#so take my stall next door art

[professional-termite]

@prisencolinensinainciusol09 the

[musedblues]

AMORE ~ FATI (part 1)

a/n: wait until the movie? nah. haven't stopped thinking about this freaky fucker since the trailer dropped! eat up, babes. also the horny police called and there is a warrant out for my arrest.

description: after winding up in a crime related to the royals, geta strikes up a deal with you.

warnings: down right hoe shit, sexual descriptions, gruesome descriptions, minimal historical research/ distant memories from high school test, cliff hanger. MINORS DNI

Part 1 of 2 (at least)

///

The afternoon was like any other, the day your life changed. You awoke to an empty home, gathered your cart of crafts, and headed to the stalls. You sold your paintings there and begged the clouds to cover the swelter of the sun.

For your landscape art, you accepted coin. You accepted food. You accepted a jeweled ring that afternoon, just as well. An exchange like it wasn't out of the ordinary. You pawned the adornment for cash that evening, and made the trek back home. With plans to paint pictures into the night, to sell off the next day.

Your home was quaint, once big enough for two, now only you haunted the halls. The man you'd once been forced to marry had been dead for many months now, and a certain freedom was found in his absence. But a certain monotony about your routine seemed to predetermine the days ahead as far as you could see them. So, you painted.

As you fiddled with brushes and stained your grey dress with speckles of deep amber, a bursting knock came across your door. The guest gave you no time to greet them before turning into an intruder. Two royal guards burst into your home, shouting and grabbing you and dragging you away. All so quickly.

You went fighting. You cursed as they held you in a carriage. You demanded their silence broken. But they remained stone faced as you begged to know why you'd been abducted from your home. 

Your captors rode into the city, past the colosseum, right through the gates that led to the home of the reigning family.  Your heart hammered in fear, knowing what you knew about the rulers. Caracalla and Geta had only just taken over the reign of their father, their mother looming near, picking sides; as you understood. Since the change in leadership, Rome hadn't suffered en mass. But a growing dread hung heavy over the population, knowing the brothers were struggling to join together in power. Knowing their clash divided not only their power, but all of Rome.

You were grabbed at once more, forced out of the carriage and into the great hall of the estate. Gold and red statues lined the entrance. A plum rug stretched before your feet, a welcoming cushion as the rest of your senses were drowned by harshness. Before you, pacing near his throne, Geta waited. 

You'd seen him and his brother before, trailing behind their father at rallies. Lingering near the stands at games. You'd always let your gaze settle on Geta, if ever you'd seen him. You'd always been drawn to gawk at the trimness of his figure. The enigmatic expressions he would pull. The presence he commanded. He was easy to admire, from afar. And the towns ladies often gossiped of how alluring he could be up close, if they were lucky enough to be invited to do so. No one spoke as much of Caracalla. In his name, fear and loathing often followed.

With a glare in your direction, Geta ceased pacing. He nodded toward his guards to relinquish their hold on you.

"What is all this?" You demanded, refusing to bow or humble yourself before this ruler in anyway. How could you dare offer up respect when little to none had been offered to you? Geta seemed taken aback, for a flash. His brows furrowed and his lips parted in shock, at your boldness. But then a grin flickered across his lips and his pacing started up once more.

"You're in possession of something of mine, no?" Geta alluded. Want as you might've to argue, to proclaim your innocence, you were too baffled. What could he possibly be on about?

"You were seen taking a ring as payment today, at your stall." Geta boomed, voice filling the room, echoing off the tall painted ceilings. He started into a story, then, that made things clearer. You learned that ring was a family heirloom, stolen by a servant only one night ago. That he'd sold it to a carriage driver for freedom. You learned that servant had been slain. But the ring was still gone. And you were the last person seen with the distinct bluish jewel in your palm. There were many a shopper along the street market this morning. Several were looking into your stall as you accepted the ring for payment. You couldn't deny the action. But you didn't have it any longer, anyhow.

"I exchanged it for money. With the sellers near the river." You decidedly conceded. "I've got nothing more to do with this now release me." Your voice shook, out of fear for your fate, and anger for your circumstance. 

"Names." Geta stalled his meander, a few steps away from you. His dark eyes had cast across your figure before boring right into yours. You couldn't look right at him without feeling a shiver up your spine. And you were not about to let on that Geta had this effect on you. So, you cast your gaze to the hands at his sides, and scoffed at what you saw.

"Why? Are the rings already on your fingers not good enough? You cannot be allowed to want for what you don't have, if you're in possession of more than enough already."

"What's mine is mine! No one else's." Geta yelled, keeping his eye's boring into yours. His voice shook through the halls, and fueled your rage further. Your rage for your circumstance, and for that of this nation.

"Your greed shall poison this empire." You spat at the man.

"An empire I was born to rule cannot be soured, destiny has been at work since my conception and my father's before me." Geta grinned, an all-knowing sort of smile that was meant to belittle you, you were certain. But you couldn't be made to feel so worthless.

"We are all born to die, your highness."

"Your opposition will result in bleakness if you do not answer my call for this information. Give me their names." Geta shouted, still inches from you. Geta was giving you a chance to answer. And that shocked you. You voiced your opposition only because you thought you were surely moments away from being killed, and refused to die without standing your ground. But here you still stood. Geta was letting you. 

As taken aback by his patience as you were, his arrogance and demanding shouts were only deepening your desire to withhold. To stand resolute. Who were you to ruin some poor people's lives over a bit of jewelry? Your silence was deafening, each passing moment tensing at Geta's shoulders. You watched his jaw clench, you watched his eye's dance between your own. You smiled. 

"Get her out of my sight." Geta hissed, waving his men to capture you once more. You rolled your eyes as they grabbed at you. "Keep her in the cellar until she starts talking. Do not, however... take drastic measures."

You shot a perplexed frown the rulers way as he shook his head in your direction. A scowl turned Geta's lips down. But as he watched you begin to growl in unwillingness to go, his smile curled to life.

"And what of you? What punishments are you allotted?" You yelled as the guards dragged you away. Geta kept his furrowed smirk pointed at you, a puzzled sparkle in his eye.

///

The cellar smelled damp as it felt, your feet squelching along the dirt paths. You'd been taken past a row of prisoners, all in various stages of wither. You closed your eyes too them, offering silent prayers for their fates in passing. 

"In you go," A guard shoved you toward the back of a small cell, chuckling as he locked the barred off door. "When you're ready to talk, we just might be around to listen. Let's hope we don't forget about you all the way over in this corner."

How had you ended up here? Hours ago, you'd been at peace in your quiet cottage, paint brush in hand. Now you sat on a wooden bench, senses filled with cold. How were the gods so cruel? Why did you have to accept that stupid ring? Why didn't you admire it longer? Maybe you would've found evidence of its owner, somehow, in the royal gleam of the thing. Maybe you could have returned it with honor, the promise of your home awaiting you. But none of that was happening. Now, you were unsure of everything. But you weren't going to go down without a fight. You weren't going to rat out the innocent fellow you pawned with, for simply surviving another day of this confounding life. You weren't eager to play into the rulers demands for more, as if he didn't have enough. As if he deserved to be granted assurance when himself and his brother offered Rome none.

Hours must've passed. Guards floated by time and again, jeering at you through the bars of your cell. As they passed you by, the voices grew louder yet, giving other prisoners hell. You heard shouts and screams. You heard begging for torture to cease. You heard the stabbing of flesh and the gurgle of blood. You heard the quiet from your own cell. Why were you being spared of such treatment? Why was your confinement different from the others?

As you began to question your own sanity, and the fate the gods had in store for you, a guard was passing by your cell once more. He stopped there, jamming a key into the lock. This was it. Your turn had come. You braced to be berated as the man reached in and yanked you to stand. The guard demanded you to follow as he dragged you through the cellar the same way you'd come in.

Suddenly you were in the great hall again. The purple carpet like clouds under your step. There were servants arranging decor as if an event were to be taking place soon. Your observation of the hall was short lived as the single guard dragged you up a marble staircase. The home was vast, and full of well painted statues and portraits and windows. The sun was long gone from the sky. It had to be later than midnight. As you soaked up your surroundings and let your imagination run wild, you tried not to worry how you'd be executed. You tried to remind yourself that death waited for no one. You tried to remember the last picture you'd been painting, a field of sheep under a setting sun.

Your captor stalled before a great carved door, twisting the handle. Your captor dragged you inside. 

Candles lit a room with a bed in the middle, the biggest you'd ever seen. The amber glow of the space was welcoming, despite the terror that resided about your situation. Beyond the bed was a table full of wine, bottles of all sort decorated the clothed stand. Before the table, was Geta. His slump on a stool shifted when he saw you. Moving to stand, the man dressed more scarcely than before was slow to approach you. His expression unreadable.

"Leave us." He demanded, pointing the guard to exit the room. The man's parting left chills in his wake. What was to become of you now? What was this all about?

Geta did not stay still at your front. He instead let his head roll from one side to the other as his pace turned back toward the cloth covered table. Among the bottles of wine were a scattered few chalices. He filled one with a drink. And then another. 

"We caught the carriage driver who initially accepted the ring." Geta announced, back toward you all the while. You admired the tone of his shoulders, as one was left uncovered by his robe. The cloth stayed tied among his waist. "We also captured the man you pawned the ring off to. We have the ring." Geta continued, bringing both cups of wine over to where you stood. Ah, so poison was to be your execution?

Accepting the chalice in a fist, you stayed silent all the while. Geta locked his tired gaze on yours and kept talking. 

"The ring was my fathers. Something he left just to me. Caracalla was given finery as well, just for himself. We do not do well with equity, my brother and I." Geta raised his wine for a sip and kept his dark gaze locked on your own. His eye's were red from lack of sleep, it seemed. His eyes were bright, all the while, as they peered into yours. This leader had a way of drawing you in. This leader had a way of making you forget you were probably on the verge of slaughter or worse.

"And while this mission to hunt down the ring has been my mission alone, Caracalla's wrath has still been promoted since he learned something of our fathers had gone missing." Geta explained. 

"What's become of the carriage driver and the man I sold your ring to?" You dared to wonder. 

"The servant was killed as you know, by Caracalla's own sword. The driver has been exiled at my command." Geta said. "But the man you sold it too was killed as well, by my brother's guards. Before I could get to him. You see my wrath is often equal to Caracalla's. But my bloodlust isn't as insatiable. And I can see his way of violence has stirred fear among our people. Would you agree?"  

You had to nod. 

"I do not wish death upon you. Blood should only be shed in battles and in honor. You were a simple moving part. You should not deserve to be killed in the crossfire. But you should pay for stumbling where you dared not have stepped. Otherwise, Caracalla will catch wind that I let you slip away without a punishment. And he will do worse."

"So, what is my fate?" You wondered, clutching the wine in your fist, unmoving. Mind whirring. Had you really been shown a backhanded kindness by the ruler you'd always believed to be more unyielding? His already alluring nature becoming more attractive as you understood this to be true.

"Exile seems drastic, yes. But it's an option." Geta raised his glass to gesture, moving to pace before a cushioned chaise. This room, his room, wanted for nothing. There was space and comfort and treasure promised throughout its expanses.

"Then there could be a fine. You'd be meant to pay every fortnight." Geta reasoned drinking once more. Still not entirely trusting of your own wine, you rested the chalice on a nearby chest, crossing your arms with a scowl. As if this Empire needed more money. 

"I'm too poor to keep that up." You spat, expressing displeasure in your tone. Geta raised a brow and frowned when he realized your implication, how much work needed to be done for the betterment of the population. With a sigh, Geta cast his gaze about the room. When his pace turned naturally closer to you, his eye's locked on your face as a realization dawned across his. Geta let a smirk hint at his lips as his dark eyes glanced into yours. 

"There is... another way..." Geta implied something you didn't see coming. As the man continued his languid back and forth, his gaze stayed ever fixed on your figure. And you hadn't really been ashamed of the glances you'd stolen of his, this day. He was drawing closer, as if to entice you. He didn't need to know that it wouldn't have taken much seduction. He didn't need to know that you'd already been wondering what it would be like to untie the robe at his waist.

Geta didn't need to know that you were becoming less wrought with terror by the second. You'd hoped he'd never known you were afraid, before. But now, in the flickering candlelight of his lavish room, you saw him. The persona Geta had put on all these years, all this time, was just that. You could see plain as day. Geta was full of anger, yes. But he seemed full of so much more, to you, now, too. The man seemed to hold a brewing mixture of depth about him that felt so obvious all of a sudden. Now, more endeared to the ruler, and just as attracted, you made up your mind.

"Seeing as I have no funds... let's just get this over with." You sighed, feigning impatience for the wrong reasons.

Geta circled you, eyeing you up. You wanted to melt under how hot his gaze was. But right now this was all happening far too slowly. Your interest had skyrocketed. But your time had also been heavily wasted here. You had plans, after all. He'd held you captive long enough. 

"Sit down. I'm tired of waiting." You barked at him, shoving his shoulder so he collapsed into the chaise. Geta fell seated at your order but looked up to you with an irate sneer. An anger passed over his expression but morphed into curiosity in a blink.

"Seeing as to how I'm getting what I want out of you, I don't mind giving into your demands." Geta announced, as if to remind you he was the one calling the shots. You couldn't help but grin, struggling not to roll your eyes at the man's obsession with power. Humming so he knew you heard him, you settled either knee at Geta's sides. 

As the ruler's fingers reached to grab at your hips, your day flashed before your imagination. Funny how life worked. How days could be spent so monotonously for so long only to become upturned and scattered about the next. You never imagined you'd find yourself straddling one of Rome's emperors over a payment for your latest painting. 

Geta's kiss surprised you. Not the fact that it was bruising, and harsh. But the fact that it was. You assumed this would go quickly, without much effort put into anything besides a quick and vulgar shagging. Granted, his lips didn't press into yours longer than a couple minutes, before his teeth were digging into your neck. But the way his hands wandered to grab at your limbs and claw at your skin was a welcomed affection you had not expected. 

When you finally got to untie the robe around his waist, you couldn't help but admire the build of his core, the shape of his figure. You'd heard girl's oggle over the emperor before, he was no stranger to trysts of most kind. You'd heard girl's trade deadly details of their nights spent with Geta, his lust unbridled. But the sight of his body bare before yours was better than any rumor you'd caught wind of. 

As you lowered yourself into Geta's lap, he was quick to rock his hips against yours with force you had been bracing for. His grip on your hips threatened to turn you over, but you'd be damned if you let him gain complete control. You rose a hand to the man's head, raking a set of fingers through his hair. Your fingers curled to grip with perhaps too much gusto, and your hips rolled to force Geta back, more fully seated. 

You heard the man let out a hoarse curse as his grip lightened, as he accepted your dominance. Did this really count as payment if you were getting more out of it? 

Geta pushed you away when it was all said and done, a steady hand stayed holding your side as he nudged you off of his lap. You maneuvered to stand, adjusting the skirt of your dress with a sigh.

"I suppose I should thank you for sparing my life. Surely thought you'd take it. Shame our exchange has come to an end. Didn't quite feel like a payment at all." A daring smirk painted your face as you turned to head for the door. You heard Geta lumber to stand, perhaps drunk off wine and pleasure. His feet padded as your hand reached for the handle of your escape.

"What was the painting?" Geta asked, stalling your leave and perplexing you to turn to face him. He was shrugging his robe back into place with a raised brow. "The painting bought with my ring, what was it?" 

"Oh," You realized, pursing a frown. "I- I don't exactly recall. I do a lot of landscapes. Seascapes. Could've been anything like it." You noted. Geta watched you speak, mouth opened, stalled to say more. His tongue glided over the ends of his teeth as the man nodded and sauntered back toward his table full of wine. 

"My guards will see to your return home." Geta called, back facing you. You took that as your leave, anxious for some rest after exhausting your mind with wonder all day, and your body with pleasure this night. As you shut the emperor's door with a soft click, a gratitude filled your chest. That could've gone a lot worse.

///

The next day seemed surreal. You recalled the night like a fevered dream, like a plot from a book. But there were scratches along your thighs that reminded you what had happened was very truly real. You recalled the feelings Geta stirred in you with warmth.

You milled from room to room, mind in constant awe of the way your life had been spared. Since the brothers had come into power, so many senseless killings had been threatened and followed through. So much violence had afflicted common criminals and the odd person out of place alike. Was it more to do with Caracalla? Was he truly the more cruel? Did Geta have a softness about him? Or had you just gotten damn lucky?

You went about your daily chores and sat down to paint. Your art displayed sheep dotting across greyish green land. Your setting sun was in progress. A breeze flowed through the window, and you imagined it in your painting as well. A knocking rattled your door. It's persistence grating your nerves. Only now, at least, no one was intruding. 

Maybe that's why you were shocked more so now than before, to see two royal guards at your front door. 

"Geta is demanding your audience." One of them chuckled lowly before reaching to grab at you. He was too strong to fight off, though kick and yell you did.

Oh God, he'd realized he'd let you off easy, hadn't he? You should've pretended to hate rocking against his lap in that chair. You should've begged for freedom. Or maybe it was Caracalla after all. Maybe he'd heard of your involvement with his father's stolen ring and wished you dead. And these guards were luring you in with a false promise that Geta was the one wishing for a meeting.

While your mind raced, and the carriage took off into the city and passed the colosseum, you cursed the guards for dragging you away again. For being such fowl scum of the earth to manhandle women like they did.

It wasn't long before you were being yanked from the ride and marched into the great hall with that luscious purple carpet underfoot. Geta was there, assessing a scroll with a couple of servants nearby. His shock surprised you, when his glance looked up from the papers. 

As you squirmed against the holds the guards kept on you, Geta shoved the scroll he held onto, into the grasp of a servant. He drew his sword from his side, the instrument of war and horror blinding you in its brightness. The emperors stomp in your direction was quick, his footfall shaking the building and you to your core. This was it. This was your fate.

"Release her now!" Geta yelled, directing his fury to one of the guards at your side. Before the words fully formed from the man's mouth, either of the guard's grips had unlatched from your arms. You did not see that coming. You almost couldn't comprehend that his blade had missed piercing straight through you.

"You were gone for all of a few seconds before you bring her back here?" Geta quizzed, face red with anger. He held the end of his sword to the man's chin, forcing his footsteps back. 

"You- you told us to go fetch the girl from last afternoon, is that not what we did your highness?" The guard was bold in asking, though his voice trembled. 

"I told you to ask her to come. I told you to remain at her door in patience. And you dare drag the woman back in the matter of mere moments? With force? That's a direct disregard of my orders!" With speed that rallied a gasp from your throat, Geta whipped his sword to slash at the knees of the guard that defied him. The man let out a cry as his legs gave way, sending the fellow to collapse. Geta ordered the other guard to take the injured one to a medic and stay there until he was ready to deal with them further. His blood pooled and stained the purple carpet. 

"Why am I here again?" You couldn't linger in uncertainty any longer, once again failing to greet the leader without any respect of his authority. Geta plunged his red stained sword into its sheath as he demanded his servants get out. The workers scattered at the sound of his command, scurrying toward exits. The room was filled with quiet as Geta turned to face you fully. 

"I'm sorry they dragged you here. You were only meant to show up if you so wished." Geta's voice was lower, his rage subdued. He confounded you, the way he held so much darkness and contempt about him. The way he eased into constraint. These were not the stories you had heard. This was not the man described to you by retired servants and wives of soldiers. He was more withheld, before you. And it caught you by surprise time and again. 

"But since you are here now, and you have not yet raised a hand to lash across my cheek, I shall tell you," Geta went on, letting his eyes do what they had done before. Letting his gaze sweep across your figure. "I asked you here to present to you a proposition. An invitation to spend more evenings like the one we shared just before."

"You cannot be serious." You let a breath of a laugh fan from your throat. 

"I'm hardly ever anything but." Geta reasoned with a curled lip and a shrug of his shoulder in a way you knew was meant to get you to chuckle for real. This man continued to confound you. This man contained multitudes. How had no one else, in all their gossip, mentioned this?

"Is this more to do with payment? Did our exchange not suffice?" You reasoned, still uncertain of the terms in which Geta was asking. 

"I think you know exactly how well our exchange sufficed. Well enough for me to not have stopped dreaming of doing exactly that time and time again. I'm merely asking because I wish too." Geta was so close, his breath ghosting across your cheek, his eyes searching yours. "And now you get to decide what you wish. Who am I to deny you a choice?"

"What happens should I turn to leave?" You wondered. 

"A guard would take you home. And with fair treatment, I'd make certain." 

"What happens should I stay?" 

"A servant would take you upstairs. And your imagination could fill in the rest." 

Well, this certainly wasn't how you expected your day to turn out. That painting of all the sheep and the sunset would have to wait another long day. You suddenly couldn't dream of plans outside of those featuring Rome's half reigning emperor. 

With a nod toward the door you'd seen Geta's servants go through, he grinned. 

With footsteps more certain of the direction of his room, you found yourself locked in there, waiting.

///

The next weeks were filled with plans you couldn't tell anyone without fear they'd think you'd gone mad. You spent days milling about the stalls to sell your landscape paintings, careful of the payments you accepted. You'd harvest the fruits from your garden for meals and wait until night fall, when your promised escort arrived.  

Nights were spent in Geta's room, on his floor, against his wall, in that blessed chaise. Nights were spent shoving the emperors head into the pillows as your hips rocked together. Nights were spent demanding he speed up and slow down at your desire. Nights were spent with Geta sharing wine in between drawn-out romps. You'd drink and laugh and carry on, a couple times until the sun peaked dimly into a new day. You'd stay drinking, sharing stories about where you had come from and your hardships. Things you'd hardly spoken of before. Things you couldn't believe Geta would listen so intently to.

It started off as only a few times throughout any given week. But at the end of those nights Geta would always ask about the next. You'd offer up a day or a time and he'd promise you that he'd see to it happening. He would pour you more wine and tell you the dirtiest jokes, and ask what pleased you most before those nights ended. 

But after a while, he stopped asking. And your escort showed up outside your door more nights than most. And it became a rather expected part of the schedule of either of your days.

This night as you padded across the purple carpet, following behind a servant you'd come to trust; a ruckus was sounding from the stairwell you headed toward.

There you found Geta and his brother spitting fowl words in one another's direction. The men were swarmed by guards, ready to take on any outcome of the boys spat. And while they argued about political things you weren't privy to the full details of, you understood they spoke their father's name. You heard Caracalla remind Geta that their father had decidedly upped Rome's soldiers pay to ensure their loyalties to the empire. You heard Geta shout something about how his father was dead, how the brothers needed to learn to ensure loyalties in their own manner. And then he noticed you had arrived. 

"Thank God." Geta seethed, waving his brother off, taking the stairs two at a time to lower himself to greet you. 

"For you, Geta, trust is easily earned, isn't it?" Caracalla shouted, still domineering about the stairs. "A bat of your lashed eyes toward any common whore and they come flooding through our halls." Caracalla cast a snarl in your direction that turned Geta's blood so hot you swore you could feel the smoke coming off him. With a decidedly quick hand, you rested your fingers to grip Geta's arm, stopping him from running up the staircase to rip his brother in two. You didn't care so much what Caracalla thought of you, so long as Geta's opinion remained unchanged.

"But my powers of persuasion are not so charming. And I must demand trust more harshly. And I must remain harsh to keep control. And I do control the half of this empire entrusted in my name!" Caracalla was seething, fists balled at his sides, eyes bulging with rage. You'd never known anyone to be fueled by such negativity. Geta had slowly started toward his brother, letting your grip remain on his arm. 

"We'll reach an agreement. But not till morning. Go back to your side of the estate, now." Geta demanded, taking the staircase slowly, keeping his eyes on his brother. The younger one stood shaking with fury as the elder led you to his room. Guards and servants followed, wordlessly seeing the pair of you behind closed doors. A couple of soldiers usually waited on either end of this hall, but tonight a few more lingered near in addition. These boys really hated each other.

Once locked in his room, safe from rage and question, Geta had you pinned against the wall. He'd usually greet you. He'd usually ask about what paintings you'd sold that day, or if you'd had any great stories of your family before they sold you to a husband. Or of your husband before he died. But tonight, Geta was ravenous. Tonight, he moved more accordingly to the rumors you'd once heard about him.

The emperor didn't fuss with your clothes. He didn't give you time to unravel his either. No sooner than his hand had crept up the skirt of your dress, was he rocking his hips into yours, pounding your back against the wall.

Your nails clawed at the back of his neck and your legs curled to flex around his waist. Geta was relentless as his body hammered into yours. He huffed harder with each new pulse and let out some cursed sighs when your teeth pierced into his shoulder, to keep from screeching all the same. You knew the guards could hear from the hall. But they didn't need to hear more than they had too.

His efforts had ended, his face stayed buried in your neck. But you weren't ready for it to cease.

"You think you're finished? You're only just getting started." You barked, pawing at Geta's head and forearm, shoving him downward. He didn't hesitate, his knees cracked to the floor with force you knew had to hurt. But he didn't seem phased. Geta seemed entirely entranced on bending your knee over his shoulder. Scratching his fingers along your skin. Burying his head between your legs. And he did so consciously, like a duty being fulfilled. He was relentless tonight, and you felt lucky to be relented against.

When your pleasure had ended, and you were left to slide from the wall to find footing, you found the wine too. 

"Well, I can't help solve Rome's problems," You began, pouring you each a drink. "But I hope I've just helped solve some of your own, your highness." You half mocked, but half spoke in well-meaning regard. Geta hummed somewhere behind you. His voice sounded nearby. But his hands fell to close the space between you, gripping at the hilt of your hips. 

"Dunno, might need to try a couple more times." You could hear the smile in his tone, and you felt his sultry chuckle against your neck, where he nearly dared to place a kiss, but didn't. Geta only reached ahead for his chalice, and asked about your day.

///

 You didn't need to sell paintings. You could've lived a basic enough life, fed from the food you grew in your garden, rested from the comfort of your own bed. Secure enough in your late spouses left over finances. 

You had known married life for all of five years. Wed before you'd even turned old enough to know better. All because your parents thought it best. They said you'd been sold to a husband to take care of you, in the long run. He did care for you, in his own twisted way. He kept you fed and housed until he died. And he left all his meager earnings to you in his passing. It wasn't much, but it was enough for you, for now, for a while.

You started painting when you moved in with him, to fill the days that dragged on so endlessly. You dreamed of freedom from the man for so long. And kept painting when he died, to fill those same days that were just as endless and a lot quieter to boot. He'd left you all alone in the expanses of the great wide world, yet freedom seemed even more unobtainable to you then, somehow. So, you painted. And decidedly started selling those paintings when the house filled up without room for any more of them. You kept selling them when you realized how eagerly peers bought from you.

You'd made friends down at the stalls. You found a quaint routine there, waiting in the sun to trade paintings for coins, and chattering with townspeople while the mornings stayed young. Bakers and seamstresses and writers alike shared your routine, all becoming familiar faces you were pleased to see each day.

"Goodmorning, you!" A trio of girls your age came giggling your way. Girls you'd invited over a few times. Girls you were happy to see now. 

"Listen, are you going to the games in three day's time? I'd like us all to twirl about the colosseum buzzed on vino, carefree!" The small brunette leaned across the table your art was displayed on. 

"She just wants to go to wait on Geta, afterward. He always invites girls in after the games." The blonde rolled her eyes, leaning against the post of your stall as you chuckled in understanding, and out of sudden apprehension. You and Geta agreed to your trysts because he trusted how discreet you could be. When you refused to bend your will to give the names of the people you pawned his ring to, he admired that. You couldn't give yourself away, now.

"But haven't you heard?" The redhead leaned in, waving you all to listen closer. "Geta hasn't invited any of the girls that wait at the empire gates in, in weeks." 

You'd often trailed in past that very line of girls in question, much to their growing displeasure. Luckily, none of them were from the side of the country you had resided. None of them could spread your name around in whispers, as they did not know it.

"I'm still eager to take my chances." The brunette joked, going on to beg you to come to the games at the colosseum.

"I don't know." Was the best answer you could give without disappointing your friends, or thinking up a messy lie on the spot.  

///

Another night in Geta's room was unusually spent in his bed. You'd been used to being forced against a chest of drawers, his voice growling in your ear. Or yours demanding the emperor sit on the stool before the table of wine, and wait in agony like a good, obedient, merciful ruler.

But tonight, Geta had you moving slower in his sheets. He'd closed his eyes as your hips rocked atop his, nice and easy. And when he reached to flip you over, his core pierced languidly into yours. His hand brushed across your cheek and his eyes stayed steadily locked on yours.

"Are you feeling quite alright?" You couldn't help but worry, too overcome with the silence that fell about the room. Geta had been resting at your side, his finger tracing the same pattern against your stomach forever.

"What if you stayed, tonight?" The ruler asked, after a while.

"You didn't answer my question. You realized, still confused as to what mood you'd found Geta in tonight. You'd been often surprised by his wit and his resolution. But this wasn't a way you'd known the emperor before. 

"You didn't answer mine either." He pointed, finger still dancing across the skin of your abdomen. You turned your head to find Geta's gaze. His head rested on a pillow at your side, his eyes rolling up to lock with yours. His dark brown stare was illuminating. His curls graced his head so delicately. His silence was so reticent this night. Maybe it was the fact neither of you had had any wine.

"I'll stay if you tell me what's going on in that head of yours." You shot a pointed look to the man at your side who let a lifeless smile flash across his lips as his eyes turned away from yours. Silence filled the room once more, but you got the sense that Geta was choosing his words a while. 

"Nothing... none of this is how I thought it would be." Geta spoke. You kept your eyes cast across his amber lit room, fixating on the pattern of the wallpaper. What did he mean? 

"What's this?" You quizzed. "Ruling an empire? Sleeping with me? Sobriety from wine for a night?" You tried to joke, desperate for some kind of clarity.

"None of it." Geta responded, his inflection implying everything you listed was weighing on his mind then. And that surprised you. He was always surprising you. Silence settled yet again, and stayed for a while. It was Geta who broke it, after so long. He sat up to meet your eye, searching your gaze before offering a nod. You nodded back, knowing that meant your promise to stay here had been sealed. He rose from the bed to dim the candles, and crashed back into it with a sigh. 

When Geta rested his head of golden curls on your chest, in the dark and quiet of his room, you finally understood what he meant. This was all very different now, than it started. None of it had turned out in an expected way. But you felt at ease with it all. You hadn't shared a bed with anyone since your late husband, and those times simply did not count in your mind. You did not care for that man as you had come to care for the one laying against you now. And that dawned on you in fear. But then, a realization that it didn't matter. Not now. Now, you got to rest under the weight of the emperor, for one peaceful night.

///

The next morning was bright and felt early in your bones. And it wasn't long before it hit you, the games were meant to happen today. Geta's stirring at your side was a relished wonder, as his smile widened to see you upon waking. But it all came crashing down as servants and soldiers demanded quick work of getting up and ready for the day of events. 

"It will be too hard to send you away now, with all the crowds starting to gather." Geta realized, peering from the window of his room to the public below. "I'll have some appropriate attire sent for you. You shall join us today." The emperor's smile was bitten back, but you saw it reached his eyes as his looked into yours. 

Things were shifting with Geta. Night's were turning into days with him. Festivities were offered to be shared. You knew better than to ask. You knew better than to wonder why. You simply thanked him for his offer and waited for clothes to change into as the leader headed out of his room, yelling for a guard to hurry along and follow. You milled about Geta's room, admiring the wallpaper in the daylight. Admiring the stained glass of his window. You traced your finger along carved chests and bed posts. You dared to open a drawer, finding a collection of jewelry there, a familiar blue stoned ring at the front of the collection. 

You snapped the drawer shut in a hurry when a knock came across the door. 

"Hello." A familiar face entered. Julia, the Emperors mother, twirled in the room with a stack of garments. "These are mine from seasons past. I brought a few, just in case." The woman was dear, with soft curls that matched her sons, gold earrings that brightened her blue eyes. She smiled and introduced herself as if she needed too. For her, you bowed.

"Such a pretty thing, you are." Julia cooed, resting her clothes at the foot of the emperor's bed before turning to consider you. "I've seen you come and go. Quite the feat to boast over. Geta never struggled to make friends, not like Caracalla. But he has failed to keep so many of them."

 Julia kept a studying gaze on you as you thanked her for her kindness and watched her saunter out the door. The woman told you to meet the family downstairs once you readied yourself. That's when a certain anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach. What was this? What had you gotten yourself into? Worry plagued your mind as you squeezed into a bright blue and plum skirt. The fabric hugged at your figure but fell so elegantly to the floor. You never dreamed of such finery adorning you. You'd never dreamed of a life so different from the one you'd been used to living.

Downstairs, everyone had gathered, gearing up to head out. Guards of every kind kept the ruling brothers on either side of the room while Julia flitted about, laughing with a man you didn't know. Senators and councilors seemed to mingle with the family just as well, their wives and children patiently lingering on the outskirts of the gathering. 

When Julia found you descending the stairs her first greeting after a smile was to tell you how perfectly the dress fit, how powerful you seemed entering the room. She said you held a certain presence about you, keeping a watchful eye on your expression as you gushed to thank her for such continued kindness.

And then you were off, trailing with the wives and the children of the party as the royal family presented themselves before the public. They were loved and hated so that the cheers and boo's from the crowd muddled together in an indistinguishable roar. Your heart pounded to realize how close you were to the action of the day, to realize how viscerally the opinion of the public mattered to the fate of the royals.

You watched Caracalla pull some face, pointing a finger at a citizen who cursed his name on the families walk toward the colosseum. You watched women line themselves along the path Geta walked, his politics be damned. You watched as he turned to look back, smile stretching wider as his eyes found yours. You watched then, as Julia stalled to join your side, and failed to calm the quickening of your heart as she held your arm to walk with you. None of this was how it used to be.

The woman leaned in, explaining exactly how today's games were meant to go. She yammered about the history of it all and pulled a few giggles from your throat as she threw in some personal deadly details about old games she'd bore witness too.

Once you'd all reached the colosseum, the brothers were ushered off to find their royal box, while Julia strategically placed you just outside of there. She frowned when she reminded you could not be allowed to join them further than here, but smiled when she hoped you'd enjoy the day's events. You watched her saunter off, stopping a guard and pointing in your direction before she disappeared in the box all the while. The guard locked his gaze with yours, offering a respectful nod as you considered your surroundings. 

All kinds of vendors and stalls were open around every entrance of the arena. All kinds of people wandered about, sampling food and drink, playing cards at tables until the event's kicked off. You decidedly began to wander about, accepting free samples and smiling to people you'd seen in passing. You shielded your eyes from the sun and noticed that guard trailing nearby, keeping a steady eye on your every move. 

When the crowds began to clamor toward the inside of the arena, you realized the games were about to begin. You downed a free sample of wine and found your way to watch from afar. Caracalla and Geta were announced in, and greeted with that same muddled roar of praise and disregard. You watched as Geta ate up the attention. You watched as Caracalla fought against it, spitting and arguing with some poor guard in the box. There was something so volatile in the air, as if one wrong move from either of the emperors would unleash havoc. The public was only one excitable realization away from realizing their joined forces could rip the royals from limb to limb. Geta was quick to shift focus to the games, demanding the publics energy be reserved for the battles that were begun, turning the spotlight away from himself. It was a tactical move, but you worried if he and his brother did not change the course of their political actions soon, no amount of pantomime could save them.

Another few swallows of wine helped ease your nerves, all the while. You'd forgotten how on edge the public had only just seemed. You'd been entranced by Geta's presence even from so many miles away. His distraction's had worked wonders on the crowd, his excitable reactions to the winners and losers kept the arena entertained for the better, for now. He kept you entertained all the while. When he would tear his gaze from the games every once and a while, you liked to imagine he was looking for wherever you might've been.

When you wandered off to find more wine, the guard that had been following you stayed back, glued to the battle that was happening. You returned with two cups, to share. The guard tried to deny your kindness but caved with a smile at your insistence to have at least one drink. It was a day of festivities after all. 

"We thought you weren't going to make it!" A voice familiar echoed over your ear. Turning from the view of the battle, you found your friends. You chuckled as you greeted the small brunette, buzzed enough off wine to shrug your nerves away. You couldn't exactly explain how you ended up here, to them. Or how you'd come to dress so finely. But they didn't pester you too much about it, drunk all the same. The girls swarmed you with giggles and hello's and how are you's. 

"Change your mind, have you?" The blonde teased, raising her brow at you. But your mind was too slow to understand why. 

"This is the gate the royals always leave from. Isn't it obvious?" The small brunette pointed, waving her hand to gesture around. When you glanced up, you noticed a particularly increasing population of young women that had begun to collect around the area. Geta always famously exited from this path, and always famously collected a girl or two to follow him back to the royal hall.

"Oh, no, I just sort of-" You stumbled over words, "ended up on this side." How were you to explain this all away? "I actually... should be going now that it's nearing an end. Get home before sun set." This reason sounded good enough in your head to speak aloud, as you began to walk backward, waving to your friends all the while. You spun on your heels, anxious to get away, making up your mind to head home should that be your only sound escape. But you'd barely walked a dozen paces before that guard was gliding close and halting your leave.

"You're not to go. I'm to see you united with her highness when she passes through that exit."

"Is- is that what she ordered?" You asked meekly, looking up to the roman soldier who loomed over you with his bulky build, yet kind eyes. The man did not speak, but lifted a hand to spin you around by the shoulder, placing a gentle palm there to guide you back where you came from. You saw your friends notice, perplexed gaze's settled on your march as you stepped closer to where they'd stayed waiting.

Caracalla was the first one to storm through the arched entrance, scowling at you on his storm toward his chariot. But then, a spectator, too drunk for his own good, began to slur insults to the emperor. The fellow had barely began cursing Caracalla's name, before the ruler stepped close to grab the man by his throat, strong enough to lift him to the tips of his dirty toes. The citizen struggled to breathe, squirming for relief. Caracalla shouted in the man's face, something about knowing better. The ruler let go, the citizen dropped to the floor in a rattled gasp. When Caracalla demanded the guards that followed him, to slaughter the citizen still choking for breath on the ground, you'd had enough.

"Do not do that. Have you such little mercy?" It wasn't to be helped, the way your body and mind worked together to force out a shout. You should have been more afraid of the way Caracalla turned to fix his fiery gaze on you. But rage at the senseless violence was all you could feel. Yet, the guards were already slashing their swords at the belly of the the citizen, so he might suffer still before passing. 

Caracalla stood considering you, longer than you expected. The crowds fell silent, the only noises were the hoarse cries from the dying man. And your heart hammering in place. 

Caracalla moved his look from you, to the guard steady at your side, and back to you. His head shook, and a scoff left his throat. He turned to leave, kicking the man he'd murdered on his exit. Your body shook with panic. Your stomach churned at the realization that you'd escaped yet another royal execution. 

The crowds parted to let Caracalla pass, steering clear of the angry little man. Your friends seemed to think of walking closer to where the guard had stalled you to wait. But their confounded and horrified expressions morphed into something more wonder filled, as their collective eye unfocused from your position. 

You were too busy assessing your friend's questioning gazes to see he'd appeared. But instead, you heard Geta's voice in your ear. 

"I'd say you're lucky he spared you. But I think there are more powerful forces than luck working on your side."  You heard him say. Your friend's gazes had no doubt been locked on the emperor, but soon fell more perplexed onto you, yet again. And then you realized everyone's eyes had shifted to you. The entire crowd that had watched you speak against the vindictive leader just ahead. The same crow that had pushed closer to wait for a scrap of attention from the man that spoke to only you, now, was casting a collective stupefied glare right at you. 

"I'd like to take you away now, but I'll have you wait on my mother. She hasn't stopped bringing up your name since this day has begun." Geta stayed speaking lowly, and you nodded to assure you understood, keeping your nervous gaze cast on the crowd that had fixated their attentions on you. "Do not worry though, tonight we can debrief in more ways than one." 

You had to turn and grin at him then, pleased to see he'd waited to share a smirk with you. He was off no sooner though, parting through the crowd with little acknowledgement their way. Your friends kept their slack jawed gazes set on you as you wondered for a beat about saying something to them. But then Julia was sweeping you away, resting her clutch at the bend of your arm like she'd done before.

They watched you leave, just as everyone had. You shot your friends a quick shrug and an expression you hoped they'd understand meant you'd catch them all up later, if ever you could dream up a good enough fib.

Unlike your journey here, Julia asked all about you on your trek back. You gave thoughtful answers, not daring to spare the truth of your meager life to the woman, but hoping the way you spoke of it would endear you to her somehow. It wasn't like you needed to be adored by Julia. But you did long to be respected in some basic human way, by the royal woman.

///

That evening went on strangely. Caracalla locked himself away in the furthest parts of the halls. No one dared speak about him in his absence. No one had dared to allude to his fury or righteousness at all. Instead, the tone of the evening was rather merry. You shared a meal with a mile long table of strangers, glad all the while to have been welcomed in the celebrations of the day. You gabbed with socialites and senators alike, until one by one they headed for home and bed. Try as you might to take your leave, Julia would not let you. She only kept dragging you from guest to guest to introduce. Until you were the last one standing. Until even Julia had made her exit from the room, Geta too. Leaving you to wait in the parlor until further command. 

A pair of guards stood unmoving near the doors, as you sat at the head of the dirty table. There were plates and glasses and saucers left awry, covered in crumbs for the kitchen maids to come and handle. There was a steady crackling fire on the opposite end of the room. There was wallpaper that didn't put your senses at ease the way the kind in Geta's room often had.

When the sound of the door opening stirred you from blank thoughts, you shifted to stand. Julia was easing into the room, smile and curls soft as ever. Eye's full of a certain kind of knowing. Behind her, Geta followed. His mother spoke your name, as if to grab your attention, as if she didn't already have it. 

"You're not to return home." The woman began, gliding to stall before you. Geta shouldered past her, moving to stand at your side and watching as his mother spoke. "I've noticed you come and go, as I mentioned." Julia went on. "And I've noticed how my son has been less fraught, during the time you've been around. I've heard you speak, and I've seen you command a presence in any room you enter."  

"What are you on about? What is this?" Geta demanded, that brooding gaze of his beginning to darken as understanding evaded him. 

"As good as she has been for you, son, I'm certain she'll benefit our empire just as well." Julia glanced to Geta before her gaze settled unmovably on yours. Your chest filled with the weight of a realization. Your mind buzzed with wonders of her implications. "You will marry in two days time. Enough to spread the news across the public, and plan something grand."

"Marry?" You breathed, feeling your heart hammer in your stomach. 

"You actually don't-" Geta began.

"I actually am watching this empire teeter on the edge of collapse." Julia interrupted Geta, causing his jaw to clench and his brow to darken further than before. "If we do not start moving more intentionally in the direction of change, you and your brother will ruin everything. If you marry this girl, you will marry someone from the very public you've been so often accused of dismissing. This girl is clearly capable of not only earning our family greater public favor. But she would be your bride, and you two together would have a better chance of making sense of this empire than your brother. Caracalla cannot be allowed to overpower your rule, Geta. Do you realize how close that idea is to becoming our reality?" Julia was insistent. "You do not have a choice. This has to happen. For all our fates." She was looking right at you again.

You were shaken, stunned, totally unprepared. Just days ago you were living such a carefree reality, all you knew were paints and pleasure by way of the emperor's hands. But now all of a sudden, all of Rome's fate depended on if you stayed standing here or made a break to sprint for the door.

"Get out." Geta pointed, coldly dismissing his mother. She began to argue back, pleading his name to listen. "Get out! I command it!" Geta was fuming, rage becoming his entire essence. You couldn't help but screw your eyes shut at the boom of his voice. You heard a guard approach to see the royal mother out of the door. She went without a fight, but insisted Geta had no choice, insisting she was already making plans to assure this fate for the both of you. As one guard saw her out of the room, the other followed, leaving you and Geta alone in the room with the ugly wallpaper.

The fire stayed crackling in the corner. The table stayed dirty. Geta began to pace, like he did, hands on his hips, head shaking in an effort to make sense of things. 

"You are quiet." He spoke up, softer than he had spoken all night.

"I am choiceless." You warbled. Hadn't this already happened to you? Hadn't you already been forced to wed a man for the betterment of some kind of future? You thought you'd already paid your dues. You thought freedom was supposed to be promised at some point. You thought you'd had it, just days ago. But even still you were captured by the powers that be. It wasn't like you were opposed to being Geta's bride. But you were rocked to realize it didn't matter what you wanted, in this life. It was just going to keep happening to you, against you, despite you.

You watched as Geta sped up his pace, thinking. His eyes danced as if to keep up with an invisible coming together idea. And then his moving stalled. He rolled his shoulders and let his eyes rake up your figure, like they so often did. Geta's brown stare bore into yours, as if to search for an answer to a question not yet asked.

"You claim to have been born to die." Geta gestured, sauntering closer. "I claim to have been born to rule. But we have failed to consider what there could be to live for. I have reason to believe my answer to living lies within you." His speech was imploring. He meant it. He only ever spoke with authority, by that you weren't surprised. But by his meaning, by the tenderness in it, you were. "As ruler, I shall make the final decision regarding my mother's demands. But... I shall also wait here in silence as you choose your fate. I will command no guard after you should you flee. This time, this wedding, you'll be allowed to choose."

"Should I flee, will there be fines? Will I forever be in your debt somehow?"

"I shall see to it that you owe nothing to this empire if you leave it. But you must leave it entirely, you must go far from here. It's the only way I could make these guarantees."

"Should I stay..."

Geta loomed closer, until his breath fanned across your face. So close you could see the golds speckled across the brown of his eyes. Close enough to kiss.

"I would see to your value." Geta breathed, stalling an inch before you. "Your profile on coins. Your voice heard above others. Your throne... My bed... I'd see to it."

Your heart hadn't stopped pounding since this conversation spun to life. But it beat harder yet, at Geta's tone and implication now.

"Take my hand." Geta held an open face palm before you. "Or turn away." You glanced to the door. 

You considered all that lie beyond it, the quiet, the vastness. The race to the finish line of life would be slow and steady outside these doors. Your freedom would be quiet and lonely. Then you turned to Geta and saw a different kind of future to consider. And then a thought dawned on you. What if the freedom you'd always been in search of, was not just yours alone? What if an entire empires fate had always been pressed into the back of your heart, clear in the front of your mind only now that you understood everything Julia had said. You thought of your latest painting. The one with the sheep and the sunset. You wondered if maybe it was a sunrise all along. 

Your hand flexed, knuckles deciding between clenching and raising up. Until suddenly your palm was in Getas. Until suddenly your fate, and all of Rome's, had been sealed.

///

Part 2 Coming Soon...

[silovsmenot]

Family Skate | Artūrs Šilovs

Requested by anon…

i love ur writing sm.... what if i suggest an imagine where reader and Arturs go on a skate date, like at an ice rink or something, and he teaches reader how to skate. i think that would be really cute idk that man is soooo beautiful and i want to hold his hand

WARNINGS: As usual, this is just pure fluff. PAIRING: Artūrs Šilovs x f!reader. NOTES: I would sell my soul to hold his hand, ngl. I haven't proof read this, so hopefully no major issues. WORD COUNT: 1792

The closing of the season was bittersweet. The team had fought so hard, but with the 3-2 loss in game seven, the Canucks were eliminated from the playoffs. You’d sat and comforted Artūrs all night, barely sleeping as he sat silently and over-thought every decision and move he made in that game.

The loss was nowhere near his fault, but he blamed himself — as would many of the guys, if you’d have to guess. The wives and girlfriends group chat was quiet for the first time in weeks, only the occasional message coming through about how proud each of the partners was of the players. Messages that you showed to Arty, but nothing could draw him out of his slump.

The next day was not easy, nor the day after that. All of the guys were second-guessing themselves and speaking little of what happened. The press-conference came and went, Arty and the boys answering every question that came their way with the lingering dark clouds above their head. But there was a light on the horizon, something that you knew that Arty was looking forward to — whether he’d admit it or not.

It was no secret that you couldn’t skate. Sure, you could stand on skates and, with knees bent and arms clinging to the side, you could shuffle around the boards. But that wasn’t exactly what you’d call skating. Artūrs had long spoken about taking you to the rink when things were quiet, of teaching you to skate and you were excited for the day.

And with the season now over, and the ice days from being lifted, the Canucks organisation would put on their annual private family skate. It would be your first with the team, and while you’d met and become close with the majority of the other wives and girlfriends, it was a daunting idea.

You’d smiled from ear to ear the night before when Art had appeared in the living room of the small condo beside the Rogers Arena with a pair of skates in your size. He’d had them sharpened and made ready all without you knowing that evening — if he was honest, it was a good escape from the weight that still rested upon him. And the sight of your smile was enough to lift a large amount of the sadness.

Unsurprisingly you were the first pair to enter the rink that morning, the short commute from the condo to the family area taking you only about five minutes with skates in one hand and the Latvian goalie claiming the other.

Weaving through doors, he held open the Canucks changing room door for you and followed close behind. There, you paused for a moment — even now, it looked so empty. It came with a solemn feeling in your chest, but the names were still above the stalls and you spotted his  name quickly. Art sat you down first, kneeling at your feet as he worked the laces of the new skates.

“Does that feel okay?” 

You quickly nodded in response, hands clasping yours as you pulled onto your feet. You wobbled lightly, but could stand. He led you a few steps, then back and finally nodded in success.

“They suit you.” Art whispered as he leaned in close, planting a tender kiss upon your cheek which still bought a pink flush to your cheeks. He always told you that you looked beautiful, and you’d never tire of hearing it. 

You stayed standing as he sat to tie his own laces, shifting on your feet to get to grips with the feeling — turning to smile and wave as the door would open for the first flood of players and their partners. Teddy Blueger and Monique were the first to come in your direction, Teddy giving you a playful and light nudge with a hand ready to catch if you stumbled. Both Teddy and Artūrs were quick to grab hands and pull into hugs, exchanging fast words in their native language while Monique rolled her eyes lightly to you.

“And they’re off.” She teased in a hushed voice, pulling you with her to sit. The changing room would soon buzz with life, and with the bare stalls, it was a welcome change. It wasn’t right when it was quiet and bare.

Bodies soon began filing down the corridor toward the ice, the busy chatter filling the silence nicely as you and Artūrs would intertwine fingers once more. It felt strange to him now, walking down the tunnel to an empty ice rink. Of course, it was no different to training, but everything had ended so abruptly… It still hadn’t quite sunk in for him.

But whatever he was thinking, he hid it well from you — the smile still firmly glued to his lips as he watched your face light up.

“Just take it slow, Art.” You quietly said as you neared the ice, your boyfriend stepping onto the ice without hesitation or any kind of shift to his stance. This was just like walking to him, but to you? You weren’t so sure.

He offered a second hand, ready to guide and balance you as soon as you stepped out onto the ice. With a steadying breath, you took the step — perhaps a little eager as your skates attempted to slip from beneath you immediately, the hands of Artūrs rescuing you before you lost your blades.

The soft sound of his laughter followed instantly, and it was so contagious to you. Any sense of embarrassment was lost in his laugh, the first signs of actual joy on his face since game seven. You didn’t care that it was at your expense, you were just so relieved to see it. And the fluttering would instantly return to your stomach.

“Are you alright?” He spoke through calming laughter, pulling you close to him with a soft thud of bodies. There, he could hold you tight as he made slow skating motions backwards. He wouldn’t spare a glance over his shoulder for he was too enraptured by your gaze, slightly shaken up but still entirely captivated by him.

“I’m fine, just go slow.”

And he would from that moment. You’d had your near-tumble-experience, and that was enough for him. He held both of your hands, skating backwards as you struggled on forwards. He’d give you tips with every movement, bending your knees, not leaning forward, keeping your head up and so many more. You were struggling to keep a note of each tip, but you were comfortable within his hands — Artūrs wouldn’t let you fall.

With every lap of the large rink, you felt more comfortable. The Latvian goalie gave a little raise of his brow as you released one of his hands, to skate side-by-side with a little confidence. You were less step-skating now, and more gliding. He was certainly pulling you along, but you were trying and he was thriving on the sight of you trying your best with this.

“Keep your knees bent, push forward with your skate — yes, just like that.” He encouraged with each passing moment, grin growing exponentially as you were doing well. 

Artūrs was a pretty good teacher and an even better balancing point. He did a good job of distracting you from everyone else around, skating with ease or children stumbling and giggling. You were in your little skating world with him, the occasional squeeze of your hand as silent encouragement from him.

You were enjoying yourself. Even when he released your hand with a playful wiggle of his brows, skating backwards in front of you, just out of reach — the look of mischief clear upon his face.

“Artūrs, come back here. Please!” You cried out through the lingering laughter, the confidence leaving your motion instantly. Your gliding movements turned back to awkward step-skating, with hands outstretched for him which only served to have you leaning forward.

“Straighten up, y/n.” He calmly said, stopping himself before you. He was close enough to grab you if you fell, but far enough that you couldn’t just hold onto him. “You can do it.”

You weren’t sure if you could, but you concluded that there was no harm in trying — as long as he caught you. You didn’t want the bruises.

Another heavy, steadying breath parted your lips as you straightened up. Your hands at your sides as you took the first step, pushing your bladed foot forward as he’d taught you. You clenched your eyes shut, half expecting the tumble into his arms or the ice, but you drifted. So you took the second step, skating gliding forward — you took the next step, and the next, until you were skating alone.

Artūrs looked simply triumphant as he watched you, weaving backward without even lifting his skates. He didn’t even try to hide the pride on his face from you as you sheepishly laughed to yourself, hands balled as you stopped yourself from dancing (knowing you’d definitely go tumbling with that).

“You’re a natural, y/n. Want to join the team?” The voice of Jack Hughes shouted as he neared, shooting a cheeky wink in your direction and was gone as quickly as he appeared. You batted his hands away with a dramatic swatting of your hand, gaze playfully narrowing in a glare toward him which only served to make the captain laugh.

Almost as soon as you were getting truly confident with it, the session was over. The honking of the zamboni turning all heads, and the rink staff standing ready at the gate. Couples and families were quick to file off the ice, till it was only you and Art making your way toward the nearest gate. He waited on the other side, hand ready to support you as you’d make the first step off the ice.

In comparison to your step onto the ice, you did it with grace. There was no tumble this time. And as they often did, fingers tangled together at the first touch of his hand — the smiles immediately upon both faces.

“Did you enjoy that?” Art was quick to ask. Your head nodding swiftly and truthfully. “You did really well, I’m very proud of you.”

You simply melted to hear him say that. And you’d only melt further as he leaned down, pulling you into him as lips would collide. His free hand softly playing with the strands of your hair, you could feel how he smiled into the kiss and it was intoxicating.

“Come on, lovebirds — we’re going for a drink!” A voice shouted from down the corridor, abruptly breaking the kiss with a shared laugh. You raised a hand to acknowledge the shout, foreheads resting together as you simply revelled in the moment together.

[princesssmars]

another one of my dreams that i have to write out because it flabbergasted me and two of my friends. but this time about hazel from bottoms.

ok, reader is the new girl at school. in my dream i was kind of a loser (accurate) but because i can write what i want (and i've read @ptolemaeacles cheerleader headcanons ten times) im changing it.

so reader is trying out to be cheerleader! it helps you make a few friends, isabel being the best one because she’s amazing, beautiful, and a little weird in a really endearing way. she finds you interesting, given your natural talent for dancing and how despite doing vulgar dance moves on the football field, off of it you can be a shy and sweet person!

because of this isabel, brittany and you are pretty much always together. and since they're popular and seen everywhere, that means you are seen everywhere!

which means hazel cant take a fucking break.

walking to sit with pj and josie during lunch and means almost having a heart attack when she sees you handing out flyers for the next school event, looking so ethereal in your cheer uniform she nearly trips over herself.

or when every morning she sits two rows over from you in math class, not so sneakily staring at you for minutes at a time while doing her worksheets.

despite being close to a genius, she thinks there's no way in hell you have ever noticed her. never seen the way your eyes will drift to her when she's sitting in the bleachers while, you're practicing, how you're heart will race when the teacher is calling names for project partners with the chance that the brunette could be in your group.

so sure you had a crush that was going nowhere, but you had a nice bunch of new friends, so people we're starting to like you!

all except one.

mrs. fucking barnes.

for whatever reason, your second period english teacher had decided on your first day to make your senior year a living fucking hell.

put a good amount of effort into an essay? you get a d minus!

want to share a comment you had about the book the class is reading? shut up silly, jeff is going to popcorn read and stutter over a basic sentence!

but one friday, you decided to skip class and the next week she went ballistic.

now, since moving to town, you had noticed that the people here were a little odd, regularly seeing a normal interaction or conversation go to the extreme in seconds.

so, when you're hovering over the toilet in the girls bathroom, a small thought in your brain that loves to say what if's asks: what if somebody bursted in here right now?

when you finish and stand up to pull your jeans up, only to be interrupted when the stall doors bust open with a loud bang! you think for split second that god can literally hear your thoughts and is making you pay for whatever sins you've committed.

those sins must have been fucking murder to make up for how mortified you felt standing in a cramped girls bathroom stall, your pants down with three people staring at you/

the first, mrs. barnes, wearing a look thats a mix between anger and regret.

the second is nettie brown, a girl you recognized from your art class who you remember complimented your heels and you did the same for her coat.'

and then, standing in front the sinks with eyes that look as big as fucking saucers, hazel callahan herself.

your brain catches up to your body and you manage to splutter out a string of curses and yells, forcing the door back closed as the teachers splutters out an excuse about someone telling her you had started doing weed in the bathrooms.

you hear her and some more shoes shuffling out of the bathroom, taking a minute to gather your bearings before you leave the bathroom. when you open the door again you rest your hands on the counter, your eyes closed as you take a breath. when you look up to your reflection, in your peripheral you see a figure standing awkwardly at the back of the bathroom, blue eyes avoiding looking at you.

"hazel?" you ask under your breath, turning around to look at her dead on. she flinches to attention like a child called to attention.

"uh...i just wanted to make sure that you were alright, what she did was really fucked up."

"oh," you mouth, grateful that after something so embarrassing this girl who you barely knew was waiting in a crappy bathroom to make sure you were alright. if it was possible your crush on her just grows. "thank you. that means a lot to me."

her face lights up so brightly you think it could light up a city.

"no problem! i mean, really who cares that much about weed, anyway? i've never cared about bush anyway-"

the room gets silent.

as she quickly rushes out an apology and leaves, all you can think about is how its weird you've been shocked like this twice in a span of ten minutes, and that you have got to ask hazel callahan on a date.

i made this a lot cuter than it was in my dream. i was in the bathroom, looking at these really nice coats on the counter ?? when the door opened, hazel just said "y'know ive never minded bush" and the sheer confusion made wake up.

i put my senior year english teacher in here because. i still hate that bitch.

[typicalopposite]

zombie AU 🫣

because @blue-arts-stuff made this little gem right here (go give it all the love because *chefs kiss* the angst was angsting there) and it wormed its way into my brain and would not leave me alone until I made this!

CHECK THE TAGS FOR TRIGGER I BEG YOU!

Buck is tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally… just so goddamn tired. 

A storm is coming… he can feel it in the plates and screws that hold his leg together. He’d always thought that was a myth, but sure enough every big storm he feels a twinge of pain around them. They should get moving if they are going to make it before the rain starts. 

He scrumages through what supplies are available in the remains of the little corner shop. He only takes what he truly needs—which isn’t much—and leaves all that he can for whoever passes through next. Outside he can hear distant thunder, he needs to hurry. He unzips his bag and stuffs the supplies inside, catching a glimpse of the picture frame; he takes it out. 

Their wedding day. 

The smell of the ocean in the background, the sound of the cheers from their family as they vowed to have and to hold each other through it all… the sight of Tommy dressed in his tux, so handsome, so in love, so happy. 

They were so happy… for a while. They didn’t get nearly enough time before the outbreak.

Then it was long days, and longer nights of fighting to stay alive; fighting to keep everyone they cared about alive. So in vain, and slowly they watched as their family dwindled down until there were just a handful of them left. 

It was supposed to be a simple night run. They needed water. They needed more medicine. The store was so close… but not close enough. The attack was brutal. More lives lost. 

Tommy got bit. 

“Ev- Evan, baby… listen to me,��� he tried, as Buck panickedly tried to clean out the wound. 

“No. I can— I can fix this… just let me think.”

“Evan.”

“We— We’ll cut off your arm,” he suggests. “It’s worked before…”

“It’s already spreading, baby. Look…” Tommy pulls up the bloody sleeve revealing the bluish green streaks running towards his neck and chest. “It’s too late… you have to.” 

“No.”

“Baby, we promised each other—” Tommy begged, tears falling from his eyes, the infection visibly creeping up his neck. Buck frantically shook his head, tuning out Tommy’s cries. “Evan!” He gasped. “Shoot me! Please!”

“No! I can’t!”

***

Buck wipes his eyes and slides the frame back into the bag. He slowly rises to his feet and slowly makes his way over to the bathroom and pushes the door open. Loud snarling, grunting and gurgling—that would normally send him into fight or flight mode—comes out of the darkness. He shines his flashlight into the room, stepping inside and unclipping the chain from one of the stalls. “Come on, sweetheart… we’re almost there.” 

They walk through the empty streets of what used to be LA; Buck leading Tommy (wrapped safely in a makeshift straight jacket, and wearing a muzzle) by the thick chain. The latter stumbles and growls, his head snapping this way and that, teeth chattering as he does his best to chomp at anything past the muzzle. They make it home just as the rain starts to fall. 

Buck steps inside the door, pulls Tommy through as well, and looks around at what’s left of their destroyed house—some of the mess they had made themselves in the panic to flee the infected city, some done after by people looking for shelter and supplies. He walks through the rooms, remembering the days they were filled with happy memories and life; the promise of a bright future. They were going to grow old in this house… live out the rest of their lives in this house. 

At least one of those was correct.  

He sighs, and leads Tommy up to the bedroom, securing him on the solid, sturdy, bedpost of their king size bed. He opens the bag, takes out the frame and sets it up on the bedside table. He takes out what he got from the little corner shop—a gun shop— and grits his teeth as he lifts his shirt, revealing the bite mark he’s been tirelessly trying to keep from spreading… until now. 

“Buck you have to let him go,” they had tried to tell him. “It’s not even— he wouldn’t want this… to live like this… for you to live like this…” 

He has lost so many people, the ones he didn’t lose to the virus, he lost for his impulsive, borderline insane decision. He’s been alone for a while… but at least he still had Tommy, in some way. 

Buck fights just to take in another breath, and puts a bullet into the gun. Tommy grunts and struggles against his restraints. “Almost ready,” Buck says. He is tired… but he won’t be for long. He walks over to Tommy and unhooks the chain from the bed. He looks into those glossed over eyes, gray and distant and thinks about when they were blue and bright and happy. They were happy once. Maybe they will be happy again in the next life. 

He slips a key in the restraints lock, swiftly turning it and releasing Tommy, He quickly pulls him into a hug, Tommy grabbing him back, turning his head into Buck’s neck and biting down. Buck pressing his head tight against Tommy’s. “I love you,” he says, and closes his eyes. 

The cool barrel against his cheek turns into a cool breeze and the salty smell of the ocean fills the air. Buck opens his eyes and is met with a beautiful sunset, a crowded beach… and Tommy, smiling at him. He blinks a few times to see if it’s all just going to disappear… 

“Hey baby, I’ve been waiting for you,” Tommy says, holding out his hand, the remnant of sunlight catching on his wedding band. Buck stares at Tommy for a moment, just taking in the sight. He smiles and takes his hand, and they join their family out by the water. 

.

.

.

It’s years later before the Buckley-Kinard house is visited again. 

Years since they were sent away to a safe haven while their parents fought off hoard after hoard, until the virus had runs its course. Those lost souls that weren’t instantly killed from the virus, or the battalion sent out to fight off the undead the virus created, eventually just rotted away until they were no longer a threat. 

“Hey Chris!” Jee calls from a bedroom. “I found something!” He stops poking around with one of his canes, rummaging for anything left to salvage from the house he spent many days of his youth, and goes to see what she found. In the back bedroom, laid out across the mattress of a tattered king sized bed, are two skeletons clinging to each other. 

“Do you think it’s them?” Jee asks. 

Chris steps closer, inspects the bodies; most notably their hands, and the matching bands they both are wearing. He looks up at the faded picture still sitting on the bedside table and smiles, a tear slipping from his eye. “Yeah… it’s them.” 

[ravenwriter16]

Hello EVERYONE!!!! This is part one of my new series, 'Creative Minds Think Alike!'

In these small snippets I will highlight some of the coolest (at least in my mind) DCA (or other, who knows) content creators!

SO think of these as a HUGE thanks to these creators for all their cool art, stories, and little worlds that they decided to share with all of us! You guys are awesome and I hope to get to your level of talent one day!

You can tell I'm not that good because this is not beta-read!

If you don't like my writing or story idea, then don't read Just a heads up, I will edit or straight up delete a fic episode if the creator I featured took offensive with how I presented them and their AUs. My intent isn't to mock or belittle them or their works

So here you are my fellow void travelers! The pilot fic episode to the series 'Creative Minds Think Alike!'. Featuring the amazing @missterious-figure! Enjoy!

The castle halls at night were truly a gorgeously horrific sight to behold. A person first trekking into this old and magnificent place would surely run away at the first shadow that seemed to move. At least the large windows allowed the moon to grace the hall with its ghostly glow.

Directly across from the windows are rows of doors, each one different from the last and never exactly the same as its neighbors. Each of these doors has a small plaque located either right next to the door, above the door, or on the door itself.

Currently walking down this strange hall is me. Good dawn, morning, afternoon, evening or night (or all of the above). I'm Ravenwriter Archivist number 16. But you can call me Raven if you want!

My boss calls me Ravenwriter16 because he doesn't want to waste breath on my title (His words not mine). I'm one of the many protecters of this castle. A Castle Archivist if you so will. I was given this title and job by none other than the Aligned Society of Creative Minds.

Not by my choice. They were short on time and randomly selected me, basically uprooting my life. For a time I was angry (and can you blame me?) but then I looked into the specifics of my duties and now I'm ready to work.

I'm no expert mind you. I'd just graduated from the academy and starting to get some control over my powers when I was shoved into this. But I love a good challenge!

But enough of this, I'm stalling.

I eye the plaques, scanning them intently. In my hands are two envelopes with containing letters I wrote earlier this week. They were for two of the millions of warriors living in the castle.

Two that I hand selected after spending hours scouring the resident scrolls (there are so MANY). I hope these two were as friendly as their scrolls stated.

After a few minutes of walking this ever-expanding hall, I finally find the door to the first warrior from my two chosen.

The door itself was made from a black natural material, not really wood, not really rock, not really metal. It seemed to morph between those three. It did have gold trimming woven into the strange surface. Above the door was a golden plaque with silver and bronze writing.

I take in a shaky inhale, rolling my shoulders and in turn shaking my wings. My black feathers bristling before settling back down as my wings fold into my back.

I tug at my black hood, making sure it was secured over my head. My eyes dart to my boots and I lift my feet up one by one to inspect them for mud and dirt.

phew...not even a speck.

Steeling my resolve (and accepting my possible death wish) I place my gloved hand on the door. I push the surprisingly heavy door open.

It creaks o it's hinges as it swings inward. the sounds of birds flying and water crashing startles me. I look into the room in awe. It was like someone took every biome known to man and mixed it all together to harmonize in this relm.

There was a desert in the distance to my left and a...a FROZEN WASTE LAND to my right?! Forest and grassy plains, hills and mountains?! This place seems to have it all.

I step inside and gently close the door behind me. To protect my letters I place them in my side pouch as I journey deeper into this world.

While trekking further and further into the room, my surroundings start to shift. Jungle recedes into moss covered, vine strangled stone. I could see stone arches and tapestries that have aged and withered over time.

I reach a clearing. The temple's main room. There was no ceiling exclude for the tree leaves. To my left was more ancient stone that opened up to the jungle more and to my right was a magnificent waterfall.

in front of me was a giant tree. It's roots weaved into a seat, a throne if you will. Carvings grace the wood, but they don't look man made.

My wings spread out in alarm when something brushes against them. Something smooth and cold. Whipping my head to my wings, I freeze and gasp.

A floating glowing orb floats in the air. Bobbing up and down in small movements. It moves closer to my face and boops my nose. My eyes widen and I laugh.

"Well hello there little one." I greet, cupping my hands underneath it. It flies down and rests in my palms. it glows a tad brighter and its color changes to a neon green.

It vibrates in my hand, a sign of its content. I laugh, "Wow. I've read about Relm Holders, but seeing one in real life is-,"

"Spectacular?"

I spin on my heels and face the throne. My checks grow warm and my wings puff up in embarrassment.

Sitting on the throne was an all-black, and I mean pitch BLACK, person with a...a uhm...

"I'm so SO sorry if this comes across as rude but uhm..." I tilt my head pointing at theirs, "Do you have a...square as a head?"

A single white eye with a white line over said eye (acting as the eyebrow) appears on the left side of their face. the eye widens.

"Oh, yeah..." the voice was feminine and held power.

I let go of the Relm holder and it zooms over to the stranger. No not a stranger...this was-

"Missterious-figure?"

"How do you know my name?" she asks, standing up. She holds the Relm Holder in her hand and I watch as scenes of hooves, horns, antlers, fairy wings (?) swamps, metalic colors shimmering with different color eyes, pass through the orb.

She blows on the Relm Holder and the orb evaporates into millions of fireflies. I follow some of them as they fly in spirals up towards the sky.

"Ahem?"

I snap my gaze up to her's and nervously laugh. "S-sorry. Allow me to introduce myself..."

I get down on my knee and put a hand on my chest as i bow y head, "I am Ravenwriter Archivist 16. I'm the-,"

"New watcher of the castle?" she asks with a tilt of her head. "What happened to Mr. Honer?"

"He was uhm...dismissed by the council." I risk a glance up at the. i yelp and fall on my bottom when I find how close they are. They look down at me with a raised brow.

"You are jumpy." she states calmly while i try to steady my heart. She offers her hand to help me up and I take it with a small smile.

"Thank you-AAAAAA!"

Hands grab me from behind and lift me up by my armpits. My wings flap in agitation as I'm turned around to face a golden feathered face. small blue feathers and long beautiful red feathers. White eyes shine in delight and mischief as they take in my face.

I stare in shock, mouth open. the being holding me laughs, "A new harpy from our beloved ruler~? Miss you shouldn't have!"

I yelp as I'm shoved into a very fluffy and warm chest. I try to pull away but the being, male I think, was too strong, keeping me in place with ease.

"Sun! Put her down!"

"But you made her for us, my queen! Why would I let go of such a lovely gift~?"

"She's not mine! She's the new Watcher-,"

I'm dropped immediately. I yelp and my wings spread out in pain. I stand up and rub my hip, "Oww..."

"I wish you told me that before I touched the dirty thing." Sun tsks, crossing his arms and swiveling his head to the side with his nose up.

"I'm not that dirty--YOUR TAIL!" My mumbling morphs into awe.

'What?" Sun glances at me with a raised brow. His eyes drift to his GORGEOUS golden tail feathers. "Did you get them dirty?"

I let his insult breeze over, too star-struck by his beauty. He smirks smugly and I hear Missterious-Figuren groan and roll her eye.

When she clears her throat, I shake my head, snapping out of my stupor. I face her, eyes averted and rubbing the back of my neck in embarrassment.

"Please don't feed his ego. It's already too big..." she sighs.

"I'm your creation, darling~." Sun croons, sauntering over to Missterious-figure and draping himself over her. He nuzzles into her neck, his feathers around his neck bristling.

"Uhm," I hold up my two index fingers, "Should I come back later-,"

"No. No this is probably a good time to talk. Peacock Eclipse is out checking in on my smaller boys, and Peacock Moon is trying to get the jump on Centaur Moon...Again..."

I snort but I cover my mouth when Missterious-figure tilts her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. That's just hilarious to me...I mean after reading about your inclusive world and all." I nervously chuckle.,

"Cool." She pets Sun's head and he leans into her touch even kissing her palm. "Sooooo, did you come here to introduce yourself or-,"

"OH! Right..." I turn my attention to my side pouch. Some of items clinking together while I search for her envelope.

Sun perks up with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He leans forward to get closer but Missterious-figure slaps him. He gasps and holds his throbbing cheek as he gives her puppy-dog eyes.

She returns his look with a pointed look.

"Here we are!" I pull out the envelope and hold it out to her "This is an introduction letter from me with more of my contact information in case you have any questions, complaints, or concerns about the castle. And there's also some papers that need your signature."

She takes it from my hand and turns to her left. She looks at me and smiles, "I take it you need these back by a certain date?"

My wings puff up as I nod my head, "Yes, but I can convince the council for more time if you're busy-,"

"You don't have to do that...If you'll follow me to my lounge, I can sign these papers and send you on your way..."

"That would be great, thank you." I return her smile with a small one of my own. I go to follow her when she starts walking but a towel flies at me, smacking me in the face.

I pull it off and glare at Sun. He harrumphs and points to the towel, his silver glove shining in the sunlight as well as his feathers. "Clean yourself. I don't want any of your filth getting on the carpet."

With that he turns his back to me and walks after Missterious-figure. I can't help but stare as he swishes his hips, his tail feathers glittering as he walks.

I smack myself in the face with my wings. I shake my head and bite the inside of my cheek. FOCUS!

I wipe my face with the towel to appease the giant...handsome bird man, then follow after the two.

I try not to look around that much. I didn't want to impose more than I already have.

I was happy that Missterious-figure was so opened minded towards this whole...'New Castle Archivist' stuff. But I know I shouldn't take her kindness for passiveness. Her form I saw her in was her...calmer form so to speak. At least that's what I assume.

If she saw me as a threat though...I would be dead in seconds. She was one of the Head Defenders for a reason...

I was too deep in my head that the walk to the lounge blurred by. It was still a ruin temple theme, but now there are couches, plush chairs, red carpet, and even some hammocks.

A small desk was pushed to the side and that's were Missterious-figure was looking over the papers. Sun was draped over a couch, pulling at her pants, trying to coax her into paying attention to her.

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, crossing and uncrossing my arms. My eyes lock onto the window that gave a spectacular view of the grassy planes. I see a herd grazing and is that a yellow unicorn-,

"Sun stop...Alright! This looks fine to me."

I turn my head to her. My eyes widen when she uses a bronze peacock tail feather as a quill. She dips the tip into a golden inkwell then leaves her signature on all the dotted lines the papers required.

She places the quill back into the inkwell and pats the papers so that they were evenly stacked. She turns around and walks towards me, Sun whining that she was out of range of hold.

She holds out the papers for me to take. "I'm impressed with how these all fit in that tiny envelope."

I take the papers with a small thank you, "Yeah, nothing a little compact spell could fix. Thank you again for signing these. I know paperwork isn't the greatest of things to do...."

Missterious-figure shrugs then groans when Sun whines for her again. She looks over her shoulder at the dramatic harpy. "Behave or I'll cut your time short and hand out with Reptile you."

"No~!" Sun whines giving her puppy eyes.

She rolls her eye and looks back at me with a tired smile. I smile back and turn to leave, "Thank you so much for your time."

"Don't mention it."

"If you need anything, feel free to stop by my mushroom."

"M-mushroom?" she blinks at me and I give her a confused stare. "What happened to the Archivist office?"

"Oh that!...I destroyed it...It was too cramped for me..."

"Right..."

"Thank you again, I'll see myself out."

"Stay safe. Some creations are known to sneak out." She sighs, "Especially my moon..."

"Got it." I give her a small bow and make my way out of her room. I wave at the fireflies as they flutter around me. I take one last long look at this magnificent room.

'Maybe working here won't be as bad as I thought..."

I sigh, chuckling to myself as I leave. The doors closing behind me in a soft thud.

***

That's the end of part 1!

Episode Two is HERE

Episode Three is HERE

Episode Four is HERE

Episode Five is HERE

Episode Six is HERE

Hope you've all enjoyed! Part two will be coming soon to a Tumblr near you!

Thank you @missterious-figure for letting me use you and your boys for this. Please contact me if you are unsatisfied with how I represented you in this episode!

Hope you all have a fantastic day/night! Stay awesome!

[the-fiction-witch]

Words Swirl On The page

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Sweet AF

Requested: Hi! First off I love your writing you're so talented!!!! I was wondering if you could do a Jack Dawkins x reader where the reader's mom makes them go see Dawkins because she isn't good at reading(but it's like dyslexia like what Jack has) and the reader tries to explain that she can read she just has dyslexia. Jack doesn't know what it is and the reader explains that she heard about it somewhere. I know that's not realistic towards the time period but I think it would be cute to see them bond over it. You don't have to write it if you don't want to. Have a lovely day!

Writers Notes: Fun fact! Yeah bet you guys didn't know you were gonna learn something today! Dyslexia or 'word blindness' as it was referred to earlier on was actually coined in 1887 but having been researching them estimated as early as 1877  so yeah now you have a useless fact. 

I sat and kicked my feet a little in my anxious boredom in the hospital room, my mother paced around like a madwoman, I wanted to roll my eyes at her but I knew she was just trying to help. The door opened and a man stepped in he ran a stained hand through his blonde hair moved it over to the side, a well-stained once-white shirt with billowy sleeves, and a textured blue waistcoat slightly too big for him, and a pair of dusty brown trousers. 

"Good Morning, Miss?" He greeted,

"Miss Y/l/n," I answered,

"Lovely, now what brings you to see me today?" He asked leant his elbow on the table, 

"It's her eyes, doctor!" My mother panicked,

and I let out a sigh,

"Her eyes?"

"her eyes! Her eyes doctor! I fear she may be losing her vision!"

"I am not losing my vision mother." I sighed, 

"Alright, what makes you suspicious of her losing her vision?"

"She can barely read for a girl her age!"

"Mother." I snapped,

"Alright, alright, if you could go and wait in the entryway I'll send Miss Y/l/n along when she's done." He told her clearly as annoyed with her yelling as I was, 

She nodded and happily left, she closed the door and her footsteps led away,

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair again, "she always that loud?"

"Yes," I nodded,

"Christ I'm surprised you're not bloody deaf." he chuckled which made me giggle too, "I take it you think she's mad?"

"I think she's overreacting." 

"Mothers so often do," he said, "But how is your sight really?"

"It's fine, I see you just fine, I see the room just fine."

"Fingers?" He asked putting three fingers up near my face,

"Three." I rolled my eyes, 

"Alright, alright just checking." he laughed, before he stepped away leaning on the door and putting two fingers up "Now?"

"Two." I rolled my eyes again, "I have trouble reading I'm not going blind." I told him with a slight attitude which he picked up on because his next test was to hold up one finger of course his middle,

"Now?"

"Doctor!" I protested,

"Sorry sorry" he laughed, "Well your vision seems fine"

"I know,"

"You need to anyone else about this?"

"The pharmacist in the town before we moved here looked me over."

"Ohh did he now," he glared as he came back over organizing some tools, "Bloody crackpots the lot of them."

"They say the same of doctors,"

"Oh I bet they do." he glared, "You know you need a building and a year of training to be a pharmacist? A year. I've been doing this for ten years and I'm still learning new surgeries and new procedures." 

"That does seem ridiculous but he gave me these," I said as I pulled out my glasses from my pocket,

"May I?"

"Sure." I shrug as I hand them over, 

He took them giving them an investigate with his young between his teeth, "You don't wear them?"

"I don't see the point,"

"They help?"

"No."

"I see, not stall doesn't make reading any easier at all?"

"No. if anything worse because they keep falling off my face."

"Yeah eyeglasses aren't the most comfortable." he chuckled, "Ahh well no wonder they don't help they are barely even anything I wouldn't even class these a strength one you may as well just be looking through plain old window glass." He said, "And there is a huge scratch in the left lens." 

"Yeah, I threw them across my room,"

"Fair enough," He chuckled, "Well If I were you I wouldn't even bother with them either." He said, "If anything they are probably making you more strained and stressed." he said finishing looking them over, I opened my hand to take them back but his response was to snap them in his hand, 

"Doctor!"

"useless rubbish." he said as he threw them away, "but I'll check over just to be sure," he said as he came close and checked my eyes with some magnifiers and such doing the dance I was so used to, look left, look right, up, down, how many fingers, how many lights, so on and so forth. The only thing of note about it was of course now... strangely intimate such an exam is given the doctor had to stand with one of his feet planted between my legs at points his face inches from my own his breath across my skin, and I admit it made me a little squirmy in my seat given... he was rather an attractive man. "Doctor Dawkins by the way, I never said."

"Ohh of course, pleasure doctor." I nodded,

"Hummm... interesting," He said, "I can't see anything wrong with your eyes no damage, no cloudiness or anything, and your sight seems perfectly fine. You may have a very mild astigmatism but it wouldn't be causing you any problems with reading or sight if that's even what I'm seeing."

"Astigmatism?" 

"It's a fairly new thing, a cornea that's stretched into an irregular shape. Instead of being shaped round, the corneas of people with astigmatism are often oblong. But I mean... if that even is what I am seeing here and I'm not confident it's so minute that it wouldn't be giving you any issues." he said before he grabbed a book and handed it to me on a page, "read the words for me I'll watch your eyes,"

I nodded and looked at the page but immediately the cream paper and black ink began to fuzz and blur together, the words and letters seemed to dance and change the spacing of the letters going from close to miles within an instant, as it all read like...

'E v      ery     thin  g ha    s it  swon  ders, ev  en d      arkne    sand sile    nceand    I l    ear      n, what     tev      erstate I     ma      y b   ein, the     reinto b  e c    ont   ent.'

"Interesting, it's not your eyes that much is clear," He said, "But still you're struggling to read?"

"Yes," I nodded,

"Can you describe what's making it difficult?"

"It's like... the words are dancing."

"Dancing?"

"Like they won't stay still, everything moves and changes, and the spacing changes I feel like I'm trying to read letters on a bunch of bustling sheep."

"... The words swirl on the page?" 

"Yes!" 

"Really?!"

"Yes, exactly how did you know?"

"I- I get that too."

"You do?"

"yeah, I uhhh I've never met anyone else who does," He blushed a little, he sat down beside me and we looked a the book together, "to you are the words moving around?"

"no so many whole words more just letters,"

"Yeah! like you try and read the word there."

"Ev-Everyt- everything." I nodded, "But the E starts off here and then goes off down the page and then the V seems to want to go over there, and then the ery seems to be too squished that you can barely see the R the T seems to want to turn upside down, the H is dancing around like a damn child and then I completely disappears-" I explained and he took my hand which made me turn my face to his dropping the book,

"I- I see it like that too." 

"You do?"

"I do. I... I don't know what it's called or why it happens but I see if like that too."

"I- I thought I was going crazy."

"So did I!" He gleamed, "I... I've never met anyone like me before." 

"Neither have I." 

"I promise you, it's not you. It's not your eyes, it's not that you can't read or can't understand it just, whatever is makes it hard for people like us," he explained, "I. I never thought I'd find anyone who saw things the way I do." 

"me either, but... I have heard what this could be,"

"Oh?"

"I have been reading... slowly." I said and he chuckled, "About a man in Germany an academic and a surgeon specializing in the eyes, he has been researching and experimenting into what he refers to as word blindness."

"Word Blindness?" 

"That's what he calls it, word blindness or Dyslexia when the reading is impaired but no other sight or mental issues," I explained, 

"Dyslexia, well I will certainly have to read up about it, slowly." He chuckled, making me giggle too, "Sorry I just... I never thought I'd find anyone like me." 

"me either," I smiled squeezing his hand,

"Would-  would it be imposing if I asked to see you again?"

"To see me again doctor? proffesioanly or?"

"Not professionally."

"I would like that," I nodded, "we could go for a walk by the water something that doesn't involve any reading." 

"I'd like that," he chuckled, "It uhh Jack, Jack Dawkins,"

"Y/n Y/l/n," I smiled, 

"I am delighted to have met you," he smiled as he kissed my hand,

"I am too," 

[asmutwriter]

Are You Scared Yet? (Part 1)

DESCRIPTION: You're a new student at your university. You were smart and dedicated to learning. But every uni student gets up to some crazy things, right?

A/N - I have work tomorrow and instead of going to sleep for my day I'm here writing a fan fic. I make very sensible choices.

WORD COUNT: 2245

Next / Master List

WARNINGS: Reader is an introvert/anti social, mild cussing (bloody/Jesus), reader is a little judgy, mentions of drinking, mentions of sex/nudity

DISCLAIMERS

This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

Not been proof read

You take a deep breath. Living on campus was new to you so you were quite nervous to say the least. Going into the dorm rooms you hear people chatting around you. Finding your room number. 16. Opening it with the new key you had. You shut the door behind you. Placing your rucksack down onto the chair in your new room.

You’d not been in education for about a year at this point. Having had a gap year to do some exploring so you had to get back into the mindset of doing if. You rst your head back as the door knocks. SOmeone walks in "Oh hey!" your roommate says. Her bubbly personaltiy being a surprise based on the rudeness of some of the other dorm people that you’d bumped into. "Im Lucky" she comes over to you. Hugging you. You gently pat her back before she moves away. Resting a hand on her hip she eyes you up and down.

Your oversized hoodie and jeans being a contrast to her mini skirt and tight shirt. Both leaving very little to the imagination. You wihs you had the confidence to wear something like that. "Im Luna"

"Oh that is a beautiful name" she says, cuaisng you to smile. SHe hugs you again "I think we're going to be best friends" she says. ALmost squealing as she moves away from the hug. "What is it that you're studying?"

"Art and drama"

"Oh my friend did that last year. I tried but got bored. Everything I do mildly creative ends up looking like a toddler did it” you let out a soft chuckle

“So does mine but that doesn’t mean I don’t try to do it”she laughs “what do you do instead then?”

“I do psychology"

"Thats cool. I was debating doing it but decided against it” a knock at the door stops your conversation as she looks owards it

"come in". she says. SOmeone walks in.

"Lucky do you want to come see my new room?" she nods, looking at you as she stands

"DO you want to come?"

"No Im ok tha k you. Ive got to unpack" she looks at your singular rucksack but nods

"ALright then. See you later" she smiles before walking off. You grab your bag. Taking out your various items. Your diary, book, clothes, etc. SOrting it all out onto your bed before putting it away properly on your side of the room.

Youd moved in on the Saturday. Sunday having a few induction days or various groups you could join. Then Monday being peoples first day at uni. Now it was Sunday. After a night in reading yur book. Your roommate coming in during the early hours of the morning, very drunk. You got up early and explored the grounds. Going over to a stall with various cakes and such on it.

You hear someone letting out a groan beside you. "Hi there Luna"

"Did someone have a good time last night?" you look at Lucky standing next to you. Sunglasses on despite the dark weather. SHe nods. Taking the glasses off as she looks at you. A black eye adorning her face. "Jesus what happened to you?"

"I had a terrible fight. With the floor. ANd lost" you let out a slight chuckle as she picks up one of the cupcakes. The lady at the stall going to speak but she shushes her. Walking off. You grab out a fiver from your purse, placig it down and mouthing 'sorry' to her. Catching up with your new friend. SHe bites down into the cake, a moan escaping her lips as she speaks with her mouth full "That is a bloody good cake". SHe looks at you, swallowing before talking again "what did you get up to last ngiht?"

"Nothing in particualr. I read my book, had a shower, then went to bed"

"You should come out with me tonight"

"I have classes early tomorrow morning so I really shouldnt"

"Oh come on. Itll be fun!" she grabs your arm "I can introduce you to some of my friends. I think you'll like one of them. Hes handsome and he likes books to. Plus you have similar fashion tastes. Oh lets look over here" SHe drags you over to a stall. Making small talk with the person behind it. You both go round to the rest of the stalls. Meeting a couple of her other friends.

The day going past quckly. You manage to convicne your new friend to stay in the night. Inviting her and two of her other friends rund. You stay up till quite late. Talking about a whole variety of things. Sadly things that didnt overly interest you. Boys you found cute. WHat lipstick shade was the best. Hair products. Although you found the conversation lacking in intellect you enjoyed the girls company so engaged in the talk with them.

You found one of the girls was also doing art. So you agreed to walk to class together. Her name was Hope. Sitting next to her in class, you found she had a lot higher intellegence then you initially thought when yo first met her. ACtually having a decent conversation with her until your professor walked in. Then every brain cell she seemed to have rotted away as she practicly stared at her. A young woman. Probably early thirties. Eyeliner perfect, hair styled in a way that looked both messy yet neat. You chuckle slightly. You were unaware that this new friend of yours swung that way, and this was certainly an interesting and entertaining way to find out.

"Please can you all call me Destiny. I would go about the formality of you using my doctorate name but we are here to make art. Not have a tea party with the queen. So-" she says. "I want everyone to pick up their pens. Pencils. Paints. Paper mache. WHatever you need to make a piece that says 'I am me'. You have the rest of the day. I will be judging them when you all go home to some sort of party Im sure"

You pick grab out your sketch book and pencils. Starting to trace your art piece. Noticing your friend still drooling over your teacher. You nudge her. Cuasing her to fall out of the trance. SHe looks at you. Her face turning a wonderful shade of tomato red.

"How much of that did you get?"

"Soemthing about her being our destiny"

"Ok then" you laugh. Explaing to your love stricken friend what she needs to do.

Once she listened she started her piece, as did you. You did a simple piece of work. A black and white picture of yourself. Behind it a mass of colour. Tryng to show that although you appeared dull on the outside, you had a lot of fun to show to those who got to know you.

Hope links an arm with you as you leave the lecture. "Are you coming to the party tonight?"

"You know that we're here for education right? ANd npt to drink ourselves to death"

"Oh come on"

"Ive got a very good book and a film to watch though"

"You can do that any day"

"I can have a party any day" she rolls her eyes.

"Come for like... an hour. If you dont like it then you can go back to your room"

"Fine..."

"Yay!" she exclaims. "I'll be round to take ypu and Lucky at 9. SPeak of the devil!" Lucky walks up to you both. Linking an arm with you on the other side. "I was just telling Luna about our party tonight"

"Youre coming?"

"I am" she squeals. Hugging you close to her. You gently pack her back. "You can borrow one of my dresses if youd like?"

"Oh no. Im not wearing a dress"

"Yes. Yes you are" you give her an uncomfortable look "At least wear a skirt".

"Skirt but a hoodie. ANd tights"

"Deal" she holds her hand out for you to shake. To which yo do.

If this was a movie. There would be a cheesy dress up montage. WHere the popluar girl takes off your glasses and straitens your hair and your suddenly beautiful. But this isnt a movie, so you settle with them doing their makeup in your room. Playing various pop music on their 'top of the charts' CD. Putting some mascara on your, as well as a deep blue skirt paired with a grey hoodie and black tights.

You get to the partry. You stand awkwardly in the corner. Watching men and woman get more and more drunk. With each drink they seem to strip too. Leaving a lot of half naked people around you.

Lucky stuck by your side for the first hour. Getting herself drinks. She had gone off to get drinks some more 20 minutes ago and hadnt returned. Hope stuck by your side though. Not drinking, joining you in a joint sober. You did start to enjoy yourself. You were planning on going for an hour but ended up staying for 2. Not a long time compafred to most people but for you, it was a lot of time to socialise.

So you bid your friend farewell. Telling her that you were grwing tired and would see her in class the following day. SHe agrees. Seeming happy that you had a good time. Sad to see you go but understood how introverted you are.

You head back to your dorm room. WHen you get there you see a tie firmly tied around the door handle. Now, you werent necersarily the most outgong person you knew. But you did know what that meant. So you turn tail. Annoyed that your friends had managed to convince you to not take your tote bag with you book in. You guess youd check the university library and see if they had anything in there to read.

Thankfully the library was run by book enthusiasts so was open 24/7. You go inside. Smiling at the lady at the desk as she smiles back to you. You idle down the rows of books. Seeing if any screamed out at you. You found one in the fantasy isle. Picking it up you turn it to read the blurb.

"Id recomoend this book instead" a voice says. Making you jump back at the suddeness of a male voice. You thought it was only you and the librarian (who was a female). "Sorry, didnt mean to startle you"

"No. No its fine. I just wasnt expecting anyine else to be here" you say. Now that you were over your initial scare you take a look at the man. Dark hair contrasting his vibrant blue eyes. Glasses sat comfortably on his nose as he wears a blazer over a vest shirt.

"I wasnt expectinh to see anyone else either. Normally its just me here reading up on studies". DUe to his youthful featrues yete his smart attire you couldnt tell if he meant in a professor or a student kind of study. He seemed to be able to tell your confusion as he continues speaking. "I work here". He outsteetches his hand towards you. "Professor Crane". Yiu take his hand.

"Luna. Like the moon. Ironic given that I often suffer from insomnia" he chuckles. "What do you study then professor?"

"Psychology"

"No way. My friend is studying that! Lucky... I dont know her last name"

"Yes. I know Lucky" he smiles. Obviously not overly impressed by the name drop. "WHat do you study then? Assuming you do come here and havnt just decided to sneak into a unis library"

"I stidy art. Not quite the level of psychology but still good fun".

"WHat made you come here rather then go out and party?"

"I was at a party but I decided to go back to my dorm". He looks around the library. "Oh no. There was a tie on my dorm door. I know how promiscous my roommate is so I just decided to leave her to it".

"Ahh. Well, if your wanting something to read whilst you wait then Id recomend this" he turns. Taking out a book from the shelf and handing it to you. You take it from him, turning it over to read the blurb. "Its a very good stroy line with some strong characters"

"Ive read this author before. Hes a good writer". You place it atop the oteer one youre still holding. "Ill add it to the pile"

"What book is that one?" he motions to the one your holding. "I saw you get it from the fantasy section"

"Its part of a series I read. Not read this one rhoufh. Its about an angel who solves crimes. Using his powers to force people to tell the truth"

"Sounds..."

"Utterly insane?"

"I was going to say interesting but yeah, that sums it uo better" he smiles. "I have taken up enough of your time. I imagine that you are wanting to get back to your reading. So I shall leave you to it Miss Luna. I hope you enjoy your books. And I hope tat your roommate lets you back into your dorm at some point tonight"

"If not then Im sure the librarian wont mind me camping out here" you joke. Causing him to let out a laugh. Adjusting his brief case before turning and walking out.

Next

[valscigarette]

Summary: How it all started for Vox and Val. (Inspired by this beautiful art by @evevsy!)

Tags: Vox/Valentino, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Canon-Typical Everything, PWP that's mostly plot, Repressed Vox, Power Plays, Background Val/Angel, Networking

Warnings: Drinking, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Background Val/Angel and all it entails, Smut.

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed tags/warnings!

WC: 9.7k | AO3

-

One thing Vox cannot be accused of is laziness. He’s given this business twenty years and counting of his afterlife. He brought television, technology, the goddamned golden age to Hell, but his era of growth has finally stalled, leaving his creativity as stagnant as the mosquito-riddled swamps Alastor adores so much.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vox?” 

If he has any hope of competing with radio, he has to come up with something. Soon. No amount of stage lights and sequins will overcome a lack of substance. For the better part of the last week, Vox has run from writer’s rooms to costume shops in a desperate search for any break to the monotony, but nothing has come to him, despite knowing he has the best eye for entertainment in Hell.

“Mr. Vox?” 

One of his assistants, newer but remarkably brave, edges into Vox's field of vision and waits to be acknowledged. As he drums his claws against his desk, their ears twitch with anxious agitation, but whatever courage allows their interruption isn’t enough for them to do more than tremble at the sight.  

“Sir?” They try again. 

“Don't bother me when I'm thinking,” Vox snaps, fully swiveling his chair to face them. “My schedule is clear until seven.”  

The assistant flinches, but takes no steps to leave. Vox flicks his hand in a shooing gesture, giving them an opportunity to rub their two braincells together and fuck off before he makes them. Nothing. Sighing, he turns fully in his chair.  

“Alright,” he sneers, electricity crackling down his antennae and through his hands, “what’s so important?” 

Holding out their clipboard like a shield, they stammer, “Your, um, schedule isn’t actually clear, sir? You’re late for the Rising Stars banquet.” When Vox stands up, they shuffle back. “Not too late, though! Fashionably late. You can definitely pull that off. Do you need a fresh suit?” 

Forgetting about the PR event of the year is almost as embarrassing as having a staff too incompetent to remind him. Tomorrow morning, Vox is going to paint the fucking floors with the blood of everyone except the demon before him.

“Of course I need a fresh fucking suit.” As they leap toward the door, Vox clears his throat. “Something nice, or I’ll feed you to my sharks.” 

“Yes, Mr. Vox. I- I'll be right back.” 

He waves them off before slumping back into his chair. Normally, Vox looks forward to the banquet; he gets to meet with overlords and demons looking for associates, while dumping the glitz and glamor on his audience. If he’s late, he’s already missed the red carpet. No one will ask him who designed his suit, shove a camera into his face for a soundbite, or get distracted by a prettier face mid-interview. Despite how exhausting the affair can be, it’s one of his biggest nights of the year, and he’s blown his entrance. All he has left are the one-on-one pitches, where Vox only has one objective at a time. He should be pissed, if not infuriated, by his own forgetfulness and his employees’ incompetence alike, but after countless hours of fruitless desperation for his next venture, he can barely muster a grimace. 

While he waits for the assistant’s return, he pulls up the guest list on one of his monitors to get an idea of how the evening will go. Most attendees this year are minor overlords with only a few souls under their belts, who should be too starstruck by VoxTek’s invitation to complain about his tardiness. Those who do are worth keeping an eye on. 

Only a few minutes later, the assistant shuffles back into his with a garment bag in their hands and a freshly polished pair of saddle shoes draped around their neck by the laces. At his desk, they unpack Vox’s clothes with practiced efficiency. At least they have taste; the suit they’ve chosen is adorned by reflective silver thread, complimenting the polished tie clip, diamond cufflinks, and starry lapel pin zipped into the accessory pouch of the garment bag. Subtle silver accents on the saddle shoes pull the entire look together.  

“That’s good,” Vox praises, shrugging off his blazer and tossing it toward the secretary. “Classy. You like fashion?” 

They fold and set aside the coat with practiced precision. “I read a lot of magazines.” 

“That's not the question I asked you.” Vox strips away his vest, button-down, and slacks too, careless about where they land in his haste to get redressed. “Do you like it?” Cool silk slides into place like a second skin. He only wears tailored, custom-made pieces these days, and it shows in the perfect fit of the collar to his neck. “Not everyone has the vision...?” Trailing off, Vox realizes he doesn’t know their name. He raises an eyebrow and holds his hand out for the next piece of his outfit, disguising the failure behind the dismissive mask they expect. “You’ll have to remind me, my dear.”

“Stanford. And I guess I’ve always been interested; you can tell a lot about someone from their clothes.” When Stanford hands Vox his tie, they gather the strength to look him in the eyes. “I love working for you, though, Mr. Vox, I promise.” 

The pin, tie-clip, and cufflinks are easy to affix while they bend to help Vox step into his new pair of shoes. “I know.” He glances at the top of Stanford’s head and considers whether the secretary would be worth fucking, if he wasn’t already late to the banquet. Getting some action could jumpstart his circuits enough to come up with an idea. “You’re more useful than the others.” They tie his shoes like it’s the most important task of the day and don’t complain when he uses their shoulder for balance. Vox appreciates the dedication. “If you’ve got dreams, I’ll make ‘em come true, Stanford. You just have to ask, you know?” 

Finally, he affixes his cufflinks and turns away from the secretary. Until he has their soul under contract, he cannot stop another overlord from worming their way into Stanford’s weak mind, and Vox needs someone he can rely on to keep a schedule,

“I’ve got to run,” he says. “Block out time in my calendar for us to talk.” 

At least the banquet is held on the fifth floor of Vox’s tower. Here, his guests enjoy the finest he can offer, from imported booze to five-star cuisine, as they cycle between schmoozing and sizing one another up for a fight. By the time he waltzes in, the social atmosphere is buzzing enough for his arrival to inspire no fanfare.  

Vox snatches a flute of champagne from a passing tray to occupy his hands as he surveys the crowd. Usually, he gives an opening speech to set the tone for the night, and he’s whisked from one conversation to another, but without announcing himself, he’s invisible in a sea of nobodies. He’s nothing.  

His invisibility shatters as a white-furred demon with one black eye—a contracted soul—glides up to Vox and taps their glasses together. “Mr. Vox? I’m a huge fan.” Startled by the squeaking Brooklyn accent, a stark contrast to the pink sweater and heart-stamped body before him, Vox doesn’t respond in time to stop the demon from excitedly shaking his hand. “The fantasies I’ve had about that desk of yours-” 

“And you would be?” Vox interrupts, subtly wiping his palm on his coat when it’s released. He has to play nice; this is a fan, after all. 

Grinning toothily, the demon places his lower set of hands on his hips and frames his face with the upper. “Angel Dust, at your service. I'm Valentino's plus-one.” Angel blows Vox a kiss, then cozies up against his side. “But we’re not exclusive or anything. Not a lotta folks compare to Val, but I bet a stud like you can.” 

“Charming,” Vox drawls. He remembers approving Valentino’s invitation: he owns several clubs and their affiliated brothels, as well as the bodies he fills them with. There’s no doubt in Vox’s mind that Angel is one of Valentino’s whores, sent to butter him up. If he had no standards, it might’ve worked. “Where’s your boss now?” 

Angel’s eyes crinkle at the edges, indiscernible between pleased and distraught. “I’ll introduce you. C’mon, handsome.”  

One of his right hands finds Vox’s waist to guide him through the crowd. At first, Vox thinks it’s part of the flirtation, but when Angel stumbles four times in under a minute, he realizes it’s for support. Ugh. If Valentino’s employee is shitfaced less than an hour into a public event, Vox has low expectations.   

They find Valentino on the balcony, smoking a long cigarette as he flirts with one of Vox’s servers. The overlord is tall, even sprawled out over a wire chair, with four toned arms, two feathery antennae, glittering red eyes, and mile long legs. For several long, humiliating seconds, Vox can’t drag his eyes off the crease of Valentino’s hip, shamelessly displayed by the high slit of his gown, and Vox’s fans spin faster to compensate for the images flashing through his imagination. Only the red smoke streaming from Val’s smirk breaks his flawless image.

“Mr. Vox, this is Valentino.” 

“Please, just Val,” Valentino corrects, cadence slow and smooth like honey. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight; Angie and I love your work. Do you have a few minutes to sit and chat?” 

Vox slides into the seat opposite Valentino and takes a deep breath to collect himself. Saccharine scarlet smoke filtered through his fans still tastes sweeter than maraschino cherries on his tongue as he crosses his legs at the ankle. “Absolutely.” 

“Good. I was afraid you’d be too busy for me.” 

Humility doesn’t fit Val, but his honeyed tone smooths the dissonance almost beyond notice. There’s a performer here, wrapped in fishnet tights and glowing under the gentle golden gleam of the city beyond; Vox understands, for the first time in his afterlife, the appeal of signing over his sou with no pitch necessary. His imagination suffices.  

“Not tonight,” Vox assures. “I’m here to get to know you, your work, your business model-” he ignores Angel’s giggle, “-and find out whether we’d make a good team.” 

Val turns to blow smoke directly into Angel’s face and pat him on the head. “I brought my Angel Dust in case you wanted to sample the merchandise.” Without waiting for Vox’s response, Angel sinks down in the narrow space between Vox and Val’s knees, and turns his sultry gaze toward his boss. Valentino’s orders are the only ones that matter. “He headlines all my clubs, one each night of the week.” None of Vox’s underlings are that dedicated. “Or, if he’s not to your liking, I can call one of my girls?” 

“I’m not interested in your, ahem, dancers, Val.” 

“Right. My mistake,” Valentino hums. He flicks the toe of his boot into Angel’s ribs, sending him scuttering away from Vox’s personal space after the second rejection. “You’re old fashioned, Voxxy, I can respect that. I’ve got something for everyone though, you know.” 

The pet name should make Vox’s skin crawl, too diminutive and familiar for their first conversation, but all he can think about is how pretty it sounds in Val’s voice. “I’m familiar with your brand. Voxtek does your security cameras, as I recall, but we don’t have an official partnership on the books; was that your decision or mine?” 

“I was a small outfit at the time,” Val says by way of explanation, “but those cameras are what helped me grow.” He leans forward and whispers, “I’ve got an idea that could make us both richer than fucking Lucifer.” 

Judging by the pearls elegantly strung around Valentino’s throat and collarbone, he’s as rich as Vox already, if not more so. His power ought to feel more threatening than intoxicating. Perhaps he’s the answer. Val’s allure, beyond the souls he commands, could make for a formidable addition to the network’s cast. It would buy Vox time, if nothing else. 

“Tell me about this idea of yours.” 

“Now, I know your brand is squeaky clean, but we are in Hell.” 

“I try to reach as broad an audience as possible,” Vox defends. The less offensive, the more palatable, his content, the greater his viewership will be- a simple truth of television. “I’m the default, babe. Every television in this city comes with my channels included.” 

Val nods slowly. “Yes, I understand, but do you want to know how I bought six new clubs in the last month?” 

When Vox approved the invite list, he only owned three in total. His first thought is that Valentino has somehow contracted the previous owners and taken their businesses as spoils, but that wouldn’t be interesting; it wouldn’t warrant a question dangled like bait in front of Vox’s face.  

“By all means,” he says.  

“Hmm.” Val considers him, eyes narrowed as he ashes his cigarette over the balcony railing. “Promise your head won’t explode?” 

“I promise,” Vox answers, trying to place why he doesn’t find Valentino near as frustrating as he should, despite a more salacious demeanor than Angel Dust and a smile like he wants to eat Vox alive.   

Leaning in, Val glances to each side as if to ensure their conversation remains private. One of his antennae bends to brush Vox’s and stiffens with the static charge, but no pain distorts his expression. “Ever since you introduced playback to your cameras, I’ve been selling the tapes to my Johns. They’ll pay as much for the video as they do for ass.” 

Vox recoils. “You’re making porn.” 

“I’m making films.” His discomfort spurs Valentino on. “Imagine how much money we’d make with a real studio, your nice cameras, a couple billboards... sex sells, amor, and we could sell a lot.” 

When he tries to think about it, Vox pictures the feedback he’d get. Killjoy would resign the second he brings Valentino in, and half the girls in hair and makeup would follow her. Audience letters would pile to the ceilings in the mail room with complaints as his televisions are smashed and discarded in the streets. Alastor would eviscerate him. To attach himself to Valentino could take apart everything he’s built in a matter of days. 

“I’m just saying,” Val sing-songs, “you might be fucking celibate, but most of us need to get our rocks off somehow. If we mass-market my films, we can sell them at a lower price to the poor souls who can’t afford to touch.” 

“It’s still porn.” 

“What’s the big deal? You’ve never picked up a filthy magazine?” On his next drag, Valentino blows the smoke directly at Vox, clouding over his visual sensors before his fans absorb it and flood his mind with the sweet vapor’s taste again. “Follow the money.” 

Angel stumbles back inside for another drink, but in the seconds the door is open, a wave of warmth and noise from the banquet brings Vox back to his senses. As Val knows, it’s about the money, but he doesn’t realize how temperamental an audience the size of Vox’s can be when he fails to meet their standards. Clean is good; clean is marketable. Furrowed brows and subtle flinches follow Angel’s path through the party like an omen of the mess Valentino would make of the company, given a chance.  

“I’ll throw some funds at your project,” Vox concedes, “as long as you keep my name out of it. You can have better cameras for a twenty percent cut. Make it thirty, and I’ll give you mics and lights, too.” 

Val’s inviting grin sharpens, claws of one hand gouging the table as he clings to the flirtatious persona he arrived with. “You must be an idiot. Or you think I am.” 

“You can take or leave my offer, Valentino.” Vox’s head spins when he stands, despite only drinking half of his champagne, and he grips the back of his chair for balance lest he fall over the balcony with Val’s smoke. “Enjoy the rest of the banquet.” 

Slowly, Vox makes his way back inside without incident, and evades Angel’s sight line until he finds a new guest to evaluate. He peruses the crowd, shaking hands and making unmemorable pleasantries with those who don’t need any more persuasion than the night of luxury he’s provided. Their offers will roll into his inbox like the morning paper tomorrow. Really, the guests filled with excitement or ennui are the ones who need his attention the most, Valentino being the former; Vox finds the latter in an overlord spread out on his couch as she mutters complaints to a black-eyed frog demon. Target acquired. 

After straightening his tie, Vox sidles up to her and perches on the arm of the couch with a deep enough lean to brush her shiny pink hair. “Hello,” he coos. “Love the dress, darling, the red brings out your eye.” When she looks up at him, unimpressed, he holds out his hand. “I’m Vox.” 

“I know who you are, alright.” Her clipped accent is more irritating than Angel’s, and she doesn’t shake his hand, but he recognizes her name when she introduces herself as “Cherri Bomb.” 

“The seductress with the best explosives in Pentagram City—other than Carmilla’s, of course—what an honor to have you here.” When a quick once-over shows her glass to be empty, Vox snaps his fingers at the nearest server. “Can I get you anything?” 

“Does your fancy bar serve tequila?” 

The server scurries off without needing to be told. “While we wait for your drink, talk to me: tell me your story. What brought you here?” 

“Free food and booze,�� she answers immediately, as though the answer has been on the tip of her tongue since he approached her, and rolls her eyes at Vox’s subsequent forced laugh. “Honestly didn’t think we’d talk. You seem a little... put together, compared to my kinda fun.” 

“So I keep hearing.” He spares a second to remember how Valentino had phrased it, with more affectionate condescension than open disdain, though it should irritate him as much. She isn’t entirely dissimilar to Val; both have made their names in sex, in being so irresistible that they collect souls in exchange for their touch, in leaving their property bruised by bite marks and their enemies blown to bits. Cherri, however, rotates through her boyfriends with little fanfare, discarding them aside from the occasional booty-call once another pursuit distracts her. As for those who betray her, threaten her harem, or provide any vaguely reasonable excuse, she decimates them with her namesake. Whether they work together or not, Vox gets the sense he would prefer to remain in her good graces. 

“What you should know about VoxTek, my dear Cherri, it’s that everyone loves us, and sinners don’t know how to love something without wanting to destroy it. Our security is great, but I like to stay on the cutting edge of innovation. Your talent with improvised weaponry interests me.” 

Right on time, the server arrives with a crystal glass of tequila, top shelf, for her. As she takes the first decadent sip, Vox delivers his offer.  

“Imagine what you could do with my resources,” he tells her. Cherri looks at him over her drink, which she’s not savoring so much as sipping between sighs, with her single eyebrow asymmetrically raised. He brightens his screen and allows the slightest swirl to creep into his magnified left eye. “You could have all the tequila you want, for starters. Trust me.” 

For a split second, he has her. She lowers the glass, mouth agape and pupil slowly spinning, but it clears the moment he stops speaking, and she punches his arm. “Don’t ever fucking try that with me again, you smarmy cunt,” she snaps as he fights to maintain his balance and keep the pain off his screen. He must fail, because she smirks triumphantly before adding, “I’m not working with a bitch like you.” 

Vox might kill her for that if they weren’t at a public event. He tucks the fantasy away as a background process, immaterial to his current goal of shoring up the company until he has an idea, to focus on the benefits of a business partner courageous enough to punch him on his own turf.  

“Surely there’s something you want?” he plies, rubbing the sting from his arm.  “Name your price.” 

After shooting the rest of her drink, Cherri nods toward the balcony. “You’ve met Val?” 

Vox cannot resist turning to look. Through the narrow windows, he can see one of Valentino’s hands gesticulating wildly, the shimmery brim of his hat, and a segment of his right calf. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough. When he looks to Cherri again, the excited sparks of his antennae reflecting from her eye, she huffs.  

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The sharp tone of her voice has Vox ordering another drink for them both. She drums her fingers against the outside of her glass impatiently as he does, but allows him to finish before continuing. “Listen. The only thing I want that I can’t get myself with enough elbow grease is his contract with Angel Dust.” 

“Huh.” If Vox considers Angel from an aesthetic viewpoint, he sees the appeal; in reality, the mere thought of intimacy with such a used soul makes him want to break out in hives. “Did Val steal him from you, or…?” he asks, disguising his curiosity under a blase tone.  

This time, he sees the blow coming, and dodges Cherri’s fist. “It’s not like that, dickhead. Angie’s my friend, and Val...” she hesitates for the first time. Vox stays silent, waiting for her to continue rather than upsetting the vulnerability he’s finally coaxed from her. “Valentino has the worst fucking vibes I’ve ever seen. I may not know for sure what goes on behind closed doors, but I have a pretty good idea. So.” When she goes for another sip of tequila and remembers her glass is empty, she tosses it onto the cushion next to her and fishes a tiny baggie of white powder from her cleavage. “If you want me to work with you, or whatever, that’s my condition.” 

“I can’t interfere in another Overlord’s affairs,” Vox hedges, watching her pour a jagged line on the back of her hand and snort it, “but if you were an associate of mine, I could put in a good word on your behalf. Maybe redirect Val’s temper to spare your friend?” He has a crisp salesman’s smile in place when she finishes her line. 

She laughs dryly. “Good luck trying to tell him what to do.”  

“Well then.” He stands smoothly, reaching for the server whose arrival he hadn’t noticed until his hand bumped their tray to get his fresh champagne. “If you’d like to talk realistic terms, darling, have your people contact mine.” 

He wins a scowl from her before leaving her side, a small victory, but once he’s sure she can no longer see him, he sighs and scrubs a hand down his screen. Two pitches into the night, and Vox has nothing to show for it besides a low-level buzz. Given how long it’s been since he made progress in any aspect of the business, the fear that he’s losing his touch grumbles through his gut. Time marches on without Hell on Earth, bringing new technology and slang and ideas, and no matter how well he understands the basic principles of entertainment, he finds himself floundering to keep up with the demands of the recently dead. How Alastor maintains such a strong audience without any variety to his programming, Vox will never know.  

Still, the banquet has hours to go, and he has countless other guests to speak with. He strikes a deal with a snuff photographer to join his magazine department, hires an assorted handful of overlords for additional security, contracts a puppy-like actress newly dead and still mourning her celebrity, and nurses his way through what likely amounts to an entire bottle of champagne over the course of the evening. Other small, petty conversations fill the gaps between his victories. Little by little, his guests filter out, until Vox’s underlings begin to rouse the over-intoxicated demons scattered across the room. 

Cherri Bomb is long gone, but when Vox takes inventory of the hall, he catches sight of Angel, surreptitiously sneaking a bottle of wine under his arm as he returns to the balcony. Vox shouldn’t be surprised Val and his pet haven’t left, but the idea that Valentino is waiting to speak to him again makes his heart skip in an otherwise inexplicable way. Picking his way over the trash and general mess left behind by the banquet, he runs his hands down his clothes to smooth away as many wrinkles as possible; his job for the night isn’t over yet.  

He steps onto the balcony with a megawatt grin. “Val! Glad you’re still here. Did you have time to think about my offer?” 

Over the course of the evening, what Vox assumed to be a red cloak has unfolded into a beautiful set of wings, spread behind Valentino like a velvety curtain. His immediate desire to touch them is so strong that his hand twitches at his side before he reigns himself in and meets Val’s bright gaze.  

“I did,” Val says. He takes a leisurely drag of his cigarette, and reaches to take the wine from Angel as smoke trails from his lips. “Run home now, Angel-baby; Daddy has some business to attend to.” 

Angel casts Vox a sidelong glance. “But-” 

“Angel.” The single hissed word drips with deadly sweetness. “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

“Yeah, I uh, I’m sorry, Val.” As he speaks, Angel backs away from Valentino, reaching for the door with his upper hands, hugging himself with the lower; Cherri was right that Vox doesn’t need to see behind closed doors to know this song and dance like the back of his hand. His parents, his colleagues, his marriage, half of Hell, have lived out the cliche, and while Vox has moved beyond the need for such unsophisticated techniques, there’s an old-fashioned charm to Valentino’s brusque methodology. 

Now that Angel is gone, Vox realizes how much space Val takes up, whether he means to or not. Those lanky limbs occupy half the terrace in his sprawl, his wings cut off the area behind him, and his smoke carpets the ground in a thick layer. With one of Val’s feet propped up on the chair opposite him, Vox’s only option to sit is on the table, precariously close to the deep vee of Valentino’s neckline.  

“Sorry about him,” Val says dismissively, flicking one of his wrists toward the window, “I let his leash get too loose tonight.” 

Despite Val’s apparent hope, Vox hasn’t forgotten whose idea it was for Angel to come onto him. It was a stab in the dark. He can respect making a move, but the assumption he would sink so low still stings. “Hey, no problem. I know how contracts are.” He hops onto the table, gripping its edge when it wobbles as if it would help, should his seat tip. “Doesn’t help when he’s so fucked up, he can’t walk a straight line.” 

“His talents don’t require much walking.”  Val bites the cork off his wine bottle and spits it to the floor. Before drinking, his wily tongue cleans spillage from the neck with practiced ease, and his unbroken eye contact suggests the skill is useful in more situations than this.  

“I have an image to maintain,” Vox insists. When Val offers him the wine, he figures another drink won’t hurt. Sickly sweet remnants of Valentino’s spit coat the lip of the bottle like syrup, as rich in color as the smoke and impossible not to swallow, tingling down his throat and into his stomach. He passes the bottle back. “My days are long enough without cleaning up after your sluts.” 

“You wouldn’t have to. We can hire people for that, once my films make us filthy rich.” 

Valentino has a point there, but Vox can’t get past the idea; he kept his public persona clean in life and has done the same in death, with enough success to never want for material goods. His pursuit for more power, more fame, more money, just more, has yet to lead him astray, but this feels like the last line left uncrossed and Vox is surprisingly hesitant to traverse it.  

“Bottom line here, you’ve heard my offer. I’m not risking everything I’ve built on your word alone. Get me some real evidence a studio would succeed, and I’ll think about it,” he decides. The next time Val offers the wine, Vox barely notices the sultry taste when it burns the whole way down like a stronger liquor. “As we are,” he adds, “I think my terms are more than generous.” 

After drinking, he wipes his screen on the back of his hand and comes away sappy with Valentino’s drool. Lighter in color than blood but less reflective, it reminds him of the slick oil running through his own veins, and when he looks to Val again, more drips from the corner of his mouth in wildly alluring twin trails.  

“You’re thinking too big, baby,” Val simpers, reeling Vox in with a loose curl of two fingers. “God doesn’t care what you do in Hell. I’m sure you’ve done worse than bankroll a little filth, no?” 

Worse is subjective, but Vox doubts Val can be convinced as such. “It’s about ratings-” 

“Ratings? Your ratings will go through the roof if you-” 

“Val!” Vox snaps. As he closes the last couple inches between them, his screen flashes to full brightness and the hypnotic swirl of his eye reflects back in Valentino’s glassy gaze, shutting down the argument in its tracks. “Do not fucking interrupt me.” 

“Oh, Voxxy, I’m sorry,” he purrs, entirely unapologetic, “I just want you to see things my way.” The inch of hazy air between them is charged with Vox’s static and Val’s smoke in equal measure, already claustrophobic before Valentino raises his wings around them and takes the end of Vox’s tie in one hand, his waist in another, and his substances in the final two. “Can I make it up to you somehow?” He strokes the fine silk between two gloved fingers, angling the tie in a way that both tugs Vox's neck and turns his mirror-finished tie clip the same brilliant red as the sky.  

The moment Vox tries to stand, his legs nearly fold under him, and he has no choice but to throw an arm around Val’s shoulders for balance. “You don’t have anything I want,” he insists, despite the way his heart sings at the feel of lean muscle beneath downy purple fur. “Doesn’t matter how popular you think it'd be; I know my audience. Do you want my help or not?” 

“I want a partnership.” Their bodies are already so entangled that when Valentino draws him closer, his pearl necklaces press into Vox’s chest through his suit, on the verge of uncomfortable as they dig bruises in between his body and Val’s. “We could rule Hell, you know. The only demographic you haven’t cornered is mine, and all I need is your reach.” 

“My ex-wife already tried that pitch,” Vox grumbles, “and dying didn’t get me out of alimony.” 

 Val raises his cigarette again, nearly burning Vox’s suit on its smoldering end. “Who, Katie? If you’re worried about her, you shouldn’t be; she’s a regular already. Convincing her will be,” he takes a drag of his cigarette, “honestly, easier than you.” 

“Uh-huh.” The next wave of smoke makes Vox’s head spin. He notices too late it’s affecting him, but he needs a deal to buy him time, Val seems unrushed, and he has no reason to fear the overlord before him. Besides- he wants to know what Katie Killjoy is doing in a brothel. “And I suppose Lucifer is a customer as well?” 

“I’m not fucking with you--” Val takes the bait, “--she comes in once a week to peg the everloving shit out of my dancers. Puts ‘em out of commission for a day or two. She’s probably pent up from being married to a prude.” 

“I’m not-” Vox starts, then stops to collect himself. “Just because I’m protective of my brand doesn’t mean I never have sex, Valentino.” 

Silently, Val presses the wine into Vox’s free hand. He turns his head to find space to drink, sips from the bottle, realizes they’ve managed half of it between them already, and allows it to dangle loosely at his side. When he doesn’t look back fast enough, Val tugs his tie sharply to regain his attention.  

Vox’s entire world shrinks to Valentino, the rest of the overcrowded city left outside his soft wings and demanding hands, as Vox searches his slowed processors for a coherent thought. No one, nothing, else matters anymore. Val beats him to the punch, growling, “Do you want to prove it, gorgeous?” with the smugness of someone who’s been waiting all night to put their offer on the table, confident it will be accepted.

Well, Vox did figure an orgasm would help him think. As easy as it would be to refuse the obvious bait, he doesn’t want to jeopardize the sparks Val makes him feel, like he’s alive again for the first time since he died. This can be a one night stand; Vox can have Val without compromising his brand with an investment in porn. Maybe letting loose for one night will be enough.

“It won’t get you a studio,” Vox warns, the arm around Valentino’s shoulders retracting enough to trail his hand down Val’s exposed back. “You don’t get shit for this; I don’t fuck hookers.” 

“Whatever you say,” answers Val, and then he kisses him.  

In the decades since death, Vox has only been kissed a handful of times, and still hasn’t gotten the hang of it. His screen doesn’t allow for lips, but Val finds his mouth well enough and seems more interested in feeding Vox his sweet tasting saliva straight from the source than actually making out with him. He allows himself a fraction of a second to miss real kissing. Then Val relieves him of the wine bottle, which allows him to finally touch the tantalizing stretch of Val’s waist and pull his hips closer.  

On their feet like this, closing that distance breaks the kiss and reminds Vox he only comes up to Val’s shoulders. The disparity makes him feel queasy, alone as they are, but he shoves it down in favor of slipping his hand into the slit of Val’s dress and squeezes his bare ass. 

“The wings will cover us enough,” he murmurs, “so long as you can stay quiet.” 

“Worry about yourself.” Val nudges Vox’s coat off his shoulders, pausing to undo his cufflinks, then focuses on unbuckling his belt. His four hands mean he’s everywhere at once, touching in too many places for Vox to keep track of and slowly driving him insane. “You’re a top?” he asks, winding Vox’s tie around his hand like a slowly tightening leash.  

Although Vox manages a laugh, it comes out high and glitched. “I certainly don’t fucking bottom.” 

“I’ll fix that another time,” Val hisses, kissing Vox again to distract him from questioning the response, too overwhelming for him to process anything beyond the touch. Back to seductive, he strokes the side of Vox’s screen, thumbing red drool from its corner and reaching down the waistband of his boxers simultaneously. “How are we doing this?” 

Vox knows the tables and chairs won’t hold them both, nor are they sturdy enough not to tip over while he fucks Valentino. He considers the floor and has a moment of clarity in which he processes that he’s about to have sex on the very public balcony of his tower, on a floor low enough for passersby to see, if any sinners are still on their way out the door. 

“On your back, on the ground,” he decides, “and put out the damn cigarette.” 

“Boo,” Val whines coyly, but still opens his wings to grind it out on the railing. 

He takes two steps back, trailing his fingertips along Vox’s body until he can’t reach anymore in a display that makes Vox feel cold without him. Bastard. But as Val sinks to the floor, the performer in him shines through the slow drop to his knees, followed by a languid lean back. His wings flare out as his legs fall open enough for his obscenely short skirt to ride up his waist. Preening under Vox’s attention, Val cushions his head with one arm and begins to touch himself with his lower two hands. One strokes his cock, half-hard and pink at the tip, while the other disappears behind it and comes back glittering with slick.  

“I don’t do sloppy seconds, either,” Vox says, despite his feet staying rooted to the floor when he means to walk away. 

Val drags one leg up, bending at the knee to give him a better view. “Perk of being a sex demon: I don’t need help getting wet.” 

“Guess that makes it easier.” To buy himself a few extra seconds to gather his bearings, Vox rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and tugs his belt out of place. This, Val, is too easy for his liking, and yet here he is with any reservations relegated to his subconscious processing and an aching desire to fuck Val so hard, he takes the offer Vox made him earlier in the night. “You need anything,” he asks, lowering himself to the unforgiving concrete, “or are you good? Not gonna cry on me or some shit like that?” 

A dreamy chuckle escapes Val as he nudges Vox’s ribs with his knee. “Don’t flatter yourself, baby.” 

“Fuck you,” Vox bites back. “I’m trying to be nice,” 

Val licks his lips and says, “You really don’t have to.” 

When Vox unzips his fly and shucks down his slacks and boxers, the cold night air reminds him where they are, and he pinches the edge of Valentino’s wing between his thumb and forefinger. “Cover, Val,” he reminds dryly, I'm not an exhibitionist.” He lets go in time for Val to envelop them once more, silencing everything besides the two of them. The slightest touch to Val’s soft thighs guides them, up and out of the way for Vox to scoot into position before they wrap around his waist and stiletto heels bite into the small of Vox’s back.  

As soon as Vox gets a hand on himself, the first proper touch he’s had all evening, any remnants of his self-control dissipate with a sharp crackle between his antennae. Val makes a displeased sound and snatches his wrist away. His narrow fingers, still wrapped by gloves and damp with his own juices, give Vox a few perfunctory strokes before guiding him perfectly into place.  

Valentino is soaked for him, practically blooming for Vox’s touch, like they’re the original sinners realizing what their bodies are capable of for the first time. His pants are halfway down his legs, but he doesn’t need more to push into Val. A full body shudder rolls through Valentino’s body, culminating in a squeeze that short-circuits a couple minor connections in Vox’s processor and has him collapsing face-first into Val’s chest. 

“Fucking shit,” Vox hisses. “Do that again, Val.” 

“Give me a reason,” Val chuckles. There are at least two hands on Vox right now, possibly two hundred for how overwhelming he finds them, skimming his frame so thoroughly that he wonders whether Val is making a tactile mental map. “You can get to work anytime, amorcito, I don’t mind.” 

Vox doesn’t have the presence of mind to both retort and move. He chooses the latter. After a shaky inhale to steady himself, he braces himself with his hands on Valentino’s hips, and hopes Val won’t complain before he can bruise the imprint of his palms and discover how deep he has to dig his claws to draw blood. Truthfully, it’s been months since Vox has gotten to fuck something besides his hand, longer still since his last affair with another overlord, but this shouldn’t steal his tongue as it does. He sets a slow, steady rhythm for his own benefit rather than Val’s; his ego couldn’t take a premature finish, and if Val thinks anything of it, he’s kind enough not to criticize. 

Instead, he cups the corner of Vox’s screen in one hand to direct his gaze down at where they’re joined. “See how hard you make me? And how wet?” It's obscene, the way Vox disappears inside him over and over, each thrust spilling Valentino’s pink-tinted fluids between them. “You know, if you weren’t already so big, I’d hire you. No gag reflex, that slutty little waist-” 

“Shut up,” Vox groans, shuffling forward on his knees until he physically can’t get closer to Val, barely thrusting so much as shallowly grinding into him because it feels like anything more would fry his motherboard. “I’m already fucking you, you’re not getting- shit,” his lower stomach brushes against Val’s knuckles on the hand around his dick, and it shouldn’t make Vox stutter, “-you’re not getting anything else from me.” His ability to think, already compromised from the booze and Val’s smoke, is melting faster by the second. “Don’t have to flatter me.” 

Part of him hates how composed Valentino is in comparison, but some long-suppressed corner of Vox’s mind revels in finding someone who can hold it together when he’s unable, despite this entire situation being Val’s fault to begin with. The conflict crosses wires somewhere and turns from frustration to another reason he can’t get away from the decadent oasis that is Valentino spread out beneath him.  

“Would you rather have me degrade you? I can do that, easily,” Val says, “just let me know.” 

“I want you to be fucking quiet,” hisses Vox in return, the swirls in his eye competing with color-blocked interference on his screen. He can have his eyes and ears all over Pentagram City, but evidently, fucking another overlord while trying to hypnotize them is too much of a strain on his intoxicated system, and Valentino only laughs at his attempt. 

“Aww, poor thing,” Val teases, his voice as syrupy sweet as his kisses had been. “You know, this would be easier if you let me take care of you, Voxxy. I promise it’ll be worth it.” 

If Vox could reach Val’s throat, his face, he might have a fighting chance of shutting him up, but the longer Vox kneels between his legs, barely fucking him, the more he realizes that it doesn’t matter how they arrange themselves; Val has the upper hand. This is his specialty. Vox is out of his depth, has been since the moment he sat on the table, but it’s too late to back out now.  

“You are the expert,” he mutters to himself, not quietly enough to escape Val’s notice. 

“Exactly, amorcito, I’m the expert, and you...” Valentino pinches the side of his screen condescendingly, “are extremely repressed. Let Daddy handle it, hmm?” 

“I’m not calling you that.” 

“But you’re going to let me make you feel good?” Val presses. 

Vox knows better than to hand over what little control he still has of the situation, he really does, but something about Val makes it feel like the first time again: he’s out of his depth, virginal in comparison to a man whose job is sex. All the queasy nerves are the same. And here, trapped in Valentino’s grasp, he can practically taste how good it could be if he lets go of the reins. 

“Sure, whatever.” 

“Good.” As Valentino’s grin stretches so wide it splits his face in half, he seizes Vox with all four arms and flips them over effortlessly, tightening around him in a way that fully blues-out Vox’s screen and wrenches a distorted whine through his speakers. “You have security cameras out here, right, baby?” he purrs. Something that ought to be fear twists around Vox’s heart and makes his dick twitch inside Val. “In full color, I bet.” 

“Fucking- obviously,” Vox manages to grit out, struggling to pull words together when Val is over him, on top of him, all around him, like more of a god than he’s ever worshipped, “I have every inch of the tower covered. Why?” 

Val pins him in place with all four arms, bending until their faces are inches apart. “Because tomorrow, when you miss me, you can watch the tape back,” he sighs. Finally, he begins to move with both the leverage and the self-control to properly fuck himself on Vox’s cock. His rhythm is slow but punishing, dropping down hard enough to make a dull smack each time his ass hits Vox’s clothed thighs. “After you jerk off, you can get back to me about my proposal.” 

“So that’s your angle,” Vox accuses, barely able to form the words between the huffs of air punched out of him with every thrust.

Then, Val kisses the rest of Vox’s words from his lips, flooding his tongue with more drool that washes the thought from his mind. He’s sampling the product, as Valentino intended from the beginning, and though he loathes to admit it, Vox can’t recall sex feeling this good in the entirety of his life or death. Realizing it, processing how much better Val is than he could have imagined, makes his hips jerk uselessly under Valentino’s weight.  

He’s lost in the cherry perfume clinging to Val’s skin, utterly pinned like an insect beneath a demon who, earlier in the day, Vox would be recalcitrant to touch beyond formality’s demands. He’s weak. And he knows it, Val knows it, his employees would know it if they opened the balcony door, the world could know it if they’re not careful- it would be too easy for Vox’s pristine reputation to disintegrate. The stink of the streets is only four floors down and Val could cast him out with a snap of his fingers.  

“It’s a shame you won’t bottom, you know,” Val chatters on after breaking the kiss, indifferent to his effect on Vox. “I’d ruin every other cock for you, like how right now, I’m making sure no other pussy will ever compare.” 

His taste still lingers on Vox’s teeth when he asks, “D’you need to talk to get off? Is that it?” He tests the strength of Val’s hold, finding it absolute. “Full of yourself, huh, Val?” 

“Full of you.” The correction comes with a circle of Val’s hips, squealing feedback from his system and a humiliating urgency to the need building within him. “If you want to touch, all you have to do is ask, and-” Val licks his teeth, “I don’t care if you’re gentle.” 

“Fuck off,” Vox says, automatic like the electricity sparkling between his antenna, his heart pounding like he’s done a kilo of cocaine. “You wanted to do the work, fine. Do it.” He won’t beg.  

One of Val’s hands abandons Vox’s waist for his dick, curling around it picture-perfect, angled so Vox can imagine the beauty of a foreshortened camera shot. Between the marigold lights and their bounce off Val’s carmine wings, his cock is a work of art, and the corner of Vox’s mind that’s always thinking of business sees the marketability in an adonis like Valentino, especially when his slender, practiced fingers coax a pearly bead of precum from its rosy tip. He snaps a screenshot of the sight.  

“So, you like being held down. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” 

Val sets a rhythm that rocks him between his own hand and Vox’s dick, in turn causing him to almost pulse around Vox in a pattern better than any high-tech toy or two-buck slut, and the sticky mess between them begins to cling to his dress ruinously. He must know how stunning he looks, how intoxicating he feels, when he seems more smug than surprised by the continued stream of garbled, static sounds Vox hardly recognizes as his own.  He’d give anything for this feeling to never end—though he knows it will any minute—and for a single, sick, second, he imagines this to be how Valentino ensnares the souls under his command.  

“Are you going to come for me, baby?” Val asks, as if it’s written on Vox’s screen. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to last.”  

“I’m-” Vox’s protest dies before he speaks it, every wire crossed and capacitor sparking with the overwhelming combination of input. His soul is Valentino’s for the minute it takes him to orgasm. Everything is Val. His hands. His thighs. His tongue. His wings. His cock. His pussy. It’s all him, and Vox cannot fathom a more infinite bliss than filling him up with useless, compulsive thrusts that make Val gasp more than once. 

“That looked fun,” drawls Val, still riding with steady rocks of his hips despite the way it tips Vox past his peak, “but I’m not finished. Be good for Daddy a little longer, ‘kay?” 

Valentino seems aware that Vox is too fucked out to argue, perhaps prefers it, and doesn’t pause for a response before guiding one of Vox’s slack hands to his dick and grinding against it. The light above them shatters with the intensity of Vox’s overstimulation. His entire system devotes itself to differentiating pain and pleasure but still cannot make sense of it.  

“Almost there, amor, you’re perfect.” Val clenches so tightly around Vox that he bluescreens again, his muscles seizing with a zap of electricity that Val must feel, judging by the hiccoughed moan that rumbles from his throat and the subtle frizz of his short fur. “Fuck, we’re going to have fun together.” 

When Val finishes, his cum is the palest shade of rosy pink, exaggeratedly plentiful as it splashes up Vox’s shirt, neck, and screen. Vox doesn’t have the wherewithal to be upset, be anything besides overwhelmed, until Val gracefully stands and smiles down at him. Ten feet feels like a hundred; Vox is an ant, about to be crushed under Val’s shiny patent heels, and he can’t find it in himself to get out of the way. 

“Enjoy the tape, Vox. Call me.” 

Just like that, he’s gone, inside on his way back to street level, leaving Vox a mess on the floor with his fly down and his mind scattered. He solves the first problem immediately, then searches the walls for the telltale glint of a camera lens. It has to be somewhere. There are at least four on this balcony, and if Vox had half a mind, he wouldn’t need to hunt for them at all. By the time he figures it out, what he’s just done is beginning to sink in like a bad high.  

Disappearing into the circuits to reform in his command center saps the rest of Vox’s energy. He falls into his chair like a doll with its strings cut. The cool air refreshes his overheated systems even as it feels frigid to the warm ghosts of Valentino’s hands all over him. A hard reboot would shake the jitters, but he can’t leave footage of himself and Val in the archives for a moment longer than strictly necessary. There’s still work to be done. 

He pages the good assistant—Stanford—and prays that they haven’t gone home for the night yet. Vox doesn’t make the schedules himself anymore, nor does he care to keep track of the shifts so long as he has someone around the clock. They arrive in a record 96 seconds, out of breath but alert, eyes wide and focused on Vox like he’s the center of their universe.  

“You needed me, Mr. Vox?” they say, slowly lowering their clipboard when they realize how haphazardly he occupies his chair. “Are you- is everything okay?” 

“Fucking dandy, my dear. Listen, I’ve got a couple errands for you to run, discreetly if you can manage it.” 

They open their mouth as if to argue, but think the better of it when Vox raises an eyebrow at them. He tries not to imagine how he must look, a disaster with a few pesky errors still affecting his screen every so often and spit-stains all over his button-down from Val’s careless tongue. 

Vox lifts his index finger and begins, “First, I want the footage from the security cameras on the fifth floor. Every fucking one. Inside, outside, every corner of every room. Got that?” He pauses for Stanford to jot this down, nodding vigorously, before raising a second finger. “Then, get me a change of clothes, a pot of coffee, and a brick of cocaine, in no particular order.” Without stimulants he won’t be able to trudge through the tapes. 

“Yes sir, right away,” Stanford agrees, finishing the to-do list with a flourish of their ballpoint pen.  

Once they disappear, Vox folds his arms atop his desk and rests his screen on them. He’s woozy, sleepy, too fucked up to worry about much beyond making sure no one ever sees the recording of him and Val. It was stupid to sleep with him and Vox will hate himself for it in the morning, he knows, but he can’t find it in himself to regret his moment of weakness yet.  

He distracts himself with a rerun on one of the many screens at his terminal: a sitcom, the first he produced himself, still airing overnight to profit off its small but dedicated fanbase. Color television was new to Hell then, though the novelty had begun to wear off on Earth, and it shows in the garish shades Vox cringes at as much as the choppy writing. Nonetheless, it sucks him in with its simplicity for an episode and a half before his doors swish open with Stanford’s return. 

“Your coffee,” they place a full, steaming pot on his desk, alongside his favorite ‘Fuck Alastor’ mug, “and your coke.” As Vox pours his coffee, they unfold a pair of sweatpants and a striped tee shirt from the crook of their arm. “I brought you something comfortable, since it’s late; I’ll come back with a suit before breakfast.” The back of their hand brushes his arm as they reach into their pocket for a VCR tape. “And here’s today’s CCTV from the fifth floor. Is that everything?” 

Vox takes the tape. Its hard plastic digs into his fingertips and he realizes how easy it would be to simply destroy it. This is the only copy, and if he never watches it, he could pretend the whole evening never happened. Nothing has to change.  

“I want your opinion on something as a loyal VoxTek customer.”  From the corner of Vox’s vision, Stanford shifts their weight and glances back at the door. “No right or wrong answer here, don’t worry.” When they step back, Vox reels his trademark smile onto his face. He doesn’t know if he has the energy to force an answer. “Do you like our current image?” 

“I- uh, definitely, it- it’s perfect, Mr. Vox, I love it-” 

He sighs. “Yeah, I get that. Is it important, do you think, that we keep our broadcasts clean?” 

While they mull his question over, Vox ducks under his desk to find the VCR slot. The faint glow of his screen barely lights the way, but he finds it quickly enough to avoid making a fool of himself- not that his assistant would dare to comment.  

“I’m thinking about expanding our portfolio,” he explains as he returns to his chair. “Maybe a new channel, so it doesn’t interrupt regular programming.” Instead of clearing his mind, the caffeine just burns Valentino's imprint deeper into his servers; Vox needs to see him again, more than he needs air, and a partnership would guarantee it. “Any thoughts? Or is that too complicated for you?” 

Stanford pushes their glasses up their nose. “Our viewers are loyal, sir, and... I think they’d give anything a chance, if you made it. I know I would.” 

They toe the line between flattery and honesty well, enough of a tremor in their voice that Vox can almost taste their fear of having the wrong opinion. Life on earth was similarly filled with sycophants, but if he surrounds himself with yes-men, he’ll never have a wall to bounce the shitty ideas off of. In the back of his mind, he wonders whether Val would be honest: if he would send Vox back to the drawing board, or if he’d prop him up through the failures. Relying on someone could be nice.

Then Vox remembers he’s thinking about Val, the moth demon dripping aphrodisiacs from his lips as he spins promises equal parts invigorating and appalling, and he has to consciously remind himself not to make this into more than it is. He can align his business with Valentino, for profit alone, but it doesn’t mean he will ever experience Val’s manipulative, magnificent touch again.  

“Well, off you go,” Vox chirps, spinning his chair to the side. “Remember to clear space for us to talk, and oh-” he waits for the click of Stanford’s pen, “Get an appointment with that club owner, Valentino, on the books next week.” 

“Yes, Mr. Vox. Have a good night!” 

He listens to Stanford’s feet patter away and waits for his door to clang shut before he pulls the CCTV footage up on his screens, scattering the dozens of feeds so that he can see each grainy black and white image. He scans through them, from the hallways to the conference rooms to the bars, until he finds the three cameras from the balcony Val spent the evening on. From there, Vox jumps into the machinery long enough to wind the tapes faster, spinning through useless hours of setup and chitchat until the image displays him, balanced on the table, his shark-toothed grin not enough to mask how thoroughly Val ensnared him. He knows that once he watches, he won’t have it in himself to refuse Valentino’s proposition. This, more so than allowing Val to touch him in the first place, is the line Vox can never uncross. 

Still, he sparks back to his chair, and settles in against the comfortable leather in front of his screens. 

[hotpinkstars]

-> theres no place quite like here

synopsis -> you take shenhe to a gorgeous location to spend your lantern rite together. the whole purpose? was to catch a glamorous sunset.

warnings -> none! pure fluff.

a/n -> someone plz know what song i quoted. i will be so happy if someone can recognize these lyrics omg

w/c -> 907

“shenhe, come on! the beautiful sunset is only preserved for so long. blink and you’ll miss it!” you rushed your wife out the door, keeping an eye on the outside to make sure that tonight, this visit will be worth it.

she sighed, proceeding to put on a pair of shoes quicker than the pace she followed before, as you were anxiously bouncing on your heels. she didn’t necessarily understand what was going to happen, she just knew you were excited.

as soon as she had her shoes on she was dragged out the door, immediately forced into a sprint. she was surprised with how long you were able to run for- but she also kept your speed. 

you ran what felt like the extent of liyue until you got to the heart of yilong wharf. you stopped running, cuing her to also stop too. you bought a few snacks, hastily pulling a pouch of mora out of your pocket and likely tipping those stall owners a fair amount, you took off into a sprint once again. 

but this time, there was mountain climbing involved. you groaned, looking back at shenhe, who simply nodded and told her where to go. you climbed ahead of her, but she took a more advanced route, giving you time to breathe every once in a while. that didn’t slow your pace, though.

finally, your awaited destination was just a large rock away. the sun was also, finally in the perfect position, making the skies a beautiful mix of purples, pinks, and reds. you did your last climb and layed on the ground of mt. mingyuan, exhausted from all the effort you made to come up here. 

“what was the point of this trip?” questioned a very confused shenhe. you giggled a little bit.

“look behind you, shen.”

and that she did. you could see her eyes glimmer with elation. once she saw the gorgeous sky, she nodded, flashing a small smile in your direction. there was nobody else up here- it showed nobody wanted to do the actual work of climbing such a distance, but that only meant that it was all the more special for the both of you. 

shenhe got up and walked to the spot you patted next to you. she sat down, crossing her legs and sitting straight up. sometimes you admired how she had such perfect posture, and this was one of those times. well, assuming adeptal arts practice good posture, you picked up where she learned it from. you straightened up under influence from the white haired woman inches from you.

you wanted to hug her, bring her in tight to your body, but you thought to let her have her moment. she seemed to be admiring the view in front of her, signaling she doesn’t get to see these things too often. 

“you know, sunsets like these are hard to come by around here. i’ve heard that inazuma has the prettiest by far,” she starts, and you look out at the horizon alongside her. she stands up, walking towards the mountains edge. “but i do not believe that it can pass over this one. i haven’t seen anything like this, even with my moments living up on the mountain tops with master.” 

you nod, and she looks back at you. 

“maybe it’s so pretty because it’s the lantern rite. or maybe it’s because you are alongside me on this fine night. but one thing i may have to say is that theres certainly no place like here.” 

you smiled. you were glad shenhe liked it, you had planned this out for months, just waiting for the right day to give its chance. and it seemed it was that day- the same day as the glorious, big fireworks that happen every year go off. 

“shenhe, you know the fireworks go off tonight, right?” you put a serving of tofu into your mouth, having bought a bag of almond tofu from a local vendor below. “i would’ve brought you to liyue city if the day wasn’t as gorgeous as it is now. i know you dislike crowded areas anyways, so this played well in our favor.”

she nodded, taking a seat on the cliffside. you crawled through the small patch of grass separating you from her, and took your seat right next to her. you offered her some tofu, which she accepted and slowly ate a piece before looking back out, the sky being a dark blue, reminding the world that the day doesn’t last forever. 

after a few hours of either talking or just basking in each others presence, you saw the first gorgeous ray of pink fire, signaling the first firework has been shot off and the show has started. you felt like you had front row seats; though liyue was rather far from your current location, the fireworks were big enough and set off in an easily accessible place, even allowing people from dragonspine to see if they’re at a certain angle. 

you felt shenhe sigh on your shoulder, wrapping an arm around your waist. you smile slightly, hugging her back, scooting back a bit as to not fall off the cliff. 

you both watched the rest of the show, getting up and heading home when it was over. you genuinely had a fun time tonight, and though she didn’t show it, you could tell shenhe did too. what a life, you thought.

[sicknessbysalem]

i will never not love making new characters.

black cat lesbian x golden retriever gay friendship my beloved.

anyway, you know the drill!

if you have any REQUESTS (please), Comments, or Concerns: MY ASK BOX IS OPEN!!

tw for emeto, sickness, friends bullying each other (including but not limited to gay jokes), objectively inappropriate jokes

Saylor Thompson leaned against the closed door of the stall farthest from the door on the first floor of one of the men’s dormitories on the quiet art school campus. She brushed violently bangs behind her ear, scrolling through her phone as she tapped her foot on the floor.

It was almost silent. There was nobody else in here. Nobody except for her and Julian, on the other side of the door. Every so often, Saylor heard a dry heave or a sick belch, something unproductive. It had been like this for almost an hour. Thankfully it was Saturday. The dorms were open until later that evening. But, surprisingly, activity was low on campus.

"Let’s see what our favorite news source has to say today, yeah?" she asked, chuckling.

“Sure,” she heard Julian say through nauseous panting.

She took her lollipop out of her mouth. Sure it wasn’t exactly sanitary to have such a thing, but she didn’t really give a fuck.

She hummed softly, stopping words in her mouth as Julian heaved again. She heard a slight splatter into the bowl.

“Anything interesting?” Saylor asked.

“Spit,” Julian mumbled, “Again.”

“Are you sure you have to throw up? I mean you’ve-“ Saylor started.

Julian retched, this time she could hear something more substantial splash into the toilet.

“Huh, guess you did,” She shrugged, going back to her phone to find the latest unhinged fashion commentary she could find. Something to distract him.

This was how their relationship worked. If Julian was sick, she read him shitty fashion articles. If she was sick, he would read her random fun facts he could find or read true crime articles to her. It worked.

“Here, listen to this,” She rolled her eyes, tone dripping with sarcasm, "this so called 'expert' thinks that neon colors are going to be the next big thing in professional attire. Can you imagine walking into a boardroom looking like a human highlighter?" She paused, listening for any response from the stall behind her.

“Depends on the complexion and hair color of the person,” Julian answered, “Some people look best in neon.”

Saylor snorted. "Yeah, right. Because nothing screams 'take me seriously' like blinding everyone with your neon ensemble."

Julian managed a weak chuckle. "Just trying to see the bright side...literally. Besides, you’re like the queen of self expression. Shouldn’t neon colors be enticin-“

Saylor sighed softly as his words were cut off by another, slightly weaker retch.

When that stopped, she continued, "Okay, here's another gem. 'This season, oversized hats are making a comeback. Perfect for those who want to block out the haters or just the sun.' Seriously? Who writes this stuff?"

Julian's laughter was interrupted by another wave of nausea. Saylor heard him moan shakily, heard him move a bit closer to the toilet. Saylor's eyes flicked to the stall door, her fingers tightening around her phone. She felt useless standing out here, but barging in wouldn't help either. This was the best she could do.

Just then, the bathroom door creaked open, and an older student, clearly annoyed, stepped in. His eyes narrowed when he saw Saylor. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded.

“Reading the news, hanging out,” Saylor shrugged, not looking at the other student. “Helping a friend.”

“This is a men’s restroom,” The guy said, “You don’t qualify.”

Saylor looked up from her phone then, narrowing her eyes and making a point to look the other student up and down, lingering on his crotch area with a snort.

“Yeah, I don’t think you qualify either,” Saylor scoffed, “My girlfriend’s strap is more packed than what you have to offer. And she is far more attractive. So, trust me, nothing in here is going to bother me. And if it bothers you that I’m here for my friend, well, that's your problem. I’m not here for you."

“Well what if I have to-“

“There’s another bathroom down the hall,” Saylor said, “Or you could man up and take a piss, trust me, I’m not looking. Nothing to look at anyway.”

The guy's face turned a deep shade of red, and he opened his mouth as if to argue, but thought better of it and stormed out.

Julian's weak laughter followed his exit. "You always know how to make an impression, Saylor."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, feeling a strange mix of pride and discomfort. She was used to pushing people away, but with Julian, it was different. "Just focus on getting better, okay? I don't need you keeling over on me."

"Working on it," Julian mumbled, his voice barely audible. Saylor could hear the strain in his words, the underlying pain that made her chest tighten uncomfortably.

“How’s your stomach holding up?” Saylor asked, locking her phone and tucking it in the pocket of her purple leather jeans.

“Not great,” Julian said, she heard him spit, a small whine escaping him just barely loud enough for her to hear.

Saylor leaned her head against the stall door, taking a deep breath. She knew Julian was tough, but hearing him in pain was tearing at her. She wasn't the nurturing type, but Julian had a way of making her want to be better, even if it was just for him.

“Hey, let me in,” she said, trying to sound casual.

There was a moment of hesitation before she heard the soft click of the lock. Saylor pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind her.

Julian was slumped on the floor, his usually bright eyes dulled with pain and exhaustion.

“You remember when I came into your dorm room after going to that stupid frat party?” Saylor asked, “And I was so drunk I threw up in the sink in your room?”

“Very much, yes,” Julian said. “Kev was pissed. Then he decided it was fine because he said you were hot puking your guts out and telling him off.”

“He was weird,” Saylor said.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Julian said, “But what does you being drunk have to do with-“

“Stand up,” Saylor said, snapping her fingers and gesturing with her hand to get him to stand.

Julian nodded weakly, and with some effort, Saylor managed to get him on his feet. She positioned him over the toilet, keeping a firm grip on his waist. His body trembled, and she could feel the tension in his muscles.

“Okay, just let it out,” she murmured, pushing his hair out of his face. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Say, I don’t think that’ll help,” Julian told her, “I’ve been in here for-“

“Sitting on the floor,” Saylor said, “Just trust me.”

Julian leaned over the toilet, and Saylor applied gentle pressure to his stomach, hoping it would help speed up the process. It didn’t take long for him to start retching again, his body convulsing with each wave of nausea.

He heaved, Saylor’s touch making his stomach give in. A thick wave of vomit rushed out of him, splashing into the toilet.

“That's it, just let it out,” Saylor said, her voice softer than usual. “You're doing great.”

Julian groaned, the sound turning into a guttural retch as another round of vomit hit the toilet.

Saylor held him steady, her grip firm but comforting. She continued to talk to him, her voice a mix of sarcastic banter and genuine concern.

“You know, you could have just skipped the cafeteria food. It’s not like they serve gourmet meals here,” she said, trying to distract him.

Julian managed a weak laugh between bouts of vomiting. “Thanks...for the advice.”

“Anytime,” Saylor replied, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead. “You know, next time you decide to get sick, maybe give me a heads-up. I could bring better reading material.”

Julian leaned heavily against her, his breathing ragged. “I’ll...keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Saylor said, tightening her grip around his waist. “Now, let's get this over with. The sooner you're done, the sooner we can get you back to bed.”

She moved, standing behind him, arms wrapped around his waist as she squeezed him tight. The tighter she squeezed, the more vomit rushed out of Julian’s stomach.

Julian continued to heave, each round of vomiting more forceful than the last. Saylor kept him upright, her presence a steady anchor. She could feel his exhaustion, the way his body sagged against her, but she didn't let go.

“Almost there, Jules,” she said softly. “Just a little more.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Julian's retching subsided. He leaned heavily against Saylor, his breathing slow and labored. She held him for a moment longer, making sure he was steady before gently easing him back down to sit on the floor.

“There you go,” she said, wiping his face with a damp paper towel. “Feeling any better?”

Julian nodded weakly. “Yeah...a little.”

“Good,” Saylor said, offering him a small smile. “Because I’m not doing this again. You owe me, big time.”

Julian smiled faintly, his eyes closing as he leaned his head against the cool tile wall. “I know. Thanks, Saylor.”

“Anytime, idiot,” she replied, her voice softening. “Now, let's get you back to your room. You need to rest.”

She supported his weight as they slowly made their way out of the bathroom. Saylor's heart ached seeing Julian so vulnerable, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t normal.

Saylor would never admit it, but it made her worried.

-

Julian's dorm room was a small but cozy space, filled with soft hues and warm blankets and decorated with his various artworks and fashion sketches pinned on the walls. He had some of the cutest lights above his bed, stars they looked like.

“God,” Saylor said, “Your room looks every bit as gay as you are.”

Julian chuckled softly. “You say that like your room doesn’t look like you’re ready to smash the next poor soul of a pretty girl with big tits that ends up being your roommate.”

The faint hum of a lo-fi playlist played softly in the background, providing a calm atmosphere despite the circumstances.

Julian laid down, flopping on his bed, a cold sweat glistening on his forehead. His usually bright eyes were dull and heavy with discomfort.

Saylor rolled her eyes and grabbed one of Julian’s wash cloths, running it under the cool water of sink in the corner of the room, just big enough to brush your teeth and get ready in the morning.

She walked over and wiped off his face, “You are pathetic. Looking all sick and disgusting.”

“You need to fix your hair, it’s messy and you look like a rejected one night stand,” Julian teased her back.

That was their relationship. Bullying each other with a kind smile. That was how they showed affection.

Saylor unfolded the wash cloth and covered Julian’s face with it.

Saylor, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, glanced over at him with a mixture of concern and affection. She reached for the water bottle on the nightstand and got up to hand it to him.

“Here, pretty boy, drink some more water,” Saylor said. “You need to stay hydrated."

Julian took the bottle with a weak smile, his hands trembling slightly as he took a small sip. "Thanks, Saylor. I don't know what's wrong with me today."

"You probably ate something bad, or you got some frat house flu, I know you love making your rounds there,” Saylor said, trying to keep the mood light.

She picked up one of his fashion sketches from the floor and examined it. "Hey, this one's pretty cool. When are you going to make me a custom jacket, huh?"

Julian chuckled weakly. "Soon, I promise. As soon as I can hold a needle without feeling like I'm going to pass out."

Saylor grinned and ruffled his hair. "Good. You better keep that promise, or I'll never let you live it down."

“Well if I die first, then what?” Julian asked.

“I’ll bring you back, I’m not going through this shit show alone,” Saylor scoffed.

“Any fun and interesting gossip with the girls?” Julian asked her.

Saylor shrugged, sitting on the windowsill, before she started recounting the latest campus gossip. "So, I overheard some real juicy drama in the art building today, before your homie Jackson told me you were spilling chunks in the bathroom and I should probably come terrorize you for him since he’d throw up if he heard you throw up.”

“Well then you could just take care of both of us,” Julian said, “Your bedside manner is impeccable.”

Saylor laughed, “Anyway, you know that pretentious guy, Ethan, from my painting class? Well, turns out he got caught making out with one of the janitors. Can you believe it? All that holier-than-thou attitude, and he's sneaking around like a lovesick teenager."

Julian managed a faint laugh, though it was clear he was still feeling miserable. "Ethan? Really? That's... unexpected."

"Right?" Saylor said, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "And get this—when he got caught, he tried to say they were just 'discussing art.' Yeah, sure, Ethan. Because everyone discusses art with their tongues down each other's throats."

Julian shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips despite his discomfort. "You're terrible, Saylor."

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, I'm just telling it like it is. Anyway, enough about him. How are you feeling now? Any better?"

Julian sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "Not really. My stomach still feels like it's doing somersaults."

Saylor's expression softened, and she reached out to gently squeeze his hand. "Hang in there, okay? I don’t want to be the bitch friend of the guy who let some frat flu win."

“Never, sweetheart,” Julian said, “You’re just a bitch.”

“Being a bitch is more fun,” Saylor shrugged.

Just then, Julian's face contorted with a sudden wave of nausea. He sat up quickly, clutching his stomach. "Saylor, I think I need to—"

Without another word, Saylor sprang into action, grabbing the small trash bin from beside the desk and holding it out for him just in time. Julian retched, his body trembling with the effort. Saylor stayed by his side, one hand on his back, offering a steadying presence.

"It's okay, Jules," she murmured softly, rubbing his back in soothing circles. "Just let it out. I'm here."

After a few agonizing moments, Julian finally stopped, breathing heavily. He leaned back, exhausted and pale. Saylor handed him a tissue to wipe his mouth and offered him another sip of water.

"Thanks," Julian whispered, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry you have to see this."

Saylor shook her head firmly. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm your best friend. I'd rather be here with you than anywhere else."

She settled back down, resuming her casual chatter to distract him once more. "So, back to Ethan... Can you imagine the look on Professor Green's face when she found out? Priceless. Absolutely priceless."

As she continued to weave tales of campus gossip and amusing anecdotes, Julian couldn't help but feel a little better, knowing that no matter how sick he felt, Saylor would always be there to make his life… far more interesting.

[brokeitwiththepowerofmathamatics]

Fanfic - Ghost of the Cards

This was written for a "back to school" fic challenge on a DP server I'm in. It was beta read by HeroineofTime!

For the challenge, we had to write a fic that was around going back to school, and had to include in some way homework, detention, backpack, friends, and bells.

(ao3 here) (ff.net here)

Danny knew that Dash and the A-Listers would probably try to find some way to make his life miserable, but he had to admit this was actually kind of funny.

Danny huffed as he ran up to the school doors. Yes, he could have just flown in using his ghost powers while invisible, then pop out of one of the bathroom stalls or something, but after the summer vacation, and the multitude of close calls of almost being caught by… well… everyone… (no Jazz, he was not being careless because he wanted to be caught and freed from the burden of secrecy) he decided not to risk using his powers at school today.

In retrospect, that didn't help anything.

Danny walked through the school doors, he was greeted by the sight of one of the lunchroom tables laid out in the school entryway. Star and Paulina were sitting at the table, greeting all the students as they came in, and handing out little boxes.

Danny resolved himself to ignore it, but he didn't get a chance to.

"Hey! Fenton!" Star called out. Danny sighed and walked over. Star glanced over at Paulina and the two of them started giggling.

Danny already had a bad feeling but now it was worse. "Hey, Star," he greeted.

"Hello!" Star said, sitting up straight. Her posture was perfect, not leaning in any friendly manner, but she wasn’t leaning away like she normally would. (At least, while people could see her) "Here! Take this!" she said, handing him one of the boxes. Her voice was oddly chipper for a typical interaction with him. "The art club kept meeting over the summer, and we came up with something fun! The teachers are all helping out with this!"

"Uh… thanks? What is it?" Danny asked, tilting the box over in his hands. It was a cardboard box that was printed to look like the outside of Casper High, with a large ‘TCG’ floating over the school's name. There was also a piece of masking tape on the back, that Danny noticed wasn't on the others.

This box had been marked for him.

"It's a card game! You should know all about those!"

Danny sighed. "Not really? Look, I know I'm a nerd, but I like video games and space." Danny shook the box around. "Card games haven't been my thing."

Star rolled her eyes. "Whatever, look, I gotta keep handing these out." She looked past him and raised her hand. "Kwan! Over here!"

Where Kwan was, Dash soon followed, so Danny dashed away.

Danny checked where his locker was supposed to be, before running up the stairs to the top floor. Fighting the urge to pump a fist as he did so. Not only was it the top floor, but it was close to a janitor closet, and in a dead end part of the school. Not many people would be coming by here unless it was specifically to drop stuff at their locker, or go to the history teacher's room that was on the other side of the wall.

And more importantly, Sam and Tucker were apparently next to him as well.

Thank Clockwork for small mercies.

"You're welcome," Tucker said as he took a stack of cards from Sam.

"Don't mention it, I don't want to see it, I don't want to hear about them, and the moment I’m allowed to get my hands around Paulina’s little neck I’ll-"

Danny jogged up and interrupted their conversation. "Whoa, what's going on?" he asked. He couldn’t help but be proud of himself, this was about as far as you could get from the school entrance, and despite jogging the whole way, he wasn’t out of breath at all. Apparently, the early morning jogs with Sam were actually helping.

Sam whirled toward Danny, and then zero'd in on the box in his hands. "It's that stupid card game that Star and Paulina started.” she spat, pointing at it with about as much hate as she had for the pink dresses her mother kept buying her. “They started with- hey wait, Danny, don't-"

But, Danny kept opening the box. "I just want to see what the big deal is." He opened the box as Sam stammered. She opened and closed her mouth multiple times before giving up and biting down on a knuckle.

The box contained several booster packs of cards, each wrapped up in foil, and a booklet that was probably the game rules. In all honesty, Danny was impressed. He wasn't a connoisseur of playing cards or anything, but this seemed very much like the cards he'd see at the big box stores.

Danny tore up the first pack and looked at the cards. He frowned when he saw the first card that greeted him was a picture of Dash. It was a picture of his bully at what was probably last year's homecoming football game, with two golden stars above it. Underneath the picture were two boxes, one with a red sword along with a 5, and another with a blue shield with an 8. At the bottom of the card was a big box saying, "Teamplayer, for every other card on the field with the text teamplayer on, this card gains 1 power and 1 toughness."

Danny rolled his eyes and flipped through the cards. Obviously the reason why this box was marked wasn't because he was supposed to see Dash's ugly mug. Sam continued to stare nervously as Danny went through the cards.

Danny paused on another card, this one wasn’t a photo, but a drawn art piece of Ember. Instead of the stars, there was a green letter ‘G’ above the picture. Ember had a 10 for the sword, and the shield had a 10 as well.

At the bottom of her card was a similar box as Dash’s card. “Leader, when this card is played, take a card from your hand and put it in one of the lanes next to this card. It must follow normal summoning rules.”

Danny huffed. “Ember would hate this card, she doesn’t do duets.” The comment got a laugh out of Tucker but Sam continued to look nervous. She wouldn’t be worried if it was a ghost (other than him) being upset, that meant this wasn’t what had gotten under her skin. So, Danny continued flipping through the cards.

Then he found it.

It was a picture of him, looking panicked. Danny recognized it as around one of the times Skulker really had it out for him from last year during prom. His card was lacking any of the stars, but it also had a big fat 0 next to the power and toughness stats.

The only saving grace to his card was the bottom text, which Danny read aloud. "Moving on, when this card dies, play another card."

The hall was silent for a moment as Danny processed what he was seeing. Sam reached out carefully towards Danny, almost like she was afraid he'd break down in front of him.

Danny couldn't take it anymore.

He started laughing. Full blown laughs, the ugly ones that made you wheeze cause you weren't able to breath properly.

"Danny?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"Oh my gosh, this is perfect!" Danny got out before gasping for air. "I can't believe- oh my god- they did- I can't- I can't breathe, oh my god I can't breathe! I'm laughing too hard!"

"Okay, Danny, seriously…" Sam said, folding her arms and tapping her foot against the ground. "This isn't funny."

Danny took several big gulps full of air. "Sam, it's really funny." Sam continued to glare and Danny leaned forward and whispered. "Sam, my card's power is going ghost." He frowned. "Wait, do you think-"

"That the A-Lister's know?" Tucker interrupted, shuffling his cards around, "Nah, if they did, Dash would be worshiping the ground you walk on, not talking about how he can't wait to see your face when you see your card."

"I think he's gonna be pretty disappointed."

Sam huffed and leaned against the lockers. "You're both taking this pretty well considering the school is basically systematically bullying Danny." She turned toward Danny and her eyebrows rose slightly. "I'm gonna be honest. I'm not okay with this. I'm not. I know you're saying it's funny, but Danny… the school made a card that said your only purpose is to die… That's really messed up."

Danny shrugged and checked that no one was coming down the hall before shoving his hand through his locker door and hanging up his backpack. "I mean, they're not wrong."

"Danny!"

Danny turned to face Sam. "Sam, I'm a straight D student… I'm also the-" Danny checked the hall again and still didn't see anyone coming around the corner, "-the local super hero. Literally, my superpower is to die on command. It's really exactly wrong... Also, where is everyone else? School starts in like… thirty minutes doesn't it?"

Sam's eyes narrowed and she turned toward Tucker, Tucker however was laughing. "Jazz moved your clocks ahead so you'd make it on time. We got like an hour and half."

"What! I can't believe she'd do that!" Danny paused then shrugged. "Well, actually I can and I think that's worse."

Sam reached over and pulled on Danny's arm. "I'm not letting this drop," she said, holding eye contact with Danny and holding onto his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly tight, and her arm was shaking slightly. "It's not okay that the school did this, you know? You're allowed to be mad about it."

"I'm not though! Sam, I really don't care."

"Well, fine, but I do… I'm not okay with them doing this. I'm gonna tear the school a new one," she said, grabbing Danny's arm with her other hand. "When I get home, I'm talking to my grandma and I'm finding the best lawyer I can and then Mr. Lancer can kiss every bonus he'd ever get goodb-"

Danny sighed and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, interrupting her litigious rant. "Sam, aren't you the one always telling me not to worry about what other people think?" His hand slid from the top of her shoulder as he ran his hand up and down her arm, trying to get her to calm down.

Sam shook her head, though she leaned into his touch. "This is very different, and you know it,” she whispered.

"Hey, guys?" Tucker interrupted from his spot on the floor. "I hate to end this tender moment, but it gets better." Tucker waved the booklet around in front of Danny and Danny snatched it out of his hands.

Danny read for a few moments before his eyes went wide. "Oh… oh!"

Tucker smiled and started nodding. "You're seeing it too, aren't you?"

"Dude, there's no way-"

"I read the whole thing back to back, yeah, no, it's EXACTLY what you're thinking it is!"

Sam frowned. "What on earth are you guys-"

"Danny!" The trio turned around to see Jazz marching up to them. "Danny, did you-" She froze as she saw the rule book in Danny's hands. "Oh, you opened the pack, didn't you?"

Danny waved the cards around. "Yeah, I did. Why?"

Jazz frowned and straightened her back. "Cause I did too, and I got one of your cards."

Danny perked up. "Really? Can I have it?"

Jazz took a step back, and folded her arms across her chest. "Uhh…" She glanced up at Sam who walked over to Jazz's side. "No?" it shouldn't have sounded like a question, but it definitely did.

"He's already seen it," Sam groaned. "I'm telling him he can be mad about it-"

"Guys, guys, listen, my card's power is dying. It's objectively hilarious."

Jazz glared at Danny. "No, the card is… I mean… it's…" Jazz's righteous anger slowly fizzled out as she stammered, unsure of exactly what she was saying. Obviously she knew the implications of what the card was saying, but she didn't want to say it herself.

"Wait, wait…" Danny interrupted, shaking his hands about in the air. Before he pointed at Jazz and raised his voice. "You moved my clocks forward! I could have been sleeping!"

Jazz rolled her eyes. "You'll be thankful since you can actually get your textbooks because you got here on time." She huffed and ran a hand through her hair. "Danny, I really don't think you're getting how serious this is."

This time it was Danny's turn to roll his eyes. "The A-Listers made a stupid card game, tried to make a joke about me being useless, accidentally made a joke that is so accurate that probably every single one of us has wondered if the secret is out." At that, everyone else suddenly refused to make eye contact.

"I mean…" Tucker began scratching under his beret.

Sam coughed. "Paulina for all her faults is pretty observant."

Jazz huffed. "It's better than what this actually is."

Danny just raised an eyebrow at them and folded his arms. The silence stretched for a moment before Sam walked up to Danny. "Danny, you're my best friend. Sorry Tuck, no offense."

"Some taken," Tucker responded cheerfully.

"And because you're my best friend, I don't care if you are or aren't bothered by the stupid card. 'Cause I am. The school told my best friend he was worthless, and I'm not okay with that. Maybe they didn't mean that, maybe it just slipped through. But that's what this looks like to me, and probably looks like to all the kids in the school."

"Except for all the card nerds," Tucker chimed in.

"What?" Jazz asked, turning towards Tucker. "Why?"

Instead of an answer, the four of them jumped as screams came from down the stairs. The four exchanged glances before running down the stairs. They followed the screams and fleeing students back towards the school entrance, where almost everyone was fleeing from a terrifying ghost.

"I AM THE BOX GHOST!"

Terrifying if you hadn't been paying attention the entirety of last year, that is.

Five students groaned, Tucker, Sam, and Jazz all turned to see that Valerie had appeared. The four of them froze as one, realizing they were not as alone as they thought they were, and they started to think about how to get the others to leave so that one of the two ghost hunters here could fight the ghost in peace.

Except Danny was not having it.

"For the love of fudge and Clockwork!" Danny shouted, marching towards the Box Ghost. He snatched up one of the card boxes as he marched toward the floating annoyance. "You, Box Ghost. I have a box here, a shiny cardboard box. I give you this, you leave. Okay?"

The Box Ghost floated closer to Danny. "That is indeed a splendid box most shiny…" The Box Ghost mused as he rubbed his chin. Inspecting the box for blemishes and appropriate squareness.

Danny reached up and grabbed the Box Ghost by his shirt, pulling him down to eye level. He then whispered to him, "If you don't take the box and make like a ghost and disappear, then the next time Phantom sees you, he's gonna shove his fist so far down your throat you'll be tasting rubber for the rest of your afterlife.” The Box Ghost’s eyes widened, perhaps sensing that Danny was very much serious. He snatched the box out of Danny’s hands before floating back out of reach. “HA HA, the BOX GHOST accepts your tribute! He shall now go far away and uncover the secrets of your mysterious cardboard-!”

“We get it,” Danny growled.

The Box Ghost jumped back about three feet, before shouting, “BEWARE!” as a final farewell, and then flying through the walls.

Danny huffed and wiped his hands on his jeans before turning back towards his friends. He took two steps before he heard someone say, “Fenton?”

Danny turned to see Star peeking at him from behind an overturned table, apparently that was the source of the spilled boxes that Danny had picked from. Good to see that the training from the last year or so had stuck when dealing with ghosts. Danny reached down and picked up a couple of the boxes. Of the three he grabbed, one had masking tape on the back of it, like the one that had been given to him.

Danny juggled the boxes around to get a free hand to lift the table back upright. “I don’t know why you two are freaking out, it’s just the Box Ghost…” At their incredulous looks and Jazz clearing her throat behind him, Danny coughed and quickly added, “I mean… even I’ve stopped running from the Box Ghost over the summer.”

Star and Paulina looked at each other as Danny put the boxes down, though the marked box he kept. He ran his fingers over the masking tape and then gave a pointed look at each of them. Paulina looked at the box then at Danny, before recognition lit up in her eye. It was replaced a moment later as she realized that he knew what that meant. Her eyes widened and she glanced at Danny’s friends. Tucker and Valerie were picking up boxes, but Sam and Jazz were steadfastly not.

If looks could shoot ectoblasts, Paulina and Star would have gone ghost right there.

Paulina took a step back as Star held out a hand for the box, giving him her nicest, warmest, and fakest smile. “Well, thanks, Fenton!”

Danny pulled back and said, “I’m keeping this one.”

Star’s smile dropped just slightly. “Oh? But you already got one?”

Danny tapped on the masking tape with his index finger. “It’s got my card in it, doesn’t it?” At that Star’s smile dropped and her eyes went wide. Danny turned around and started walking away. He walked over to where Valerie, Jazz, Tucker, and Sam were all talking. “Hey, Valerie!” Danny greeted.

Valerie shifted uncomfortably. Glancing between him and the others.“Hey, Danny,” she greeted back hesitantly. Before he could ask what was bothering her, she barreled on. “What’s that about your card?”

Jazz turned toward Danny as he started tearing into the box. “The school made that card game, and everyone has a card.” She explained. “The A-Listers used the opportunity to try and bully Danny.”

“What?” Valerie gasped.

“Sweet!” Danny exclaimed after tearing open the packs. “I got two of mine!” He held them up in victory, but Valerie snatched them out of his hand. “Hey! Give me those! I fought a ghost for them!”

Valerie scoffed. “Yeah, right. Anyone with a brain can deal with the Box Ghost.”

“Which explains why the A-Listers were hiding from him.”

Valerie did not continue the quippy back and forth, instead her jaw dropped as she read the card. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“I don’t make a habit of lying,” Sam lied. Lying was second nature to all of them at this point, though Danny would admit he still wasn’t good at thinking on his feet. “The card’s only purpose is to get on the field and die.”

Danny snatched the cards back. “Guys, you’re making it out to be so much worse than it is.”

Valerie whirled on Danny. “Danny! This is awful! Look, I’ve looked past a lot of Star and Paulina’s stuff, but this is bad…”

Danny shuffled through the cards. “Guys, seriously drop it. I’m sure the A-Lister’s weren’t thinking, cause if they were they wouldn’t have made my card so strong.”

Everyone except for Tucker, who had actually read the rule book, looked at each other confused and managed to ask, “What?”

Then the doors of the building got thrown open. Some people screamed and dove for cover, others started running without thinking, while a few others turned to look at the new threat.

Maddie Fenton walked into the school building with fire and fury behind her. Her eyes sweeped the entrance hallway before falling on Jazz and Danny. She marched over to them, and Danny immediately went ramrod straight as he recognized just how pissed she was. He hadn’ seen her this mad since he had broken the vase she had bought.

(In his defense, it was haunted.)

“Jazz, sweetie,” she began, her voice icy cold. “May I see what you were calling about?”

Jazz produced one of the cards and handed it over to her mother. “Yeah, I got one right here.”

Danny opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it as he saw the look on his mother’s face. She growled and turned. “Come along kids, I’m going to have a talk with the school principal, right now.”

No longer in his mom’s sight, Danny found his voice, though his feet followed after her like a duckling. “Mom, please, listen to me. This is not that big of a deal!”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that, sweetie.”

“No, seriously!” Danny turned to Jazz as his mom marched through the school halls. “Jazz, please back me up!”

Jazz sighed and gave him a look like he should know better. “Danny, I’m the one who called her over this.”

Danny tried to argue his case with both of them, but made no progress. It wasn’t much longer before Danny was running a hand down his face as his Mom towered over Principal Ishiyama. “I would like to speak to whoever was in charge of the school’s card game.”

The principal looked behind her at Danny (who was mouthing an apology) and Jazz (who was trying to develop ghost powers to immolate someone with her brain) before meeting her gaze. “Uh… is there a problem?”

“Yes,” Maddie stated. “The teacher?”

“Well, the card game was made by the school’s art club so-”

“The art club has a supervisor. Who. Is. It.” There was no inflection in her words, Danny had heard her speak kinder to the ghosts she had captured.

The principal wavered for a moment before reaching over to her phone. She pressed a few buttons before the school’s P.A system turned on. “Would Mr. Lancer please come to the principal’s office immediately?”

“Sit, children.” Maddie ordered, and Danny and Jazz jumped into the chairs that were set across from the desk.

Once they were sitting, Danny frowned and noticed something. “Uh… should we leave a chair for Mr. Lancer?”

Maddie didn’t break eye contact with the principal. “No.”

They sat in an awkward quiet with Maddie glaring at Principal Ishiyama the entire time before Mr. Lancer stepped into the office. “You wanted to see me?” He asked, “I’m still setting up for class, so-”

Maddie turned toward him. Slowly and insidiously, Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if he heard the sounds of hinges creaking as her head carefully and measuredly turned toward his teacher. “You were in charge of the school’s card game?”

“Uhh, in a manner of speaking? I was just supervising, ensuring the students weren’t misusing school property, or fielding questions.” Lancer answered as he walked over toward the principal’s side. By the looks on their faces, neither knew what this was about.

“Hm,” Maddie vocalized, and Danny winced. That was not a sound of acknowledgement, but the sound of you-have-done-exactly-as-I-expected-you-would-and-now-I’m-disappointed-in-you which was a lot of information given in a single syllable but he was quite familiar with it. “And just how were the card’s strength and health determined?”

“Well, the rules are using power and toughness, but a card’s power was how many clubs and after school activities a student was in, while toughness was a base of 5, with an additional 1 for every grade of B or 2 for A, and a loss of 1 for every detention that a student had.”

The principal leaned forward and cut in. “Ms. Fenton-”

“Doctor,” Maddie corrected, and both Danny and Jazz winced. Their mother usually didn’t care about her title, stating she was a mother and wife first and foremost. She only insisted on being called doctor when she wanted to make a point.

It obviously threw Ishiyama for a loop. She cleared her throat and continued. “Dr. Fenton, perhaps you should explain what exactly-”

“Ms. Ishiyama, were you aware that Mr. Lancer here allowed the school to produce a card that implied my son had no benefit? That all he could do was die?”

Mr. Lancer’s eyes widened. “Excuse me! That is-”

Maddie refused to look in his direction. Instead holding up a hand to cut him off. “And that my son’s special ability is called moving on.”

At this point, Danny jumped up. “Hold on, can I get a say in this?” Danny waved his hands and stood next to the principal, who was beginning to turn pale. “Mom, that’s an inside joke of the school. You know I’ve had to go to the bathroom a lot ever since the accident, so when I have to interrupt class to, Mr. Lancer will give me permission and then say, ‘Moving on’. I know it looks bad, but it’s just an inside joke of the school.”

Mr. Lancer raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Mr. Fenton, I-”

Maddie whirled on him. “Shall I also point out that you are also exposing students’ grades to everyone as well? You must have shared them if the cards are a reflection of their grades.”

Mr. Lancer folded his arms. “I did not, the students asked for a formula for making the numbers, and I ran it myself. The students don’t know anyone’s grades.”

“Yet, you have my son having a zero for his health?” Maddie snapped.

“Even if he had turned in all his homework with 100% grades, which everyone in this room knows he has not, with the number of detentions he has received the last year, he’d still be at a zero.” Mr. Lancer said, shooting Danny a look.

Maddie slammed her hands on principal Ishiyama’s desk. “Do not blame my son for this!”

The principal raised her hands. “Dr. Fenton, I acknowledge that we have done you and your family a major disservice. Even if it was an inside joke, the context is important,” she said, shooting Mr. Lancer a withering glare. “Dare I say, our English teacher should be more than aware of something like that.”

Jazz cleared her throat. “May I ask a question?”

Maddie leaned back and answered for everyone. “Go ahead, sweetie…” even as Danny was shaking his head no.

“Mr. Lancer, did you have any inkling of what was going on?”

“Excuse me?” He said brow furrowing.

“Were you or were not aware that it was very likely that the A-Listers, Star, Paulina, Dash, and Kwan were using this as an opportunity to bully my little brother?”

Mr. Lancer opened his mouth to respond before taking a moment to clear his throat and respond. “I did not know that they were intending to do this, no.”

Maddie frowned and Ishiyama let out a sigh of relief. But Jazz continued, “But did you suspect it? Did you have reason to believe that they were going to do this?”

Lancer was quiet and didn’t answer, instead he chewed on his lip for a moment.

It was a moment too long, and Maddie turned to the principal. “I want him fired.”

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement that doesn’t-”

“He’s either fired, or Fentonworks stops funding the school repairs and anti-ghost tech.”

Danny put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. “Okay! Okay! No! Mom!” Danny clapped his hands in front of his chest before pointing at her with them. “They can’t fire Mr. Lancer, the school already is having enough trouble finding new teachers because they’re quitting the moment they hear about ghost attacks. Not only that, but if you stop helping the school, the school is gonna have to shut down!”

“Daniel,” Maddie started, her voice deceptively calm and collected. “If this school is not a safe space for my children, then it can burn for all I care.”

“OOooookay!” Danny shouted, holding up his hands. “I understand you’re upset, but-”

“Daniel. I get upset when your father eats more than his share of the mashed potatoes. I get upset when my experiments get ruined by ghost attacks. I get upset when you kids forget to do your chores.

“I am not upset. I am furious.”

“But I’m not,” Danny groaned, pointing at himself. “Look, I know what the card looks like, seriously, I do. Everyone is telling me to be mad about it, but…” He trailed off as he looked out the door and he ran to the door. “Hey! Hey! Mikey! Yeah, come over here real quick.”

He led the quiet nerd into the office and then closed the door behind him. “Okay, this is gonna be quick. You got the school game, right?”

Mikey adjusted his glasses. “Uh, yes, Star gave me a box this morning when I walked in.”

“Right, okay. You read the rule book right?”

“Of course! Front to back three times! I wouldn’t be a proud member of the game club if I didn’t!”

“How many Danny Fenton cards do you have?”

“I’ve gotten my hands on ten so far.”

“How much would I need to pay you in order to get you to give me those cards?”

“If Paulina came in here and asked for a date in exchange, I still wouldn’t give them up. You can pry them from my cold dead and nerdy hands.”

“No, seriously. I think I got like forty bucks in my pocket-”

“No.”

“Thank you, that is all.”

The principal frowned and watched as Danny pushed Mikey out the door and closed it again. “What was the point of that?”

Danny took a deep breath. “Mr. Lancer… do you have a deck?” At his teacher’s nod, Danny then asked a question. “You have several of my cards in your deck, don’t you?”

Mr. Lancer threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t. The art club wouldn’t let us cheat and build our decks with the cards we wanted. We had to draft them.”

“The point?” Maddie said huffing.

Danny sighed. “Yes, Dash, Star, Paulina and Kwan… I’m not sold on Kwan here, all tried to bully me by making a bad card. They failed so so hard.” Danny blinked. “In all honesty? The card is very accurate. The card game is about fighting ghosts. So, obviously I’m the most intelligent person in the deck, the moment ghosts show up, I’m outta there.”

“Into the graveyard,” Jazz snipped.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Fine, how about this? They can release a new rule book, one where the graveyard is called the discard pile instead?”

Maddie pursed her lips. “Danny, you’re really insistent this doesn’t change. Why?”

“Because I’m not gonna be happy if I don’t get to beat my bully at literally his own game.” The school bell rang and Danny started inching his way to the door. “Okay, Mom? You can hash it out with the principal, but no asking for Mr. Lancer to be fired, no threatening the school, and definitely no changing my card's effects? Okay? Please?” Danny thought for a moment and then tacked on, “I love you?” The fact that sounded like a question probably didn’t help his chances in getting her to calm down.

Maddie sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “Alright, alright.” She stood up. “I will let Principal Ishiyama here discuss with Mr. Lancer what they should do, but tomorrow I will be back. This time, with my husband as well. And I assure you, he won’t be as calm as me.”

The threat definitely worked, as both of them paled as they thought about what a rampaging Jack Fenton would be like.

The Fentons left the room together, and Maddie handed Jazz back the card. “I really don’t like this.” She said, though she didn’t seem surprised when Danny snatched the card from Jazz and put it in his pocket. “But you… seem to know what you’re doing?”

“The only request I have is that Jazz records it when Dash realizes how dumb he is.” Danny turned and then started running back down the hall. “Gotta get to class! I’ll see you guys later!”

Danny ran back to his locker, put the cards in his pocket away, and then ran to class. He turned the corner before a hand grabbed his shirt and slammed him into a locker. “Heard you went crying to mommy, Fenturd.”

“Dash, we have got to stop meeting like this.” Danny said, rolling his eyes. “And for the record, I didn’t. You pissed off Jazz, who then called my mom. I tried to tell her it was not a big deal.”

Dash hesitated, trying to slot the square peg into the round hole. Danny could practically see the thoughts slip out of his head before he got mad again. “Well, I guess I gotta crush ya before your mom ruins the fun. Lunch time, bring a deck.”

“See you then!” Danny saluted. His hand fell back to his side and he looked down. “Dash… aren’t you gonna put me down?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, I know this is gonna be hard, but can you think faster? I want to be on time to class for a change.”

A few moments later, Danny phased his way out of the locker he had been stuffed into. He sighed and brushed off shirt. “Man, I really hope I start taking more after my dad soon. I would love to not fit in lockers anymore.”

***

Lunch time came around, and Danny walked in with his head held high. Mikey might not have traded his cards for a date with Paulina, but Phantom signing the Phantom card (which was a 10/10 by the way, with both Teamplayer and Leader keywords) was worth the trade.

It seemed like the entire school was there waiting for this fight. Danny walked down an aisle flanked by students on either side of him that closed around him as he approached Dash sitting at a lunch table.

Danny stopped at the tablet. “Seriously, did you really pick the table furthest from the door? Are you sure you’re not one of the drama kids?” He turned toward Star, who was actually looking pretty uncomfortable. “Star, you’ve been in the school plays right? You should totally try to get Dash to join in this year, looks like he’d have fun with it.”

Star didn’t answer; instead she stepped behind Kwan, who looked a little sick, and Paulina, who was shifting around as the entire school stared at them.

“It’s time to duel, Fenton.” Dash said, slamming his palm against the table.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Alright alright, if you’re that ready to lose” he said, sitting down at the table. Danny took his deck out and started shuffling it. It wasn’t much to shuffle; the deck size was only twenty cards after all.

Dash frowned, but then drew his starting hand. “Good, I’m ready. As the cool one, I’m going first.” He smiled at Danny. “Okay, for my first card, I’m playing Danny Fenton!” He threw the card on the table, “Oh, whoops! He died.” He laughed and Danny looked over at the other A-Listers who were taking a slight step back.

“Well, moving on,” Dash chuckled. “I get to play another card. So I play Mikey! A 3/10 with supporter!”

“Ooh, look at you, already talking like a card gamer!” Danny crowed.

“Shut it, Fenton! I’m not a nerd like you!” He folded his arms. “It’s your turn now. I can’t attack on the first turn.”

Danny nodded and raised an eyebrow. “Did you remember to draw at the end of your turn?” Dash quietly reached over and refilled his hand before Danny made a show of thinking. “Hmm… which card, which card…” He tapped his chin and then shouted. “Ah! I know!” He put a card down in front of Dash’s card. “I play Danny Fenton!” He paused. “Oh shit! I died! Oh well. Anyways.”

Dash blinked. “You really used your stupid card?”

“Hey, it’s my turn still! Jeez, I can still do something awesome!” Danny thought for a moment longer. “Oh, okay, let’s try this! I play Danny Fenton!” Dash’s brow furrowed as Danny continued. “Oh shit, I died again! I hope it was a quick one! Like maybe my neck snapped. I’d hate for it to be a slow one.” The rest of the A Listers took another step back and tried to blend into the crowd as Danny made a big deal of his card dying. “It’s okay, thanks to moving on, I get another shot! Umm… Okay, okay, I got it. I play Danny Fenton!”

Dash scoffed. “You really put three of your cards in your stupid deck?”

Danny laughed. “Three? No. Dash, my deck uses fifteen of them!”

Dash looked around, seeing confusion on most of the nearby students. “Wait, wait, you really used half your deck for your dumb worthless card?”

Danny stared at Dash for a moment. “Okay, Dash, you wanna repeat that in your head and see where you went wrong?” Dash froze like a deer in headlights before Danny sighed. “Okay, I’m pretty sure your card is bunk because wow are you bad at math. That’s not half my deck, that’s three quarters.”

“Why?”

“Tucker, please explain to the man.”

Tucker stepped out of the crowd holding up the rule book. “Cards are broken down into four categories, zero star cards, one star cards, two star cards, and ghost cards. In order to play a one star card in a lane, that lane must already have a zero star card in it. In order to play a two star card, there must already be a one star card in that lane already. Ghost cards require a total of three stars worth of cards in the lane. For every card in the graveyard, the number of stars needed for a ghost card to be summoned is reduced by one by removing those cards from play.”

Danny pointed at the three Danny Fenton cards in his graveyard. “I needed fifteen to ensure my draw chances are good enough. Which they obviously are. Oh, and by the way… moving on. You know her, you love her, let us hear you scream her name-”

“Please don’t.” Sam called out from the sidelines.

“It’s Ember McLain!” Danny shouted as he put down an Ember card slightly to the right of the Mikey card. “Ember has the Leader keyword, which lets me put down another card. So let’s hear it for her backup singer, Danny Fenton!” he said, putting down his card again. “Oh, shit, she killed him! That bastard! Oh well… moving on.” Danny held up his hand. “Now, I only got one card left, so I have to play it, it’s Danny Fenton!”

Danny paused as he put down his card. “Okay, so I’m hoping you’re seeing where this is going.”

Dash stood up. “Hold on, you’re out of cards!”

“Tucker?”

“In a situation where you are asked to play a card but don’t have any in hand, then you draw another card.”

“So, I draw and let’s see, am I feeling lucky? Dash, can you do math? What are the chances of me drawing a Danny Fenton card? Come on, I know you can do it.”

“Fuck you!” Dash shouted, beginning to move around the table.

“What’s the matter, Dash?” Valerie called out. “Can’t win a card game?”

“A card game you helped make?” Sam jeered.

Dash froze, and Danny took the opportunity to draw. “Yes! I indeed drew a Danny Fenton card! So, let’s continue…” Danny flipped through his deck, drawing his card multiple times, before finally he drew a different card.

“Sorry Mikey!” Danny shouted, “You’re about to get stepped on by Ember!”

“Awesome!”

Danny pinched the brow of his nose. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. Alright, Ember’s card doesn’t actually play a card, it’s using special wording so I guess that’s it.” He snapped his finger. “Oh, wait! It isn’t! I attack! Ember steps on Mikey, removing him, and then Ember swings and hits you in the face.” Danny smiled and leaned back. “Now it’s your turn.”

Dash stared down at the table, which hadn’t had his Mikey card removed yet. But it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t beat Danny. Danny had, on his first turn, effectively defeated Dash. The game wasn’t over, and it wouldn’t be for a while. It’d take multiple turns for Danny to win the game. But anything Dash could play would be immediately doomed to be crushed under Danny’s ghost team.

The rest of this game would be Dash getting wailed on as Danny chunked his health over the course of several turns, with the entire school watching.

Dash scoffed. “It’s a stupid game anyways,” he said, turning around and pushing his way through the crowd.

Danny stood up and grabbed Dash’s deck and waved it up in the air. “Wait, wait, Dash! Don’t you want your deck?” Dash predictably didn’t respond. Danny scoffed as Sam and Tucker approached him. “Yeah, that tracks,” he said, grabbing the hand Dash had left on the table.

“So, did Dash fill his deck with A Listers?” Tucker asked.

“Well, let’s see…” Danny said, flipping through Dash’s deck. He continued until he came across one card. “Oh come on!”

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, looking over his shoulder.

Danny held out the card that was bothering him. “There’s an Inviso-Bill card!”

Sam gave Danny an unamused glance. “Really? You’re bothered by that, more than the fact that Dash set up a card that you instantly die?”

“Well, yeah!” Danny said, “My name’s not Inviso-Bill!”

“What do you mean your name?”

Danny turned toward the speaker. And as Star stared at him confused, he realized that he had completely forgotten people were watching. “What? I didn’t say that. I said his name isn’t Inviso-Bill.”

“Wait…” Valerie said, stepping forward, pushing a finger into his chest. “Is that what you meant by your superpower is to die on command?”

Danny turned toward Sam, who was the best liar out of them. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, do you?”

Valerie folded her arms. “My locker is just around the corner of the hallway where your locker is. I heard you say that.”

“And my cards! Phantom was asking for them earlier!”

Star gasped. “Wait wait wait, is THAT why you’re not scared of the Box Ghost?”

“...Uh oh…”

[blueesnow]

(3/6) Hijirikawa Masato's Private Story [Utapri Live Emotion]

Ch 1: (unlocked if you reached intimacy lvl 6 with Masato)

-Shining Agency Dorm's Living Room- Masato: Oh, Nanami. What a coincidence. Are you on your day off today? Haruka: Yeah, I came here to return the materials that I borrowed before. Are you also on your day off too, Hijirikawa-san? Masato: Yeah. Since the wheather looks nice I thought I'd go outside today. I'm thinking of going to those events at the park. Masato: If you're okay with it, do you want to go with me? I've heard there were also markets and music events too. Haruka: Wow…that looks so fun! I want to go. Masato: Thank you. I've had a feeling you would say that. Well then, let's head out. -Park- Masato: Paintings and lacquerware, clothing and accessories…there were also food and beverage stall too. It seems like there's a lot of stalls being set up here. Haruka: There also seems to be a lot of handmade stalls too. Oh, look at that! There are a lot of cute accesories lined up. Masato: Oh, I think it might be a good idea as a gift for my little sister. If you don't mind can you tell me which one are you interested in? (choices) <How about cookies?> Haruka: Hmm… how about icing cookies? Not only does it look pretty, but it also looks delicious too. Masato: Indeed, these cookies were made with so much attention on the details. Look, there's even a pattern on the edge of it. Masato: Look at how delicate it is. As if it was painted with a paintbrush. How beautiful… <Accessory might be a good idea> Haruka: Beaded accessories are beautiful in my opinion! Look, something like this. It's cute isn't it. Masato: Accessory, huh. Certainly these color seems to be her favorite. Masato: I'm not that knowledgeable about fashion, so your opinion might helped. (back to story) Masato: However all of them are so fascinating, I'm troubled which one to choose… Haruka: Why don't we take a look around a bit more while we're here. Oh, how about that stall over there? Masato: Hm, that's…!

Ch 2: (unlocked if you reached intimacy lvl 11 with Masato)

-Park- Haruka: It's an amigurumi*, aren't they all cute? Masato: They look very well made. There's the rabbit one, a bear… Oh, they also have an owl too. Masato: Alright I've decided, let's go for an amigurumi for her next present. I think it might be a good idea if I could also make a hat or other accessories that goes along well with it. Haruka: Wow, that's so lovely! I'm sure your little sister will be very happy. Masato: It's all thanks to you for finding it for me. I'm very grateful. Haruka: Oh no, I didn't do much… Eh, a cheering sound? You can also hear the sound of instruments too! Masato: Looks like they're holding a concert on that special stage next door. Let's go and check it out. - Masato: Oh they're actually a band consisting of students from a nearby school. It seems they're also selling CDs of their original songs too. Masato: Although their singing and performance is a bit rough around the edges, but you can definitely feel no hesitation on the messages they're trying to convey. There's something in it that resonates within your heart. Haruka: Yes, the way they play feels like they can't help but just enjoy themselves in music. Somehow it reminds me of us back then. Masato: Perhaps the teachers and seniors felt the same way too when they saw us back at the academy. Masato: Although we were still technically and mentally inexperienced, we all had strong aspirations born out of our love for music. Haruka: That's right… It's because I met Hijirikawa-san and everyone that I'm here right now. Masato: I felt the same way too. Maybe their performance here could actually change someone's future too. Masato: …As a matter of fact, I've also had a fateful encounter too that changed my whole life a long time ago.

*: Amigurumi (編みぐるみ) is a Japanese art form that involves crocheting or knitting small, stuffed, yarn creatures or objects.

Ch 3: (unlocked if you reached intimacy lvl 21 with Masato)

-Park- Haruka: Hijirikawa-san's fateful encounter…? Masato: Yeah. It happened back from before I entered the academy, and you could say that it was an encounter that can be considered a turning point in my life. Masato: If it weren't for that miraculous day, there's probably no chance of me choosing an entertainment industry as my path. Masato: It was all thanks to that person that I am now able to move forward without any hesitation. Masato: And then, if I could become an idol who shines bright someday, I might be able to return the favor to them. Haruka: Hijirikawa-san… Masato: Though I wonder if the current me now is even worthy of being such a bright example as of that… Haruka: Hijirikawa-san is already shining bright. So much that just staring at you would blind my eyes away. Masato: …Thanks, Nanami. Hearing your words gives me a lot of confidence. Haruka: Likewise, thank you for letting me listen to that wonderful story. Haruka: Once again I was reminded that I, too, want to bring the music that I love to as many people as possible. Masato: You're right. I also want to deliver more of my feelings through music too. Masato: I will have to work even more harder so that I can perform a sound that will change even fate. Haruka: Fufu, I will use the inspiration I received here today in my songwriting as soon as I return home. Masato: I'm glad that this is worth your time. Let's go out together again just like this sometime.

Ch 4: (unlocked if you reached intimacy lvl 31 with Masato)

Ch 5: (unlocked if you reached intimacy lvl 41 with Masato)

Ch 6: (unlocked if you reached intimacy lvl 51 with Masato)

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Just to kiss me (Part 3)

pairing: Finnick Odair x reader

(AO3 mirror)

Part One, Part Two, My Hunger Games Masterlist

summary: A night at the lake goes sour. Finnick does some reflecting

warnings: drowning, implied drug use, references to depression, some hurt/comfort (although there will be more in the next part)

required reading: The song "We'll never have sex" by Leith Ross &lt;3

a/n: plot??? in my fic??? who woulda thought

wc: 3.4k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, you kissed me just to kiss me

Not to take me home

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s cold. Sharp, shallow breaths, and his head pounds in his skull. The weight of a thousand depths on his chest. Something pressing behind his eyes; his head filled with lead. 

Finnick opens his eyes, and he’s met with the bright lights of the mens bathroom. Cold ceramic against his palms as he looks into the basin’s mirror; its ornate frame spanning the width of the double sinks. Beyond its walls, the dull thrum of the gala. Behind him, a man steps out of a stall, donned in shiny grease and draped fabric. Finnick flashes a well practised smile, and steps out.

He walks through the corridors, transforming. Shoulders back, upright, leisurely pace. Walk in like he's Finnick Odair; capitol darling. A deep breath, and he steps through gilded double doors. 

The Great Hall is packed, unsurprisingly. They all blur together, a writhing mass of limbs and wine. Hushed whispers and elbows and raised eyebrows: it washes over him like water. 

Easygoing and free flowing, he drifts between embankments of people. He tugs on the sleeve of his jacket absent-mindedly. Pulling at the threads was an art, at this point. Between sips of champagne, a gentle hand on the back, a well-placed compliment; he pulls and pulls, until they're almost threadbare. An art; skills honed in those four walls, the victory tour, press conferences, a life of cameras and glamour. Watching, always watching. And so he puts on a show. 

Some of his best work yet, he thinks. In the middle of a conversation about a raucous night with Panem's finest; he spots something. Someone. A girl in the corner, eyes flitting around the room like it's her first time. There's always one, shaky, doesn't know how to pretend like the rest of them; she hasn't built that reflex yet. His mouth moves faster than he can think; ichor flows like it's second nature. The group around him; enraptured. He likes this part, at least. Weaving stories, watching the fish in the river rush past his ankles. 

BANG! A spear into the heart of a writhing salmon, and he slams his glass on a side table. "....it was like a rocket! Cora's on the floor, Alaris can barely stand and I'm still trying to figure out which way's up…" laughter erupts from the crowd around him. The girl barely glances at him. He watches as she tucks herself behind the desserts tray, wholly more interested in the cakes than him. She's pretty, of course, but they always are. A newcomer floundering like he once did, overwhelmed by the sharp teeth and pink tongues. He's still tugging at the thread of his jacket. 

In the afterglow of conversation someone taps his shoulder, presses their lips towards his ear. Discreet. He doesn't look, Finnick knows better. Instead, he waits for instructions. 

"Venia Laurel, on your left, towards the door. He knows something." A familiar voice; of which her name he makes a point not to know. Quietly, he hums in affirmation. 

"How long do I have?" 

"He needs it done tonight."

He flashes a smile at a waiter, grabbing a flute of gold liquid. Under his breath, he says. "I need more time." It was a quicker turnaround than usual; and Finnick needed the time. Whilst stupid, many wouldn't divulge sensitive information that easily; he'd like to avoiding waking up in a bed other than his own. 

"Tonight." Firm. An unspoken threat in the air. He sighs and downs his drink. The mask drops when he begins to move away. And then, sharp nails latch onto his forearm. 

"He knows." She says lowly, voice trembling. Finnick stops like she's stabbed him. He turns, and her eyes are wide, bloodshot, scared. 

He knows. 

He rushes out of her grip, shaking. Thudding at his temples, the lights are too bright, the people too loud. Chest tight, he pulls at his sleeves and almost stumbles into an oncoming tray of hor d'oeuvres. 

In his haze, his manager, bumbling and rosy, slaps a hand on his back. Well-meaning, but it makes him jump. 

"Odair!" He splutters, lips curling so his moustache touches the apples of his cheeks. Any other time, it would've been comical. "We've got a certain Councillor Arachne, who wants a word."

Finnick rubs his eyes, tired. "Now's not the time, Stannis."

The man opposite huffs. "Not the time? She's bankrolling us -I mean - you with her campaign. All she wants is a word. Probably pimping you out to her friends, or something."

He winces at Stannis' bluntness. "Sure… sure. Lead the way."

Every step feels like lead. He's not listening when introduced to Councillor Arachne and another girl about his age. Arachne; a tall, spindly woman, dressed in a simple gown and pearls; stretches her face into a thin-lipped smile. Well-practised, too polished. 

"Mr Odair, how lovely to meet you again!" 

"The pleasure's all mine," He says, shaking her hand. It feels clammy, he's sure of it; the room's hot and thick with sweat. The girl besides her buzzes despite his nerves. "And this is…?"

“V-Vonnie. Sir. Mr Odair… s-sir. My name's Vonnie Dulaire, and I am so excited to meet you…!" She's bright, babbling on and on. Her lips are bubblegum pink, moving at a thousand miles an hour and he's barely able to concentrate - unable to stop thinking about the words spoken to him earlier.

".....and I'm probably your biggest fan! I was actually at the victory tour for your mentee, and it was electric...."

He knows.

".....is your suit custom? I hear there's a stylist you always work with that designs similar looks, like in your last interview…"

He knows.  

"....I can't imagine Ceasar actually said that to you, live! I've got a friend, who swears she 'doesn't watch that kinda crap' but even she said it was quite a scandal…"

He knows. 

"....I got it specially made and I think it matches yours, too. What do you think?"

He snaps his head upwards at the question. He gives her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but enough to dazzle. "Couldn't have said it better myself. I-If you'll excuse me." He nods, walking off towards the door. 

Finnick can't breathe.

Clawing at the collar of his shirt, gold jewellery like a noose around his neck, he stumbles onto the balcony - grateful for the cool air. He was careful, he made sure of it. Made sure there were no eyes, cashed in long-standing favours. How could Snow have found out? 

Dizzy, he steadies himself on the balcony. There wasn't the time for a panic attack, not now. He blinks away hot tears, gasping for a breath. Something clatters on the floor behind him. In the gloom, he makes out the silhouette of a stranger. Of you. 

~~~

You're frozen at first - paralysed with fear on the deck. Finnick isn't moving. A man basically born with gills, sinking into the inky blue. Why wasn't he moving? Did he fall? Where did the blood come from?

A thousand questions, not enough time. You don't think, not really, as you reach for the zipper on your gown. Haphazard, you wrench it off - not caring for the tears and rips created in your wake. Before long, you're in the slip dress underneath miles of beaded net. Barefoot, trembling, you don't hesitate. You take a step back, and jump. 

The first thing you feel is cold; consuming, numbing cold. Calm, for a moment. And then biting realisation. When you surface, you look for a sign of life - anything that can tell you where Finnick is. There are slight bubbles, a few metres away. Deep breaths, and you dive into the blue-black. 

~~~

He can't stop thinking about you.

Finnick sits in white sheets, looking up at the ceiling. Exhausted, but he can't sleep. Gentle snoring from beside him punctuates every thought. In the capitol he's constantly surrounded by beautiful things: gaudy, gauche, sickly-sweet and beautiful. Your meeting on the balcony shouldn't have been anything special, and yet… 

Even in your fancy dress, your personality shone through: kind, funny, genuine. He can't help but replay your laugh, your smile, in his head. Gently, he rolls out of bed. 

It's early in the morning, dregs of sunrise scatter through the window. He's draped in amber light as he pulls on a shirt; padding on plush carpet. In the mirror hanging up in Venia Laurel's bedroom, he looks a sight, he thinks. Sallow, glitter smeared around his eyes, and lean lined. There's a nasty bruise on his neck; bite marks at his stomach. He pokes at them demurely. It's tender, but he'll live. 

Methodical, he makes his search. He starts in the bedroom, pulling at cabinets and looking for false bottom drawers, anywhere that could conceal what he's looking for. Laurel's apartment is surprisingly messy - unexpected for such a clean cut actor. Finnick dabbles in secrets, and the older man certainly divulged; he knew of the actor's connections with ex-gamemakers, but nothing concrete to suggest he leaked plans to interested parties. 

When he searches the grand living room, he stumbles onto something out of place. A panel in the floor, it's lip jutting out of the wood. He presses on it, and it pops out with a hollow clunk. Inside, a chip the size of his thumbnail. Finnick pockets it, hoping it may be what Snow is looking for; hoping to appease the tyrant. It burns a hole in his trousers as he covers his tracks, before calling a pod to take him home. 

He can't sleep, for the usual reasons. Guilt, nightmares, fear; take your pick. It's too nebulous and vague to put a name to; he realises quickly. A ticking clock careening towards the end for as long as he could remember. Tick-tick-tick in his head, a countdown of which he dreads to hear it stop. White noise now, the scratch and itch of it all bone deep. He tried to do a good thing, for once; he tried to help Annie. But Snow knows - and now his punishment will be slow and painful. 

In the weeks that follow, waiting for a knife in the back, he analyses every word. On the balcony, the way your lips curled into laughter, how soft your hand was. It was a fantasy, somehow, one he had to convince himself actually happened. A conversation, lilting and light, that he locks up in his heart for safe-keeping. 

It keeps him distracted at events. Instead of worrying about Snow, he fans his breath, adjusts his collar, and stops picking at his sleeves; preening like a songbird. When he asks for the sleeveless sheer shirt instead of his usual, his stylist humours him and lets him choose, just this once. In the middle of a conversation, when he hears bright laughter, he turns around, looking for you. Waiting on balconies, pacing corridors. He's gone insane, he knows. But he needs something to hold on to. Someone that makes him feel like a good person - like he isn't Finnick Odair. 

~~~

You're not the strongest swimmer. Ironic, considering the circumstances. Moonlight streams into the depths as you look for a hint of gold. The water stings your eyes but in the gloom, you see him. Eerily still and rapidly sinking. You pump your legs desperately; darting towards him as best you can. Lungs screaming for air, you swim further down, reaching out for something to grab onto. The tips of your fingers graze his own. He looks peaceful despite it all: eyes closed and hand outstretched like he always does. Except this time you reach for him, a frantic grab in the dark. 

You touch something. His wrist. Curling your hand around his forearm, you pull, and grab onto one arm and then the other. You're dizzy now, hand hooked onto Finnick, kicking with all the strength you can manage. Upwards you go, closer and closer to the surface as black spots dance across your vision. A little further. A little closer….

~~~

The day of Hadrian's soiree, he pretends he's not looking for you. Pretending proves to be marginally easier than to act like he isn't disappointed when he doesn't find you. Instead, there are droves of people in masks. The hair on the back of his neck bristles: they make him uneasy. He finds it harder without a face to a name, beady eyes through masks that follow him around the room.

His own mask was gaudy; triple faced and golden. Its strap itches his nose, and his eyes are caked in glitter. At his stylist's the night before, she gave him talking points for the reporters - a face looking towards Panem's past, present and future. A handsome young Victor, making waves within the Capitol, championing it's people. Pseudo-patriotic drivel to feed the vultures, he thinks. 

Dregs of conversation drip through the night. It's always the same things - empty gossip and the like. Today's topic is no more poignant: the mentors announced for the 72nd Games. A few familiar faces, and faux shock at those not on the list. Everyone dances around the topic when he lingers, and disperses into whispers when he doesn't. Talking of bets placed and withdrawn at the news, he assumes. 

The truth is, he was tired. It was only right he took Mags' place when he won, but he was so young. Odair, bright-eyed and sprightly. A wonderboy, and Capitol favourite from the start. In the mirror of silvered bowls of food, he sees that little boy with bloodied palms and sunken eyes.

He blinks, hard. The image washes away. Seeing things in the light? A side effect from the little white pills he takes before bed, he's been told. He staggers slightly from the table. Annie tugs at his sleeve from behind. 

"You ok?" she whispers, concerned. 

Finnick brushes her off, chuckling. ".... I should be asking you that. It's not too much?" 

She shakes her head. It's the first time since her victory tour she's been at one of these events, and he's worried that it's too much, too fast. Perceptive as always, he watches for a tug of her red hair, or the blank look she gives when overwhelmed. Annie was getting better, lucid for the first time in a while. She smiled, she laughed, she shone. 

That's why he couldn't tell her what he did, what he had to do, to let her see her parents. To let her live. Another time, perhaps. 

She clears her throat, mischievously. "Looking for your mystery girl?“

“T-That's not-" 

"-what you were doing, I know, I know. That's also what you said the last five times." She bounces on the balls of her feet, restless. "I know you like the back of my hand, Finnick. It's not like you to mope in the corner - something's up."

Annie's unrelenting: she doesn't let the man worm out of her gaze. Despite his discomfort, it's nice to see her like this; the little spitfire in Class 9, kind and sweet and determined to help. A change of pace, he presents his forearm to the younger woman. 

He smiles, "We should dance." 

~~~

You break the surface with Finnick in tow. He's completely still in your arms. Desperate and tired, you try to remember the swimming lessons from your youth; on your back, resting him on your legs with an arm hooked around him. Kick with everything you've got, keep his head above water. It's messy and ugly, as you pump your legs towards the shore; searching for the moment the depths below give way to sodden banks. 

You hit silt, suddenly. Your toes touch the lake bed and you desperately try to drag him onto shore.  Without the spray of the water, you can see him properly: sallow and grey. Like a corpse. His stillness is terrifying and you try not to think about what it means, or how long it's been since he's taken a breath. On autopilot now, you lay him on the banks, pressing shaky fingers to his pulse. Nothing. Rushing, you tilt his head upwards like you've been taught. With trembling lips pressed against his, you pinch his nose and breath out. You press your hands against his chest and push down, hard. Quick compressions, and you count from thirty. 

Nothing. And so you try again. Warm lips around his cold ones, deep breaths out, and quick compressions. Again. Desperate, harder, determined. 

When Finnick splutters to life, you think you could cry from exhaustion. His eyes are wild, as he coughs and thrashes; a hand tight around yours. 

"It's okay…. y-you're okay…" You soothe, holding back sobs. It seems to calm him as he lies down, brow furrowed and taking deep shaky breaths. Up this close, his pupils are dilated, and he seems disoriented, dazed. There's a sticky cut at his brow, but his eyes are locked onto you. Green and striking in the low light. Alive. 

For a while, you stay like that; watching his chest rise and fall as you hold hands by the lake. He's closed his eyes, but still breathes steadily. You barely register anything but him, until a chill blows past. Cold. Wet. Tired. The adrenaline of the moment dies down. You have to coax his hand out of yours to grab the things you dropped before… before all this. Every few seconds you glance over your shoulder to make sure he's still there, to make sure he's alive. 

He settles his head onto your shoulder, and you cradle his hands with your own; listening for the cruel staccato of his breath. He's groggy, asleep maybe. You've wrapped yourselves up in the blankets, too tired to move. You should, really: the remnants of your dress strewn onto the jetty, shiny from where you are by the trees. Cottonmouth and lead-limbed, you wait for him to become lucid. 

Something's wrong. You've felt like this before holding Vonnie's hand on the bathroom floor after a night out with the wrong crowd. Calm, and then a moment of mania before a rough comedown. You can't help but to search for needle marks on Finnick's arms, his neck, anywhere. He's pliant, unusually so, but you don't find anything. 

Your heart sinks, when you realise. The pills in his car. Morphling? He could've slipped or fallen in. He could've… jumped. And if he's been drinking….? It wouldn't matter how strong a swimmer he was usually. You dread to think of what could have happened if you were even a minute later. Tears fall even faster. You hold onto his hand a little tighter. 

When Finnick comes to, properly, you've fallen asleep. He opens his eyes to you by his side: hair down your shoulders, glitter-peppered skin, pearls in your locs, and in a white flowing dress. Well and truly, he thinks he's died. Somewhere faraway he doesn't deserve, waking up besides you. His head hurts. 

You startle, awake from your shallow slumber. Eyes red-raw, you've been crying. He wipes at your cheek and smiles weakly. 

"Let me take you home." 

Defiant, you shake your head. "No. N-no. You need to see a doctor. I can call a pod and-" 

"-no. We can't. No doctors. I'll take you home."

"Finnick, you almost died. You need help, medical attention…"

"I can't. Please."

He must look so pathetic like this, he thinks. You soften under his gaze. "N-no doctors, then. But I'm not leaving you alone like this."

"I'll be okay. I've got a first aid kit at home - don't need you worrying about me."

You stand up. "I'll come with you, then. Help patch you up." 

Exasperated, he moves to argue but doesn't have the energy. And so, he nods faintly. Despite his injuries, he towers over you, to wrap you up in the blanket, criss-crossing at your chest. It feels intimate, too close, warm breath in the cool air. With the way you look up at him, he hears his heart splinter. He pauses. 

"I'm sor-" 

"No." You say.

Finnick frowns. "I'm s-" 

"No." Your lower lip trembles, threatening to spill over. So he sighs, softly, and makes towards the deck to get your dress. Hand tight around his arm, you stop him. He's not going anywhere near the lake, not if you can help it. Hands up like he's guilty, he waits and leads you towards the car.

_

_

_

[thegoldenavenger]

I wanted to draw art of this before vomiting words all over a post but!!! Undertale Binghe au

Just, Luo Binghe falling, not into the abyss, but into the underground. He's supposed to run into Shen Qingqiu, who guides him through the Ruins, tricking him the whole while. They are supposed to fight at the Ruins' exit, Shen Qingqiu snarling invective his way acting aloof and cold, at once prideful, arrogant, jealous, spiteful. Telling Luo Binghe that he can't make it out, that no one ever can especially not the likes of him. Luo Binghe is supposed to win, killing Shen Qingqiu before stepping outside the ruins door and leaving nothing (and no one) behind.

But instead, he meets a Shen Qingqiu who takes his tutorial duties very seriously! A Shen Qingqiu who sort of coddles Luo Binghe, and teaches him the puzzle mechanics of the underground, who has a small shimmering hope that he can just live with Luo Binghe here, in the cozy ruins of his home, reading and cooking together. This is definitely not how it happened before, even when Luo Binghe was new to this endless loop of nightmares.

But, whatever this new game, Luo Binghe finds the exit of the Ruins. And Shen Qingqiu fights him.

(The leitmotif here is Heartache, and oh! Shen Qingqiu's heart aches. How naive of him, to think he could sequester the protagonist in the small starter ruins. How short sighted of him to try and stifle the young hero... maybe next time...)

Luo Binghe wins, of course, but this time things are different. Maybe. He's been through this so many times it's hard to tell. But had Shen Qingqiu ever looked so sad beneath his aloof expression? Had his entreaties ever really meant anything? Why had he sounded just as trapped as Luo Binghe?

Luo Binghe finds himself with new, different memories as he walks out of the Ruins. They plague him as he makes his way through the next area. Each battle he encounters he remembers, "just stall for time and this master will be there to help." Each simpering fool that blocks his path he recalls, "just practice talking! Look, this teacher will go first."

He runs into Shang Qinghua, who cowers and runs from him. Mu Qingfang, who watches him with a cooly detached eye. Liu Qingge, who always strikes first and doesn't give in. Qi Qingqi, mocking him from her hiding places. Wei Qingwei is surprisingly easy to defeat after it all. And Yue Qingyuan, who looks straight through Luo Binghe no matter how many times Luo Binghe marches back through the gardens to him.

And all the while Shen Qingqiu's voice in his head: come! This master will guide you through these catacombs. Do not be afraid, my child. Which does Binghe prefer? Oh, but Binghe would not turn his nose up over one or the other? Truthfully, when this master first saw Binghe... it felt like seeing an old friend for the first time.

Prove yourself to me, that you are strong enough to survive!

All Luo Binghe has been doing is survive. The next time Yue Qingyuan strikes him down, Luo Binghe wonders if he, too, can do something different. Be something different.

Once again he awakes after the long fall in the bamboo grove at the beginning of the Ruins. Once again the Shen Qingqiu he meets is not the one he is used to.

(For his part, Shen Qingqiu isn't sure he really remembers anything from his first time around. But the very fact that vague familiarity keeps hitting him makes him suspect.)

Shen Qingqiu is still bafflingly kind to him. Taking his hand and leading him through the puzzles and traps. Stepping between him and any encounters might be troublesome. "Binghe prefers— oh, you never said... well. Binghe wouldn't turn his nose at either if he had a chance, would he?"

Luo Binghe stays, a little longer, in the ruins this time. He lets Shen Qingqiu coddle him. Brush his hair. Share tea and books and snacks with him.

But in the end, Luo Binghe has to leave the Ruins, and Shen Qingqiu has to fight.

And everytime, the Ruins is left without its Caretaker.

Luo Binghe keeps waking up in the bamboo grove, enough times he feels as if just underneath the ground is a pile of his own discarded bodies. Shen Qingqiu keeps showing up, and keeps smiling, and keeps leading him to his home.

The thing is, Luo Binghe thinks that this Shen Qingqiu would keep him, if Luo Binghe didn't have to leave the Ruins. This Shen Qingqiu would keep him in his slightly disheveled home, reading to him by the fireplace, and complimenting his cooking.

So, Luo Binghe tries. He tries to stay for as long as he can. When Shen Qingqiu takes him by the hand and leads him past the traps, says in his impossibly collected voice, "This master has always wanted to be a teacher... well, perhaps that isn't surprising." Luo Binghe tries smiling and says back, "Then this one will be grateful to learn from Shizun."

It is the first thing Luo Binghe has said, directly.

From then on, Luo Binghe talks through everything. He calls Shen Qingqiu Shizun, and asks questions about everything he feels he is allowed to, and, with this Shen Qingqiu, there doesn't seem to be a limit. He asks about the Ruins, the bamboo, the books in Shen Qingqiu's cabinet. He asks about the recipe cards on the kitchen counter. He asks about the boarded room down the hall. He asks about the journal with heavily red-lined corrections and critiques.

Shizun answers all his questions honestly, even if it is with a simple, "this master has forgotten."

They both want it to stay like this. But in the end, it cannot.

"Does Binghe not want to ask about the exit to the Ruins?" Shizun says one day.

Luo Binghe is, perhaps not quite as surprised as he should be. He always has to leave, after all. Still, he tries.

"This one doesn't need to."

"Hmm. I suppose you wouldn't."

Still, it happens. Binghe cannot find Shen Qingqiu anywhere, until he finds his Shizun at the exit of the Ruins. His face is cold. Aloof. Familiar.

"This master had thought to destroy the door," he says when Binghe approaches him. Luo Binghe cannot help the way his body tenses. He won't be trapped any more than he is forced to be by this hellish circumstance. As much as he wanted to play domestic with a Shen Qingqiu that seemed willing to indulge him, he liked knowing he could leave whenever he wanted.

"There's no need," Luo Binghe says.

"This master supposes not. What obstacle could stand in Luo Binghe's way if he wanted to leave? Hmm? What's that look for? Don't tell me Binghe doesn't want to leave?"

And the thing is, Luo Binghe does want to leave. He cannot stay in the Ruins forever. He has to leave the underground. But... "I don't want to fight you again." This is suddenly the most important thing. Luo Binghe does not want to fight Shen Qingqiu. Every time they fight, Luo Binghe wins, and that means killing Shen Qingqiu for the freedom to escape the Ruins.

He's done it more times than he can count, but this time it is too much, and, horrifyingly, he feels his heat spring behind his eyes.

"Oh," Shen Qingqiu says and he drops his fan.

The leimotif here is Heartache, and oh. Shen Qingqiu's heart aches.

"Then we won't fight. You don't have to prove anything to me. Luo Binghe is free to leave the Ruins he does not have to worry that this master will stop him."

"What?"

Shen Qingqiu reaches out to pat Luo Binghe's head, smoothes down his hair, and then hugs him. Luo Binghe stands, shocked.

"We don't have to fight?" He asks, again, just to be sure.

"Of course not. Does Binghe not listen when this Master speaks? Does Binghe only know how to fight with weapons instead of his words? Now, be good, when you leave."

Luo Binghe leaves the Ruins and Shen Qingqiu.

Luo Binghe didn't have to fight to leave. Did he ever have to fight at all? Or, he supposes fighting may be inevitable. But the killing wasn't, surely. If the Shen Qingqiu that Luo Binghe had first met, cold and spiteful, could turn around and hold Binghe's face so gently, so too could Luo Binghe find his way through the underground with a little more mercy?

Luo Binghe actually tries talking, this go around. He had tried it the first couple of times he had been made to traverse the Underground as young and naive as he'd been. But there was only so many times one could bash their heads against the likes of Liu Qingge before one had to give in to the inevitable. But was it inevitable?

Shang Qinghua smiles at him when they meet the first time (this time). He still looks nervous, apprehensive, but not terrified as he always had been before.

Shang Qinghua loops him into conversation, gossips with him about some of the locals, tells him about a collectable he'd never found before. Shang Qinghua, the same rat who hisses at him in the hall before Yue Qingyuan's garden, that judges him like the cowardly hippocrit he is—Shang Qinghua invites him to dinner, and makes nervous jokes with him.

Shang Qinghua sits across from him and says, "there's this door, by the ruins, it's always shut. But sometimes, if I knock on it, someone answers. I read him some of my novel—no you can't see it—and he tears it to shreds. Says it's something to occupy his time but... it's the most time anyone spends on me, you know? Then he asks me—well, tells me, really—that if anyone comes through the door I should maybe watch out for them? But, I'm, haha, a coward, so I tell him to shove it. Whoever could make it through him certainly doesn't need my help out here. But I thought... anyone who's lonely enough to put up with me and my shitty writing well. They have a certain integrity. I don't really know what I'm saying but—I'm glad it's you, who came out."

Luo Binghe tries talking to Mu Qingfang who is curious and suspicious into turns, but ultimately subsides when Luo Binghe recalls one of Shen Qingqiu's rarer books so he can properly quizz Luo Binghe on his recollections of its contents.

Liu Qingge is the first person to really drive Luo Binghe's new conviction to the edge. The man doesn't let Luo Binghe get a word in before he's being engaged in battle.

Surprisingly, Mu Qingfang and Shang Qinghua seem keen on helping him navigate around their mercurial martial brother. Mu Qingfang offers Luo Binghe various healing items to recover from encounters and advice on how to avoid him. Shang Qinghua tries his hand at bumbling deception ("I told him what you were wearing the last time we met! You've changed by now, right? You're very smart of course you've disguised yourself!") and mediocre distraction.

Luo Binghe still thinks won't be able to get through without falling into the inevitable cycle of violence again. He tells Shang Qinghua "Shizun said I should just stall and he'd be there to help but! That's not how it works at all. Even if we didn't fight he's not here with me! I'm still alone. And Liu Qingge wont! Listen! To anything I have to say!"

Luo Binghe doesn't say that he's afraid he'll have to kill Liu Qingge, and he'll be able to justify everything else all at once again. That he'll go back and see Shen Qingqiu and he'll have to kill him, too. To complete it all. Luo Binghe is so busy brooding he doesn't see Shang Qinghua's considering eye.

"You didn't fight at all?"

And then, the next time Liu Qingge corners Luo Binghe and Luo Binghe just cannot figure out how to disengage without murdering the man, someone throws a fan into Liu Qingge's face.

"Hah?" Liu Qingge sputters and whirls around.

"What are you doing, harassing some kid?"

And Luo Binghe knows that voice it's—

"Shizun?"

"Shen Qingqiu?"

That's him... standing for the first time out of the Ruins, looking shockingly disgruntled. He makes his way to Binghe and reaches put to pet Binghe's head.

"What am I? What are you doing? Shen Qingqiu! You disappeared for years, Yue Qingyuan—"

Shen Qingqiu levels the bitchiest glare at Liu Qingge that the man actually shuts up mid sentence. Then he sniffs and turns back to Luo Binghe.

"Binghe did very good, distracting that man until this Master could arrive."

"You're—shizun is here?" Never once before had Shen Qingqiu left the Ruins.

Shen Qingqiu's gaze softens.

"This master told you that he would guide Binghe through the catacombs and help you navigate the puzzles and traps here in the underground, did he not?" At binghe's nod he continues, "Well, what kind of master would this one be if he left Binghe to figure this out on his own."

(Shang Qinghua had hammered on the Ruins' door hard enough to bloody his fist. "BRO! Bro? You didn't even fight? Bro, this Luo Binghe has no idea what to do with Liu Qingge. He's getting his ass kicked!" "What do you want me to do about it?" "Anything! Before he decides to go back to murdering his way through the underground!" "He what?" "I mean—hypothetically. He could start—whatever! You're the one who told him his shizun would come kiss everything better—take responsibility for my son!")

Liu Qingge backs off begrudgingly, as Shen Qingqiu shepherds Luo Binghe away from the fight to gather reconnaissance and allies. That is, to have a gossip session with Shang Qinghua and Mu Qingfang.

Shen Qingqiu sweet talks Mu Qingfang into giving Luo Binghe a special item and then briefly refreshes his memory by yelling at Shang Qinghua and then starts helping Luo Binghe speed run the rest of his journey underground.

It's a little anti climatic, actually.

Shen Qingqiu distracts Liu Qingge everytime the man pops in to harrass Binghe's forward movement, entangling the him in confusing conversation and beguiling gestures until Binghe has enough time to sneak away. Shen Qingqiu waits for the right moment before accusing Liu Qingge of not being able to befriend Luo Binghe, egging on his competitive spirit until Liu Qingge accidentally becomes fond of Luo Binghe for his own merits.

That accomplished, Shen Qingqiu takes Luo Binghe through the rest of the underground. He guides Binghe to hidden items and fun places Luo Binghe had never bothered with before. He cuts Qi Qingqi's encounter in half with Mu Qingfang's special item, and turns Wei Qingwei's usually disappointing battle into a fun game that rewards Luo Binghe with his own spirit sword.

Shen Qingqiu drags Luo Binghe across the underground, sometimes back tracking, making sure Binghe is exposed to every part while still plowing through encounters. Luo Binghe, for his part, grips onto his new sword and follows his Shizun with starry eyes.

He's never felt so refreshed, he's never seen this horrid place in this light before. The horrendous slog of fighting and dying has morphed into a dream like sequence of moments he's building in his heart. He never knew how funny Shang Qinghua is, how knowledgeable Mu Qingfang is. That Qi Qingqi was pretty amiable when one approached with the perfect balance of respect. That Zheng Yang fit so perfectly in Luo Binghe's hand.

He could probably leave the amount of times Liu Qingge drops in on them to get into an argument with Shen Qingqiu, but even then... Luo Binghe hadn't known Liu Qingge could talk that much.

Or that, on Liu Qingge, a sternly frowning face could mean care.

"Yue Qingyuan is strong so. Here." Liu Qingge drops a set of light armor at Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe's feet in a clatter.

"Oh, Temmie Armor?" Shen Qingqiu says, and helps Luo Binghe into it.

"Don't..." Liu Qingge crosses his arm and scowls at everything in his radius. "Don't die. And don't kill anyone."

He leaves before Shen Qingqiu or Luo Binghe can say anything in reply. Shizun looks at Luo Binghe wryly, his fan already spread out to hid me his face.

"Well. Are you ready, Binghe?" He asks.

Luo Binghe takes a moment to think about it. Everytime before his battles with Yue Qingyuan have ended in stalemates, or an abyss so never ending Luo Binghe had chosen to start over just the same.

But this time he isn't going with the intention of winning by force, and this time he isn't going alone.

Shen Qingqiu is standing by his side, waiting for his answer, and Luo Binghe knows if he says that he isn't ready yet Shen Qingqiu will find another little diversion to help distract them both until Luo Binghe is ready. Maybe it will be another dinner date with Shang Qinghua, bullying the man's latest manuscript. Or maybe it will be getting Liu Qingge to chase them through the glowing crystal-lit caverns once more.

Luo Binghe still must face Yue Qingyuan and find his way free of the Underground, but somewhere along the way his priorities have shifted. He isn't the only one trapped down here, and, even if he'd known this before it hadn't mattered. Now, he realises he could potentially help free more than just himself.

Now, when Luo Binghe frees himself from the underground, he doesn't want to be alone when he steps into the sunlight.

(Shen Qingqiu is definitely the kind of undertale fan who never played the games himself but did watch all the playthroughs he could. He only has a general concept of the no mercy route (mostly bc Shang qinghua is not Toby "Radiation" Fox so his version of undertale is not nearly as impactful so a lot of the content is hidden or was dropped before released but also a little because he couldn't stand the emotional ringer of watching a heartless lets player kill his favorite characters!) so he thinks Luo Binghe is a generally sweet if misguided kid and does NOT realize binghe has been on an infinite no mercy loop through the underground. He wouldn't care if he did know, though, because he's crazy for Luo Binghe. That's just the kind of thing one does in a time loop!

Liu Qingge is so startled by Shen Qingqiu because he is so different from the stories he's heard about him. He keeps hearing people talk about how Shen Qingqiu abandoned Yue Qingyuan, how cold and merciless he was after Yue Qingyuan lost the war against Tianlang-Jun. Liu Qingge, ever Yue Qingyuan's right hand man, had personally vowed to avenge Yue Qingyuan should the chance arise. It's definitely why Liu Qingge is so determined to kill Luo Binghe himself. Yue Qingyuan has had to reap all the demonic cultivation to free themselves from the underground all on his own. To shoulder that kind of task by himself and then be faced with a child—with a demon with the face of a child, at least... well, the least Liu Qingge can do is share in that miserable task. And then Luo Binghe is trying to talk instead of fight like a demon should, and then Shen Qingqiu shows up not at all like the rumors painted him to be. Liu Qingge is so confused.

Shang Qinghua is having the roughest time. He isn't immune to the reset mind-wipe, but as the game dev he absolutely knows what's going on just with context clues. So he's just trapped in this nightmare world watching as everyone he knows is murdered over and over until one reset his door buddy is nice to him and Luo Binghe isn't trying to kill him on sight! Shen Qingqiu, why does your system let you dodge multiple plot lines???

Luo Binghe does end up freeing the Underground, that's just not the focus of this story haha. Something something zuzhi-lang, something something Huan Hua Palace, something something Yue Qingyuan falling over himself at the sight of Shen Qingqiu who is definitely NOT privy to the original goods' backstory haha)

[soleilceirinen]

Renaissance | teacher!Cillian Murphy x fem!Reader - Part 8

Summary: you are an Art History student in your last year at university. Cillian is your teacher. A/N: in this story Cillian is about 20 years older than the reader. Everything happens in an alternative universe where he is not an actor or famous, he doesn't have a wife or kids like in real life. Warning: this is my first attempt at writing smut, so read with that in mind. It is at the end, if you are a minor I don't think you should read it. Also, English is not my first language, sorry if there are mistakes. Part 7 - Cillian Murphy Masterlist

After your talk with Cillian, things turned back to normal. At the end of the week you finally found some free time to spend rummaging through the different stalls at the charity book market. It was a little overwhelming due to the number of other people who, like you, were looking for the perfect book added to the lack of order in how the books were distributed. You could find a recipe book next to an out of print edition of the Punic War history. 

After going around several times, you finally found what you were looking for. You delicately held the copy, it was an old dictionary of artistic terms. 

“I’m ready,” you commented, “have you found anything?”

Cillian had been by your side the entire time, watching in admiration as your face lit up every time you saw a book that caught your eye, or how you ran your finger over the covers while reading the titles. 

He held up a small collection of poems for you to see. You did the same with your dictionary. 

“May I take a look at it?”, he asked.

As you were giving him the book you felt a strong push and saw a man stand between you and Cillian. Ready to reproach him for his lack of manners, you were left speechless when you realised that he was Brad, your roommate. “Hi, Brad.”

“Are you going home now? Let's go together,” he grabbed your arm, making you wince in pain. 

“Wait Brad, I’m not done yet.”

“Y/N,” called Cillian staring at Brad, “is everything alright here?”

Brad looked him over from head to toe before turning his attention back to you. He rolled his eyes scoffing at Cillian. A wave of disgust washed over you, you met Cillian's gaze over Brad's shoulder, silently begging him to get you out of there. 

“We should go back to the office, we still have a chapter to review in your project,” he said, stepping closer to you. 

You nodded. “It’s true, I had forgotten. Sorry, Brad. I have to go.”

“It’s okay, I’ll wait for you.”

“Afterwards I will meet up with Valerie so I don’t know when I’ll finish, you can go now.” 

Valerie couldn't stand Brad, the advantage was that the feeling was mutual. He gave you and Cillian one last annoyed look and let you go. You took the opportunity to run towards the office building with Cillian following you under the gaze of your roommate. Once inside his office, Cillian locked the door and sat on the edge of his desk. You stared out the window, from where you could see Brad looking up, probably trying to figure out which unit you were in. 

“He looks at you like you are a piece of meat, I don’t like it.”

You turned around to look at Cillian, who extended his arm to give you the dictionary.  When you picked up the book, he took the opportunity to gently pull you until you were in the space between his legs. 

“My friend Valerie thinks the same,” you told him. He wrapped you in a hug, tracing different shapes on your back with his fingertips.

“Are you really going to see her?” he wondered, tilting his head to the side. 

“No,” you shook your head against his shoulder, smelling his scent. “I totally made that up. Why?”

Being practically leaning against his chest, you could feel his heart beating rapidly. “We could go on a date, tomorrow is Saturday so if you want, you can stay at my house.” 

"Okay, sounds good." You said, caressing his cheek. You noticed that he hadn't shaved that day since his face was a bit rough, you scratched it with your fingernails before giving him a peck on the lips. 

Cillian had his eyes closed, he was focused on your touch. Slowly, he opened them and cleared his throat. “We should go now, I have to stop at the grocery store to get some things before it closes.”

-

At the grocery store, you pushed the shopping cart through the aisles, following Cillian, who from time to time stopped to pick up ingredients for dinner and placed them in the cart. Everything was going well until you got distracted. You didn't realise that Cillian had stopped so you continued pushing the cart until you crashed into him.

“Oh my… Sorry! Did I hurt you?”

He pursed his lips and gripped the edge of the car, looking at you with wide eyes.

“It’s fine, Y/N. Why don’t you go and choose some ice cream that you like? I’ll be in charge of the shopping cart, alright?”

Reluctantly, you let go of the cart and walked to the frozen food aisle, looking for the ice cream. Luckily, your favourite flavour wasn't sold out so you grabbed a tub and headed back to Cillian. He was already at the checkout putting the groceries in bags. After adding the ice cream and paying, he tried to carry all the bags by himself.

“Wait, old man. I’ll help you.”

He chuckled and pointed to one of the bags. “You can carry that one.” 

You already felt bad for almost leaving him crippled with the shopping cart, but at least he didn’t refuse you helping him. 

-

“I think you’re going to get a bruise,” you stated while taking the grocery out of the bags. 

Cillian had disappeared somewhere in his house, leaving you in the kitchen with a very excited Scout. He reappeared in the kitchen, having changed his clothes into something more comfortable.

“I left some clothes for you on the bed in the guest room in case you want to change, they shrunk the last time I put them in the dryer so they may not be too big for you,” he told you. Then, he pulled down the waistband of his pants to show you an incipient bruise. “Already here.”

“I feel terrible, but I must admit it was funny.”

He rolled his eyes, though he wasn't really upset. You giggled and went to change as he had suggested. 

He left you a basic black t-shirt and some gym shorts. Although they seemed to have been shrunk for him to wear them, they looked huge on you. You decided to discard the pants since the shirt covered enough, like a short dress.

You returned to the kitchen. Cillian was making a homemade pizza, when he saw you he pointed to one of the glasses on the counter. “Do you fancy some wine?”

“Always,” you took a sip, enjoying the fruity flavour. Cillian smiled and gave you a piece of carrot. You looked at it and then back at Cillian. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You can eat it if you want but better if you give it to Scout. Tell him to sit down and give you the paw.”

So you played with Scout and talked to Cillian until the pizza was ready to come out of the oven. After dinner, you and Cillian sat on the couch to watch a movie. You chose it so it was one of your favourite ones, despite having seen it too many times, you would never get tired of it. The leading actor was a very young Alain Delon, whose blue eyes could only be compared to those of the man sitting next to you. 

After several minutes, you realised that Cillian wasn't watching the movie. Even though the living room was illuminated only by the light coming from the television, out of the corner of your eye you noticed him staring at you.

You looked back at him and whispered. “You’re missing the film.”

“I’m truly not seeing it,” he responded with a hoarse voice. He caressed your cheek and placed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You rested your cheek against the palm of his hand and moved closer to him. 

In seconds, the film became background noise. All your attention was on Cillian, on his hands running over your body and his lips on yours. 

You kissed slowly but intensely, enjoying every bit of it. Cillian leaned over you without breaking the kiss, his breathing getting faster. You held his face with your hands, slowly scratching his stubble with your nails. You moved your hips trying to get some friction against his crotch, he tentatively put a hand under your shirt, stopping when it brushed against your bare belly.

“Why do you stop?” you groaned. 

“Are you sure of it, Y/N?” 

Cillian was giving you the chance to stop in case you were uncomfortable, and at that moment his thoughtfulness filled your chest with love. No one had ever cared about you in that way before. 

“Yeah, I haven't been so sure about something before.”

You placed a hand on the back of his neck and pulled him closer to you, crashing your lips once more. His hand continued its way up until he grabbed your tit, squeezing it a couple of times before brushing the nipple. You let out a moan against his mouth.

“Let me make you feel good, okay?” his voice wasn’t louder than a whisper, you nodded eagerly. 

Cillian slid his hands down your waist until he touched the hem of your underwear. He gently moved the fabric aside and with the tip of his fingers, he brushed your clit with quick movements making you let out a gasp. It was much better than when you did it yourself. 

“More?”

“Yes, Cillian, yes. I need…”

He kissed your exposed neck and parted your folds to access your inside, first with one finger until you were stretched enough to introduce another one. He moved them in and out several times, continuing to rub your clit in circles with the pad of his thumb. You were starting to feel the pressure building in your lower belly, so you grabbed onto his shoulders and moved your hips in an attempt to accentuate the feeling.

Cillian caught the signals and at that moment he bent his fingers to press on the exact spot while rubbing your clit faster. You arched your back, feeling the orgasm spread throughout your body, until you lay limp on the couch with Cillian on top of you.

He leaned on his forearms so as not to crush you with his weight and gently brushed his lips against your collarbone. You grabbed onto him panting, even though he was trying not to lean on you too much, you noticed that he was hard.

“Now it’s your turn, Cill,” you said softly, caressing his hair. 

He shook his head. “Another time. Promised. Plus, I wanted you to feel good.” 

You kissed him tenderly, feeling like a fucking goddess with soaked panties and the warmth of his body against yours reminding you that it was real, that your teacher had made you cum with barely no effort. You needed nothing else to know that you loved him with every bit of your soul. 

Hugging him tightly, you whispered three words in his ear.