture and the strange magical girl system in place here, and ultimately trying to divorce the good that people want to do from the corrupt magic system in place.

The basic idea would be that most significant rejections of reality are rooted in a desire for change, in the most raw form, without necessarily a target to change to or even what they they want to change, and that is what is harnessed to actually alter the world and what drives them to use their powers to defeat monsters. So the series would gradually be addressing multiple characters' conflicts at a time. How their transformation and vigilantism both comes from their ideals or issues, and how the act is in some way leading them towards their goals, offering an escape from normal reality, feels gratifying, feels like an obligation, etc.

While the main character would probably be from an older, more generic tradition where magic is about manipulating some fundamental element of the world (like ambient mana), or using the language of creation (spellwords, runes, circles), or a more simple version of externalizing the internal (mana innate to living things) etc. There might be a recurring issue where the main character has to follow traditional rules of keeping magic a secret while magical girl-magic is strongly glamored and people can't remember the person or situation they saw.

Overall, a mix of explorative worldbuilding of this urban fantasy world, action combat, school life, character exploration and cast building as she unpacks the various ideals and traumas that people can't let go of when she can, or when its above her depth, at least tries to get them to loosen the reins enough to teach them magic or quit using their magic at least, possibly forming staunch antagonists instead (possibly deeply tragic ones).

Over time the wider plot expands to exploring how this magic system became the default here, and systems or entities that perpetuate it and have lead to such a density of people whose grasp on reality is weak or tainted in ubiquitous, anime-esque ways.

Major inspiration points for me to think about this: P5 Mind Palacing and the various aesthetics and moral issues with exploring and unlocking people's hearts.

Quirky/ubiquitous Anime character tropes that rely on strong central ideals or ignoring reality, with obvious examples being Shirou Emiya's desire to be a Hero of Justice, or Arthur from Fire Force, but also I think a lot of eccentric anime characters fit this bill enough to take inspiration from.

Also my general desire to think of ways to make dark and edgy takes on things inspiring and wholesome again, if still acknowledging problems. While the most famous magical girl deconstruction already kind of does that, in general i have a perspective of, 'if the point of deconstructing is to remove the magic from something and ground it, how do I put it back in in an interesting way?'

There's also a certain magical girl show that I've never seen but I read the synopsis of years ago and it completely randomly popped into my head earlier today which apparently starts off as a pretty normal episodic show for, like, entire seasons, before suddenly transitioning to trying to confront the larger systematic issues that her local acts of good don't ultimately help but she can't do it in the end? Which is a fascinating sounding trajectory and just put magical girl shows in my head today.

And when the beginning of this thought happened, I immediately thought of the vocaloid album, Diary of the underaged observer, which is about a student who just observes all the exceedingly eccentric students around and writes it down. I think that album is a great fun encapsulation of youthful coping mechanisms, obsessions, and processing of emotions fleshed out into fantastical anime-esque allegory. So basically every single song on it could be the basis of a person in this setting pretty easily.