#so another part of me thinks that if these are theories they are churning out what other bullshit theories they’re convincing the readership

[catofoldstones]

Does anyone know about this theory about bran that he’s going to rape Meera while warging in Hodor (or even summer ugh) because he has broken all other rules of warging and not having sex while warging is the only one that’s remaining.

Does someone have any counter arguments because it’s scaring the skin off of my bones.

[yeyinde]

stalker!Simon decides to have a little fun with his favourite camgirl.

the message comes up halfway into your "show."

it's a boring night. slow. you wear a lingerie set one of your viewers sent in beneath a silk robe, all in a pretty pastel pink—cliche, but it works; an uncomfortably disgusting version of hair theory unfolding in front of your eyes—and discreetly chug wine when you twist away to grab a new toy. a series of pale pink vibrators, nipple clamps. mundane depravity for what's shaping up to be a lacklustre night.

but the money that pours in from these little shows (adult version of classic party games—hide and seek, would you rather, truth or dare) is one step closer to erasing your debts. student loans. car payments. rent. you smile so wide it aches, and put your best face on when you blink, coquettish and coy, at the camera where nameless, faceless men throw money in a ring for a scrap of your attention.

tonight's game is Simon Says. and it's supposed to be normal. boring.

but a message from a viewer named Simon (in a sea of many who cheekily changed their usernames to match the theme of the game) stands out.

Simon says... go lock your door.

you blink. between all of the Simon Says touch yourself for me baby, pull your shirt down, lemme fuck you for real it sticks out. a change in the routine.

you huff, pouting. "already did that, Simon. c'mon, gimme something else to do, honey."

another one pops up. Simon says... you shouldda got a dog.

your brows furrow. "that's not part of the game, Simon. i'm gonna move on—"

Simon says... open your door.

he's paying you handsomely. dropping coins, large amounts of money, for each message to shoot to the top. little superchats. why he isn't taking advantage of it and paying you to do something sexy, something lewd, unnerves you. your heart starts to race, thudding against your ribs almost painfully.

it's fine, you think. he's just a creep. a loser. "uh huh, not part of the game, Simon. i'm afraid i'm gonna have to cut you off—"

you block him. they don't normally get under your skin like this. ever. at all. even when they throw random names in your dms, hoping one of them happens to be yours, and try to blackmail you to your fake friends and family. it doesn't bother you as much as this. as him. get a dog. how absurd.

the next series of chats pass without the same odd comments. take your bra off, but leave the robe on. act coy, like you don't want to—

creeps, you think, in their own right. but. paying ones. so, you smile. stiff. uncomfortable. grinning so wide it hurts. pretending to ignore the strange unease growing in your guts. your eyes sliding back to the superchats saved in a glowing log. let me in. a troll. whatever. it's nothing. nothing. you'll drink wine after this, scrub your skin raw in the shower and buy yourself something pretty with the money these greasy losers threw your way—

Simon says... let me in.

you feel your heart in your throat. it can't be him. you blocked him. you have mods to keep trolls out of your chats, but wonder—hopefully—if maybe it failed. maybe they found your stream are just being weird. strange. but when you check, the filters are on. he's a registered user. paid the premium to watch you. to get an invite to your special game nights. it makes it worse, you think, that he paid to be here. to do this.

your hand shakes. you block this user, too, ignoring the discomfort churning inside your chest. the fear spiking along the nape of your neck. hair raising. there's a prickle on your skin. the feeling of being watched

no. it's fine. you're fine—

"ah, what else should i do, Simon?" you ask your viewers, pulling on another smile. one that hurts. aches. wobbles around the edges. you'll end the stream in a few minutes. order Thai food. drink yourself stupid. take the day off tomorrow. use this creeps money and waste it. blow it on something stupid. dumb. laugh about it with your friends.

your shoulders dip. the tension easing. you're fine. you're at home. the door—

you locked it. right? you definitely, absolutely, locked it when you brought in the package from the delivery driver. the massive, hulking man who loomed in your doorway, too wide, even, to fit inside, and growled out in a low, brassy timbre: sign 'ere. you took the pen, pretending he wasn't drilling holes into you with his gaze, eyes liquid in the dark. intense. wanting. and then scurried inside—

back pressed against the door, hands wrapped around the lingerie set.

you glance at the chat. "which Simon bought me this cute set? i'd like to thank them personally," you murmur, forcing your shoulders to drop. it's fine. you live in the middle of nowhere. no one is coming to your door.

there's no takers in the chat. you shift on the chair, licking your lips. "it's really cute, Simon. a perfect size, too, and i just—"

something catches your eye in the corner of the monitor. a movement. a slight shift. a whisper of fabric. you tilt your chin, peering into the hazy black reflection.

what you're looking at doesn't make any sense. your bedroom door is open. a curtain of black drapes over the wall where the pale strip of light doesn't reach.

the washroom light is still on, a yellow spill illuminating the hallway, but nothing is there. no one is in the hall. but you know you closed your door. you always do when you stream. your heart trips over itself. leaps to your throat. you almost choke on it—

another bubble pops up. Simon says... hey. uh, who is that guy behind you?

there's a ringing in your ears. your hair stands on end. something moves again. the black mass wasn't a shadow. it moves. takes shape. the covered head nearly reaches your ceiling, body filling the entirely of your room. massive. a mountain you remember thinking. a fucking mountain, you texted your friend. thighs the size of tree trunks—

a hand reaches out, grabs hold of your power bar. thick gloved fingers curling over the button. in the bluegreen glow of your computer screen, a man steps out.

"glad y'liked it, pet." the deep, brassy drawl sends shivers down your spine. you try to scream, mouth opening wide to choke it out, yell for help—

your chat bubbles up, feverish in their excitement. you skin through the messages, stomaching churning as it clicks in your head. their rabidness isn't about saving you, but—

(omg he's gonna fuck her pron??? we're getting pron????? no fucking wayyyyy god i wish it were me—)

this isn't a fucking bit, you morons, you want to howl. call the fucking police—

but he gets there first. two strides. it happens in a blink. the screen goes back and he's on you in seconds.

you're not even sure how someone so big, so heavy, could move that quietly—

"ah-ah, none o'tha' now," his hand curls around your neck, tight. choking. you try to fight but he just huffs, breathing in deep, chest expanding across your spine as his other hand snakes around your waist, trapping you against a corded forearm. he bends down, nuzzles his jaw into your crown. coos:

"Simon says... turn around for me pretty girl, an' be good, now. went through all this trouble t'find you. think i deserve a little reward—"

[ravenna-reid]

Admirer from the past... (Pt. 3)

TW: blood and extreme stalking/obsessive behaviour

Part Two here

You stood amongst the chaos; arms crossed and an expression that read complete and utter disbelief on your face. The stench of roses blood was imbedded into your nose, and the sickly feeling stirring in your stomach wasn't leaving any time soon.

"Fuck sake." Harry had been murmuring curses for the past 15 minutes as he continued looking around your once clean and untouched apartment. But now it looked like a snapshot of hell.

Red Robin had moved from beside you to collect evidence and clues, and Harry continued analysing the scene. But you were still stuck in the entry way of your apartment.

Your name was everywhere. Inky explosions all over your white walls, the style and size of handwriting changing as you went along. Most of the ink was black, but some of it was red and dripping...you didn't even want to know.

More black roses that were halfway to death were scattered across the floor, along with all of your paperwork. The worst thing by far though were the photos he'd left behind.

Photos of you at your usual cafe. In your office. On the pavement waiting for a cab. It made your stomach churn. And it made Tim blind with rage.

Tim, after placing a withered black rose and one of the pictures of you into an envelope, glanced in your direction. You had finally moved, gingerly making your way through the mess. Your gaze was trained on all of your hard work torn up and disregarded on the floor. You ran a finger along your couch before moving it to the walls were your name sat. Eventually, you lowered your head before shaking it.

"I can't fucking believe this." Your unease and disgust was soon replaced with resentment. You turned on your heel; your glare vicious and demanding. "This can't keep going any longer. I can't move again-"

"You won't have to." Tim was across the room and before you in seconds, his words spoken like an oath. "I'll make sure of it., I promise"

"But how? What do I do with this now?"

You gestured to your poor apartment, looking around at the countless strangers that were now in your home running their own tests and theories. Tim's white casing gaze remained on you, reading the frustration and fear on your face.

"I'll just have to clean it up. Organise it myself." You murmured.

It was all you could think to do. It was what you always did. When things went south, you would plan, re-organise, think and clean. Or drive yourself insane with so much work that you'd end up earning yet another certificate.

"No can do y/n." Harry stepped over a plethora of folders before reaching you and Red Robin. "This is a crime scene now. You're going to have to leave it to us for the time being."

You drew in a sharp breath as you turned to look back at it all.

Helpless. Tim felt completely helpless and he hated it.

"Do you have anywhere else to stay?" Tim asked.

You shrugged. "My friends are out of town, so I guess a hotel will do."

"You need money?" Harry asked.

You shot a deadened glare at Harry, forcing Tim to suppress a smirk.

"Sorry, right, I know." Harry quickly backtracked. "Just don't know what else to say."

"Yeah," You sighed, "Me either."

Tim immediately thought about his apartment. Immediately wanted to offer it to you. But he feared that he'd be coming across as too eager. Overbearing even, especially since you were dealing with this maniac.

You interrupted his thoughts. "I'm gonna go pack some things then. Can I go into my bedroom and bathroom Harry?"

"Yeah, he didn't do anything back there so it's all clear."

"Nothing in my bedroom...odd, but I'm grateful."

You moved past them both to go to your bedroom. The curtains were drawn and the once serene feel to it gone. And obviously, Harry wasn't as switched on as he used to be, because the photo of you and your friends that was stuck to your mirror was gone, along with your favourite silk dress and one of your pillows.

Rage simmered in your bones, but you kept yourself contained, only cursing under your breath as you moved around your room.

Your head snapped up once you heard the soft footsteps.

There Red Robin stood at the foot of your bed. He leant against the post, imitating someone who was confident and sure, but his body language said otherwise.

"You ok?" His voice was soft, and suddenly you were abundantly glad he was here.

"No. I can't believe how this has escalated. He disappeared for months and now this." You threw a pair of pajamas into your suitcase.

Tim battled with his nerves as he neared you. "Listen, I know you might not want to be around anyone right now, but...I have somewhere you can go."

You stopped what you were doing to settle your gaze onto him.

"Somewhere to go?"

He forced himself not to scratch the back of his neck, remembering that you would pick up on it instantly. "Yeah, an apartment. Don't worry, it'd be just you. But you could stay there as long as you like, and I could keep an eye on you."

He realised how it had sounded as the words left his mouth. Tim shook his head. "Not like that, obviously. I wouldn't be stalking you, but we don't know what this guy is gonna do next, and it's best I know where you-, you'll be safe."

The faintest of smiles tugged at your lips.

And holy shit, if only you could always look at him like that. Just you, forever.

Shit, what was he thinking?

"The elusive Red Robin isn't taking me back to his own apartment is he?"

Tim fumbled for a second too long. "It's safer than a hotel." He reasoned. "And like I said, I wouldn't be staying there...just you."

"But where will you go?" You came closer, folding a shirt in your hands as you waited for his response. "I don't want to put you out."

He had his little nook back at Wayne Enterprises and his bedroom at the Wayne Manor. He'd be fine.

Tim shook his head again. "I'll be fine. Trust me."

And you did. As crazy as it was, especially given the circumstances, you did trust Red Robin. More than you trusted the police even.

"Ok, let me finish packing first. I just need to get my make-up and-"

Tim had you by your arms in the blink of an eye. Pulling you with him, he swiftly pushed you against the wall, his body shielding your own before placing his gloved index finger on your lips. You were seconds away from back handing him with all of the rings on your fingers, but the simple notion of his finger to your lips kept you quiet.

You both stilled, his hold on you gentle yet firm. His breath was warm against your skin and your heart began hammering in your chest. But not as fast as Tim's. He thought he'd pass out being so close to you. But he knew what he heard. Was sure that it was your stalker. And he was eager to get rid of him.

Tim turned his head towards the door to your bathroom.

That was where the noise came from.

Your eyes followed his gaze before snapping back to him. Tim looked back at you, expression a mixed mess of determination and concern, to which you responded with a raised brow. Then you gestured towards your bathroom.

Go.

Tim nodded in agreement. Slowly moving his hands from your arms, he quietly motioned for you to stay put. And you nodded, even if you knew you were lying.

Tim didn't know whether he should kick the door down or try to sneak into the darkened room, but he went with the latter, gently opening the door before slipping into the bathroom. And that's when he saw it. The figure outside your bathroom window on the fire escape.

Tim sprinted through the bathroom towards the hunched silhouette and ripped the window open.

It was him. Just as Tim expected.

Anger coursed through Red Robin's veins as he launched at the man. Tim got a good hit to his face, a stream of crimson flowing from the corner of your stalkers mouth, but he used Tim's momentum to throw him off balance. Tim fell on his back hard, and the man took his chance to run down the fire escape.

"Y/n, one of my guys were just looking through your CCTV. Your crazy stalker only just found out where you live last night-" You hastily yanked at the sleeve of Harry's coat, dragging him out of your apartment.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" Regardless of your lack of a response, Harry broke out into a sprint right behind you without hesitating.

"He's here!" You yelled out. "Come on Harry!"

Red Robin slammed into him, the pair falling down the last flight of iron stairs onto the cement. Tim got back on his feet again, but so did your stalker, and Tim soon realised he was a lot stronger and swifter then either of you had realised.

As the man went to escape, he brought down stacks of crates to block Tim's path. A rookie move, because Tim easily evaded it with his grapple before he was on foot again, chasing the man down the alleyway.

"Fuck you! You can't have her!" His voice was hoarse and his demand haunting, making Tim all the more motivated. Tim threw small metal balls towards him, thick smoke releasing on impact.

You and Harry were out of the apartment building and scouring the streets of Gotham in no time. The club music next door pounded in your head, along with the rush of your blood as you tried to make out where your stalker could have possibly gone. Where Red Robin could have gone.

"I think they're back here y/n!" Harry shouted from behind.

You whipped your head around and followed Harry down the alley way, your heels trudging through puddles and grime when suddenly, smoke appeared. Thick, grey smoke.

You and Harry slowed down and approach with caution before you watched as he ran out of it.

Him.

Your psychotic stalker. The man who has been giving you hell for so long. Your eyes met and instantly a chill ran down your spine.

He looked animalistic. Insane. A sickening smirk on his face as he looked back at you. But it fell short once Red Robin emerged from the smoke. Just as he did, two oblivious and intoxicated girls came into view, presumably from the club next door.

They were giggling and swaying, and your stalker wasted no time; slipping behind one of them, causing both girls to scream before he had a blade against oen of their throats.

Your hand launched for the gun hidden in Harry's holster, but his hand quickly grabbed yours to stop you. "No y/n!"

Everyone stilled, the sound of music, cars and stifled cries wandering through the night.

Your stalker leered at you, and you could read that terrifying face. That unnerving expression. Eyes darting between you and the gun, he almost dared you to do it. But then his eyes glanced over your form before he tilted his head, subtly gesturing to the weeping girl in his arms.

It'd be your fault. That's what he was saying. Her death would be on your hands.

You clenched your jaw, watching on in anticipation.

Red Robin's chest heaved with anger, his hand secured around his bō. "Let her go!"

"Let me go then..." He dragged out, his eyes flickering down to the handcuffs in Red Robin's free hand. "If anyone's gonna shackle me up, it's you pretty girl."

You grimaced, your hand tightening on the gun as Harry's tightened around yours.

"Ok, just let her go." Harry quickly reasoned, justifying his action with the fact that he was sure your stalker wasn't going to hurt you anytime soon. But the girl in his arms? The one that had a machete to her throat? Harry couldn't let her get hurt. He couldn't fail another person. The girl continued crying, her weeps ringing through the air. "Just let the girl go."

Tim looked over to you. Took in the hate in your eyes. And so did your stalker as he slowly backed away, the young girl still in his hold. "Tell boy wonder to stand down." He snapped.

Harry didn't say anything, he didn't have to. Tim was one of Gotham's protectors, it was his job to protect all of the civilians. So he stood down. And just like that, the man of your nightmares disappeared amongst the crowd behind the club, his victim now sobbing in her friends arms.

Tim wanted to go after him, no matter how frivolous it would be now that he was mixed amongst a mass of people, but his attention turned to you.

You let go of Harry's gun and placed your hands atop of your head, breathing heavily from the rush and anxiety of it all.

Red Robin made his way over to you. "What were you thinking?"

You assumed he was referring to you grabbing Harry's gun and went to respond until he cut you off again.

"I told you to stay inside y/n. He could have grabbed you!"

"Red Robin, he didn't-"

"But he could have. He was armed!"

You fell quiet, slightly taken aback with how much he truly cared. Tim was just mad he couldn't grab you and hold you so this freak couldn't go near you again.

Harry checked if the girls were ok, calling some of his men to come out and meet them at the club, just to make sure everything was ok. But his attention wavered to where you and Tim stood, tension simmering in the air as you both looked back at each other.

Harry let out a long sigh before placing a hand on your shoulder. "It's been a long night. You should go rest." Harry directed his tired gaze to Red Robin. "I can get someone from the station to escort her to your apartment."

Tim wanted to scoff. "Not likely. I can take her myself."

The drive back on the back of his motorbike was morbidly quiet. Your arms remained wrapped around him, your head resting on his muscled back. You could feel Red Robin's heart thumping, but kept it to yourself.

Tim's muscles grew rigid as he continuously thought back to what had just unfolded. He knew he was just angry at that guy. He knew he couldn't remain angry with you. Not even if he tried. All he could do from here on out was keep you safe and keep his promise. He let out a tired sigh before the tires on his motorbike came to a screeching halt outside a building. As you looked at the place you'd be staying at for the next couple of days, your jaw dropped.

Red Robin seemed to have forgotten to mention that his place wasn't some ordinary apartment. No, he owned a suite in one of the most prestigious hotels in Gotham.

"This is where you live?" You asked, slipping off his motorbike before he could offer his hand.

"Yeah," he pulled up his seat and grabbed your suitcase from the inside. "Come on, let's head in."

Before you entered the glass double doors and stepped upon the marble floors, you came to a halt, turning your head over your shoulder to look back at the street. To look at the alleyways looming before you, waiting to see his sickly face staring back at you.

"Hey," Tim grabbed your elbow, softly gesturing for you to relax. "It's ok, you're safe here."

"What if he comes?" You asked, and you couldn't hide the fear in your eyes anymore.

It made Tim's heart snap in half, but it also did something else. Some fervent need to protect you. To bring this stalker to justice. Deadly determination weighed down on him as he looked at you.

"He can sure try."

Part 4 soon ya'll, lmk what you think :)

[mtchacffinz]

Omg if youre taking requestsss,

Could u plsss do something like reader is being neglected bcuz (charac) is too busy with work but then they realise and then spend time.. like angst to fluff ahh

Maybe with few characters like cyno, haitham, wanderer, xiao??

Thank you!!

💗💗💗

prompt! Been away for too long, won't you atleast miss me?

cw! gn! reader, tooth-rotting fluff (SFW), clinginess, maybe a crybaby reader in a certain part, words of affirmation, established relationship, lots of tender moments, mentions of Chasm Archon Quest

note! i love fluff. this is adorable so i shall deliver. plus, i think my acc needs some fluff too after all the smut I've written! (⁠´⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠.̫⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠`⁠)...

Here we are, overthinking again. In all seriousness, this can't be! Many suns and moons have passed, yet he still hasn't said a single word about his whereabouts! Did he somehow forget about contacting you? Maybe he fell down a hole through a ditch never to be heard again.. Perhaps he fell in-love with another lovely surpassing your wits and charm?

You were no stranger to solitude. It doesn't scratch an itch anywhere in your mind space that requires you to gnaw on your lip every waking moment you feel that churning feeling in your stomach. Definitely not— Absolutely not! You believe that some parts in life are needed alone to be addressed with just the right amount of tenacity and resistance. You would come back to your loved ones with triumphant smiles chanting "I'm back, I'm back! I did it!" like a warrior.

Your mind spiraled into incoherent theories about his unknown agendas— too indulged notice the recurring voice that seems to speak your name.

And when you finally turn to see behind was when he finally graces your presence.

CYNO.

There was tense aura in the air, the last breath leaving even more awkward than the last. It was obvious Cyno wants to say something, but his lips stay sealed— quietly observing you waiting to see how you will move instead.

It seems as if he thinks you're really upset. Just an inference, his intuition— a baseless assumption. I mean, who wouldn't be after leaving your partner hanging for 3 months straight venturing out into the desert?

He's a lovely partner. You think that, wholeheartedly. You really do. But seriously!? You understand there must've been at least some sort of viable explanation, but a part of you couldn't help but feel upset.

"I'm glad you're home safe." You finally speak, releasing a big sigh. It was as if a big weight lifts off your chest. Your smile says nothing more than joy and relief. Well, maybe a little too joyful.

Because you know full well if you speak your next words, your voice would break.

So you keep your lips pursed only for you to keep your own thoughts. Cyno is no average man. As a Mahamatra with fearsome agendas, his life is always on the line whenever he ventures out into the wild. Once, he returned to Avidya Forest with curse marks all over his body— crimson spurs trail over his gear, you were barely keeping it together!

Seconds pass, it was grew concerning that none of you were saying.. well, words. After all, you both have just reunited, and Cyno has probably gone through a rigorous mission that rendered his lips sealed, right? With curious eyes, you steal a glance from his figure. Your partner stood with remarkable posture, eyes evasive of yours. The young man seemed to be contemplating something.. expression a little solemn and glum.

With a gulp and a hesitant stare, he finally speaks his mind.

"I'm.. sorry. Forgive me, dear. There was a huge misconduct within the Akademiya and Matras I had to keep anonymous for—" he stops a little before continuing. Cyno's gaze is at the floor. "I had to keep anonymous for you.. for us. I couldn't send out letters. Please forgive me, (Y/n)."

Cyno takes another deep breath. "I understand if you'd like to lash out on my sudden return, so feel free to do so—" you quickly wave your hands in fluster.

"Ah, no no no! Really, Cyno, it's fi—ne...uhuh." You suddenly hiccuped.

With the first crack of your voice, your eyes immediately began to flow waterfalls. Salty tears pricked your (e/c) optics glossing over them with a glint. Cyno immediately rushes to your side whilst you immediately clung onto him like he's your life line.

Oh, Archons. He's your life. Just by his voice just now, you almost felt like your heart melted AND got crushed at the same time with just the weight of his words. Lash out? Of course you would! You're worried SICK. And you've missed him!

"You have no idea! I was holding onto these for 15 minutes earlier!" Your voice broke, fighting for your feelings. Cyno only wipes away your tears and nose with his sleeves in panic— repeating his apologies in a hushed voice over and over again.

AL HAITHAM.

The scent of scroll dust, his calloused hands, his warm breath on your head. For the past hours of his return, you only asked for one thing: to be held until you, yourself— let go of him. And judging by how how long Al Haitham has unknowingly neglected you, he's willing to make up for his wordless days.

But..

"Hey, honey.. dear..?" the Scribe softly calls out, gently tapping your shoulder. "Sweetheart? (Y/n)?" A little too indulged in his arms, you fail to give a response. This was when he sighed, and nuzzles deeper into your neck.

"(Y/n), it's been six hours. Surely you're feeling a little better now?"

"You've been gone for months."

"I know. But it's almost dinner, and we haven't eaten yet."

"We can starve here." You respond just as quickly. He sweatdrops, unable to tell if you were joking or dead serious. Look, his arm is cramping, his whole body is sweating, and he's dehydrated. The blanket that was wrapped around your body was on the floor, and you seem to be a little tired yourself. Taking matters into his own hands, you get surprised that his arms suddenly wrap tighter around you, lifting you up in his arms.

"You're ridiculous," Al Haitham puts you around his shoulder like you're a sack of rice, making his way through the kitchen. "I'm making dinner. You cling onto me all you want. We're eating."

After all, you never said anything about him moving while holding you, right?

All you could do was grumble and whine in his ears. The scribe doesn't seem to mind, as he gets a pan, his seasonings, and his food. Tapping your back occasionally, with every turn he make, your partner makes sure the doesn't accidentally burn or hit you with something while you're in his shoulders. With time passing, you're starting to get a little embarrassed yourself.. getting dragged all the way from the bedroom the the kitchen. Tugging on his clothes, you called out his name.

"Haitham, please let me down.."

Maybe it was the wind carrying your words away, but he doesn't seem to react. Your partner only focuses on whatever he's frying at the moment with his free arm on your figure. With lips pursed, you repeat again.

"Haitham."

"I heard you. I don't want to, you're staying there."

"What? No way! You're probably tired!"

"Oh? Don't back out now, I was going to feed you as well. I'm yours the whole week— I'm not leaving your sights very soon." Your partner says with a voice enough to leave no room for rebuttals and arguments. Seeing your face, slowly being taken over with embarrassment, ignites a small flame in him.

After a few mere moments of your silence, you grasp onto his clothing once again. This time, your voice was softer, a little more calmer.

"You're gonna be mine the whole week?"

WANDERER.

Ever since his return, the Wanderer has been gracing you with diverse stories from different parts of the land. Now, he isn't one to ramble his mouth nor entertain anybody with his experiences— so the indigo haired man could consider this "spoiling" you rotten.

After a long, exhilarating lectures of Vahumana Darshans, as well as interviews from other nations regarding his thoughts on different political matters— Wanderer has finally made enough time to spend with people he could actually tolerate.

On the other hand, he has been too kind, taking you to vast sceneries and feeding you all sorts of delicacies. It's as if he's trying to make up for something.. and you know what, you have no idea. But this? This is nice! Ignoring his witty and no-filter-opinion attitude, Wanderer has been significantly nicer to you last time you met.

Shopping, sight seeing, trying all sorts of new things. After all, what does he do with all the Mora he receives when he's but a puppet who doesn't even need to eat nor sleep?

He looks for no reciprocation nor gratitude, because he unknowingly believes seeing your smiling face because of him is enough to make his entire day. Of course, that doesn't stop you from profusely thanking him and actively trying to lessen all the things being given to you because do you really deserve it?

I'd you asked him, he'd look at you like you're crazy. Why wouldn't you deserve it? Why else wouldn't it be you? Do you prefer I do this for anyone else?

As night engulfs the sky, kissing it with a gentle good bye, the moonlight greets your resting frame. The Wanderer had found interestingly large lily pads that could hold up to 4 persons. Apparently, aranara's use it to navigate around lakes they couldn't get across.

The scenery is wonderful. Fireflies emerge from the shadows, and the lake sings a mellifluous tune every gush of waves it encounters. You were resting well, and his elysian self was beside you.

You were strange, that's for sure. Strange enough he'd like to keep taking you in like you're oxygen, as if you're some sort of life line to live from. Wanderer is not a man with too much words, so he could only gaze up to your figure.

A familliar noise of waddling makes their way towards you, an Aranara falling suit. It bee lines towards your figure, cozing up to your body.

Wanderer picks it up by its head gear, clicking his tongue.

"Hey. No cuddling. You lay beside me."

XIAO.

Xiao melts deeper into your arms as if he's lightweight, surprising you with the sudden return of his warmth.

His touches were featherlight, his firm hands on the small of your back. Fully aware of his fatigue eating away his skin, the Adeptus clutches your figure tightly.

"Sorry.." Xiao's voice was barely above a whisper. You frown upon his state, but your eyes were never pitiful. He knew of that. You say nothing but hold him in your arms in response. Mere moments pass with the wind blowing ever so softly in the sky.

You lull him with soft whispers, sweet nothings grazing his ear leaving out one another. Xiao's a little bashful— he's the one who's failed to keep up with your mundane agendas in everyday life leaving you alone, yet upon his return— you greet him with the best embrace this world has to offer.

After all the events at the Chasm, his encounter with Bosacius, and most of all, the lingering miasma that's been exceedingly abundant within the area, Xiao wasn't able to make time and shake off all the troubles he's facing. The Adeptus lie solemn with the softest look in his eyes gazing at your own. You know full well if he opens his mouth now, all that will come pouring out is his endless apologies that could be recited in millenias.

Instead, your hands gently caressed his cheeks— pecking those pursed lips who let out a soft sigh.

Xiao returns the gesture by holding you waist down, firmly keeping his hands on you. Chasing after your lips it was like something clicked in him the moment you even lent him a moment of your vulnerability. He was hungry, that's for sure. The Adeptus made it obvious with his knitted brows and those piercing gaze.

Amusement bubbled at the bottom of your stomach, letting out a small chuckle. Xiao's confused eyes met yours, questioning your sudden interest.

"You returned to me, that's lovely."

He responds to your claim in a grumble, now averting his eyes. Xiao's hand never leaves yours.

"I have to.." Those hands slowly travel to your cheeks, caressing them in pure affection. "I need to."

my smutty writings are usually the ones who get attention, so I'm wondering how this one will do? 🎶 Anyway, I'm also planning on writing for Honkai Impact's Kalpas 🤞 STAY TUNED

[mybreadsmybutters]

once upon a time, almost a month ago, i came across a worm stranded in the middle of the pavement after a rainfall. it was struggling to get somewhere, but the sun was rapidly drying up the puddles and i knew it wouldn't make it on it's own. i often wonder what my true nature is, in a dualistic "kind vs indifferent" sort of way. do i look past suffering naturally? do i pick the worm up off the sidewalk?

in theory, in which i am typically very brave and red-blooded and masculine, i am not grossed out by things which wriggle on the ground.

in practice, i begin imagining the texture of the worm, were i to pick it up with bare hands. i'm not sure if worms are slimy. it seems like it would feel like foreskin, really dry foreskin. worms taste with their bodies, i think. it is very small, and a very tiny part of the ecosystem, and i could find 20 more in seconds if i went digging.

but this one is right in my path. directly struggling where i have the power to stop it, to end it's pain and suffering, one way or the other. and what is the kind option? is the worm too dried out? the pavement is hot. the air is full of steam. is it dying? dehydrating?

am i the kind of person who can kill a bug? i normally shirk this responsibility by screaming for help, or scooping it up, nicely isolated behind paper and cup and dumping it outside. i read an article once, though, that moving them outside can actually kill them anyways though. so maybe it's kinder to splat them. maybe, in fact, to be a kind person, to end suffering, i need to stomp on the worm.

but it is a kind of murder. objectively speaking, i am acting as judge-jury-executioner. i am looking at this worm, on the hot pavement, sizzling almost, and i am deciding whether it should live or die. i am deciding.

i don’t feel bad about eating meat. i've taken the eucharist, can certainly appreciate a sacrifice, a body on the tongue, a little salt, a little pepper, an extra slice of bacon on the sandwich. could the worm ascertain this, were i to pick it up? taste it on me? do worms even eat meat? i know nothing about worm biology. pathetically little.

when i was a child, young enough to excuse it but old enough to know better, i learned that snails dissolve in salt. so i gathered the snails, with the help of an unwitting friend, hundreds of them. ok maybe like 20. i was old enough to count. all different sizes, all moving slow and with thin, grey, fragile shells that almost disintegrate if you pick them up too indelicately. we scooped them carefully, surrounded them with a circle of salt, and waited for them to try to pass. nothing so crude as an apple in a tree.

several minutes later, my mom came out to ask if i was done with the salt, and found me watching them churn like the muscles in a stomach, one on top of the other trying to get somewhere, bumping against the barrier like cattle in the chute, as salt rained down from on high. she frantically asked if i knew that salt killed them, snatched the shaker from my hand and gripped my brutal wrist. i did not hear them sizzle, or scream, or act like they had been stuck in a pot of acid. they didn't seem to act all that different from how they behaved before.

this thing the worm and i have is very intimate. an opportunity to make up for past wrongs. is my action better than my inaction? worse? does my skin taste like salt?

i am a good person. not a great one. i pick up a stick and try to lift the worm up. this proves difficult. i grab another stick, this one more of a twig, really, and attempt to lift it up again. like chopsticks, but i don't know how to use chopsticks. everyone else knows how to use chopsticks. i'm stabbing the worm now, in essence, which is awful. totally against what i'm trying to do here. i try to flip it along, and it writhes faster and faster, confused, screaming. i feel like satan. i feel like i have been cheated. i begin trying to roll it closer and closer to the grass, more and more frantic, beating it, pummeling it, and it wiggles and cries and prays and i throw the stick down.

i don't cry, but i try to. i reheat a hot dog for dinner in the microwave. in practice, i am a very selfish person.

[staceymcgillicuddy]

annual writing self-evaluation

Thanks to @astorytotellyourfriends for the tag - I didn't do this last year!

1. List of works published this year (in the order that they were posted):

If She Lived in Space, Man, I'd Build A Plane crimson & clover pulling overtime model citizen; zero discipline what you give just serves me right two jack trippers and a chrissy perception check all my kinktober fills a hollow tree

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

Gosh, that's hard. I'm proud of all of them for different reasons, and I have issues with all of them for different reasons. I guess I would say "what you give just serves me right" makes me happy, and was something I had to push myself to do, but I was pleased with how it turned out in the end.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

I hate that I have two fics out that I haven't updated in ages! I am not proud of that! And there are a few things in all of them that I'd tweak.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

Oh golly. Alright, from a hollow tree, which was my Halloween fic featuring Lilith!succubus!Chrissy:

Fog slips into the van when he opens the door. A mist so thick it’s disorienting as he drops to the ground, and the shape of a girl forms itself out of the gloom.

5. Share or describe a favorite comment you received:

Almost every single regular commenter on Soul makes my heart sing and my panties drop, and I'm so sorry my brain is being stupid right now.

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

Right goddamn now. It's like squeezing blood from a fucking stone, and I have no idea why, but everything comes out strained and blechy and I hate it, and I refuse to inflict it on anyone else so I'll just sit like a lump, churning out crap and never showing it to anyone.

7. A scene or character that you wrote that surprised you:

Genuinely did not think that I would get so into the Hopper/Chrissy/Eddie dynamic as I did when I wrote it as a crackship as part of kinktober. But, like, I could get DOWN with that shit.

Also, Hellcheerington surprised me. Oh, and writing Eddie's dad for Soul was weirdly cathartic? I was determined to make him a person and not a collection of cliches, which was easier said than done. I think I got there, in the end. Hope so, anyway!

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

I didn't, I fucking regressed. Or, no, not really. I pushed myself a bit, tried to get sharper and cleaner with some prose. Read some theory books, worked on my rhetorical devices, forced myself to kill a couple darlings along the way (but not all the darlings, god damn it).

I also published a book, so yay?

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I'd like to get back to writing original fiction. I've been in a slump with that, too, because it doesn't have the instantaneous feedback that fanfic does. I want to split my time between fic and pro writing stuff, and I want to be very realistic about how much mental energy my real job takes up. When I used to write like a madwoman, I didn't have the role I currently do, which is a senior project manager leading a team, working mostly with executive-level staff. Don't get me wrong, my job pisses me off a lot, and stresses me out, too, but it pays well and we live in a shithole of a society where money matters in the grand scheme of things.

So, like, I guess I hope to grow as a writer in writing even when my brain doesn't want me to, or it doesn't feel great to do so.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

Freaking Shirley Jackson, man. That bitch can write.

11. Anything in your real life show up in your writing this year:

I'm always putting kinky shit I see or experience at the bdsm club into my fic. I am as God made me.

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Everything is made up and the points don't matter. Stop comparing yourself to other authors. Turn off stats on your AO3. Write what you fucking want and quit worrying if other people are going to like it.

13. Any new projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

I'm going to be so, so glad when Soul is done because I love it so much but it is also the millstone around my neck.

14. Tag three writers/artists whose answers you’d like to read:

@binickandros, @pipergirl17 and @phoenixwrites please!

[ravendruidreads]

A Shadow Crown - Review

Author: Melissa Blair Saga: The Halfling Saga (#2) Date Read: February 15, 2024 - February 19, 2024 Format: Physical Pages: 480

Characters: 9/10 Atmosphere: 8/10 Writing: 8/10 Plot: 9/10 Intrigue: 9/10 Logic: 8/10 Enjoyment: 9/10 Rating: 8.5/10 (4 stars) Spice Level: 3/5

The review is hidden below due to spoilers.

What changed/improved from the first book:

I enjoyed the writing in this book a bit more, and the plot thickened very well with a few twists and turns I wasn't expecting, but also a few that I was already foreshadowing.

In terms of world building, I feel like there was big improvement, especially with the explanation of the story of the Light and Dark Fae towards the middle/end of the book.

Where the first book had my favorite tropes, this book disappointed me slightly with the potential love triangle between Killian, Keera and Riven. I'm not a fan of love triangles, so when I started to notice one forming, I almost wanted to skip those parts (the kiss made me roll my eyes).

Theories:

I wasn't surprised when the author introduced the concept of miskwithir as I was already expecting some form of 'fated mates' bond between Keera and Riven, but I was excited to read that miskwithir can chose to become friends, lovers or enemies, which is a breath of fresh air in the Fantasy genre, where fated mates are almost always lovers.

I loved the suspense of Keera figuring out the only way to unlock the power of the Fae is if she kills the Aemon with her blade, only for him to be killed by Damien. I can't wait to see where this goes in the third book, although I have a theory that perhaps the lock on the power is connected to the King of Elverath, not necessarily Aemon himself.

I gasped and did a little happy dance when it was confirmed that Keera was older than 60. Although I don't feel like it has been totally explained, I think she was put into a sleep for the years after the Light Fae disappeared until she was found on the rift. I still want to learn more about that. Did she woke up because the magic was draining?

Throughout the book I started noticing some foreshadowing. For example, from the first mention of a mole, I immediately thought it would be Tarvelle or Collin, especially after Keera confessed to having killed Collin's family.

Another foreshadow was Keera mentioning an Elf that had been in the dungeons with her. I was expecting it to be Riven's mother, but it turning out to be Nikolai's was so much better.

A quote that stayed:

Trees, like grief, go through seasons. Their leaves change colors just as our feelings continue to churn and change. Sometimes the leaves fall to the ground entirely, leaving us cold and bare, draining us of hope that the warmth of summer will ever come. But it will.

[yuridovewing]

*knock knock* Trick or treat! I’ve been really enjoying your Thunder coverage! Can I get Candy in the form of your thoughts on Splashtail and any theories you might have on how he became ambitious at such a young age? Or how you’d like they do it?

OOO thank you!! wasnt expecting to get a trick or treat lol <3

Okay so. Disclaimer: I have not read the actual ASC books for myself so I haven’t read any individual scenes with Splashtail, so my thoughts as of now are all from secondhand information. So if anything here sounds off or wrong, that’s why.

That being said, from what I’ve seen of him, I think he’s interesting! People have grabbed my attention by calling him a Hawkfrost parallel, since Hawkfrost and Mothwing have one of my favorite dynamics in the series.

I don’t know if the new team would try to go at him with this angle at all, but I’d like to see him as a sort of… clanborn Hawkfrost? To me, Hawkfrost is defined by his heritage. He was pushed into overachievement and villainy, and got pushed straight into his father’s claws, because he’s an outsider to his clan and needed to prove himself. And the sad thing is- he’s not wrong, just look at how Mothwing was treated. His actions are his own, he abused his own sister and used her status to further his own goals, and I got the impression that he did that because he felt he needed that boost and Mothwing is oh so wrong and judgmental for not wanting to give him that. I dunno, he’s an example of how clan culture can warp a person into someone unrecognizable, as Mothwing says in her novella.

Another is just his relationship to Mothwing in general, and I feel it’s worth pointing out that he and Mothwing were alone in RiverClan and only had one another to truly relate to and confide in- which makes his later abuse all the more traumatic for Mothwing. Cause now she has nobody and her only confidant has permanently damaged her psyche.

Okay this turned into a Hawkfrost ramble so, back to Splashtail- I think a good way to make him a Hawkfrost parallel is to highlight how he’s a product of clan culture in the context that he’s clanborn, and grew up in a highly restrictive and volatile period of the clans in TBC, where his leader was one of the biggest supporters of Ashfur and exiled their medic. I like that being a very formative period for him that would churn out some of the clans’ harshest and volatile warriors yet. So that probably pushed him into wanting a position of power- maybe he wanted to feel in control or maybe even try and continue punishing codebreakers? I have no idea how he feels about that last part in canon so that’s just speculation.

Since Curlfeather was the original mastermind, I like to think a lot of it also came from her promising him the deputy role (probably due to his age, and he let that get to his head, which was why he turned on her- “I know better!”). We don’t really know why she chose him as of yet in canon so I won’t linger on this til well learn more, but I can see maybe a sort of enabling angle there. Like maybe she saw how volatile he was becoming or how he could charm people and decided he was a good ally.

I think the most obvious parallel and the reason why people are comparing him to Hawkfrost in the first place is his relationship to Frostpaw though and how he manipulates her. Which makes sense! She’s young and he can take advantage of her. From what I’m gathering though, I’m getting the impression that that’s where the similarities end since they’re a romantic duo, not a sibling one. (Which like… hm. Given that apparently they are related in canon… which is why I’ve already decided to just cut that and make him Frostpaw’s older brother from a separate litter in my au)

I think the most interesting thing here is his age. I’ve seen people say it’s weird and bad that someone his age wants to be leader which… I gotta say I wholeheartedly disagree LOL. I think it’s normal for the younger cats to be super ambitious and in over their heads. I think it connects to his volatile upbringing well too. He’s got a messed up mindset because of that upbringing and is willing to perpetuate that violence, and he’s actually charming enough to climb in rank.

(Also ngl I want more young leaders in general. Not Splashtail himself probably but I wanna see a really young new character become leader and how that affects how they rule. Like oooo does the pressure get to them… Does their immaturity screw over their clan… I dunno I think this should happen more!)

Canon probably won’t do this but I kinda want Splashstar to crash and burn- hes in over his head baaaadly and once he has the power he wants he’s going to get trampled. His immaturity will hurt his clan and get him killed. He needs resistance cause he has power, but he can be a sort of self destructive villain.

I’m sorta clueless about his relationship with Frostpaw atm. Or at least how it connects to Hawk and Moth beyond both of the warrior/deputy boys manipulating the medic girls. I’ll probably figure it out more when I read it.

TLDR: I like the idea that he’s a Hawkfrost parallel by being clanborn and shaped by his experiences in TBC, as well as being sorta entitled due to his heritage as a whole maybe (compared to Hawkfrost I mean).

[agblend13]

Did you go to school to learn painting and color techniques? asking because your so amazing with drawing along with a vibrant color palette and i truly admire your work.

Thank you! Yes I did go to university for a while but they don't get any credit for my development, I learned most of my basic skills beforehand. My mom is a classically trained artist and it was with her that I learned life drawing. An influential moment in color theory came from a portfolio prep class I took when I was in high school -- the teacher stacked up a random pile of cardboard boxes in the middle of the room and had us each reach into a bag and blindly choose two colored pencils. We then had to assign one color for highlights and the other for shadows and sketch the boxes. I don't remember what colors I had but the point of the exercise, for example having to use a dark blue and dark green to create contrast and depth, was really interesting and fun.

Painting is something I've done all my life in a casual way, and I consider my current skill level to be self-taught as it has grown from making a decision as an adult to focus on painting, and basically start churning out pieces one after another. I don't think I'd be where I am as quickly though without those lessons in life drawing, and if anyone were to ask my advice on how to make their art on the page look like what's in their imagination I'd say first learn how to draw, on paper, with graphite, from a physical still life. Many self taught artists who want to create exciting fantastical works may want to skip this step because it's quite tedious (to me at least) and having an experienced teacher is pretty important, but the point of these lessons is very specifically to train your eyes, brain, and hand to communicate with one another in the process of translating a three dimensional object into a two dimensional illusion. The technical aspects of acrylic painting can be picked up by watching youtube videos and reading some tips while just painting and painting until you figure out the steps to get the effect you like. But I can't count the number of times I've been grateful for those drawing lessons, especially for painting in a lowbrow pop-surreal style.

Lastly, to get back to the color part I can't say I've memorized many technical facts about color theory, I largely feel my way through a painting. After a while you tend to remember which color combinations are pleasing to your own art style, and one thing I love about acrylics is how easy it is to repaint an area if you decide you don't like a color combination. Anyone who wants to see more of my art inspiration, color palettes, and painting references should check out my Pinterest!

pinterest.com/agblend13

✿ Anka ☻

[jonathankatwhatever]

It’s 25 June 2023 and I can’t help but blame myself for the timing of the house being for sale too near July 4. It’s that I believed this would be over. I’m not very good at looking out for myself. I’m better looking out for others.

That’s part of the idea, part of a theory I’ve never been able to name, about what is visible to you as it comes at you, meaning as you experience across your Thingyness, meaning from the physical to the remote in abstraction. It resists. As in, sometimes Things come right at you, and sometimes they sneak up from behind, like the way an injury begins and you don’t realize how bad it is for days or even weeks, while other times the injury is direct and ouch. That’s obvious 1-0Segmenting, but it’s more tha they sometimes correlate and sometimes don’t, which means they fit as solutions, true to the sense that they fit in this particular way at this particular moment in this particular context, when they would be intrusive or treated as false in other contexts.

Relative is, of course, a consequence of finite construction. Which is a consequence of 1-0Segmenting, and thus of gs construction in D-structure. How does that connect to the inability to see straight ahead? I’m gathering that there’s a shape involved, because I’m seeing this as say me in stick figure form looking along the zK, so the CR becomes like I’m at the center of a cone that bends away in every direction, like I’m in a trumpet bell except the bell reaches all the way around to the disk that forms if we spin sK around my location on zK. Or it would be a ball, deformed in this way.

I can see this idealize, like into a Riemann sphere, but I’m talking experiential, as a Thing, with all the 1-0Segmenting, all the finite construction, all the threads extending and thus various threads presenting as what? What is the perceptive object in this? I need to go for a walk. I’m very tired.

Continuing along with pictures I made. Can I insert those? Seems so. (This was done in Notes originally.)

So, the idea is that the answer to the question of the basic model for perception, another long-lived quest, reduces to a view from Start to End, across a gs, which is CM1 counting each step along the szK, which since this is grid squares, is a finite construction in which there is an Extent, and thus another End to the Extent, and thus each gs not on the szK is on that other szK, which then maps relationships which fit to the patterns of SBE and fCM.

The last line in handwriting there is ‘We just inserted the Observer!’ This is true because this simple drawing means we slide along that O-line and thus up and into the focal area, which is highly detailed to match reality and imagination (like the images in the dark or in a cloud), and then you’re in, meaning you’re into all that detail. It’s not like you zoom in and zoom out: we imagine machine-like pathways, when they’re actually groups that generate a result, which may not be what you want but what the group action generates given what it was fed. I guess I like to think of groups as somewhat predatory in that sense: they churn out a result which varies within the constraints imposed within the group and by its operations, which means they’re fed. You can see where the conception of a predatory God came from.

I need to make some dinner.

[chopper-writing-stuff]

The Scrap Queen

The air raid siren startled her. Avril stood up from the seat and looked around the hangar. Two guards, standing by the entrance, didn't move. They briefly stopped their chat to yell at her to get back to working on the plane. Avril sighed and sat back in the cockpit.

She checked the flaps, then airbrakes, ailerons and the elevator. The F-104 seemed to be responding properly. She stood up again, leaned out and pushed a pedal with her toes. Rudder was working too. With that she was basically done, but didn’t want to tell the guards yet. Maybe a quick break, and then she’ll take another look at the engine.

She didn’t want to unveil just how fast she can get an aircraft running. Just as with her leg, which seemed to have healed already, it was a piece of intel, and you don’t give out intel for free. Especially if you want to break out of jail.

She heard that from one of the convicts. Didn’t really work out for him, since he wound up here, but the theory checks out.

She fixed up a Super Hornet for that guy. She fixed up a lot of jets. At first, they were supposed to be able to just taxi around a dirty airstrip, to make the enemy think 444th Air Base was operational. In reality it served as a prison, and anyone who’s got a sentence and knows what an airplane is, was sent here to help keep up this farce. Avril was one of these people, but her case was special. While everyone else was parading the planes, she was brought here to make them. It didn’t take long for her to come up with a scheme. One day, when the warden was checking up on her in the hangar, she offhandedly remarked that just driving the aircraft around wouldn’t fool a toddler, and that the planes should take off from time to time.

“And what else, maybe fly back to Osea?” He laughed, but Avril saw a slight shift in his overall expression.

“You could rig the planes. A few circles in the air and come back, or the jet will shut down.” She hoped this didn’t sound too pushy, but the warden was hooked.

“And who would watch them? This is a prison, there’s no AWACS here.”

He said “them” instead of “you”. The warden mentally separated Avril from the rest of the convicts. That’s what she was hoping for.

“There is. I saw an E-2 in the scrapyard. I could fix it.”

She could hear the thoughts going in his mind. Now just a little push to make them take off.

“A flying squadron with early warning aircraft. Now this will look like a real base. Isn’t that what the brass wants?”

“I’ll have gone above and beyond… They ought to give me credit for that…”

And that’s how the Spare squadron came to be. The warden nominated his right hand man to work in the Hawkeye Avril put together. Surprisingly she didn’t need another one to source the parts from. But the same couldn’t be said for the jets that went to the convicts.

The intel guy’s F-18 had elevators with a paint scheme never seen on a Hornet before. They came from an F-15S/MTD. So basically the same part, but the guy frowned when he saw that. Another one, some fraud, got a Flanker. She said it was an Su-33 but technically it was more or less a 50/50 mix with a 27, plus some notable exceptions, like canards and wingtip hardpoints from a Terminator. The latter were painted yellow for some reason. Avril just shrugged it off. The scrapyard, expanded with planes brought in on the same ship as herself, was full of fighters from all over Osea and Usea. One day she was taking a vertical stabilizer from an F-16XL to put on a regular Viper. The strike variant had clear Heierlark Air Base markings. Also a cool livery, but the pilot didn’t appreciate that, when he climbed up to the cockpit and saw the top of the fuselage was a chequer of standard gray and green camo. But the work wasn’t always like that. Just last week she stumbled upon a seemingly brand new Mirage.

However, the plane she was sitting in right now was special. Avril began working on it when churning out new jets became routine enough the guards stopped checking them for engines rigged to shut down and removed ejector seats explosives. This Starfighter was fixed properly. This Starfighter would take her out of this hellhole.

Only one panel in the cockpit was loose - behind it was a notebook she found. In it Avril calculated her position based on the stars. She used working late and calibrating instruments as an excuse. Sky charts were memorized long before she got here - in the Eastern Usea. Soon she’ll take off into the dark blue sky and fly east towards Axel Bay. There she had contacts that could help.

“Hey, get out of there!” Someone shouted.

Avril stood up and turned to see who said that.

“Is this plane working? We’ve got a pilot.” Two new guards were escorting a man in the prison uniform and a helmet already on his head.

“No no no NO! It’s my plane, it’s my way out, it- it’s got my plans!” Avril discreetly pushed the loose panel shut and climbed out of the cockpit. She hoped the new guy - she didn’t think she had seen this pilot before - wouldn’t notice. And if he did, he could still crash. A few of them did before.

The convict shut the canopy. The guards standing by the door began to open it, while one of the escorts grabbed a bucket of white paint lying nearby.

Each prisoner would get white lines on the tail of their aircraft. Most of them had just one, for minor crimes and felonies. Only one has been convicted of murder - he got two. The new guy was getting

“Three sin lines?” Avril didn’t mean to ask it out loud but the words just sort of fell out of her mouth. “What did this guy do?”

“Killed Harling.” There was a hint of awe in the guard’s tone.

Vincent Harling. Osean president that got himself kidnapped during the last war. His replacement ignited the conflict even more instead of pushing for peace.

“That bastard stood at the beginning of the chain of events that landed me here.” Avril felt a little respect for the convict that was rolling out of the hangar, but then she snapped back.

“But if he’s anything like the other murderer and finds my escape plans, I’m done.”

Snitches were welcomed with open arms here. Avril was anxiously waiting for the pilot to come back, or not. After a long 20 minutes the roar of jets began to get louder and the planes started to land. Avril turned away from the pile of scraps she was organizing in the corner and came up to the line in the middle of the hangar. She stood there like a passenger awaiting the arrival of a train. Finally, the Starfighter with three lines taxied in. It stopped right in the center and its canopy opened.

Avril looked up to try and read the pilot’s expression. Did he notice the notebook? He took off his helmet revealing a head with an unremarkable haircut. Stepping down the ladder he glanced at the tail of the aircraft. Avril mustered up the strength and asked:

“So, how is the jet holding up? Any vibrations? rattling? loose-”

“No.” He answered without looking at her. He was about to walk up to the group of guards that came to escort him out, but hesitated for a second.”

“Axel Bay’s no good.” He said and walked away.

Note: A quick one shot this time. I wanted to share my headcanon about the Spare Squadron jets' appearances and make Avril actually good at planning escapes. Unfortunately she had no luck completing this one.

[kohanayaki]

.:Survive the Tide:. (Eddie Munson x Reader) Ch 3

The gang takes refuge in your house in an effort to keep Eddie safe and come up with a plan to defeat Vecna. You find yourself grappling with your budding feelings, the loss of a friend, your resurfacing past with Billy, and the return of a fight you thought was over. Luckily, you don't have to do it alone.

LINKS:   Part 1    Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

___________________________________________________

Ch 3 .:In Some Other Life:.

“So this. . . thing-”

“Vecna,” Lucas supplied as you paused.

“You really need to stop naming these things after D&D monsters,” you sighed.

“Seconded,” Eddie grumbled, “it's confusing and mostly inaccurate.”

“So Vecna,” you corrected yourself, “has been targeting mostly young adults in Hawkins and uses their trauma to get in their heads and kill them?”

“More or less,” Max said grimly.

“Why?” you asked, “I mean, not to assume this thing has any real motives, but this is a step up from what we've dealt with before. You said he spoke to you, like real sentences and shit.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, “He's definitely the most sentient being we've come up against from the Upside Down. The demogorgon was pure brawn, the mind flayer was pure brains, but Vecna has both. Not to mention the power to affect people in the real world without even crossing through the Gate.”

“Fantastic,” you deadpanned.

“As far as motive goes,” Robin said, “we've. . . got a theory.”

“Something tells me it's not good,” you said.

“It's not,” Dustin grimaced, “if we're going by traditional D&D lore and cross-referencing that with what he's been doing so far, we think his goal is the same as within the game.”

“Which is?” you asked warily.

“Destroying the foundations of the multiverse and reshaping reality to his will.”

You turned at the sound of Eddie's voice. Seeing him just sitting on your couch felt somehow surreal. A week ago he was the person who gave you inexplicable butterflies whenever you thought about him. Three days ago he was the person who ditched you at the movies and hadn't reached out since despite knowing your close friend had just died. An hour ago he was the person who had murdered said friend, and now. . .

You drew in a deep breath. You had to focus on the situation at hand; you could sort out your feelings later.

“Right,” you said, “So in D&D this is the guy with the cult, right? Should we be worried about him having a following?”

Eddie, Dustin, and Lucas stared at you like you'd grown a second head.

“What?” you huffed, “I pay attention when you twerps talk about your campaigns.”

“Color me impressed, if not somewhat concerned for my privacy,” Dustin said, earning an eye roll from you, “But yes, you're right. The Cult of Vecna doesn't seem to have any real world parallels, but we think he might be trying to build something like it.”

“When he had me trapped, he said it was time for me to join him,” Max said, “I saw everyone he took, and they were. . . ” she swallowed hard, the image all too clear in her mind, “they were almost on display. Like trophies on a wall. I don't know exactly what his plan is, but he's keeping everyone he's killed for a reason.”

Your stomach churned at Max's words, feeling your breathing turn shallow at the thought of him keeping Chrissy's body in that awful place, even if it was in another reality.

“Plus, we know the Mind Flayer was trying to do the same thing when it-” Steve faltered, trying to avoid mentioning Billy, “When it started taking over people's bodies in the real world,” he said carefully, “That thing was building an army.”

“And if we assume that most creatures from the Upside Down share the same goal,” Lucas said.

“That means we're royally screwed,” you finished.

“Not if we had El,” Nancy pointed out.

“El's the one with the superpowers?” Eddie asked.

“The one who's on the other side of the country and doesn't have superpowers anymore,” you amended, “What's your plan? Just waltz into the Upside Down through the Gate that doesn't exist anymore and kill a mostly invincible, mind-controlling monster without knowing where he is or having any idea of how to take him down?”

“Actually, we know where he is,” Robin said, “Nancy's a genius and found out Vecna had some sort of connection to the old mansion at the edge of town.”

“It used to belong to Victor Creel,” Nancy said, “That guy in the 50's everyone thought murdered his family. But Robin and I visited him, and he told us that what actually killed them was something that killed in the exact same way the recent victims died. It made him see visions of his past, of his worst fears. It lifted his wife into the air and broke her bones. It's the exact same curse.”

“Patrick was attacked when we were at the house investigating,” Robin continued, “and all the lights went crazy, just like they did the first time the demogorgon appeared.”

“So you think Vecna's lair is that house in the Upside Down?” you said.

“Almost certainly,” Dustin nodded, “Although finding a Gate and a way to kill him is still a work in progress.”

“When isn't it?” you sighed, “But I'm seriously proud of you guys for figuring all this out. It's not your first rodeo anymore.”

“We saved the world three times, we can do it a fourth,” Dustin grinned.

And for the first time in the last torturous few days, you found yourself smiling.

“I know we can,” you said. As you looked around the room you almost chuckled at the sight of this ragtag team of unlikely friends. If anything you looked like a knockoff Breakfast Club, not what you'd picture when you thought of a team of heroes. But the fate of the world as you knew it was once again placed in your hands, and you knew you would succeed. You had to.

“I'll, um. . . I'll just be a minute,” you said, getting up from your seat, “Anyone need water or anything?”

You were met with a chorus of shaking heads and muttered 'no, thanks' as you headed to the kitchen. You opened your fridge unit and fished out three frozen pizzas from the back. Not the most nutritious, but they'd do. You placed one on each rack of your oven, letting it do its magic. As you stood there waiting for them to finish baking you took a deep breath, your fingers instinctively coming up to massage your temples. Every part of this scenario was becoming increasingly unbelievable the more you thought about it. It felt like your brain was racing to catch up with its own thoughts, and a wave of fatigue washed over you.

Suddenly, Dustin's head popped out from the doorway and you immediately brightened, not wanting him to worry.

“Pizza?” he said, kneeling to stare straight into the oven.

“I could tell you guys were starving,” you said.

“How'd you know?”

“You twiddle your thumbs when you're hungry,” you grinned, “Steve might've taken my job, but I was your babysitter first.”

“Not a babysitter!” you heard Steve shout from the living room.

“He can keep telling himself that,” you chuckled, “Besides, you've been on the run for days. Can't imagine you were able to stop at a Burger Chef while you were hiding Hawkins' most wanted.”

Dustin gave you a pensive look. Even in a situation like, this your first instinct was to take care of them first.

“You seem. . . strangely calm for someone housing a fugitive,” he remarked.

“Oh, trust me, I'm not,” you said, “but the alternative doesn't help anyone.”

“(Y/n). . .”

“I'm fine, Dusty,” you said, “Maybe not right now, but I'll be okay.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You kept your eyes trained on the kitchen timer, watching the minutes tick by.

“I saw what keeping everything inside did to Max,” Dustin said after some time, “I don't want that to happen to you.”

“You don't have to worry about me,” you promised, turning to fully face him, “I'm not going anywhere. Who else is gonna save your ass?”

“I think it's about time for us to save you for once,” Dustin scoffed playfully.

“We'll see about that,” you said. Another, more comfortable silence returned between the two of you. “You know I'm not going to let anything happen to you guys, right?”

“I know,” he said.

Dustin managed to go all of two seconds before flying at you, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You felt your eyes well up as you returned the hug. Dustin had always been like a little sibling to you; all of the kids had. You made a mental promise that you would do whatever it took to make sure everyone made it out of this alive, for their sake.

The high pitched sound of the kitchen timer rang out in the room, making the both of you laugh through your misty-eyed moment.

“You're turning me soft,” you said, playfully pushing Dustin away from you.

“You've always been soft,” Dustin said, “don't worry, I'll keep your secret.”

You huffed, concealing your smile as you got the pot holders out of the kitchen drawer, opening the oven door. The smell coming off the pizzas made your mouth water, and you reached in in anticipation. But just as you were pulling out the first tray, you bumped your arm on the top of the oven right above where the mitt's protection ended.

“Shit,” you cursed, quickly setting down the pizza down on top of the stove and pulling your hand back to inspect the angry burn on your arm, “Damn it. Dustin, could you please take the rest of these out and tell everyone it's time to eat? Carefully.”

“Will do,” he said, slipping the oven mitts on.

You ruffled his hair gratefully, making your way down the hall to the bathroom. You switched on the light and started the faucet, running your burn under the cold water. You hissed at the initial sensation before it began to sooth the pain.

As you looked up you were met with your own reflection in the mirror above the sink, although it looked like a stranger was staring back at you. Your eyes were red and puffy, dark circles hanging from beneath them. You were wearing the same pajamas as the day before, and your hair was an unprecedented mess. You stifled a laugh.

You looked like hell.

The thought seemed to click into something in the back of your brain, your mind drifting to the last time you had said something similar about yourself. Before you knew it, you were replaying snippets of the past  in your head, one thing leading to another. . .

“Hey sweetheart,” Billy grinned from ear to ear as he let himself in, sliding past the door you opened with ease.“God, you look gorgeous.”

“I look like hell,” you retorted.

“Still just seeing gorgeous over here, doll.”

“Laying it on a little thick, Hargrove,” you laughed, “I'm already your girlfriend, if you didn't know.”

“I do know,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes as his hands trailed down to slide into your back pockets, “and I'm considering myself pretty damn lucky right now.”

“(Y/n)?”

“We could go to California.”

“You'd actually come with me?”

“Billy Hargrove, you're an even bigger idiot than you look.”

“(Y/n).”

“I'm so fucking sorry. (Y/n), please. I made a mistake.”

“Yeah you did, Billy. The same mistake. Three Times. God, I can't believe I actually bought your lies.”

“I wasn't lying. Not when I said I loved you. Hell, you're the only person I've ever even said that to since-”

“We're done, Billy. Please just leave.”

“(Y/n)?!”

“No. . . god, no. Please, Billy, hold on. . . fuck, someone help!”

“It's okay. . . Just. . . let me look at you.”

“(Y/n)!”

You jolted as someone grabbed your shoulders, shaking you slightly. You forced air back into your lungs, your hands trembling. As your heart rate finally slowed back to normal and your eyes could register what was in front of you, you realized that the person calling your name was Eddie, his eyes darting across your features.

“Hey, are you there?” he asked frantically, “(Y/n), tell me you're with me!”

“Yeah. . .” you blinked slowly, “yeah, I'm here.”

Eddie's shoulders visibly lowered as he sighed shakily, releasing his grip on you.

“Jesus, you scared me,” he said, turning the faucet off, “you weren't seeing that clock or anything, were you?”

Your eyes widened in horrid realization.

“No,” you shook your head, “Nothing like that. I'm sorry. . . I didn't mean to make you worry.”

“Don't apologize,” he said, and you could hear the tiredness in his voice, “I'm sorry for shaking you, guess I'm still kinda frazzled. When I saw you staring into space like that, I freaked. It was just like. . .”

He trailed off, and neither of you had to finish the sentence aloud to know what he was thinking. The ache in your chest when you pictured Chrissy's smile reignited like a fresh wound ripping open, and you fought the stinging in your eyes for the umpteenth time in the last few hours. Eddie could sense your pain so clearly it was as if it was a physical presence in the room, and his own heart broke seeing you like this.

“I couldn't save her,” he said; a helpless, sardonic little smile taking over his lips out of defensive habit. “I was right there and I did nothing, except run. Which is what I do now, apparently.”

“There's nothing else you could have done,” you said, placing a hand on his forearm in an attempt to ground him, “you can't blame yourself for this.”

“Never tell a Dungeon Master what is and isn't possible,” he said, his attempt at his usual lopsided smile coming out as more of a grimace than anything.

“Eddie,” you said softly, “I'm serious, please don't think like that. You couldn't have known how things were going to play out. If you take on the weight of what might have been if you did. . .”

Unwanted memories flashed through your head; The neon signs of Starcourt Mall blurring around you as you ran as fast as you could towards the Mind Flayer. The splatter of hot blood that hit your face as it ran Billy through the chest. Max's screams. The look in Billy's eyes as he told you he just wanted to look at you in his last moments because it felt like going home.

“. . . you'll just drive yourself crazy,” you finished, fighting hard to keep your voice even. “Vecna feeds on negative emotions. Fear. Anger. Guilt. We're already trying to save Max with borrowed time. I can't have him going after you too. I can't.”

“What, the monster-slaying princess wouldn't come to my rescue?” Eddie quipped, a tiny shimmer of that lost light back behind his eyes.

“Of course I would,” you smiled weakly, “But I'd like to avoid that all together, if possible. So please, for the sake of my own rapidly deteriorating mental state, don't think that any of this is your fault.”

“Guess I could make an exception to my usual thought process,” he said with a wry smile.

God, he looked. . . exhausted. Dirt streaked his face, and dark bags hung from his sallow eyes. You couldn't imagine he'd been sleeping well the past few days. His hair was flat and matted, his clothes covered in grime and new tears in the fabric.

“If you want to rest up and take a shower here you're welcome to, by the way” you said.

“You trying to tell me something?” Eddie huffed playfully.

“Well, you do smell like dirty swamp water.”

“Don't like the new cologne? All the basketball players wear it,” he grinned— his first genuine one that week, and it was impossible not to notice how his entire face brightened.

“Down the hall to the right,” you laughed, a warm feeling spreading through your chest, “You can leave your clothes outside the door and I'll toss them in the wash.”

“Thanks,” he said, “Seriously. Don't know a lot of other people willing to risk their hides for me. . . What won you over? My roguish charm?”

“Go take a shower, Eddie,” you bit back a smile, and your silent 'you're welcome' was not missed by him. As he left down the hallway your heart felt just a little bit lighter.

As you heard the water start to run you stopped by the door, seeing his clothes in a pile on the floor. You picked them up and tossed them in the washing machine for a quick cycle.

As you busied yourself with tidying up the rest of the house, you poked your head into the living room to see the kids eating the pizza you'd made and joking around with each other. A sense of relief came over you as you saw their smiles. They'd been through so much, but they were still able to laugh like that in the face of the end of the world. It was something you'd tried to pick up from them.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the alarm going off, and your vision sharpened as you looked up at the machine and opened the door. You caught Eddie's shirt before it could come tumbling out, and you stared at the now-familiar Hellfire Club logo on its front. Just a month ago he had lent this  to you, and now it was frayed at the hem, small gashes cut in the sleeves. You shook off the thought as you loaded everything into the dryer, turning the heat on high.

“Need any help?”

You turned to see Steve lingering in the doorway, fingers tapping against the wood of the frame.

“I think I've got it, but thank you,” you said, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “thanks for that. Paranormal investigation really, uh, works up an appetite, y'know?” He bit the inside of his lip, unsure whether or not to follow through with what he really wanted to ask you.

“What's up?” you asked, noticing his eyes still on you.

“I know this is kind of a stupid, relative question,” he said, “but are you okay?”

“Probably not the first word I'd choose,” you told him honestly. You watched the clothes in the dryer tumble in circles, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before turning to Steve.

“I just thought it was over,” you said, your voice raw and tired.

“I know,” he sighed, “me too.”

“I feel like I'm giving myself whiplash,” you said, “There are moments where it's fine, then all of a sudden the tiniest little thing will remind me of something, and I just spiral.”

“(Y/n), you have to give yourself a break,” Steve said, “I know your first instinct is to make sure those kids are alright, because it's mine too, but you don't have to take on everything by yourself.”

You nodded stiffly, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

“Come on,” Steve said, pulling you into his arms.

“Why does everyone feel the need to hug me today?” you grumbled, your words slightly muffled by his shirt.

“Because you were robotically doing laundry while staring into the void,” Steve said plainly.

“Point taken,” you said, “You're a good friend, Harrington.”

“Yeah, I'm kind of the best.”

“Don't ruin it.”

“Hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I kind of need those.”

At the sound of the new voice you and Steve jolted apart, turning to see Eddie standing in the hallway fresh out of the shower. His hair was still wet, small droplets dripping down his shoulders and chest. The only thing he was wearing was a towel wrapped around his waist and a bemused smirk on his face; There was a tinge of bitterness in the latter that flew over your head, but that was mostly because you were busy staring.

Eddie's eyes flickered between you and Steve, his gaze ultimately settling behind you on his clothes in the dryer. You forced yourself to snap out of it.

“Right,” you coughed out, flustered, “Um, here. They just finished drying.”

“Thanks,” he said. He stepped forward and reached around you to open the dryer door, and you felt your face burn as the distance between you dissipated in an instant. You could feel the warmth coming off his body, the scent of your own shampoo in his hair. You stood there frozen, unable to get another word out before he disappeared back into the bathroom to change, the door closing just a little too loudly.

“Subtle,” Steve snorted, “both of you.”

“Whatever you're talking about, Harrington, I suggest you stop it,” you warned.

“Come on, it's almost physically painful to watch you dance around each other,” he groaned, “You're worse than me.”

“Nothing's worse than you,” you scoffed, flicking him in the forehead.

“Hey, watch the hair,” he said, slapping your hand away.

“And we're not 'dancing around' anything,” you insisted, though your heart pounding against your ribcage betrayed you.

Steve leveled you with a look, and you both knew the words that had just come out of your mouth were a blatant lie.

“Whatever you say.”

Meanwhile Eddie was in the bathroom, trying to shake the water out of his hair and that ugly feeling out of his chest. As he began to get dressed he found his thoughts wandering back to you and Steve, and why the hell it seemed to bother him so much seeing you be such good friends.

Eddie didn't usually let things get to him; he'd been used to being met with ridicule and comparison his whole life, and he thought he'd done a pretty damn good job of not giving a shit. But for some reason Steve Harrington in particular had a special way of getting under his skin. He seemed like the antithesis of everything Eddie was; popular, athletic, and from a well-off white picket fence family. The fact that everyone seemed to collectively agree he was an asshole helped, but something noticeably shifted in him his junior year. He stopped hanging out with Tommy, Carol, and the basketball team, instead mostly spending time with you and Nancy; and the next year, Robin. When Eddie first met Dustin, he would always go on and on about how cool Steve was, and Eddie had to admit he was a little jealous of the way his new Hellfire recruit seemed to idolize him.

And now it was dawning on him just how close you and Steve were. It was completely understandable; you and Steve had been through hell and back, almost literally. Eddie always saw you two together even after Steve graduated, and the rumors that you were dating spread like wildfire at Hawkins High, though Eddie had never given them any thought until now.  

He sighed deeply, slapping his face lightly with his hands to pull himself out of his thoughts. He looked around for his belt and his chain, and when they came up nowhere he realized you must have taken his things so they wouldn't get ruined in the wash. His heart softened, his irrational bout of jealousy quickly replaced by a tinge of guilt. You were a good person; it wasn't your fault you were so damn likable.

As he exited the bathroom he could hear a vaguely familiar Rolling Stones song playing upstairs, from what he could only guess was your room. He slowly walked up, stopping in front of your door which was cracked slightly. As he knocked it swung open a little further, and he saw you look up at him from your seat at your desk.

“Hey,” you said, your eyes widening as you realized you still had his stuff, “Oh, right.” You got up from your chair, crossing over to your bedside table where you'd made a small pile of belongings you found in his clothes; including a half pack of Marlboros, a lighter, a few stray guitar picks, and of course his belt and chain.

“Feeling any better?” you asked, handing them over. Eddie took them gratefully.

“Well the swamp water smell is gone,” he said, scratching lightly at the back of his neck, “And my clothes don't stick to me like a latex glove anymore, so that's a plus.”

“Glad to hear it,” you chuckled.

As Eddie used the mirror to adjust his chain, he caught sight of the rest of your room behind him. A string of Edison light bulbs lined your ceiling, casting a warm glow over the space. A few different scented candles were burning in the corner where you were reading. Countless books and VHS tapes lined the shelves by your bed, and your walls were covered in movie posters, vinyl sleeves, and pictures of you and your friends. The record player on your desk was still spinning that Stones song, and Eddie understood why you'd come here for a little peace of mind.

As his gaze swept across the floor, he noticed a box full of cassette tapes at his feet, and Eddie grinned at the sheer variety you owned. There was everything from Prince, Elton John, and The Beatles to Megadeth, Iron Maiden, and Metallica. As his eyes landed on a certain tape wedged in the side of the box, he grabbed it in disbelief.

“Hold on, is this mine?” Eddie turned to you with a look of mock scandal as he held up a copy of Dio's Sacred Heart between his fingers.

“No?” you said sheepishly.

“Lies.”

“I swear, I was going to return it,” you said.

“And more lies,” he tutted, turning the tape over in his hands, “but it is kind of the best album ever, so I understand your criminal behavior, though it isn't excused.”

“Didn't you say you shoplifted this from Family Video?”

“That's different,” he waved off, earning a small smirk from you as he leaned against your desk. It was only then that he saw what you were reading through before he came in. It was a worn red notebook, wide-lined and filled with scribbled guitar tabs.

“That was Billy's,” you said when you followed his gaze down to the book, your heart squeezing slightly in your chest.

“He played?” Eddie asked in surprise.

“Yeah,” you said, “He wrote his own songs too, even though he never had a band. Mostly metal, but he actually penned a few soft rock ballads for me. . . Don't ever tell anyone I told you that.”

“Cross my heart,” Eddie swore with a small grin. He thumbed through the worn out notebook, the binding almost immediately flipping open to a page in the middle. A polaroid picture doubled as a bookmark; It was a front facing shot of you and Billy sitting on the hood of his Camaro. You were beaming at the camera, squinting slightly against the sun as the wind whipped through your hair. Billy was looking at you with a small smile on his face, his expression surprisingly serene. Next to the photo were loosely connected tabs scrawled on stray pieces of paper, wedged in between the pages of lyrics, written and rewritten again and again in a web of songwriting process that Eddie was familiar with.

He never knew Billy Hargrove that well. How you had befriended the gruff playboy was a matter that confounded all of Hawkins High, but Eddie suspected it had something to do with the way you threatened Billy the first time he made a move on you, which led to him immediately giving you his number. Billy wasn't the most pragmatic student, always in some kind of fight and sending half the basketball team to the infirmary at least once. Although Eddie was okay with the latter offense, there was no denying Billy Hargrove spent a lot of his time being a grade-A asshole. Your messy breakup was proof enough of that. Hell, he'd almost run over Dustin and the kids with his car. But. . .

'Girl, you're the California breeze that sends me on my way.'

Looking down at the pages in front of him, he almost chuckled as he imagined Billy writing something like this.

“He was complicated,” you said, as if you'd read Eddie's mind, “not an excuse for how he acted sometimes, I know. But I think. . . in some other life, you would have gotten along really well.”

Eddie let out an amused little huff at that as his eyes lingered on the tabs for the solo. It was slow, intricate, and covered in detailed markings that showed off Billy's play style. Eddie could hear it clearly in his mind as his gaze drifted across the annotations. If he didn't know any better, he'd say he could almost feel Billy watching him read through it, a self-satisfied smirk on the west-coaster's face as he knew Eddie was impressed.

Some other life, huh?

A sad, nostalgic smile tugged at your lips as you re-read the familiar lyrics.

“He died a hero, and we can't even tell people that,” you said quietly.

“Billy knew about all this Upside Down stuff?” Eddie said in surprise. You nodded.

“Last year, his body was taken over by the Mind Flayer. That explosion at Starcourt Mall? That was us fighting it. In the end he was able to fight back against its control, and he sacrificed himself to save El's life. To save all of our lives.”

The crease in your brow deepened as that feeling of fatigue crept up on you once again.

“I thought that was the end,” you said, “But now I can't help but feel like he died for nothing, because it's not over. It's what had me so spaced out earlier when you found me in the bathroom, and-”

“No way,” Eddie said, making you look up. There was an intensity in his eyes you hadn't seen before; a sincerity that caught you off guard. “Not a chance he died for nothing. If he didn't do what he did last year, you wouldn't be alive to save the world again right now. If I've learned anything about myself in the last week, it's that outside of D&D, I'm no hero. What he did? That's some certified heroic shit right there. In my experience, if someone sacrifices his life for the rest of his party, he did it so that they could live theirs to the fullest potential. Jumping back into this shit head first, being as fearless as you are after everything you've seen. . . I think he'd be proud.”

You stared at him, your eyes immediately welling with tears, and Eddie's own widened in horror.

'Shit,' he thought, panicked, 'Definitely didn't want her to cry. What the fuck is wrong with me? What do I do? I can't just take it back. What if I make it worse? How-'

His train of thought was derailed completely as you suddenly threw your arms around him. Eddie stood there for a moment, frozen, before slowly wrapping his arms around you in return. Standing there with you in the warm light, your bodies seemingly fitting together perfectly, it just felt right.

“Thank you,” you whispered, and Eddie thought his heart would leap right out of his chest. He felt your tears start to soak into his denim vest, but he just held you tighter; the embrace was something he didn't realize he needed just as much as you. He put up a damn good front, but he was fucking terrified, and if he seriously thought about what was going on for more than a second, he was afraid his cowardice would make him run as far away from this as he could and pretend like none of it was happening. But you grounded him more than you could ever know.

You buried your face into his shoulder, breathing him in like your life depended on it. This was your third hug of the day, but the first that you had been the one to initiate. Dustin, Steve, Eddie— everyone in this house had become such a crucial part of your life. No matter how fucked up things got they were always going to be there, you had to remind yourself of that. You and Eddie stayed there for a moment in each other’s arms, and for the first time the entire week your mind quieted, and you felt truly at ease.

Read Chapter 4 Here !

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[hotdamnhunnam]

Shades of You

A/N: Here’s the next in this ‘Kutte Too Deep’ series of flashbacks set in the AU of Kutte to Black! These fics can be read as standalone one shots or as part of this ‘KutteVerse’. This one is just a short ficlet of fluffy smut about you being Jax’s muse and the two of you having hot passionate sex outdoors…

Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, a fuck in the park (it’s a secluded little spot of greenery – no one else is actually watching but they could be in theory)

Word Count: ~1.2k

“Babe, can you do that again?”

You glance up from the book that you were just about to begin. In these few weeks since you and Jax became a thing, you’ve spent the better part of all day and night fucking, though you pause from time to time to take his Harley for a ride or something. Head off someplace far from all the dusty streets of Charming. Pack a picnic so that you can spend a lazy afternoon feeding each other grapes and talking. 

For today’s outing Jax also packed a notebook, as he told you that he’s recently been bursting with a surge of inspiration for the novel he’d spent years struggling to write. Apparently just finding the right muse was all it took. He wants to churn out a whole chapter sitting in this park with you, admiring the sunlit view. Promised he’ll let you read his work after he treats you to another epic fuck later tonight.

Meanwhile you’re reclining on this big plaid picnic blanket with the paperback you’d packed, to catch up on some summer reading. But your badass biker boyfriend seems determined to distract. You’re not sure what he means by what he asked—‘do that again’ when you’re not doing much of anything—you’ve literally just been breathing.

From where he’s sitting on a rock nearby with his manuscript spread across his jean-clad thighs, Jax catches the confusion in your eyes. And so he clarifies. “The way you blinked real quickly twice. It was just really nice. Your lashes looked like butterflies.”

Oh Jesus Christ. He’s so fucking adorable, it’s honestly deplorable. You swoon and giggle, playing into it a little. Batting your lashes theatrically and shooting him a sultry look. Still have no clue, just what he sees in you, and yet somehow his every move makes you believe you’re the loveliest thing in the world. “Now if I didn’t know better, Mr. Teller… I’d think you were sketching me rather than writing a book. Draw me like one of your French girls.”

He laughs sunny and bright, shaking his head at your reference to the tear-jerker the two of you just watched the other night. Never did Jax Teller think he would spend a weekend getting all sappy romantic. Asking his girl if she wanted to cuddle and stay up late watching Titanic. 

“Hey, I’d take any excuse to get you naked...” your tall blonde prince charming admits as he sets his notebook aside and strides across the grass to join you on the blanket, “but I promise I’m not a nude lady artist. Just an aspiring writer in love with his muse and everything inspiring about her because she’s the hottest.”

Jax brings his big strong body down to yours and then blesses your lips with a soft kiss to prove that he’s honest. Pulls back to adore you with his gaze of blue. “You’re in everything I do. I see the world in shades of you.”

Fuck—every word that he breathes is a sonnet. This love is a drug, and you’ll live and die riding high on it. “You’re corny as fuck and I love you.”

Grins darkly and grinds the stiff bulge of his cock against your crotch as he knows how badly you want it. “I’m horny as fuck, too.”

“Mmm, what else is new...”

Without words, with the crush of his summer-lush lips against yours, he replies though you already know this is true: Everything is shiny and new when I’m with you.

Every damn time feels like the first. Everything blurs, present and future ever fading into past. The thrust of untold fate—the rushed soul-crushing weight, the fucking curse—compels you both to take each time like it’s the last.

The man in him loves smooth and soft and full of slow sensuous passion. But the beast in him moves rough and hard and fast. The fucking sex god that is Jackson. Barely even needs a second or a fraction, for his huge cock to get rock solid once he is at half-mast.

Moan into his mouth at the feeling of his denim-covered length. Rubbing against the flimsy fabric of your skirt, so hard it hurts. His hand caresses your cheek, giving you the strength, to take this love that makes you weak. Love beyond words. Your tongues were made to tangle up and taste the truth too big to speak.

Sometimes he says it anyway, though you both know he means more than the words could ever say. Says it a thousand times a day.

“Love you so fucking much,” he murmurs and the love tastes so delicious, in the blissful midst of kisses, as you melt beneath his touch.

Jax’s hand wanders from your face down toward your chest, shape of his grip made for your breasts. Beat of your heart rewrites the lines across the palm to which it’s pressed. His other hand is frantically unfastening his fly, then hiking up your skirt with a firm squeeze against the slick flesh of your inner thigh. So pleased yet not surprised to find that you’re already a wet mess. Both know there’s no one else nearby... no witness, other than the sky... but still out here it seems safest, to free his meat and push your panties to the side but otherwise stay dressed.

And so he does and wastes no time driving in deep until his dick hits home inside your soaking hole. So deep it hits your fucking soul. Hits every time and it’s the motherfucking best.

Something so blessed... has to be cursed. You think that way sometimes and it’s the fucking worst. Like fate is twisting you to tempt the pearly gates ahead and this is just a test. 

But when his hips are thrusting perfectly in sync with yours... his throbbing cock pounding and plowing through your pussy till it bursts... there’s nothing else on earth that matters—nothing else in all the universe... just ride this crest of pleasure, high together, as you crash the pearly gates until they shatter, and to hell with all the rest.

Sun spreads its golden heat and sheds light through the overhanging tree. So long content to shine upon this rock that orbits in its gravity—yet seething now in envy—so enraged at the eclipse, the air you’re breathing off his lips, the fire in his fingertips, so hot and heavy—heavenly. He is the only sun you’ll ever see.

The sun and shadow all at once. Heaven is here on earth yet someday hell will come claim what it wants. Can’t beat it back. But you don’t have to when he’s buried in your cunt. Beneath the shade of Jax, all else just fades to black.

You see the world in shades of him. Just as he does of you.

You love him, as he loves you, and you’ll make this love until the jealous sun burns out above you... even if it tempts the other stars to take it from you.

***************

Hope you enjoyed this and would love to hear if you did! 🤗❤️

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[foibles-fables]

Dude now I gotta know the apex machine and beloved sunhawk theories. Perhaps you can give us all some more brain rot? please?? I will beg u 🥺

WOO okay, did some self-soothing via corkboard-stringing and wild gesticulating this morning.

So, there are threats looming in the Forbidden West. Through most of the marketing so far, we've been made incredibly aware of two in particular: the Blight and the superstorms, both indications of the critical stage of the collapse of the terraforming system that began ~20 years prior. Both of these have been in pretty much all of the trailers and other media released so far.

However, it seems that there's an additional threat that hasn't been driven home as much (if at all) in promo material, aside from the list of pre-order goodies: "Apex" machines. You get an Apex Clawstrider Strike piece god I can't WAIT for Strike as a part of a bunch of the pre-order packages.

The qualifier alone says a lot about their potential nature. And where else have we seen tougher versions of known machines like these before? The Sunhawk comic.

This could be is the connection that brings Talanah in particular fully into the HFW plot. According to Annie Kitain, via GameInformer, "You don't need to read the comics because one of our goals is that you are brought up to speed. But if you have, you kind of have that extra knowledge of like, 'Oh, okay, I know what they're talking about and I experienced that part of her journey in the comics, and now see how that plays out in the Forbidden West.'"

Consider: Talanah's already in the West prior to the start of the game, having led an expedition of hunters to help out after hearing that things are ROUGH machine-wise. We can already assume that the "Forbidden" moniker of the West is ceremonial at best, due to Iriv's failed expedition--Carja have been there since (Red Raids) and are there now (Barren Light outpost). Also explains why Talanah isn't with us at start-game, which is where I suspect much of the story trailer is taken from--maybe it's mentioned that Aloy went calling for her in Meridian, but she'd already embarked on her own. (...an emotional concept that leads me to some even more unhinged theorizing, which I might touch upon AT ANOTHER TIME)

It's a relatively easy story to summarize from the end of the comic, as Ben and Annie state is the their goal for character catch-up. A (much more eloquent than I can currently churn out) conversation re: "Aloy! Hey! Been a minute, miss me? Please tell me if you're getting enough sleep? Staying hydrated? Oh, yeah, I left Meridian when a friend wrote to me from the west and told me how bonkers the machine situation is here. Some of it sounded like the new breed we fought together, and you drove home how dangerous they were, so I felt compelled to do something about it."

It makes threefold sense. One, it certainly does continue Talanah's comics journey--changing the purpose of the Hunters Lodge from a trophy case to folks making a real difference, which is a step beyond her ultimate goal in HZD. We find her eventually, help her deal with Apex machines, and she rightfully joins the Crew. It also ties Talanah into a very valid part of the central story--we know from TFW that HEPHAESTUS is still up to his business. Finally, it introduces a cool new gameplay mechanic. Apex machines are a lot tougher to deal with, and maybe start to show up if the player is not a careful hunter. Need to strategize your parts-farming (which is another stated focus of the game) to avoid areas being overrun by these difficult machines. Can't just wreck shit indiscriminately anymore without facing consequences.

Last thing...that shot from the VERY beginning of the story trailer, with Aloy and that Not-Talanah (UNLESS THEY PULLED THE WOOL OVER OUR EYES AND SHE'S DISGUISED TO AVOID REGALLA--) Tenakth figure. The destroyed machines among the Blight in that shot do look black-plated. I think we'll be seeing them, for sure.

Anyway, those are my thoughts. We'll certainly be finding our girl and she'll be as important as Ben and Annie's hints are making her seem. SOON, FOLKS.

[andypantsx3]

subtle | 2 | Shouto Todoroki/Reader

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

status: complete

length: 2,265 words

summary: Someone leaves chocolates on your desk. You’re determined to track down the sender, certain it’s a mistake, and Shouto Todoroki makes himself as unhelpful as possible.

tags: romance, reader-insert, fluff, valentine’s day

warnings: aged up characters (no smut though!!)

notes: Hi all! Happy Valentine's Day! I'm posting a follow up chapter because so many people asked for it in my inbox. It's completely unedited because I just decided to write it today, and I wanted to get it up before the holiday was over! I promise I will come back and edit at some point in the next few weeks.

No one had come for the box.

You’d made a point to be out of your office as much as possible throughout the day, leaving plenty of opportunity for whoever the sender was to sneak back in and correct their mistake. But every time you reentered the room, there the box was, crowning a pile of your paperwork like a coronet of ineptitude.

You’d checked in with Shouto several times as well, anxious to learn whether or not he’d overheard anything as he changed out of his uniform from patrol, but he proved just as unhelpful as he’d been earlier this morning. He simply leaned towards you, looking almost conspiratorial--spiking both your heart rate and your hopes--only for him to murmur in his low voice, “No one is coming for it.”

Which was so fucking unhelpful.

So you’d set about the office yourself, lingering hopefully on the fringes of people’s conversations, peering about for clues on the agency staffer’s desks, but there was nothing to give the sender away, no whispered snippet of conversation or receipt laying amongst some expense sheets. You might have resorted to sifting through people’s garbage cans, if only Shouto hadn’t taken to suddenly appearing wherever you were investigating, watching you with a wry little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You knew he hadn’t the slightest modicum of romantic interest in you, but that didn’t mean you wanted him to witness you digging through people’s garbage either. That would have to wait until you could get him out of the building.

Which was also proving to be an impossible endeavor. He usually had a habit of lingering after his shift, coming into your office to make queries about one thing or another that almost always devolved into conversations deeply unrelated to work. But today he was especially resistant to leaving, seeming content to lounge around in the chairs you’d set out for clients, draping one distractingly muscled arm across the backs and watching you intently with those heterochromatic eyes.

“Shouto, get out of my office,” you hissed, coming back in at the end of the day to find him still in one of the chairs, his phone clutched in those long fingers.

He glanced up at you, eyes fastening to your features in that attentive way he had. “I work here.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” you asked, trying to suppress a small spike of irritation with him. “Because it looks like you’re scaring off the box sender to me. How are they supposed to sneak in here and take it back if their boss is looming in here like their worst nightmare?”

Shouto looked unconcerned. “I’m not.”

“Not what?” you asked. Maybe he wasn’t their worst nightmare, but being caught by your boss in the middle of correcting a romantic mishap was probably at least a nightmare.

“Not scaring anyone off,” he said, putting his phone away into his pocket. “I know who the box belongs to.”

You stopped short, your attention snapping fully towards him. A thrill of excitement went down your spine, even as regret poured through you. A little part of you had maybe hoped you would end up getting to eat the chocolates, even if they weren’t yours. But this was good news.

“You do? Why didn’t you tell me?” you demanded.

Yor feet guided you to the chair where he sat, and you stood, looking down at him expectantly. He watched you through his long lashes, eyes glinting strangely.

“It’s mine,” he said finally, after a moment that stretched long and slow, like warm taffy.

Your breath caught in your chest, a swell of confusion rising within you. The box was his?

Was he being truthful or was this another attempt to make you take it? Why would he have tried to make you think it was from a secret admirer, then? Why have let you run around all day, attempting to find the sender, if the chocolates had been his all along? Unless...

Unless he was embarrassed. You didn’t know why he might have left them in your office, but you suspected maybe force of habit had drawn him here. Maybe he was operating on autopilot after his distracting shift this morning, since he usually spent so much time in your office, and then you’d come in to find them before he’d had a chance to realize it. And the rest had been history.

But then that begged the question of who he’d really meant them for--your heart sank as the thought occurred to you.

Obviously, you had known since you’d first met him that he wasn’t interested in you. You’d spent years with your thoughts all muddled around him, quelling every blush, never straying into his personal space or staring at him longer than was appropriate. You’d been so, so careful around him, but you’d never had any indication that Shouto was as careful around you. On the contrary, he was always calm and intent--he never looked away from you in a fit of bashfulness the way you had him, and he seemed to have no qualms about getting into your personal space, leaning over you as you looked through reports together, putting a hand on your back to guide you through publicity events.

So yeah, you had known he was basically immune to you. You had known it for a long time. But it still smarted to think of him giving that box to someone else.

God, how embarrassing for you. How mortifying, really, that Shouto had been thinking of someone else all those days that you had been nursing your crush on him.

But you were a professional, you could deal with this.

All you had to do was play it cool, give him back the box and laugh it off like it hardly affected you. And then you could head back to your apartment and binge ice cream and be all wistful and embarrassing for one evening. You could allow yourself that before you had to come back and be doubly professional, smile and congratulate whichever analyst or support staffer or fellow hero had caught his interest.

You could be happy for him. You’d miss the chocolates though.

Drawing yourself together, you looked down at him, pulling out a small but genuine smile. Shouto was your friend, and he was going to nail it with whoever the box was meant for--you could give him your support. But then Shouto was unfolding himself out of the chair, standing up so he could look down into your face, taking a step closer to you.

You tried to ignore the flutter in your stomach at his sudden proximity, the hint of his clean cologne and the lick of warmth coming off of his left side.

“They’re, uh, they’re yours?” you managed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “You are in such big trouble for coming in here and peddling conspiracy theories instead of owning up to it. You at least owe me a coffee for being such a brat.”

Shouto watched you quietly, saying nothing.

“But we can hash that out later,” you said, waving what you hoped was a casual hand at him. “You need to move quickly. You should try to catch whoever you meant these for before they leave--daytime shift is over in a couple minutes.”

Shouto’s brows knitted, a small frown pulling at his mouth. “You still think they’re not for you,” he said.

It took a minute for you to register the words he’d spoken. The comment struck you dumb when you did, a thrill of disbelief going through you. Was he trying to be tactful now? Now, of all times?

“Shouto, seriously, you can make it up to me later. This is not the time to fuck around, the day’s almost over,” you said.

His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to you, close enough that you could feel him exhale. You took a step back in surprise, your hip bumping your desk.

“You promised me,” he said in his deep voice, “that if no one came looking for them by the end of the day, you would take them.”

You stared up at him, your mind churning wildly with all kinds of insane thoughts, wild insinuations that brought heat to your face. He absolutely could not mean what you thought he meant.

There was literally no way.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” you admitted. “But if you’re telling me I can take them just because you promised them, I don’t want them. I think you should give them to who you meant them for.”

That wry little smile played about his mouth again, and Shouto took another step closer. The back of your thighs dug into your desk and you wobbled, putting a hand down to keep your balance.

“To think I trust you with my career,” Shouto intoned, ducking his head to look into your face. You felt the heat of his left arm at your side as he placed it gently on your desk, caging you in. “Let me be plain, then. I did give them to who they were meant for.”

Your cheeks went hot, both with his proximity and the implied insult. But the rejoinder died on your tongue as the implication of his last few words sank in.

He had meant them for you? Shouto Todoroki, number four hero, your coworker of several years and your most patient, attentive, and mind-numbingly handsome friend, had gone to Grégoire Chardin, for Valentine’s Day chocolate, thinking--of all people--of you?

For a moment, it felt like the earth was sliding out from under your feet, but then you realized it was just you, tipping backwards on your desk. Your elbow banged into the side of the chocolate box, and you accidentally sent a small pile of papers fluttering over the side of your desk. You cringed, embarrassed, but then Shouto was over you, both arms braced on either side of your head.

“You don’t need to accept them if you don’t want,” he said quietly, watching your face. The intensity of his focus made your head swim, and you tried to focus on what he was saying, rather than the shape of his mouth as he spoke, the heat from his skin. “But I wanted you to know. I like you.”

You gaped at him, the words feeling like they were embedding themselves in your brain.

“You...like me?” you echoed in disbelief.

Shouto grinned, the expression so disarmingly charming that even your nose went hot. “Yes. Very much.”

A swell of emotions welled up inside you, like the unstoppable tide of a coastal flood, and you were gripped with the sudden desire to lean up and kiss him, to press your mouth to his and see if he meant it, if any of what he’d just said to you could possibly be real. Suddenly, that was the only thought in your entire brain.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” you heard yourself utter stupidly.

You hesitated for just a second, realizing that maybe you should pinch yourself first to see if this was actually happening, but then Shouto was already there, covering your mouth with his.

His kiss was hot and soft and utterly perfect, and very quickly there were no thoughts in your brain at all, nothing but the feel of him over you, one muscled thigh pressing insistently between yours, his long fingers tangling gently in the hair behind your ear. You clutched him to you tightly, an embarrassing little sound escaping you, and Shouto groaned, pressing more of his weight down on you, licking firmly into your mouth.

You were half-delirious with the feeling of him by the time he let you up for air, and you could feel yourself grinning like an absolute fool.

“I had a secret admirer,” you said. “You were being serious.”

Shouto smirked, leaning in to press a hot kiss to your throat. Your thighs clenched involuntarily. “Yes, I had been secretly admiring you for a while.”

For some reason, the words embarrassed you, and you tucked your face into his broad shoulder. “I...this is so embarrassing. I’ve been...admiring you, too.”

You heard Shouto huff a soft laugh, and then his calloused fingers were gripping your chin, angling your face back towards him so he could seize your mouth again. You went slack and pliant underneath him, enjoying the press of his mouth on yours, your toes curling when he did something particularly talented with his tongue.

“I did tell you,” Shouto said after a while, pulling back, one of his hands gripping your thigh.

“Tell me what?” you asked absently, wondering how you could get his mouth on yours again.

His eyes caught yours, the blue of his left glittering at you conspiratorially. “That I could be subtle.”

You laughed, feeling stupid--but more than that, flushed and completely pleased. You didn’t know if subtle was exactly the right word, but you weren’t going to argue specifics at the moment. “I guess you can be. Though you might have been a little bit more overt before now.”

“Then if you don’t mind,” Shouto said after a while, something like amusement in his voice, “I’d like to take you home and admire you quite overtly now.”

You were answering before he could even finish. “Yes, oh my god, yes.”

Shouto laughed again, smoothing a large palm down your side.

And then he did. And not even chocolates from Grégoire Chardin could compare.

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XXII

Part I - - - - - - - - - - Part XIX - - - - Part XX - - - - Part XXI

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

“Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice,” Palpatine said warmly, smoothly guiding Padme to a seat and pouring her a cup of tea.

“Of course, Chancellor Palpatine,” she replied cordially, gracefully settling down with a billowing of fabric. “Anything for a fellow former Ruler of Naboo. How might I be of service?”

Palpatine’s smile faded into a concerned grimace.

“I’ve just come from a...disturbing meeting with the Jedi and wanted to see if you perhaps wanted to discuss things. I know you’ve been considered...close with both Master Kenobi and Knight Skywalker.”

“I consider them both good friends of mine,” Padme confirmed, stomach churning even as she remained outwardly calm. “Though I’m not privy to the contents of your meeting. Is there something you wish to relay to the Senate at large?”

Palpatine sighed, abandoning his seat in favor of strolling to the window. Padme remained seated in place, refusing to turn her gaze to follow his motion, instead sipping her over brewed tea and allowing the Chancellor to address the back of her head, as he apparently wanted her to address the back of his.

“I received an...upsetting call from Anakin yesterday, regarding Master Kenobi. At the time I’m afraid I had no idea what he was referring to, only learning after the fact...well.”

Padme’s blood boiled at the cheap conversational fishing, still remembering how broken-up Anakin had been about the Chancellor’s inherently disturbing ‘betrayal.’ Not as much as he was about the prospect of losing Kenobi so tragically but...

Padme took another sip of tea. “Master Kenobi’s had a number of burdens placed on his shoulders over the course of the war,” she finally said, tone utterly devoid of color.

“Of course, yes, of course,” the Chancellor agreed absently.

Padme itched to scream at him, demanding to know if Kenobi was even alive, if Anakin had done something rash since running out that morning, but she was far to practiced to need to even bite her tongue. The back of her neck prickled with the weight of the Chancellor’s gaze. Padme gently set down the Felucian porcelain cup, and began slowly pouring herself more tea from the pot.

Palpatine abandoned his position by the window, slowly walking back to the ornate armchair across the table. Padme resisted the urge to crow with victory.

He looked at her with soulfully distraught eyes. “I must ask- have Obi-Wan Kenobi or Anakin Skywalker contacted you today?”

Padme felt a wave of relief overtake her. Not dead then, thank the force.

“I spoke with Knight Skywalker briefly this morning,” she said out-loud, allowing her brow to wrinkle with confusion. “He was concerned about Master Kenobi’s wellbeing, but quite vague. I’ve been in meetings all day since.”

“Neither of them have contacted you since this morning?” The Chancellor pressed, staring at her intensely. Padme felt a flicker of irritation. 

“I haven’t spoken to Master Kenobi in over a month,” she replied stiffly. “Chancellor, what exactly is this about?”

Palpatine sighed.

“I’m afraid Master Kenobi suffered from...a break in mental health three days ago, and this morning demonstrated...an increased severity in symptoms.”

Senator Amidala’s hands tightened involuntary in her lap. “Is he...alright?” she asked carefully, thoughts flickering with images worse then the nightmare her husband had walked in on.

The Chancellor smiled sympathetically. “Physically, he’s fine. It’s the danger he presents to others that the Jedi are concerned about.”

Padme drew back in shock as the Chancellor clearly expected her to do. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know, I know I could hardly believe it myself. But he gravely injured Knight Skywalker in his initial fit; Anakin was so shaken that he stepped down from command this morning! And now the two are missing!”

She gasped, bringing a hand daintily to her mouth, primarily to cover up any perceived disagreement with Palpatine’s narrative.

That’s not why he stepped down...he could but lying but I think he’s failed to speak with Anakin despite his attempts...and I have a hard time believing Anakin’s missing for any reason other then his own volition.

“Missing!” she repeated inanely. “And they think Master Kenobi might be the one behind it? With...ill intent?”

“It’s the Jedi’s working theory,” Palpatine equivocated. He took a sip of cold tea, staring out the window in a lengthy pause. Padme followed suit, picking up her cup and staring out blankly as the silence continued, not turning her head when the Chancellor finally deigned to speak once more. 

“As you can imagine...” he said hesitantly. “This could have severe political repercussions for the War and the Republic.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “Extreme care will need to be taken in breaking the news to the Senate and public.”

“Then you do believe the Senate must be informed?” Palpatine asked earnestly.

Padme paused, taking a long drink of the now nearly intolerably tepid brew. 

“I imagine they’re absence from the war would be noted one way or another,” she replied slowly. “Considering they are the ‘posterboys,’ in a manner of speaking, of the Jedi part in the war effort.”

“Yes, of course. I just hate to think how this might shake the public’s image of the Jedi, especially considering how unfairly the media’s been treating them as this terrible war’s dragged on...”

Padme made a noncommittal hum of agreement in response, sensing they were now reaching the part of the conversation where the Chancellor would ask her to do something seemingly innocuous. 

“I wondered if you, as a known ally of the Jedi, would be so kind as to help me draft a statement of address? Help soften the language, so to speak.”

Padme smiled innocently. “Anything I can do to help. Of course, I would need access to the full report the Jedi wrote, to make certain I’m not misrepresenting matters.”

“Naturally,” Palpatine, to her surprise, agreed, picking up a datapad from the nearby stack. “Everything they gave me is on here.”

Padme set down the drink with a hint of finality and gingerly accepted the pad. “I’ll look it over at once, unless there’s anything else you wanted to discuss...?”

“No dear, that’s all. Please take all the time you need. I know the news might be...disturbing.”

They stood as one, Chancellor Palpatine politely escorting her to the exit and nodding to the Jedi Knight standing guard outside. The door shut gently behind her and his grandfatherly smile dropped into cool calculation, striding back to the window to survey the end of day traffic passing below.

She was more fearful of the thought of him coming to harm then harming others...practically relieved when I told her that he had vanished...expecting something more tragic it seems. Perhaps Kenobi truly was closer to breaking then I had estimated...how pathetic. When I think of all the ways he’s ruined my plans by not dying...of course he chooses the most melodramatic way out possible. I’d thank him for shaking my apprentice so severely if he hadn’t inexplicably managed to pin the blame on me. 

Kenobi was clearly in some form of death throes this morning, yet the report made no mention of such a fact...I suppose half-dead and half-mad is a touch more vulnerable then their pride allows them to admit...or perhaps it’s simply so I take the security ‘threat’ more seriously...

Amidala was more hostile then usual...what could the man have possibly said to affect them both? The war? Something more personal? If Skywalker hadn’t cut me off...I’ll need to play this delicately, can’t have him losing faith now...naturally even in utter self-defeat, Kenobi manages to remain thorn in my side. Still, he’s practically handed me all I need to cripple the last shred of faith the public has in the order. The squid seemed certain he hadn’t fallen, at least not yet, but the fear of him doing so is...fascinating. Perhaps Skywalker will be forced to kill him, well ahead of schedule.

I don’t usually typically enjoy surprises but...

Part XXIII