#the pale blue is the actual color in the first post of them that I’ve made I just edited it badly and it’s been haunting me ever since

[rotten-flesh-n-bones]

PLEASEEE MORE OUTCRIER AND LEC YOU DRAW THEM SO WELL 🙏🙏🙏

Sorry for not finishing the colored version (for now! I will most definitely finish it in the future and I’ll include some more stuff to go with it!), I was just not having it with this one - the style just doesn’t fit them in my mind?? I can’t explain it. Anyway… I’m normal about these two. Very normal. Incredibly normal even. Anyway. They are in my brain.

[crevicedwelling]

I see at least one cool bug a day, and usually many more, but it’s not because I live anywhere particularly rich in strange, wonderful creatures (I live in an unremarkable corner of Pennsylvania, USA) or spend all of my free time looking for bugs (well, just *most* of it). in my experience, finding interesting bugs is less about actually locating them and more about looking closely at tiny things you’d otherwise ignore!

this very long post was compiled over a couple days in late July, although I spent less than 10 minutes at a time searching. there’s a lot of fun creatures just out in the open.

plants are always a good place to start when looking for bugs, and I chose this small fig tree (Ficus carica) with a mulberry sapling friend. feeding on the sap of the fig and mulberry is the first group I’ll take a look at, the planthoppers:

these two are flatid bugs, Metcalfa pruinosa and Flatormenis proxima. flatids are slow-moving bugs that can be approached closely, but once they get tired of circling around stems to avoid you they may launch themselves into a fluttering flight with spring-loaded rear legs.

Aplos simplex, a member of the related family Issidae, also likes fig sap. its “tail” is actually a tuft of waxy secretions, which get shed along with the bright colors when it assumes a lumpy, bean-shaped adult form.

cicadellids, or leafhoppers, are just about everywhere on plants, but can be hard to approach without scaring them.

Agallia constricta on the left is a tiny species that feeds on grass, but many were scared up onto the fig by my footsteps. Jikradia olitoria is a much larger species that does feed on the fig; juveniles like this are curled, creeping goblins while adults’ rounded wings give them a pill-shaped appearance.

this big, pale leafhopper belongs to genus Gyponana. it’s tricky to get to species ID with these.

Graphocephala are striking little hoppers that eat a variety of native and nonnative plants. G. coccinea is the larger, more boldly colored one and G. versuta is smaller but more common locally. they’ll sit on the tops of leaves but take flight if you get too close quickly.

another group you’re almost guaranteed to encounter are flies (Diptera). these are a very diverse group, so much more than houseflies and mosquitoes (though I did run into both)

where I live, any plant with broad leaves is almost guaranteed to have a few Condylostylus, long-legged flies that come in shades of blue, green, and red. despite their dainty physique, they’re agile predators, typically feeding on other small flies.

next, a few hoverflies: the ubiquitous Toxomerus geminatus and a Eumerus that I’ve been seeing a lot of this year (but maybe I’ve just noticed them for the first time). syrphids have varied life histories, but most adults drink nectar and many of the larvae are predaceous on aphids.

the metallic green soldier fly is Microchrysa flaviventris, nonnative here. Coenosia is a fun example of a “fly that looks like a fly,” with big red eyes and a gray body, and you might think they’re just another dung-sucking pest, but they’re actually aggressive predators! this one seemed to have nabbed itself some sort of nematoceran fly, maybe a fungus gnat.

many flies are very tiny, just millimeters long. the first two little fellows are lauxaniids, while the last one, an agromyzid leafminer Cerodontha dorsalis, burrows through grass leaves as a larva.

while moths and butterflies (Lepidoptera) are drawn to plants for their flowers or to lay eggs, many small moths can easily be found resting on or under leaves during the day.

these first two are tortricids, many of which are flat, rectangular moths resembling chips of bark or dead leaves. the apple bud moth, Platynota idaeusalis, feeds on a wide variety of hosts, while this beat-up old Argyrotaenia pinatubana would have developed in an edible tube nest of pine needles.

Callima argenticinctella feeds in bark and dead wood (a resource used by more caterpillars than you’d realize!) while the last moth, possibly an Aspilanta, is a leafminer.

although beetles (Coleoptera) are famous for their diversity, I didn’t find too many on the fig. the invasive Oriental beetle Exomala orientalis resting here can be found in a wide range of colors, from this common tan to to deep iridescent black. the other beetle is a Photinus pyralis firefly, sleeping under leaves as fireflies do.

a few spare hemipterans: a Kleidocerys resedae that blew in on a wind, and below, the mulberry whitefly Tetraleurodes mori feeds on its namesake host. as for Hymenoptera, I saw manny tiny parasitic braconid wasps and various ants attracted to the planthoppers’ honeydew excretions—always worth checking underneath roosting hoppers for things having a drink.

a couple handsome spider boys were scrambling through the fig seeking females, a jumping spider Paraphidippus aurantius and an orbweaver, Mecynogea lemniscata.

and to round it off, a young Conocephalus meadow katydid and a Carolina mantis, Stagmomantis carolina.

there’s 31 species of arthropod in this post, and I probably saw some 45, not all of which stayed for photos. if you walk slowly and look closely, you can see a sizeable chunk of your local biodiversity in under fifteen minutes! of course this will depend on where you live and what time of year it is, but there’s almost always more cool bugs out there than you’d expect, even on just a single plant.

[why-what-no]

New Obsession

Pairing: Captain James Hook x Reader, Former Peter Pan x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Attempted Murder, Dacryphilia

Notes: guys, I finally posted something for the first time in a while! You proud of me?? Sorry for disappearing, I had so much going on irl, but I’ve got a bunch of spare time over the next while so I’m gonna try to get back into writing more often and finally getting through the last couple of requests I haven’t finished yet :):)

Summary: Having visited Neverland many times before as a child, she returned to Neverland after growing and was struck with the realization that it wasn’t what she remembered. Pan was no longer her anchor and protector, and she was forced to realize that everything on the island is a danger to her. Except for, to her surprise, the gentleman pirate whom she used to be terrified of

All around (Y/N), the pirates were reveling on the deck of the Jolly Roger, completely unaware of the way her mind was racing. Her heart heavy as the thoughts of Peter crushed her. The lost boy never stayed away from her thoughts for long, always returning with some good memories as well as the more recent terrible ones.

"Please tell me you forgive me, lost girl." His green eyes were filled with tears and his voice breaking as he held her down against the bed, dagger in his raised hand. Preparing to plunge it down into her heart, a betrayal worse than anything she had ever experienced. "I have to do this. I have to! But I couldn't live if you don't forgive me."

The heartbroken sound in his voice and look on his face made her want to forgive him; an automatic reaction that made her feel sick. Disgusted in herself and her weakness. Did she truly love that boy – any boy – so much that she could forgive him for her murder? With no explanation or attempt at redemption?

But she didn't give him a reply, and when he faltered, she ran. And now, she was with the people she had once considered her enemies. To an extent, they still were, of course. But they were also now her best hope for allies against Peter – against Pan – on this island. And there was something about the forget-me-not blue of their captain's eyes... they almost made her forget that the color green existed.

Now, those eyes were staring at her from the other side of the deck, as Hook sat in his captain's chair, gazing intensely at (Y/N) without any emotions on his face. His crew was cheering and grinning around him, but he didn't even spare them a glance.

It almost made her tense up, she wasn't used to feeling such vulnerability, pinned under the gaze of a man like Hook. She remembered him vaguely from when she was a young girl, although she had never actually interacted with him until the week she had left. He had seemed so old to her, so scary and untouchable. Peter had always encouraged her to feel that way.

Maybe that was why she felt like he was gazing into her soul. Because few people had known her that young, and the ones that did were all either her dearest allies or worst enemies. At the moment, Hook was neither. And so she didn't quite know how to feel about him. There were no boxes to put him into in her head.

But unfortunately for her sanity and dignity, there were words to explain the unsettled allure that his gaze made her feel in the pit of her stomach.

It didn’t help that he looked so… enticing. Strong and angular features, and a gracefulness in the way he moved. Everything was deliberate with him, every action purposeful and stayed in her mind for longer that it should. His pale skin stood in contrast to his long dark hair, cascading over his face and framing those hypnotic forget-me-not blue eyes. 

He stood up, drawing glances from his crew but quickly being ignored again when they recognized that he wasn't about to give any announcements. No, only (Y/N) was looking at him as he made his way towards her. Like a large cat, a mountain lion or a panther ready to pounce. To tear her apart.

But he didn't, merely stopped in front of her, leaning forward as the girl looked up into his eyes. It wasn't that he completely towered over her, but his regality, his aura of power made her feel like he did. "And are you enjoying this evening?" He asked, whispering into her ear. The sound of his voice and the warmth of his breath so close making her nearly shiver.

"Yes." She replied, taking care that her voice sounded even and calm. Trying to ignore how fast her heart was beating, how she had never felt an affect like this before. Like he was a flame that could burn her any second.

Hook's lips curved into a small smile. "Wonderful, a lady such as yourself deserves a fine celebration." His gleaming hook moved to hover against her back, keeping it at a respectful distance. But even though it wasn't touching her, she could practically feel the coolness of the metal against her clothes. It took all her control not to lean into his touch.

"Thank you." She responded, doing her utmost best not to look at him while his eyes stayed glued to her face. "Although I might go to bed soon. I've had enough excitement for the day, I think."

"Of course." Hook responded in a voice that possibly sounded almost... disappointed? "I shall give you the space to relax now, and make sure none of my pirates bother..."

"No -"

(Y/N) mentally slapped herself at her quiet outburst as Hook paused, raising an eyebrow at her.

"No?"

"I..." She could feel warmth on the back of her neck, praying that she was wasn't turning red. "You're fine. I don't mind your company. I don't... you can stay if you want."

What she really wanted was to jump into the ocean out of sheer mortification and let the mermaids drag her down to the depths. She wouldn't even try to kick or scream.

But Hook just looked surprised, beginning to smile once again.

The man offered her his hand, not his hook like he normally did when he wanted to lead her somewhere. It was surprisingly warm, and so gentle. The callouses that came from sword-work were there, but they felt more like the hands of a musician, a writer. That was the one thing that surprised her the most about Hook, he was a gentleman as much as he was a pirate. Equal parts savage and refined.

Perhaps that was what drew her towards him. She knew he could treat her better than any man she knew... and hurt her worse. He made her feel small beside him, but so important.

"Come with me." He told her, and she immediately followed. Letting him hold her hand and lead her towards the captain's quarters.

It was quiet when they got inside, the large and elegant room surprisingly soundproof. Letting go of her hand, he gestured around the room, giving her permission to look around. "Forgive me for my forwardness, but I couldn't bear the thought of forcing you to sleep in the crew's quarters during your time here. You may take my bed if you wish, I rarely use it."

"Where will you sleep?" (Y/N) asked, walking over to the large bed and sitting down on it, facing Hook.

"I have a nasty habit of falling asleep at my desk, my dear." He chuckled for a moment, before tensing up once again. "But if you would prefer to spend your nights alone, I shall disappear until you wake."

She shook her head. "No, it's alright. It's your room, Captain."

"James." He replied.

"What?"

He stepped closer. "My name is James Hook, or has Pan not told you that already?" The captain walked over to his table to pour each of them wine into glasses made from large glimmering seashells.

The lost boy hadn't told (Y/N) that. "He mostly told me stories of your rather violent pursuits. Pan very much wanted me to know that you would torture and kill me if I ever spoke to you. That you were a beast who took pleasure in the pain of others."

"Ah." James Hook said, handing her the wine. "No doubt to make sure your loyalty was to him only."

He was probably right. And (Y/N) was just disappointed that it took so long for her to realize that. So many people had attempted to do that to her in her life, to twist her reasoning and manipulate her into thinking that they were the only people she could trust. And for some reason, Peter had succeeded so easily. Perhaps it was her young age and inexperience, but at that point in her life she should have already known better. Or perhaps it was love that made her blind.

"So, you're telling me that it was all a lie? All his stories about you."

He chuckled, standing over her sitting form while taking a sip of his wine. Her hands were folded almost docilely in her lap as she looked up at him, taking in his elegant features. "The stories were true, I assume. I've done enough pillaging in my lifetime that there are any number of truthful tales for that boy-demon to share with his followers."

He paused.

"However." He smirked down at her, before reaching down to slip a finger under her chin. (Y/N) looked down and away as he did that, cheeks warm but not pushing away his touch. At her lack of pushback, he used those fingers to tilt her head upwards so that he could make sure she continued to stay captivated by his intense blue stare, using his thumb to gently stroke along her chin. She could feel how close his touch was to her lips, and she pressed her thighs together instinctually. "I would never dream of killing a precious jewel such as yourself. And thought of your torture brings me great pain." Hook said to her, almost like a whisper. She didn't reply, too caught off guard by the intimacy in his touch. As well as by the dark desire that he was instilling in her.

But for a brief moment, Hook saw her silence as discomfort. "Forgive me my forwardness." He murmured, stepping just out of reach. His hand by his side once more. A sight that felt so unbearable to (Y/N) that a rush of shame overtook her for a second. She was now she was buckling under the weight of a pirate's glance. Of his quick and gentle touches.

"It's alright." She replied, trying to reassure him that she didn't mind his ‘forwardness’. "Do you want to sit? With me?" She patted a spot beside her on the bed, displaying a forwardness of her own. Not wanting him to have to continue standing (and it was easier for her to speak when he wasn't standing over her), and not wanting him to be far from her.

His surprise at her offer morphed into a small grin as he sat down right beside her. "Thank you, dearest." He faced her while sitting, his whole body turned towards her like a moon orbiting a planet. "You are very kind."

(Y/N) doubted that. Most of her kindness was born from selfish reasons. Mainly, the selfish desire to pull him close to her and get him to make her forget about what was happening in Neverland. "Thank you... James."

He smiled as she spoke his proper name. "I can see why Pan was so immediately taken with you."

And there it was. Pan was like a dark cloud constantly following her, and with Hook's obsession in the boy, perhaps he wasn't the best person to distract her from him.

(Y/N)’s distaste of the mention of Pan's name seems to be visible on her face. "My apologies." Hook murmured, reaching forward to take her hand in his. "I should not have mentioned him to you."

"I just... I don't understand why he would do it. I loved him. He loved me."

"He's not capable of love." Hook told her gently, seemingly believing his words. "It's the price he paid for everlasting life."

"He was. He was capable. It was just... innocent love. Childhood love. And besides, he's older now, we both are. Even you've admitted that things on Neverland aren't what you thought anymore." (Y/N) felt ashamed of her outburst. Ashamed that Pan could pull those emotions out of her.

The pirate captain just looked at her, a sort of resigned look on his face that she couldn't quite decipher. "Of course." He nodded. "You may be right. I'd apologize for my impudence, but I worry that you might be tired of my apologies by now."

"You don't have to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong." The girl sighed. "I just don't want to talk about Peter Pan right now."

"Then what would you wish to speak about? Anything you wish to say will be satisfactory to me."

There was something about Hook's attention, his habit of doing or saying exactly the right thing that made her trust him even less and desire him even more. "I don't know. Tell me a story? If you have any?"

He chuckled. "Many more than most people, my dear. Despite this island and it's promised youth, I'm practically an old man now." The sound of his voice was a little bit self-deprecating.

"I wouldn't say that." (Y/N) denied. Maybe he was older that the children on the island, but it wasn't like he was some decrepit old man who was losing his functions. He was... striking.

"No, no, my dear. It's true." He told her, still holding her hand gently. "Growing up is a nasty business. I'm sure you are aware of what I say. All those pesky feelings, the energy of childhood sapped away."

The girl opened her mouth but closed it again. Maybe it was his warm hand stroking hers, the glint of his hook in the candlelight, his intense blue eyes staring into hers. It felt like she had no self-control. It suddenly felt like whatever answer she gave was an important one. It could lead in any direction. And as for the direction she was secretly hoping for....

"It's not all bad." She slid closer to him. "You still have your energy, I'll bet." And all the things that he could do with that energy raced through her head. "You're the most feared and respected pirate on Neverland."

"And those feelings..." She felt like she was regaining some control as she took his hand that previously covered her and gently rested it on her thigh, keeping eye contact with him as she did. "They're not all bad." She barely breathed with nervous anticipation, waiting to see what the pirate did next.

He was certainly surprised, that much was clear on his face. But as the gleam in his eyes grew more intense, she couldn't bring herself to regret what she did.

His hand slid up her thigh, slowly. (Y/N) was pinned under his gaze as her breathing became heavier. She shivered as he skilfully undid the button to her trousers, and without thinking, she reached up to touch his face.

Never in her dreams had she thought she would ever see this man in this way. He had always been the scary pirate, the dark villain of her hero's stories. But as he leaned into her touch as she cupped his cheek, she couldn't help but pull him forward to kiss him.

He immediately reciprocated. And even more, he did exactly what she was hoping for. Taking over control of the situation and moving his hand so that it was buried into her hair, tugging her as close to him as possible.

She moaned as he pulled on her hair, grabbing at his coat for stability. Gone was the caution and gentlemanly politeness that Hook had been displaying, she could only see the dark pirate captain as he bit her lip and rested his hook against her neck.

She knew she was putting herself in danger by touching him, kissing him like this. Like Icarus soaring too close to the sun. But he already had her caught in his orbit.

"I can't say I expected this, my dear. No idea that you wanted the touch of a pirate so badly." Hook said, his breath warm against her lips. "Although I am certainly not displeased."

"I just want your touch." She replied breathlessly as he moved his mouth down to her throat, nipping at her neck and kissing along her collarbone. Pulling her hair so that she was made to tilt her head back to give him better access.

He chuckled, enjoying her honesty and desperation. "And you'll get it. All night you'll get my touch, until you beg for me to stop. Until we leave this room or you tell me to let you go... you're mine." He let go of her. "Lie down on the bed. And don't make me ask twice."

The speed in which she obeyed only made the lustful darkness in his eyes grow. As she laid down, she watched him raise himself so that he hovered over her, kneeling with his legs encasing hers. His shape of his thighs were visible through his pants, as was the growing bulge of his cock. She couldn’t help but glance at it.

“Any man who had the honour of seeing you like this would be blessed by Poseidon himself.” Hook murmured to her, running his hand along her side and grabbing at her hip, leaning over to kiss her deeply, harshly.

She watched him as he unbuttoned her shirt, leaning forward to he could remove it. (Y/N) was half naked below him, revealed and vulnerable but it only made the electric feeling in the lower part of her stomach stronger. Made her even more wet.

And Hook could tell. “But you’re not innocent at all, my love. You want me to make you beg for me, don’t you?”

She nodded as he pressed kisses along her stomach until he reached her breast. Taking one of her nipples into his mouth, licking and tugging at it with his teeth as he groped at the other.

He chuckled against her chest as she gasped at his touch. The vibration of the sound reverberating against her body, feeling like it went straight between her thighs.

She took initiative and kicked off her trousers herself. Reaching up to bury her hands in Hooks hair, pulling him into a kiss.

“I might not ever anyone take you away from me, love.” He growled as she tugged at his dark curls. “I’ll keep you all to myself.” He kept running his hand over her body, driving her wild as her touched her. Somehow intuitively knowing all the spots that could turn her on.

However, once her pants were fully gone, he immediately turned his attention to her soaked cunt. (Y/N) was grateful that there was a party on the deck above them, she wasn’t able to fully cover up her moans as James Hook pressed his face against her core.

She held on to his hair tightly, trying to gain some type of stability as his tongue pressed against her clit and into her cunt. “So wet.” He smirked. “All for me? You filthy girl.”

He added a finger only a second later, doing everything he could to remove any thoughts from her brain. Wanting pleasure to be her only sensation. There was something about her that made him go feral, wanting to make this succubus of a women moan and cry for him all night and every night.

“Please.” She begged, tears pricking at her eyes at the onslaught of satisfaction that the pirate captain was giving her. “I want you, please James.”

The sight of her tears only turned him on more, and so he submitted to her pleads. “You want me to fuck you, love? Is that right? You want me to make you come so hard that I ruin any other man for you? To make you mine?”

“Yes.” She let out a gasping sob. “Please.”

“Your wish is my command.” Hook grinned darkly, finally pressing his cock against her folds and pushing inside quickly. He wanted to spilt her open, wanted to make her go brainless for him.

She dug her nails into his back as he rocked in and out of her. He delighted in her moans, at the look on her face as he took her closer and closer to her climax.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had someone as seductive as her in his arms, couldn’t remember the last time that fucking someone felt as good as it did as he plunged his cock into this woman.

Everything about her drew him in, and this obvious confirmation that she desired him as well only served to make him need her more. He grew even harder at the thought of doing this with her again. Of holding her tightly as he fucked into her whenever they wanted.

And (Y/N) could barely think that far ahead with how good Hook was making her feel. It felt as though there was nothing in her brain at all except for the thought of how his cock felt rubbing against the walls of her cunt, of hitting her g-spot as he slammed into her. His fingers rubbed her clit as he did, and she could feel her orgasm approaching.

Hook could too. “Do you want to come, my dear?” He asked her, his hook right beside her face, the glean of the lantern next to them gleaming off of it. “Have you been good enough to be allowed to come?”

She nodded quickly, looking into his gorgeous blue eyes desperately. When he told her she could come, the coil that had been building and building within her finally released, and Hook had to muffle her scream of pleasure with a kiss. If they had been alone on the island, he would have been delighted at the noises he was pulling out of her, but he didn’t want one of his pirates rushing in and interrupting them.

The look on her face as she came was more satisfying that any treasure to him, and couldn’t help but kiss her forehead and face as she caught her breath

(Y/N) collapsed against the bed as he did. “You were perfect, my darling.” James murmured to her, moving away to grab a towel to clean her up.

“So were you.” She smiled at him, relaxed as her mind began to return to her. “Although I can now understand why Pan called you a beast.”

Hook chuckled, his gaze was soft as he leaned down to kiss her. “No more talk of Pan.” He told her. “Peter Pan doesn’t need to be thought of at this moment. You… you are my new obsession.”

And he lay next to her in the bed, felt her against his side, remembered the feeling of her around his cock, those words were true to him.

Taglist: @fictional-hooman @norman891 @fairynook @dark-academia-slut @silverhart93

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Katniss feeling insecure one random afternoon after seeing Peeta interact with some pretty girlies and asking him later that night all quiet if he thinks she’s pretty 🥺

I meant for this to be funny and then it turned out... not funny. Oh well. Enjoy some post-Mockingjay not fluff but not really angst??? No warning tags on this one.

“Having an eye for beauty isn’t the same thing as a weakness,” Peeta points out. “Except possibly when it comes to you.” - Catching Fire, Chapter 15 “You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?” - Mockingjay, Chapter 16

It takes me longer than usual to finish trading with the new butcher. She’s originally from Ten and came here after marrying a soldier from Thirteen. She refused to live underground any longer and he tried living in Ten, but felt too exposed and jumpy in the flat plains of that district. Twelve was their compromise. But I haven’t had the chance to build the kind of rapport with her that I had with Rooba.

Rooba. I make a mental note to ask Peeta to draw her for the memory book tonight. We’ll both have memories of her that need to be recorded.

When I finish with the butcher, mostly satisfied with the cuts of deer meat and the coin I walk away with, I make my way over to the bakery. Usually I’d help Peeta close for the day. I got lucky catching the deer so close to the fence, but it still took time for me to bring back enough help to drag it to the butcher.

Surprisingly, there are still a handful of customers in the bakery. Unusual, this late in the day. I hasten my steps, thinking Peeta might want some help getting rid of the chatty customers, and seeing me after a hunt usually does the trick.

As I reach the window, though, I slow my pace. It’s not just any customers. It’s the Lassiter girls. They moved here after the war with their father, who used to be the head foreman at a perfume factory in District One. Apparently someone thought his skills would translate well to running a medicine factory, because that’s what his job here is. And his five daughters -- Neroli, Dior, Ambrette, Clary, and Opal -- aged twenty-four to sixteen, spaced two years apart down the line, are each just as beautiful as the last. Gossip holds that they each have a different mother, and while there’s been no confirmation from their father on that point, they’re each so strikingly different in looks and coloring that it wouldn’t surprise me.

They’re currently clustered near the counter, a bouquet of undoubtedly sweet smelling flowers. Their dresses a rainbow of eye-catching hues in expensive looking fabrics. All I can do is snort as I think of how dull and dingy their clothes would’ve been if they’d lived here when there was still a coal mine. But their hair, although different shades, all gleams in glossy waves and curls and curtains of shimmering silk in the bright lights of the bakery.

I hear Peeta’s laughter then, followed shortly by the twittering chorus of the Lassiter girls’ giggling. Ugh. They cannot be serious. Not my Peeta.

None of them are married yet, and there’ve already been several District Twelve men turned away from their front door step with dazed looks in their eyes, like they couldn’t believe they’d actually dared to propose to one of the Lassiter girls. And while this group ambush of my Peeta gives me an idea of what sort of partner they might be looking for, it’s unacceptable.

I push through the bakery door and attempt a smile. Neroli sees me first. The oldest, and by far the smartest of this bunch, our eyes meet and her lips curl in a smile. She’s dressed in a dark, forest green dress. Her dark, almost black hair swept to one side, into a long, sleek ponytail. There’s no denying that she’s stunning. Long, sooty black lashes frame her pale eyes that I’ve never been able to decide if they’re blue or gray. Some part of me knows that if I were somehow more beautiful, I might look like her.

Neroli glances at Peeta, then back at me. She inclines her head slightly towards me, and I’m not certain what she means until she speaks.

“Father will be wondering what’s keeping us,” she announces to her sisters. “Come on. Get your purchases and let’s leave these two turtle doves alone.”

She still pauses to say something to Peeta before she and her sisters clear out, but the glance she throws my way before shutting the door behind her makes me think that maybe Neroli and I might’ve been friends under different circumstances. When I finally manage to look at Peeta, he’s head down in the cases, cleaning them out.

“Lock the door for me? How was your day in the woods?”

“Not bad,” I tell him as I throw the bolt. “I got a deer.”

“That’s great!”

“Put this in the cold storage while I sweep?” I hand him the package from the butchers and he hands me a broom across the counter. It’s one of my usual chores and it isn’t long after that we’re headed home. But all through dinner, I can’t get the image of the flock of Lassiter girls twittering around him out of my head. 

I distract myself after we clean up the kitchen with the memory book, telling Peeta about the deer today and how things went with the new butcher. We share a few memories of Rooba while he sketches her and I write them down in draft. We manage to finish her page and seal it into the book before it’s very late.

And while Peeta showers with me, and stands next to me while we brush our teeth and get ready for bed, he somehow feels distant. As I lay down and watch him as he carefully removes his prosthetic, I can’t help but think again about the Lassiter girls.

“Goodnight, my love,” he murmurs as he turns to me, slipping his legs under the covers and cupping my cheek in his palm before kissing my lips once, softly.

“Goodnight,” I respond and blink when he turns out the light and lays down.

But I can’t get comfortable. And behind my closed eyes, I see a still ravaged Peeta, the hijacking reversal barely even begun. His knuckles pale as he gripped the bedsheets beneath him and restraints holding him down, safely away from me.

“You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty.”

I huff out a heavy breath and jam the heels of my palms into my closed eyes, trying to push the image out of my brain. He’s laying right here beside me. He kissed me and called me his love just minutes ago. What Peeta and I have puts the stars in the sky and the poets’ words on the page to shame with its depth and significance. That’s far better than some superficial beauty.

And yet the words still slip past my lips.

“Peeta,” I whisper, and he hums in response so that I’m not sure if he’s fully awake or not. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

There’s a few seconds of silence and then I hear the sound of the sheets rustling as Peeta turns over to face me.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s just a question,” I say and smack my hands down onto the bed, right at my sides. They’re still clenched into fists and I try to hold back the sudden, ridiculous tears welling up in my eyes. Because his hesitancy to answer tells me what I need to know. How stupid of me to ask.

“Katniss, honey,” he breathes and moves through the dark, pulling me into his arms. “You will always be as radiant as the sun to me,” he tells me and I snort, wishing I’d never told him that phrase or how I’d once used it. “No, I’m serious. Katniss, you take my breath away.”

“But I’m still not particularly pretty. At least not as pretty as Neroli Lassiter, am I?” I poke and I can feel his frame stiffening besides me.

“No. Oh no, no, you can’t believe what I said that day, Katniss.”

“But you were right. I’m not very big.”

“And we both looked like shit that day because we’d been through too much shit. That doesn’t mean I meant it, Katniss. You have to know I was… I was trying to hurt you that day. Hurt you the way I thought you’d hurt me. Because I thought you’d used me, chosen Gale and the rebels, and left me to die or worse in that arena.”

“I know,” I say and finally manage to turn over into his embrace, burying my face in his chest as he caresses my back and whispers a hundred apologies for his careless words. I inhale his scent and let his hands soothe me.

So when he slips his fingers beneath my chin, I let him lift my face to his. I close my eyes and savor the brush of his lips against mine.

“You once told me that I had a weakness for beautiful things,” he whispers. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” I answer without pause. I can smell the horses and feel the warmth of Cinna’s glowing ember costume. I can see Peeta in front of me, radiant and beautiful, and smiling in amusement at my assessment of him. “But you don’t have a weakness for beauty. Only an eye for it,” I remind him.

“So yes, Neroli Lassiter is a beautiful woman--”

“And her sisters?” I prod and I can feel Peeta smiling against my lips as he kisses me once.

“And her sisters are, too. But you’re the only beautiful person I have a weakness for. No one else has left a lasting impression the way you have.”

I can’t help but smile stupidly at the repetition of his words from the cave. The reminder that somewhere amongst the acting for the cameras, we always had at least a sliver, a taste, a fraction of or at least the roots of something real.

“I’m still a goner for you, Katniss Everdeen, real or not real?” he whispers, and I already know the answer. I know what he wants me to say, because it’s true.

“Real.”

[sephirthoughts]

Mother

Chapter 1: The Grey Figure

summary: post-advent children, the remnants of sephiroth wind up somewhere they aren't supposed to be, without a clue how they got there, or how to get out. a mysterious figure takes them under its wing, claiming to want to help them.

tags: gratuitous silliness, slight mystery, post-canon, the remnants are the stars because we need more of them

rating: teen and up

warnings: amnesia, i guess?

Location: The Skyless Plains, Space Between Worlds

Through the bleak and barren waste, a solitary figure wandered. Grey and wraithlike, it was, veiled in hooded robes, like shredded wisps of cloud; invisible in the purple-grey fog, that hung heavily over the featureless landscape.

But that was alright. None who came here had eyes. 

The figure had just paused, to contemplate choosing another direction, in which to wander aimlessly, when a sound disturbed the perpetual calm. A voice. Then another, and another. Three voices!

“But such lively voices in this place are unheard of,” thought the figure, then laughed inwardly, believing itself to be terribly clever.

Since it had no specific reason to choose any other direction, the figure glided toward the lively voices, to take a look. Soon, it came upon their source: three legless and armless little blobs, who seemed to be quite small, for creatures capable of generating so much noise.

The grey figure thought of them as little, because, though size was entirely conceptual, here, when judged relative to the grey figure’s own size, theirs would be similar to grapefruits, if the grey figure is assumed to have the rough dimensions of a human being. 

In any case, the three little blobs were made of pale and wavering light; one white, one blue, and one green—which only mattered because the light was actually life force, which could be seen by those without eyes, and thus the colors perceived, in this place. 

“Greetings, little blobs,” said the grey figure, in as polite and non-terrifying a tone as it could remember how to configure. 

Of course, the three blobs screamed in terror and darted away as fast as they possibly could. Or, perhaps, darted is the wrong word. They had no limbs and, to be perfectly honest, were not very fast.

The grey figure stood watching, curiously, as the tiny disembodied existences wriggled in the grey dirt, inching away at a pace far slower than its own usual, aimless strolling. 

“Did we—did we lose her?” the green one panted (having absolutely no reason to be out of breath, since none of them had lungs).

“Maybe, but those things are wily,” said the (slightly) more intelligent white one. “She might be trying to trick us into letting our guard down.”

“No one told me to have my guard up, in the first place,” the blue one whined. “I’ve had it down this whole time.”

“Pardon me, little blobs,” said the grey figure again, in an even more polite and non-terrifying tone.

The three blobs repeated the process of howling and flailing stupidly in the dirt, until they succeeded in getting a few more inches away, upon which they repeated their former conversation, nearly verbatim.

The grey figure gave a forbearing sigh. Reaching down, it plucked up the three wriggling blobs and held them in its (purely conceptual) palms, to have a (metaphorical) look at them.

“You’ll never take us alive!” roared the white one.  

“I’m too beautiful to die!” wailed the blue one.

“I can’t feel my legs!” bellowed the green one.

“Calm down, little blobs,” the grey figure gently admonished. “You’re using up your life force, thrashing about, like this. If you keep it up, you’ll disappear altogether.”

“We’re not blobs, you reaper hag! We’re souls!” the white one contended. “And don’t even think about eating us! I’ll…I’ll lodge myself in your throat and choke you!!”

The grey figure considered this for some (or no) time (which did not exist here). “Hm. You do seem to be human souls. But you’re so small. You must be very young souls.”

“We’re not born yet,” the green one offered helpfully.

“Shut up, Loz!” the white one scolded. “Don’t tell it things!”

The grey figure seemed to smile. “Your name is Loz?”

“No!!” the white one thundered. 

“Yep,” the green one chirped.

“I’m Yazoo,” the blue one said languidly, as if speaking was a dreadful inconvenience, and it could only be asked to do so much.

“I said don’t tell it things!!” 

“You’re Loz, and you’re Yazoo,” repeated the grey figure. “And what’s your name, little one?”

“None of your business!” the white one wiggled angrily.

“He’s Kadaj,” the green one said. “We’re all brothers.”

“I see. So, you’ve always been together?”

“Yes.”

“Mn.”

“Ye—I mean! Who’s asking!! And put us down!”

“This is a curious riddle, little blobs,” the grey figure said musingly. “If you were never born, how do you have names?”

“We named ourselves!” growled Kadaj, the white one. “What do you care!”

“Did you? Well, they’re darling names,” the figure chuckled. “I like them, very much.”

“Thanks!” Loz chimed.

“Hmph,” Yazoo hmphed.

“So, Yazoo, Loz, Kadaj, tell me; how have you come here?”

The three blobs faltered, seeming to be at a loss.

“We…um. Well.”

“We really can’t…”

“We don’t know.”

The grey figure nodded. “I suspected as much. And where were you, before?”

“We don’t know.”

“No idea.”

“And we wouldn’t tell you anyway!”

“I ask because you look like human souls, to me. But if that’s the case, you shouldn’t have been able to come here. This is a place of exile, for those who can’t return to the lifestream.”

“We were in the lifestream, once,” Loz said cheerfully. “It was warm and bright!”

“Then we were…somewhere else,” Yazoo murmured.

“Now, we’re lost in this stupid wasteland,” Kadaj grumbled.

“Well, you’re in luck,” said the grey figure. “As it so happens, I’m the guardian of this place. If you’ve found your way here by mistake or mischance, there must be a way to send you back to where you belong.”

“The guardian?” Yazoo asked, skeptically. 

“What’s a guardian?” Loz wanted to know. 

“As guardian, it’s my task to oversee this place, and ensure that everything proceeds according to the rules. I’ve never tried to exercise my authority, before, because I’ve never had a reason. But this does seem to be the correct situation for it.” 

“Were you always here?” Loz asked.

“No. I was human, once.”

“You don’t seem human,” Kadaj said suspiciously. “How long have you been here?”

“That is a question,” the grey figure sighed. “It seems, not very long. And yet, I feel as if I carry the burden of ten-thousand centuries.”

“You can just say you don’t know,” Kadaj informed it, which made the figure seem to smile.

“Excuse me, um, ma’am,” Loz put in, shyly. “Do you have a name?”

The figure appeared briefly troubled. “I must have, but…I seem to have lost it.”

“Then, what do we call you?” Yazoo asked. 

“Yeah, we have to call you something,” Kadaj agreed.

The figure laughed softly, seeming to be pleased by this. “You wish to give me a name?”

“Well, we don’t actually know any names,” Loz admitted.

“We know our names, idiot,” Kadaj retorted.

“But we can’t use our names, they’re already ours,” Yazoo lamented.

“The three of you seem to know many words,” observed the figure. “Any word you know can serve as a name, if you choose to use it as one. Why not choose a word, for my name?” 

“Reaper hag,” Kadaj put forth confidently.

“But I’m not a reaper. Shouldn’t a name be a more unique designation, that avoids causing unnecessary confusion?” the grey figure reasoned.

The blobs were utterly confounded by this, and fell silent. 

The grey figure seemed to laugh, again, behind its wispy sleeve. “This is not a pressing matter. Think, for a while, and choose something you like, to call me. For now, let us go.”

“Hang on a minute, go where?!” Kadaj demanded. “We never agreed to go with you! This is some kind of trick, isn’t it!”

“I vote to go with the reaper hag,” Loz said. 

“Seconded,” Yazoo yawned. 

“There’s no voting! This isn’t a democracy! Hey, where are you taking us! I demand answers! I dem��mph! Mmmph!”

Kadaj’s outraged protestations were muffled, as the grey figure stuffed the three little blobs into its sleeve, and vanished.

To be more accurate, it didn’t really vanish, it simply used astounding speed to cross unfathomable (conceptual) distances, in negligible time (which did not exist here). Not that it would have mattered if it vanished or not, though, since again, no one could see it in the first place.

“Here we are,” it said, shaking the little blobs back out of its sleeve, to plop onto the grey ground.

“—have rights! I don’t have to put up with being manhandled by some reaper hag, just because I’m—” Kadaj broke off, bewildered. “Where are we?”

“Home,” the figure said, in a sepulchral facsimile of cheerfulness.

Kadaj scowled. “This doesn’t look like home. It looks like more shitty grey fog.”

“What should home look like?” the figure asked.

“It should have a house!” Loz answered sagely. 

As he spoke the words, some of the fog receded, and a cottage style, two-story house emerged, just as he’d imagined it, only grey.

“It should have a garden,” Yazoo ventured, and more of the fog lifted, revealing a perfectly idyllic kitchen garden, full of flowers and vegetables and herbs of many varieties, only they were all grey. 

“It should have a mother,” Kadaj said coldly. 

When he looked up to sneer at the grey figure, however, he found that it had transformed, into a lovely young woman, with a gentle smile on her face.

She was as grey as everything else, but her skin was fair and her eyes were deep, and her long hair, which she wore pulled up in a high ponytail, was somewhere in the middle. Her figure was slender and petite, and she wore a simple dress, with an apron and comfortable house shoes, like the mother character in a children’s storybook. 

“M…mother?” Loz faltered.

“She’s not our mother!” Kadaj exploded. “She’s that reaper hag, in disguise!”

“That’s true—well, not exactly true, since I’m not a reaper,” said the former grey figure, who was now a grey young woman. “I am the same person who brought you here. I have created this place for you, in accordance with your ideas regarding what a home is, to make you more comfortable. I suppose I’m to act as the mother, since you say a home requires one, and I can’t create sentient beings.”

“Mother!” said Loz and Yazoo, bouncing happily.

“Since we’re home, shall we go inside?” asked the grey young woman.

“Inside, inside!” Loz and Yazoo cheered.

“You’re both idiots seeking death,” Kadaj groused, sullenly following the others into the house, with his arms crossed and his little silver eyebrows lowered in a scowl. Then he abruptly realized he had arms to cross, and a chest to cross them on, as well as legs to follow the others with, and gave a yelp. “I’m a person! Y—you guys are people, too! We were born! Wait, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Since this place is intended for your comfort, I gave you human forms, based on the condition of your souls,” the grey woman explained. “You’re children, now, because you’re so weak and small.” 

“Shouldn’t we be babies, then?” Kadaj pointed out. 

“I’ve no wish to care for infants, who can neither speak, nor do anything for themselves, so I gave you a little spiritual energy boost. Your physical ages should be around six human years.”

“Couldn’t you have given us a big one, so we can be grown ups?” 

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the woman said gravely.

“Is it against the rules?”

“No. It’s just that I think you’re absolutely precious like this,” she grinned, reaching down to pinch Kadaj’s little round cheeks.

“Back, hag!” he barked, striking out with both hands, to fend her off. Unfortunately, he had the strength of a six year old, and the woman simply ignored his little slaps and pinched his cheeks to her heart’s content. 

His eyes were blazing with white-hot indignation, and the moment she released him, he ran away up the narrow stairwell. A second or two later, they heard a door slam, upstairs.

“Only just become a mother, and it seems I’ve already got a teenager,” the young woman mused. “Wherever does the time go?”

“Mother? We’re hungry,” Yazoo said, tugging on her apron.

He was looking up at her with the largest, saddest eyes, and an aggrieved pout, which, on his beautiful, childlike face, was a devastating blow capable of slaying gods and mortals, alike. 

“Mother, can you cook us something?” Loz put in, tugging on her apron on the other side.

“I’m not sure. I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we,” she said, and entered the kitchen with the intrepid air of an adventurer, sallying forth into an undiscovered country, fraught with unknown dangers.

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 

yazoo: mother we’re ever so hungry

loz: please make us food, mother

system: [-1000 points of puppy-eyes damage to party member mother] 

grey figure: [spitting out blood] my character settings are not specced for this 

[ineffably-good]

Good Omens Short: Don't Drink and Aura

It's been a while since I've posted any fics here, but when I was cleaning out some folder this past weekend I found a couple of minifics that I thought it would be fun to share. Here's number one:

Auras (or, Don't Drink and Aura)

“So, witch girl” a drunken Crowley said. “Auras? You… you can see’em?”

Anathema and Aziraphale looked up, surprised, from the conversation they'd been having while Crowley noodled around on his phone.

She was quicker than the angel to adjust to the abrupt change in topic. "Sometimes. If I try.”

Crowley waved expansively and nearly knocked himself off the couch with the force of it. “So go on, then. Read ours.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Do we have them? Angels and demons, I mean?”

“I don’t see why not,” Crowley said. “I mean, we have bodies. And all their various parts. At least most of the time.”

“How fun!” Aziraphale said, offering a tiny wriggle of excitement. For all his proper fussiness, Crowley knew that there was nothing the angel enjoyed so much as a touch of Victorian-era mysticism. Thank someone that seances and table-knocking had gone out of fashion.  “Do tell us, dear girl. What do you see?”

Anathema narrowed her eyes. “No way. This is a trap. If you don’t like what I say about your auras, you’re going to harass me endlessly about doing it again and again until I come up with something better.”

Crowley sputtered, hands splayed out. “Won’t,” he said, trying to stifle a hiccup. “We promise. Cross Aziraphale's heart.”

Aziraphale nodded so hard his head looked in danger of wobbling off his neck, and for a moment, it looked like wine was about to slosh out of his glass. Crowley frowned at it and it retreated back to the bottom of the cup. It knew better.

The witch sighed, then set down her wine glass and rubbed her hands together. She studied each of them in turn, eyes widened but gaze unfocused.

"Is she getting anything?" Aziraphale stage-whispered.

"Shhhhh! Let her work."

“Yours,” she said, pointing to Crowley, “is kind of spiky around the edges, and has a lot of gold in it.”

“You mean black,” Crowley said, helpful. “Has to be black.”

Aziraphale thumped him on the shoulder and was, unfortunately, not too drunk to miss. “You promised.”

“No, no, it’s definitely gold,” Anathema said. “Except right around the chest it turns all pink. Like roses or something. It’s actually quite lovely.”

Crowley made a rude noise and completely refused to look at the angel, who he could tell was beaming at him in his most sappy and unbearable way. “’m not lovely. ‘m a demon!”

Anathema turned her gaze to Aziraphale. “Oh my,” she said. “I’ve honestly never seen anything like this!”

Crowley pulled himself together by sheer force of will and sat up. He grinned sharply. “Oh, do tell. What is it? Glitter? Little sparkles?”

“No, it’s more…” She waved a hand. “The background is a gorgeous glow of cream, very warm and loving. But there are streaks of other colors? A little sky blue? And a warm brown? I’d almost have to draw it. It keeps shimmering and changing.”

Crowley snapped and materialized a pad of paper and colored pencils.

“Now really, this is hardly necessary,” Aziraphale protested, but the other two ignored him as Anathema started scribbling on the paper in large swaths, first filling it with a very pale yellowy cream, then skittering across it here and there with blue, brown, in wide, raggedy stretches.

“I never said I was an artist,” Anathema said, holding up her messy work. “But it looks something like this.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, eyes wide. “Oh, well that’s just lovel—”

“—Tartan,” Crowley said flatly. Un-bloody believable.

"What?”

“It’s tartan. Blown up large.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh now, I don’t think so, it’s simply swaths of colors. And quite fashionable too if you ask me!”

“No,” Crowley said, grabbing the paper. “Look. This scribble here is the beginning of a very large stripe, running vertical. And the edge of brown next to it? That’s exactly how your tartan looks.”

He made a gesture and the picture suddenly morphed, as if someone was zooming out on a photograph.

“See?” He sat back and huffed. “Tartan.”

“How can one have a tartan aura?” Aziraphale asked.

Anathema shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve never seen that before. Most people are just swirls of color.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “Are you angry at me for having a tartan aura?” he asked incredulously.

“Apparently.”

Anathema grinned as she snagged one of the remaining bottles of wine, leaning in to refill her glass with a very generous pour.

“Told you. And no, I’m not looking again.”

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 52 - outdoors fashion in 1924

Cora gets rather more company in this post than usual, although some of them are really only here for one outfit.

Starting with Susan. And I kid you not, this is the best she’s ever looked on the entire show. Okay, the sleeves are a tad long, but other than that, this is a walking suit that actually fits her. I’m amazed. The weave is lovely, too, making this look a little more interesting than plain cream, and the blouse under it is very pretty, with a lace trim and colorful flowers on it. The hat is alright, I guess; the velvet ribbon is a pretty contrast point. And I’d like to know what that little brooch is made of. Could be ivory.

--------------

Don’t you just love the in-depth, multi-faceted writing of Lady Anstruther? A woman whose entire character on the show is aptly described as “perma-horny cougar”, so perhaps the beige and brown vein weave of her coat’s fabric is a play at tiger’s skin. Not that you’d see much of it in this shot because it’s mostly covered with this big-ass brown fur. Also, I’m usually a fan of tassels, but I don’t warm up to this hat shape.

--------------

Cora’s serving some color contrast with this orange coat over a teal dress. I don’t know if the scarf is attached to the coat, but it’s definitely come in a set with it; the fabric is exactly the same. The lower sleeves and the front of the coat are all knife pleats, though interestingly the back is smooth. And for good measure, the hat has this lovely brown ribbon with lilies all over it, looped extravagantly on the side of the hat. When Cora brings back the coat in season 6, she has a new lovely hat with a zigzag motif to go with it and a cute flowered dress underneath matching the hat colors.

Why don’t I have a front shot of this coat? Anyway. This is a pretty straight-lined, light brown deal with a big collar, and despite the embroidery being a bit clunky, I quite like the overall look of it. I’ve said it before – in the 1920s, coat decoration didn’t usually end at the cuffs and collar, and this here carries on the golden split squares down the back, on her sleeves, down at the hem… It’s neat, I like it.

Another light brown coat, although this one seems more versatile; Cora wears this for a hunting event when we celebrate the return of her glorious pheasant feathers (she’s gotten a new pretty brooch with a little orange gem for them) and for everyday purposes in season 6. Slap a big-ass fur collar on it, and it makes for a nice enough outfit for a wedding. But it’s also the first thing she throws over when runs out of the house away from a fire in the middle of the night. Poor lighting, but on that occasion, she also has this lovely reddish brown blanket or shawl. As can be seen by daylight, the jacket itself already has a scarf attached to it that matches in color and fabric, but doesn’t have such a pretty print. Then again, daylight also shows us that the jacket has some sweet embroidery.

Ugh, no. Not another one of those. Let’s be quick about this; the coat is the dustiest pale lilac pink they could find, the wavy ornamental embroidery is nice in theory. The style of collar is atrocious. Why would you put a thick roll of fur on like a goddamn choker? It looks better in season 6 when Cora wears it open.

I’m not quite sure if this is a coat or a walking dress. It seems to be split in the front, but Cora also wears this in the house. And honestly, the little leaf shapes punched in around the collar and up the sides are such a beautiful detail, working in tandem with embroidery to make this into a really pretty piece of clothing. I also like that, instead of being a straight rectangle, it flares out toward the bottom hem. Cora wears a shirt in Crawley purple under it and tops the outfit off with a nice hat, trimmed in lace and decorated with a big flower.

A coat that I think is blue, but I wouldn’t swear it because this show’s lighting hates me personally. It’s doing that lovely ruching on the hip that keeps it from looking like a complete sack, but I wish the closure were a little more delicate. Cora repeats the pretty sandy hat from before (or a ruffly umbrella in a similar shade), and the hatband coordinates quite nicely with the white embroidery trimming the cuffs and the lapels. This look is kept on into season 6 as well.

For a hunting look, Cora sports a brown walking suit that I have never seen before and shall never see again. Shame; the buttoned lapels and pockets give this a nice little bit of extra, and the skirt seems to be slit on the sides to allow for more movement.

--------------

Only one Rosamund coat this season, but it’s worth it. These bronze octagon elements with the black leaf ornaments? What a look. This coat is definitely a favorite of mine, and Rosamund lives up to her reputation in terms of hats and combines it with this little number wrapped in pleated black silk satin and prettied up with a couple brown feathers and a beautiful leaf-shaped embroidery because consistent themes, you guys.

--------------

We’re adding a new ginger to the cast – Lady Sinderby presents two nice hats with this outfit, a rust-colored velvet one with a lot of frizz on it (I’m not sure if that’s threadwork or plumage) and a brown one with a black feather for the hunt. I’m reasonably sure the walking suit is the same despite the light being a bit tricky in the second shot; it’s still got these very long lapels with a curious little folding design around the neck to shape it up to a collar. It also has a subtle pinstripe, which is nice, and a couple pretty blouses, one with tidy little buttons, one with a cascade of ruffles.

[cloudyswritings]

Old Light, New Light

This feels like a crazy idea but I’ve been on such a destiny kick lately I feel like such an idea I just need to put out there. Picture if you will, a Destiny and Hollow knight fanfic. There’s a couple of main ways I think this could go, that said:

SPOILERS BELOW FOR THE FINAL SHAPE. Please turn back now if you’ve somehow not been spoiled or played it yet.

Okay cool, let’s get into it then. I’m grouping these ideas by character

THK:

Fic/Campaign title: Synapomorphy

The most interesting path I can think of for Hollow(whose name in this might end up being Atlas) is taking the role of our guardian. Now it might be cliche but I really do think it’d give both Hollow and their ghost the best chance at growth as characters.

I think that Hollows ghost actually had a really hard time raising them, see ghost kept reading that their guardian was being attacked and infested with darkness and worked very very hard to excise it. I think you can see where I’m going here, but when Hollow first rose it was with chitin as pale as the travelers shell, a voice that carried the low rolling growl of a wyrm, and eyes like blue crystals. Ghost essentially removed their shade, and accidentally revealed the god that they could have been. Hollow themself doesn’t really know why their body bothers them, speaking makes them nauseous, and the color of their chitin sends a deep sense of guilt and loss rattling through their guts.

Hollow ends up actually being a fantastic shot with any gun, and finds that they remember a number of what appear to be spells(including focus, which is huge tbh). Naturally ghost is absolutely bamboozled and has no idea who they’ve rezzed as their guardian but cheerfully goes along with it. I feel like there’s a slim chance that Hollow gets mistaken for a hive by less experienced guardians but in general they just follow the main story line and work on figuring out their memories. They still have their nail, and get it repaired at some point. I feel like after people get used to them slinking about and being impossibly sneaky for someone of their stature, as well as them being yk not human, they end up really loved at the city.

Favored light: Void, though all of their light comes out pale, bleached of nearly all of its color. They either cannot or will not use solar, it reminds them of someone they can’t quite remember, and sets stinging pains through one of their arms…

Class: Titan, people keep trying to get them to challenge Zavala for his job(Hollow is very much not a fan of that and they and Zavala are buddies.)

Other: Their shade is still out there, and I imagine we’d encounter it in an area of great darkness, possibly it even snuck into the black garden or the dreadnought, who knows. Either way it’s where a majority of Hollows memories are, and when they find it they’re forced to make a very difficult choice, made even more challenging by the fact that both the shade and them have grown into different people since they parted ways. So I’m not decide yet but they either take it back or leave the past behind to focus on the future(which could be a healing moment for them and represent them accepting who they are now and setting their regrets to rest, but it also means they wouldn’t remember Hornet, or Ghost, or their mother. Their father though… his influence is carved into their shell itself, and they don’t think they could forget him if they tried.). I think it could end up with their shade tagging alone in their actual shadow most of the time, or being their super maybe? If y’all have ideas lmk.

PK:

Fic/Campaign title: Refractions/Beyond the Pale

The Pale King absolutely belongs just post collapse along with the other warlords, I think it’d give me a lot of opportunities to explore how he’d feel about being responsible for having lives under his care after what happened to Hallownest. Additionally he wouldn’t have much of a choice in the matter which I think would really up the tension a lot and force him to confront his failings. There’s also the matter of his light to consider, it was so powerful it still blanketed Hallownest for an age after his passing, so it could present a really interesting situation to have him grapple with sharing his abundance of light with his ghost and how that overwhelming power could act as a sort of beacon, drawing in Eliksni and the eyes of other hostile warlords. Alternatively you could have him revived with his light significantly dimmed, and force him to face his fall from godhood and being powerless to stop terrible events from happening to his people once again(there’s also a very interesting parallel between him and the traveler.) it’s important to note that upon being risen he absolutely would retain all of his memories, at least in this path specifically.

The other option I have for him, which I think could almost be even more interesting, is for him to have been the Osmium Kings familiar, which is notably a dead, white, worm. Also the Osmium king descends into madness after the worm washes up, perhaps in this case hearing the whispers of the pale kings foresight?? There’s also the white palace to consider, it seems to function very very similarly to a throne world, and given my headcanons about what it takes to become a pale being in the first place(hint hint, mass deicide and cannibalism). If that was the case I could see him being risen during the witch queen. This would be super interesting from a lore perspective and also in connection for what I’ve got roughly mapped out for Hollows storyline. Meeting their father, who remembers nothing about them would be highly devastating.

Favored light: Arc, mostly used to power his fucking buzzsaws and such. I also see him having a very unique perspective on the sheer unbridled energy of arc when compared to other risen.

Other/Ergo Sum: So…. There’s quite an overlap between the travelers experience at then of this lovely little lore entry and PKs isn’t there… specifically about drowning in the sea. The traveler says: “The deep, dark ocean has gotten into your lungs, droplets of ink dispersing in silver blood. This time, you think, this time It has won.”. This whole section perfectly describes my thoughts on how the pale king died. He died of regrets and the void sea drowned him, and snuffed out his light. More than that, he sought a kingdom eternal, where death held no weight and new possibilities could be explored and he resolved to bear the weight of that all on his own in the end(plus or minus many vessels). There’s honestly so many parallels between these two, so I’d implore y’all to go read the whole lore tab for Ergo Sum and just like, have your mind blown by how similar and yet different these two pale gods are. All in all if anyone was going to be capable of hearing the travelers whisper quiet voice(Silent, Silent, Silent) it’d be PK(whose voice, I’ll note, is a chorus of whispers in and of itself.)

Class: Warlock, like with Hollow his light is completely bleached of color and burns coldly regardless of what type he’s actually channeling.

Radiance:

Fic/Campaign title: Old Light, New Light

She’s 100% a new light and absolutely ready to be problematic, which should surprise no one. I think she’d struggle a lot to fit in with the rest of the guardians, and still have a very arrogant attitude. Something I do think is important to note is that she’d absolutely never use any darkness aligned powers, it’s completely against her nature and she absolutely killed someone of the implication she’d do so. Her memories of the void and fighting ghost haunt her every waking step. She’s a warlock for sure, and probably using the black sun shell. She is super awkward around Hollow, and they very nearly splattered her across the city when they met her.

Favorite light: to no one’s surprise it’s solar. She also probably manages to develop her light in line with how she used it as a god, so invading dreams, controlling lesser beings, and a sort of shared mind/forced unity. All in all she’s got about as many unique light abilities as Hollow and PK.

Class: Also Warlock, unsurprisingly uses well of radiance.

How’d we get here then?

So, now that those ideas have all been laid out, you may be wondering; how the hell did they end up where they did? The short answer is Ghost did it. The longer answer is that Ghost, before heading into godhome to beat the shit out of Radiance, dropped off a fragile flower with the pale kings corpse and outside of the black eggs(for their sibling who they were gonna free no matter the cost) as well as giving one to the godseeker. When they ascended the flowers got everyone out of dodge, though the radiance that gets revived is really more of an imprint or shadow than the real deal, she’s basically got none of the juice that PK and Hollow get.

Other Notes:

Ghost: Massive parallels with the Witness, all of the shades are in consensus and the Lord of Shades is the result. They are both Ghost and not, essentially the black pearl to the witnesses pale pearl. They’re foils in the same way I imagine the traveler and PK could be. I don’t think they’d really show up in any capacity except through lore drops on Hollows weapons they made, you might be able to find and use charms though. Possibly if we leave the solar system I could see Hallownest being a location, and the guardians being able to get Hollow knight themed shells(I might do some art of these with lore??).

Hornet: Almost certainly uses strand, beyond that I’m not really sure how I’d incorporate her.

Grimm: alas probably mister not showing up in this au atm, this will likely change eventually though. He could contract with the drifter perhaps? Maybe tied to why the drifters ghost has its red eye?

[cosmicstarshineart]

Graveyard of Unfinished Projects, Pt I

@anti-workshop asked me to do a deep dive on my Graveyard of Unfinished Projects, and i’m always thrilled to talk about my art!

i got this little cart (with working wheels!!) at target for $5. i am forever finding the most amazing little doll accessories from their discount bins at the front of the store. i’ve also got some fake greenery tiles for photoshoots, a cute bike (although that came from michael’s, i think), and an adorable little orange wheelbarrow. once the projects on it are finished, it will become a doll-sized tea tray.

first up: witch cubone! he had a bone club but it was really thin and it broke at some point. this is from an stl i found on thingiverse.

baby dragon eggs! I recently made an egg and a baby dragon for a coworker who is having a baby soon. i painted the egg iridescent pale pink and glued a deep pink heart jewel just above the clasp, and painted the dragon iridescent purple (purple is her favorite color). of course i forgot to take pictures before i gave it to her. >_< it was super cute though. stls from thingiverse.

tiny snail dragon with wings! i have a few different versions of these tiny dragons, the stls were made by the same person who made the eggs.

skeletal dragon, snail dragon with and without wings, regular dragon, sea dragon. i have a couple versions of each. here’s how they look on and off the sprue. they’re actually jointed and they’re held together by stringing with tiny hair elastics. i use the clear ones meant for braiding. the wings are strung separately from the rest of the body and let me tell you what a bitch it is to get the damn elastic threaded through the tiny holes. i need some really fine gauge jewelry wire to be able to string them without difficulty.

part of a tea set! these are roughly 1:4, or Mini Super Dollfie (MSD) scale. there’s more pieces in this collection, including a lid for the teapot, that i haven’t gotten around to printing yet. files from thingiverse.

sandshrew!

beacon the prussian blue (NOT navy blue) three-tailed kitsune, my fursona. she leads those who are lost out of the darkness by the light of her lantern. i customized and bought this stl from heroforge. their options for anthropomorphic characters have really expanded, and i’m here for it!

doll shoe bases. wedge heel on the left, platform heel on the right. i bought the files from moonlightjewel, they’re designed in monster high scale but 3D printing files are scalable so i scaled them up a bit for my MSD. haven’t decided what to do with them yet. i have plans for a retrofuture alien girl at some point maybe they’ll come in handy for that.

possum cowboys, aka the sheriff and her deputy! this was one of the first things i ever 3D printed. i believe the files for this came from thingiverse.

the PRIDE and JOY of the Unfinished Projects Graveyard; the only object in this post that i 3D sculpted myself. it was sculpted in nomad sculpt for the ipad, using a tutorial by erika casab of little robot studio. it was SO HARD but i didn’t even cry once. i’m still inordinately proud of it, but it is so freaking difficult to photograph!

tumblr only allows 30 images per post, so look out for pt 2!

[loadsamomo]

Not to game art graduate my way in here but I think I have an explanation. If the sunrises aren’t deliberately green, they might be incidentally green based on the art assets and how the graphics engine displays them, much like a semi-famous problem painters run into with sunrises. 

It makes sense if you think of it that way; orange or yellow assets/lighting/textures, when overlaid with blue ones, mix to green after the computer does the math. To achieve the gradients we see in a sunrise, like in the image below, totally different methods often have to be used like applying a custom color ramp or levels adjustments, or baking a skybox animation with the specific colors you want and not letting the computer interpolate between them at its own whims.

[Caption; sunrise in Seattle, with the space needle and city skyline visible. The sky is a rich peach at the bottom, moving to a golden orange, then a pale beige, and finally sky blue.]

It’s a challenge a lot of traditional painters encounter, too; painting sunrises without creating “green” requires not letting any of the blue or orange paints mix. But mixing wet paint is often the only way to create soft gradients. So you see a lot of green sunrises there. It might be that the same thing is happening in both mediums, since colors have the same relationships whether it’s additive or subtractive mixing.

[Caption; four classical paintings of sunrises that each feature green skies, or gradients that include them, with colors visibly different than the sunrise photograph. Individual paintings and artists listed at end of post.]

Why the sky actually looks like those colors specifically in real life is probably a really interesting thing I learned from a James Gurney book at one point, and then forgot, but I do notice the gradients look a lot more like a light kelvin scale; going from warm, to neutral, to cool.

Without knowing if that has anything to do with it, I know painters have managed to make it work by painting the transitions from orange to neutral, and blue to neutral, separately. I’ve been out of the game enough that I wonder exactly what techniques digital artists are doing to avoid the problem in skyboxes. I’d be curious to know what the Rockstar devs were doing for RDD2, for example, since those sunrises look perfect.

[Caption; a sunrise from the game Red Dead Redemption. The colors more closely match the first photograph from Seattle.]

Anyway, those are my best guesses. Hoping someone can confirm, expand upon, or debunk any elements of this post as required.

[Paintings from earlier in clockwise order;

Evening, Owens Lake, California by Albert Bierstadt

A Mountainous Landscape with a Waterfall, Sunrise by Jens Juel

Sunrise, Atlantic City by William Trost Richards

Sunrise by Albert Bierstadt]

Why does nintendo games portray early sunrise as green?

I have never in my life seen a sunrise in these colors. I used to witness them a lot during college by doing all-nighters and they always had the same colors as a sunset. But in ACNH as well as both BOTW and TOTK the early sunrise has this green tint to it? Is this a thing?

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring deep in the soul (a katsuki bakugo/reader fic)

Summary: Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. He'd worked hard to achieve his position, his fame. And now it was all going down the damn drain, along with his hearing.

~*~*

Bakugo is suffering from hearing loss as a side effect of his quirk, and he struggles with how to face this new challenge. Enter Reader with a healing quirk.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo/Reader; Katsuki Bakugo/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood & violence. 

A/N: No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.” 

Ao3 Link: Here 

*****A/N Part 2: This post has now been updated to include the links to Ch 2

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here 

Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. Actually, he’d argue he was tied for first place with the current Symbol of Peace, Shitty Deku. Their victory statistics were basically the fucking same, the only difference was the freckled idiot was made of smiles and sunshine and stupid fucking sugar or something. The whole world ate out of his scarred, fucked up hand, and Darling Deku ate up all the media’s attention in return. 

In contrast, Bakugo wasn’t a “people person,” as Deku loved to put it, but… he also wasn’t the same fifteen-year-old brat who got muzzled on live national television. Pro Hero Dynamight was known for his crass, blunt language, his vicious streak of justice when it came to villains, but people also looked up to him. Extras cheered for him in the streets as he exploded past mid-battle. Children ran up to him on patrol and asked him to sign their books, their photos, their Dynamight merch. On one memorable occasion, that he may or may not have saved on his computer, a national news channel ran a live clip from a disaster site, a villain attack turned rescue mission after a building collapsed. The soundbite was only thirty seconds, a close up of a pale, dusty woman with a shallow cut on her brow. The splash of crimson and her bloodshot blue eyes were the only spots of color on her, everything else washed out in white plaster and cement dust, tear tracks carving grooves down her cheeks. 

But the smile on her face could have lit up goddamn Tokyo. 

“Dynamight saved us,” the woman had said to the news reporter, her voice full of awe and tears. “I-I got stuck under some debris, but I heard the moment Dynamight arrived, and I just knew we were safe. The battle was over a minute later, and then he just… pulled me out of the wreckage. He pulled us all out. He’s… the greatest hero I’ve ever seen.” 

That was a nice stroke to his ego. And the dazed woman had been right. He had pulled everyone out of that building, and not a single person died that day, which only confirmed what he already knew: 

Katsuki Bakugo was the best of the best. Deku might have been the better show pony, but Dynamight was an undefeated hero, fierce, fearless, ferocious. 

Except right now… he was fucking scared out of his mind. 

This couldn’t be happening. 

“What?” he snarled at the extra in the white coat standing before him. 

The man flinched and visibly recoiled, shuffling back a step and partially ducking behind his tablet device. When he spoke again, he’d raised his voice an entire fucking octave. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the doctor stammered, but then he seemed to regain his composure and lowered his voice a little. “I… I wish I had better news for you, Dynamight, but…” 

He trailed off and swallowed, the jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the thin skin of his throat. 

“But what?” Bakugo spat, something like magma roiling in his veins, pops of heat crackling against his palms like splatters of hot oil from a stove. 

“B-But this… can’t come as a complete shock to you,” the doctor said as he glanced back at his tablet. “Other physicians before myself must have warned you of the risks.” 

The risks. Bakugo bared his teeth in a silent snarl. What did this fucking extra, with his soft hands and softer body, know about risks? The heat in his palms grew until he could see their red-hot glow out of the corner of his eye. 

“Well, who and how much do I gotta pay to fix it?” Bakugo demanded as he shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“That depends,” the doctor hedged and adjusted the square black glasses perched on his stupid face. “There are a variety of aid types—” 

“I don’t want fuckin’ support gear or aids,” Bakugo sneered. “I want mine fixed.” 

Now, the doctor’s face grew pitying. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, given a number of factors, most importantly your current occupation.” 

“My current occupation?” the hero seethed, teeth bared again like a wounded dog, a cornered wolf, snapping at the world. “Are you fucking KIDDING—” 

A hint of fear sparked in the doctor’s eyes, but he suddenly raised a hand, palm out in the universal symbol for stop. “Dynamight, sir, I know this is distressing, but there are other sick patients in these walls, so please refrain from using your quirk.” 

“I’m not usin’ shit,” Bakugo snapped, but then the doctor’s eyes flicked downward, and Bakugo followed them to his hands, wreathed in sparks and flares of flames, lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

The breath stuttered in Bakugo’s lungs. 

He hadn’t even felt himself call upon his quirk. 

Even worse… he hadn’t heard it when he did. 

He dropped his hands quickly, shoving them back in his pockets. Bile rose in his throat, but he washed it down with blood as he bit through his tongue. 

“There has to be… something,” he gritted out, curling his hands into fists in their confines. “A healer—” 

“Healers are rarer than you think,” the doctor sighed and shook his head. “And what’s more, they’re usually specific and limited. Their abilities are tied to blood types or restricted to relatives or even limbs. One nurse here can only heal femur bones.” 

“Bullshit they’re rare, I’ve met at least two goddamn healers just this month,” Bakugo spat. “These paramedics—” 

“And how strong where they?” the doctor cut him off again, raising an eyebrow. “You said paramedics, so I’m going to assume their talents mostly lie in the superficial and basic: triage, stopping the bleeding, knitting skin back together, etc.” 

“What’s your fucking point?” He was this close to punching the asshole right in the glasses. 

“My point is the inner workings of your ear are much more delicate than a broken rib or lacerated arm,” the doctor said in a really condescending tone that Bakugo did not appreciate. “But let’s say you do find a healer specific enough and skilled enough to restore the hearing you have already lost without damaging anything else in the process. What then? I don’t imagine Japan’s Number Two Hero retiring less than ten years after his debut and hanging up his quirk.” 

Bakugo scowled, heart kick-starting in his chest, his gut tying itself in a knot. 

No. No, that wasn’t possible. Katsuki Bakugo was a hero, the best of the best. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he would be damned if it was taken from him. 

The doctor must have seen as much on the blond’s face because he sighed and adjusted his glasses again. “Exactly. Which means you’re just going to keep destroying your ears again and again, and even if say Recovery Girl was still alive, the repetitive healing sessions would destroy your own body’s healing factor, and after a while, you would still lose you’re hearing.” 

“Tch.” Bakugo looked away and gritted his teeth so hard they ached. 

The doctor sighed. “You’re already at moderate hearing loss, Dynamight, so while we do still have some options, they are limited. Honestly… I’m surprised you didn’t come in sooner.” 

He should have. He fucking should have. He’d been noticing little things for years, but he just brushed it off, yelled at Deku to speak the fuck up and stop mumbling, told himself his phone must be a piece of shit and that’s why he didn’t hear a call or message. The low persistent ringing he’d been experiencing since UA was harder to write off, but after a while, it was also easier to ignore. 

Then, on his last mission, Bakugo was shoving some weak ass villain at a couple of cops. The battle had lasted less than five minutes, and he was still itching for a fight, his quirk burning just beneath the surface of his skin, like embers waiting to explode back into flame. In the next moment, a hand had suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind, and he’d reacted out of reflex, flipping his attacker over his shoulder and nearly blasting them in the gut for good measure. 

“Whoa! Fuck, dude, it’s me!” Kirishima had yelped, his skin rippling and hardening in an instant. Wide, red eyes gaped up at him, and Japan’s Number Three Hero even looked a little worried. “Didn’t you hear me? I called your name like five times.” 

Bakugo had dropped Red Riot like he was on fire. No. No, Dynamight hadn’t heard his patrol partner. In fact, all he could hear in the moment was the muted wailing of sirens, the low murmur of shouting extras, and the blood roaring in his head. 

Now, two days later he was standing in front of a doctor who was telling him there was nothing more they could do. 

But that was fucking unacceptable. He couldn’t lose his hearing. What kind of shitty hero would he be if he couldn’t hear where the villains were in battle or where stupid extras in need of saving were in rescue situations? 

He wouldn’t be a hero at all, just a fucking liability. 

Bakugo tried to imagine having to retire, to hang up his hero costume, to leave Shitty Hair in charge of their joint agency. What would he do? He’d wanted, and planned, to be a hero since he was five years old. He had no other skills, not really. It wasn’t like he could work a damn desk job. Well, UA might throw him a bone, offer him a pity faculty position. 

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“What… are my options?” he asked haltingly as he snapped his eyes up and locked gazes with the doctor. “You said I still had some.” 

The man in the white coat blinked in surprise, but then he straightened up and tapped at his tablet. “Currently, you have a few options, but you’d receive the best outcome if we did them all together. First, we can get you fitted for some hearing aids for you to wear while you are off duty. They would significantly increase your hearing capacity in your normal day-to-day life.” 

Bakugo felt his face pull into a scowl. “Off duty? I need them while I’m on duty!” 

“If you wear them while using your quirk, you’ll ruin the rest of your hearing in one blow,” the doctor said with a straight face. “Hearing aids amplify sounds. Amplifying your explosions is the last thing we want.” 

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” the hero snapped, heat flaring through his body with a supernova. 

“Since I assume you’re going to continue your hero work, I would recommend contacting a support gear company.” The doctor made a note on his tablet. “We’ll email you the contact information for several companies the hospital has connections with, and once you chose one, we can send them your file. There are numerous noise-cancelling devices out there, but given your situation, you will probably need to collaborate with them for something custom. The goal is to having something to protect your ears-- a helmet, headphones, anything really—while you are using your quirk. Between such a device and the hearing aids, I hope we can preserve what’s left of your hearing and maybe give you a little bit back. But I will warn you… you’re hearing will never be as it was. You should know that now.” 

You’re hearing will never be as it was. 

You’re hearing will never be as it was. 

You’re hearing will never be as it was. 

The words cycloned through Bakugo’s head, round and round and round, destroying every other thought in their path. He felt detached from himself, the doctor’s voice fizzling out into a muffled drone. His vision seemed to narrow and darken, like he was viewing the world at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. One minute, he was standing there in that examine room, and then he blinked and was on the street, people rushing past him like a river unbothered by the boulder in its current. 

He glanced down at his hand, at the paperwork for his follow up appointment and his fitting for the hearing aids. Heat squirmed under his skin, in his veins, like something living, something that wanted to get out. 

Bakugo bared his teeth, crumpled the paper in his fist, and let the heat rush through his body, down through his arm, and into his hand. He didn’t hear the crackle, but he saw the flares of light, trapped between his palm and the paperwork like fireflies. 

Then he opened his hand, and he watched the wind catch the ash and carry if off down the street, out of sight. 

He needed a fucking drink. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Several hours later, Bakugo stumbled out of his usual dive bar, the taste of whisky still burning a hole through the back of his throat. The night was colder than he anticipated, colder than it should be for the beginning of autumn, and he grumbled and cursed as he hunched against the wind. He squinted at his phone, debating on whether to call a car, but in the end it was too much trouble. He was less than a half an hour’s walk from his apartment, and it was late, so he wouldn’t have to worry about extras coming up to him for photos or goddamn autographs. 

Besides, the whisky hadn’t helped to quench the heat writhing through his veins, in fact the alcohol only made it worse. Bakugo felt restless, all pins and needles and ants, so maybe the brisk walk would burn off some of that energy. 

Decided, Bakugo turned in the direction of home and began the long, stumbling journey through the midnight streets. 

Time passed as sluggishly as his feet, which he made sure to stare down at so he didn’t trip over them. Like he anticipated, he passed no one on the sidewalks, and few cars rumbled past him. It wasn’t surprising, this neighborhood was mostly shops that closed by sundown and a few residences. The dive bar he’d left was a holdover from past decades when this side of town was rougher, but Bakugo suspected the old man who owned the joint would live on for at least another decade, if only to spite the development companies that kept trying to buy him out. The ornery bastard was half the reason Bakugo loved that bar, the other half being their decent whisky and usually empty stools. 

“Shit,” he mumbled as he suddenly slipped, tittering on the edge of the curb. 

He shook his head and managed to regain his balance, but when he took another step, he wobbled again. 

“Come on, you drunk idiot,” he hissed at himself as he stumbled once more. 

Except… he’d been standing still that time. 

“Hah?” Bakugo squinted down at his feet. 

The pebbles around his shoes rattled and jumped. He didn’t think he was that drunk, but he slapped his cheek with a bit of heat to his palm. The snap of warmth and pain woke him up a little, but when he glanced back down at the ground, everything was still moving. 

“What the fu—” 

Then the road undulated under his feet like a living thing, and the shockwave hit him a moment later. 

Bakugo barked a curse as he was bucked several feet into the air, twin explosions blooming from his palms so he could right himself and land on his feet. He snapped his head up as he skidded to a stop, and the breath stilled in his lungs. 

Up ahead, a man stood in the middle of the intersection, staring down the road to Bakugo’s left. Black rubble and goo floated around him like asteroids trapped in a planet’s orbit, and even from a distance, Bakugo could see the crazed smile on the man’s pale, black-streaked face. 

A moment later, several heroes lunged out from around the corner and barreled straight for the villain, only to be blasted backwards as the villain flung out his hands and commanded the black debris and goo to slam into the idiots. 

The villain threw back his head and seemed to laugh maniacally. Bakugo couldn’t hear it, but that didn’t matter. Lava was starting to boil in his veins, burning off the last of the whisky, and Dynamight felt an equally crazed smile stretch across his mouth. 

This idiot had chosen the wrong road to fuck up tonight. 

Heat condensed in his palms like collapsing stars, and then he was exploding forward, the taste of ozone and nitroglycerin on his tongue. 

Within moments, Bakugo was able to determine the villain’s quirk revolved around asphalt. The bastard was able to pull large chunks of it out of the road and then liquify parts of them until they were scalding and sticky. 

The other heroes—whoever they were, Bakugo didn’t even care to check—struggled to evade the villain’s attacks, but evasion wasn’t Dynamight’s style. He came at the bastard head on, exploding every rock and tar puddle in his way. 

Of course, asphalt was flammable, so flames were flaring up all around the street now, but Bakugo wasn’t stupid enough to get burned. If the other heroes were, that was on them. 

Dynamight was here to get the job done. 

“Come here, ya sonvabitch,” Bakugo snarled as he blasted apart a chunk of asphalt aimed for his head. 

The villain shrieked out something high-pitched that Bakugo didn’t catch, and then the fucker was swinging out his arm, a blob of black tar following the arc. 

Bakugo let out a controlled burst toward his feet and backflipped through the air, crunching down on the roof of a parked car. He could see some of the other heroes waving at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the wailing of the car alarm below him. 

The villain’s sneer was a white slash on his black, goo-streaked face, and Bakugo bared his teeth back in an expression halfway between a feral grin and a beast’s snarl. He could feel the heat crackling along his palms as he contemplated his next move, but then the villain shouted something, and all the asphalt floating in the air rocketed back towards him like the fucker was a magnet. 

As Bakugo watched, the debris and goo coalesced into a singular shape, liquifying and hardening in turns until a giant black arm the size of a semi was hovering over the road. The fingers wiggled in a jaunty little wave as the villain shouted something again that was lost to the car’s still wailing alarm, and then the giant hand curled into a fist and dropped down on Bakugo like the hammer of some god. 

He exploded out of the way and up into the air right before the fist smashed into the car he’d been standing on, and the siren cut out with a muffled crunch. 

Bakugo had barely landed before the arm was shooting out again, but this time it wasn’t aimed for him. 

A stupid fucking extra had stumbled out of one of the buildings and stood gaping like a goddamn moron on the sidewalk. Several of the on-scene heroes rushed forward, but the hand swatted them aside like annoying flies. The idiot civilian was still just standing there, though, and Bakugo found himself airborne before he could even process the thought. 

“Run!” he roared as he reached the extra and shoved him out of the way, but an instant later, he felt stony fingers wrap around his torso and squeeze. 

Bakugo wheezed out a curse as the giant hand lifted him into the sky, the pressure around his ribs increasing with every second. The asphalt was hot in some places, too, scalding the skin of his left arm where it was pinned against his hip. He wrenched his right arm around and tried to aim at the wrist of the asphalt appendage, but the angle was off, and the few chunks he was able to blast were quickly replaced by more rubble and boiling tar. 

“Fuck!” Bakugo screamed as the fist clenched down around him. His ribs strained, his lungs unable to expand, pain licking at him like the flames flickering in his peripherals. 

Distantly, he heard the villain’s laughter below him, and as the arm swayed to the side, Bakugo realized he was right above the bastard. His vision swam, his ribs screaming, his arm burning, but Bakugo gritted his teeth as he aimed his right palm down. He concentrated every ounce of his quirk into his hand until it glowed white-hot, and the asphalt around him began to liquefy again. 

The villain’s eyes widened as he realized what the hero was doing, and the fucker wildly swung out his arm in a last-ditch effort. The giant asphalt limb responded in kind, but Bakugo unleashed his quirk right before the arm flung him through the air. 

A massive explosion rocked the street an instant later, and the subsequent shockwave slammed into his back and propelled him through a window. 

He felt the impact and pain as he struck the glass, and then… 

Nothing. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ouch, fuck!” you cursed as your pricked yourself for the millionth time. 

A red drop of blood beaded up on the pad of your index finger, and you scowled before you sucked the smarting appendage into your mouth. It was more of a reflex than anything, since by the time you pulled your finger out, the pinprick of a wound was already healed. Healing such a small injury would usually barely even register to you, but the clock above your desk was inching closer and closer to midnight, and you’d been up since 6am. You also skipped dinner so you could finish altering the dress you were currently working on, which didn’t help your energy levels, but you were just a few stitches away from completing your task, so you hunched back over and powered through the next five minutes. 

When you were finally done, you sat back in your chair with a sigh and threw down your needle and thread. The sewing table before you swam and doubled as your vision struggled to focus on something, and you rubbed at your tired, burning eyes. You always tried to work reasonable hours, have a healthy work-life balance, but somehow you always found yourself slaving away into the dark hours of the night. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your fault. You’d lived here less than a year, so you didn’t know many people beyond your few neighbors and the old ladies who frequented your alterations shop. 

You were also trying very hard to keep your grandparents’ business afloat. 

Your grandfather had been a tailor, your grandmother a seamstress. They’d opened a shop together over fifty years ago, and if your parents hadn’t moved to America before you were born, you were sure you father would have taken over the family business. In the end, though, after your grandparents passed, you were the one to take up the needle and pull up your roots. You’d always loved making your own clothes, and you’d always felt… disconnected in America. Nothing had ever felt… right, no matter how many jobs you hopped around to. The US had been the only home you’d ever known, but when you and your parents spoke Japanese together, it had made something ache deep in the center of you, something you couldn’t name or place. 

So, when your father said he was taking a trip to the homeland to sell his parents’ shop, you’d gone with him and somehow convinced him to sign everything over to you. Which was more than just a little insane. Your prior work history had been in food service and clothing retail, and your degree was in linguistics for fuck’s sake. You had no idea how to run a business, let alone in another country. Thankfully, you spoke Japanese fluently, so that had been one less hurtle to overcome, but everything else had been a dramatic learning curve. Getting to know the new city, figuring out the currency, hell even navigating the vastly different social norms of Japanese culture was daunting, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t have numerous fumbles along the way. 

It, everything, had definitely taken some getting used to. 

Now, a year later, things were just starting to really look up. You had used most of the money your grandparents left you to renovate the shop, get new equipment, and fix the upstairs apartment you lived in. About two dozen loyal customers helped to pay your bills and keep you afloat, and one-to-two new customers walked into your shop each month just on word of mouth. You weren’t rich by any means, but you weren’t struggling like you did in America. You felt… happy here, if a little tired. Fulfilled. 

That might also have had something to do with your little… side business. 

You bit your lip as your eyes shot to your window guiltily, like someone was watching you. You weren’t doing anything wrong—right now, anyways—but for the last six months, it’s been hard to shake off your paranoia. 

And your guilt. Which was ridiculous. You weren’t hurting anyone. In fact, you were doing the exact opposite. 

But it was still against the law. Here in Japan, at least. 

That was another thing that took some getting used to. The Japanese government had strict laws on quirk usage, unlike in America where everything was about individualistic rights. In Japan, only heroes were given almost free reign, but even they had some restrictions on when and how they could use their powers. 

For the rest of the Japanese populace, using quirks in day-to-day life, without official permission, was frowned upon at best and illegal at worst. 

Because of your specific quirk, you leaned more toward the illegal side of things. 

Healing quirks were rare. That’s what you’d been told all your life. Your mother’s quirk was the ability to lower fevers by somehow using her own body to regulate the temperature. Nothing super special or powerful, but she’d gone on to become a pediatric nurse, so she had used her quirk to its fullest and made a long, happy career for herself. 

When you were young and your quirk manifested, you thought you would follow in your mother’s footsteps. 

But as a teenager, you’d come to some hard realizations about yourself. 

One, you weren’t strong enough to be a hero. You’d tried to get into a hero course in the States, several in fact. One course rejected you solely on your application, and then you failed two entrance exams. It had been a devastating blow to your youthful dreams and self-esteem, but your mother encouraged you, said being a hero wasn’t the only way to use your quirk for good. 

So, you turned your focus to medicine… and quickly discovered that wasn’t right for you, either. Your mother hated when you said this but… you just weren’t smart enough. You had tried, really did, but everything was such a struggle, like Sisyphus slogging uphill through the mud. It just didn’t click for you like it did for your mom. You also hated to admit it, but you were a little squeamish. You were fine with small stuff, cuts and bruises, broken fingers, but once you had to dissect a large pig in an anatomy class, and the smell and weight of the pig’s slippery organs in your hands made your lunch rise up into the back of your throat. You somehow managed to make it through the class, but directly after you ran to the bathroom and emptied your own guts into the toilet. 

With your dreams of being a hero and doctor dashed, you’d been a little aimless in college, taking random courses to fill your time and see if anything spoke to you. Then, during an 8am linguistics lecture you signed up for on a whim, something ignited inside you. Languages spoke to you like science and medicine never did. So, you’d changed your major to linguistics, minored in Japanese to feel closer to your parents, and took ever other language credit you could get your hands on. In between classes, you’d taken up sewing again while you listened to your audio assignments. It was just something to keep your hands busy at first, a skill your father taught you as a child until you abandoned it, but then your roommates complimented your work and started asking you to hem their jeans or take in their skirts. They offered to pay you, but you always declined, saying it was no trouble, you liked the work, and you liked being able to help. 

At some point, you realized that was all you had ever wanted to do. Help people. And if you couldn’t save them as a hero, you would find some other way to make yourself useful. 

So, you studied languages in the hopes of being able to help others communicate. You altered your friends’ clothes and made them small things like a monogrammed scarf or mittens. And, occasionally, you healed your roommates’ hangovers or food poisoning, stopped the bleeding when they cut their fingers making dinner, pushing through their pain to make them whole again. It wasn’t a lot, nothing really, but it was something, and it made you feel purposeful. 

When you moved to Japan, you mourned the loss of being able to use your quirk on others, but you shoved the thought aside and focused on your work and the shop and figuring out how to settle down in your first home on your own. 

Then, six months after you took over the shop, Mrs. Kojima, a little old lady in her seventies, had brought in her grandchildren’s uniforms to be patched and altered. She’d known your grandparents for many years, so she was always kind and had a story to share with you about your father in his youth or the gorgeous dresses your grandmother used to make. You always looked forward to Mrs. Kojima’s visits, and she always had a way of making you feel younger than you were, but not in a bad way. She just made you feel… nostalgic and safe, like you were listening to your late grandma talk over the phone. 

This was probably why, when Mrs. Kojima slipped and fell in front of your counter, you reacted without thinking. The old lady barely had time to hit the floor and cry out before you were hovering over her, a green aura illuminating your hands. Her pain hit you a moment later, like a heated slap to the face, a bone-deep ache in your leg, but you gritted your teeth and pushed through the discomfort. Then you moved your fingers over to the hip Mrs. Kojima was clutching, and a moment later you felt the drain as your energy siphoned into the elderly woman’s body. Thankfully, it had only been a fracture, not a full break, so you barely even felt the difference in your strength, but as Mrs. Kojima gaped up at you, realization struck you like a freight train. 

You had used your quirk, without a license, without permission, hell without the consent of Mrs. Kojima. Healing quirks were illegal for a reason, so many things could go wrong, and you weren’t properly trained. Your breathing hitched as panic seized your heart, squeezing like a vise, and your entire world had just begun to crash down around your ears when Mrs. Kojima sat up and threw her arms around you. 

“Thank you,” she’d sniffled into your hair in Japanese. “Thank you so much.” 

After the initial shock wore off, you had helped Mrs. Kojima into a chair, and she’d continued to thank you over and over again, saying how money was tight and she would have hated to be a burden to her children with hospital bills and a long recovery. She talked about how a lot of her elderly friends were in similar positions, dealing with perpetual aches and pains but having no way to pay for treatment or seek relief. 

The sadness in her face had twisted something in your chest, an ache you were all too familiar with. It was the one you felt after you failed the hero course entrance exams. The ache you felt when you realized you could never be a doctor. The ache of being helpless in the face of suffering. 

Your mouth had opened without your permission, and you told Mrs. Kojima that you would help her, and her friends, whenever they needed it. The elderly Japanese woman tried to wave you off, saying she didn’t want to get you in any trouble, but you had just smiled and said, “I’m fine with making a little good trouble.” 

You didn’t know where your courage had come from, but you let it carry you past your fears and doubts. 

So, for the last six months, Mrs. Kojima had brought all of her friends, and sometimes their children and grandchildren, to you when they were in need of healing. They always brought dresses or pants or blouses for you to fix as a cover, and you did do alterations work for them, but you also eased flaring arthritis, cataracts, fevers, and scrapped knees in the backroom. You refused to take payment for these secret services, it just felt wrong, but the little old ladies somehow always snuck large “tips” into your register when you weren’t looking. 

Mrs. Kojima and every one of her friends and family members swore to their ancestors to keep your secret, and you trusted them, but you still couldn’t help proverbially looking over your shoulder, holding your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the police to barge in and take you away. 

It hadn’t happened yet, but the worry of it kept you up most nights, which was maybe another reason why you threw yourself into your work until you were so tired you just passed out. 

You sighed again as you stretched and felt your back pop, releasing some of the tension in your spine. Glancing at the clock, you saw it was just past midnight, and you winced. You had to be up at five tomorrow—today, now—because Mr. Akane wanted to come in early before you opened the shop. His bad knee was giving him trouble again, an old injury he’d obtained as a boy. You were unable to fully reconstruct the joint—that took more strength and stamina than you currently possessed—but you were able to soothe his pain for weeks at a time, which he was immensely grateful for. He always brought you fresh fish when he came by, “gifts” he’d emphasized when you reminded him you didn’t take payment, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. You weren’t exactly hurting for money, but you also didn’t normally splurge on fish caught just that morning, and you told yourself you deserved the small treat. Besides, the protein helped boost your energy and stamina levels, which meant you could heal more people, so really Mr. Akane was merely investing in his future treatments. 

Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food, and you dragged yourself out of your chair before picking your way across your messy apartment to the kitchen. The apartment wasn’t very large, one large space for kitchen, dining, and living room, with one small bedroom and one bathroom down a hallway to the right when you walked in the front door. But it had been your grandparent’s home for many years before they bought a larger house after having your father, and it sat right above the shop, so you never had to worry about running late for work.

Bolts of fabric, some client pieces, and a few of your own personal sewing projects were strewn over every available surface of the main room, but you had the cleared path through the chaos memorized, so you were tossing leftovers in the microwave barely thirty seconds later. The warmed-up curry and rice—another “gift” from Mrs. Kojima—tasted as good as it had the last several days, and you hummed as the spiced meat slid down your throat and settled in your belly. After the first bite, your hunger seemed to hit you in full force, and you scarfed down every last bite in a matter of minutes. When you were done, the minor headache that had been pulsing behind your eyes abated, and you yawned as you rinsed off the dishes. 

You set the damp plate on the edge of the counter as you reached for a towel, but then a sudden tremor, followed by a loud boom, seemed to shake the building, and the plate tittered on the counter’s edge for a moment before it crashed to the floor. 

“Fuck!” you gasped as you jumped back and away from the ceramic shards, but another tremor-boom combo had you stumbling, and you scrambled to grab the back of the couch so you didn’t fall on your ass. 

Your wide eyes took in the broken plate scattered at your feet before they jumped to the window on the opposite side of the room. The night sky was dark beyond, cut only by the dim street light just beyond the window’s view. You held your breath as your heart hammered in your ears, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, sweat slicking your palms. 

What the fuck was that? Your first thought was earthquake—you hadn’t experienced one yet, but you knew they were common in Japan—but then you remembered the booms. 

Maybe… maybe an electrical box blew? But no, the lights were still working. A car crash? 

Then another boom vibrated you down to your very bones, and you fell to one knee as the breath hitched in your lungs. 

That sounded… closer. 

With your heart in your throat, you half scrambled, half crawled the last few feet to your window, and you peeked your head over the sill just as a flash off white-hot light lit up the night sky. 

“Shit!” You squinted your eyes against the glare as you leaned back from the window, but then you saw a shadow streak through the air before it crashed into a car just at the edge of your peripherals. 

You had the distant thought that Mr. Takeyoshi’s vehicle was very obviously totaled before you realized the thing that had crashed into the car was a person. 

Your jaw gaped open as a hero pulled himself from the wreckage and shook his head groggily. The shadows—only broken by more flares of light as more explosions and fire seemed to erupt along the street—made it difficult to tell how injured the hero was. You didn’t recognize their yellow and teal costume, but you saw patches of blood along the hero’s bulky frame, and bile burned at the back of your teeth. 

Holy shit. This wasn’t an accident. It was a villain attack. 

Just as you had the thought, another explosion rattled your windows, making your ears ring, and you snapped your head to the side to see a man standing in the middle of the road about half a block down. 

The man—villain, you realized quickly—swung his arms around like a conductor of an orchestra, but his instruments seemed to be the black rocks and liquid swirling around him. The debris glistened like an oil slick in the light of the flames, and as you watched, the villain shouted something and slashed his arm through the air. 

Then a figure suddenly exploded onto the scene, lunging out from the shadows in a flare of white-hot light. It moved too fast for you to track, but the villain swung his arm again, and rocks and viscous black goo shot toward the figure still in mid-air. 

A futile scream of warning caught in your throat, but then the figure seemed to explode and backflip through the air, landing on his feet but crushing the roof of a car beneath his boots. The wailing of the car’s alarm split the air, and you clenched your teeth until they ached. 

The flames illuminated this new man’s face, a snarl of white teeth against the flames and smoke, but only the barest hint of recognition flared through you before everything exploded into chaos again. Another shout from the villain had all the rocks and black slime streaking back towards him, and you watched in horror as a stony black arm fifty feet long formed above the ruined street. 

You knew you should be running, trying to find cover, calling the police, but you were glued there, on your knees before the window, you fingers digging grooves into the sill. 

The next fifteen seconds seemed to simultaneously happen in slow motion and at hyper speed. 

The giant rocky hand wiggled its fingers before it curled into a fist and slammed down on the wailing car and the man atop it. 

The man—hero, you distantly thought, although your chaotic thoughts still couldn’t place him—launched up into the air with another explosion that rattled your windows, the car alarm cutting off as the vehicle was crushed an instant later. 

The blond skidded into a landing half a dozen yards away, but then you suddenly saw Mr. Takeyoshi standing on the street, a ghostly apparition framed by smoke and flames. 

You blinked, and the giant hand shot toward Mr. Takeyoshi, batting away several more heroes who tried to intervene. 

Then the explosive hero was just there, pushing Mr. Takeyoshi out of the way, right before the hand wrapped around him. 

You could hear the hero’s anguished scream through your window as he was crushed in the fist’s grip, and the sound hit you right in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of you, bruising your insides, the pain settling into the familiar ache of being helpless in the face of suffering. 

You watched uselessly as the hero was lifted up into the sky, struggling, setting off explosions left and right. Then the massive arm seemed to pause in the middle of the road, right above the villain, and your eyes locked onto the hero, his pale hair and skin stark against the black, rocky hand that held him trapped. 

In the next instant, a white light, like a star going supernova, bloomed to life around the hero, illuminating the white slash of his snarling teeth before it became too bright for you to take. You slammed your eyes shut against the burning light, and the hair on the back of your neck stood on end, like the moment before lightning struck, as you dropped to the floor below your window. 

Then the world exploded, the building shaking to its foundations, right before the window burst into a million shards of glass.

[writingformadderton]

Reflections

Ship: Taron x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,006

Summary: While searching for a dress for an upcoming event, you start to feel insecure about your body. It truly takes a toll on you, and Taron catches you in a vulnerable state. (TW!! Insecurities, Body Image, Negative Self-Talk!!)

Author's Note: Fluff, angst, and love!!! First fic posted in a good while, ahhhhh. I'm so nervous for you guys to read this bc I wrote and edited this one alone. This topic hit extremely close to home for me as I have body image issues as well, so I hope it is actually good for you guys! I truly hope you enjoy it. Happy reading! -Miya💜

Requested by Anon:

“I’ve gained 25 pounds Dasia! And the wedding is in 2 weeks!” I grumble out loud to my phone while standing in front of my mirror. Dasia, one of my sisters, was on Facetime with me while I tried on dozens of dresses in my walk-in closet. Our best friend was getting married in 2 weeks and I thought I had something to wear. But I was clearly wrong.

“Stop it! You look gorgeous! What about that sunflower colored dress you bought like a year ago but never wore? I’m pretty sure the tag is still on it.” Dasia throws out another suggestion, while also trying on her own dresses in her home. She gives her body a once over in the dress, but then shakes her head and walks away from her phone to retrieve another option. I study my body in a crucifying manner, the grimace on my face evident.

I look awful. How did I let myself get to this point?

“It probably won’t fit over my disgusting thighs, not to mention my stomach.” The words roll off my tongue, but immediately bring pain to my chest. I run my hands from my chest down to my stomach, the current red maxi dress hugging the new curves in ways I didn’t like.

I turn to the side and try to hide the belly, but the open back catches my attention immediately. I gasp with horror as I catch a glimpse of the newly occurring love-handles settling in. I quickly face front and sigh in despair.

I feel just as bad as I look. I can’t believe I let myself go like this.

I close my eyes and try to hug my body to offer comfort, but my subconscious was eating away at me silently.

Dasia walks back into camera view and studies herself in her full body mirror. Her body now dawning a gorgeous pale blue dress with a high slit. “How about this one for me? I know we can’t wear her colors, but maybe she’ll make an exc- “

Her voice trails off as her attention turns to me on Facetime. She walks closer and kneels in front of the device.

I open my eyes and feel tears start to well up. A shaky breath leaves my lips and my hands grip the dress at the sides, trying to ground myself.

“Darling, look at me.” Dasia calls out to me, a soft expression resting on her face.

I look towards my phone and fight back a sniffle. I look down at the floor in shame.

“Are you in your head, letting your thoughts beat you down?” She asks gently.

“Dasia, I feel like shit. I mean look at me. Who’s gonna want to take pictures with me? No matter what dress I wear, I’m gonna get unwanted attention!” I blurt out harshly. Dasia looks taken aback, but sighs softly.

“Hunny, cut yourself some slack. You have been so busy these last couple months with the new house and job. Taron still thinks you are the most gorgeous specimen walking, for gods sake!” She tries to coax me into cheering up. But my subconscious had already gotten the best of me. I was hearing her words, but none of them stuck.

“Until he doesn’t. Then what?” I spoke just barely loud enough for her to hear. I look in the mirror once more, and it breaks my heart. Shoulders slouching in defeat as my brain betrays my heart with the thoughts running through it. “I…I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can decide on something.” I say without a second thought. I walk over and grab my phone, giving her one last glance.

“Sweetheart, please don’t be too hard on yourself. You are beau- “ She tries to finish her sentence, but I hang up quickly. She closes her eyes and sighs. “I love you.” She whispers to herself.

The tears begin to flow freely and my breathing becomes ragged. A sob pours out from my mouth as I sink to the floor and discard my phone. “Fuck!” I yell out. I sit against my wall and try to stop the stream of tears falling. But the more ragged my breathing became, the more the task proved to be too difficult.

Pathetic.

It rings through my head over and over as I try to catch my breath. My heart aches painfully as my mind becomes my worst enemy.

How could I let this happen?

I sit for a half hour until the tears finally stop and my breathing calms down. I tapped my phone screen.

4:30. Taron will be home soon. I need to get dinner started.

With a deep breath, I grab my phone and pick myself up off the floor. I take off the dress still hugging my body and hang it back up. I rub my face and change into shorts and a tee, turning off the light to my walk-in closet once exiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taron unlocks the front door and walks into the house, a grin on his face as he enters. He had been bombarded with meetings all day for this upcoming film and all he wanted to do was get back to his love. He takes off his shoes by the door. “Honey, I’m home!” He calls out with a chuckle. He looks up and observes the main entry way.

 It’s quiet….too quiet.

“(Y/N)! Are you here?” He calls out again. No answer again.

His eyebrows furrow together as he walks towards the dining room. The smell of home cooking coated the air, but no food nor I sat waiting for him. He walks into the kitchen, but to no avail I was not there. Going over to the stove, he noticed pots filled with freshly cooked sides and the oven light illuminated to reveal the main dish sitting patiently for consumption.

Where is my lovely girlfriend? The thought came to the forefront of his mind. Pulling himself away from the stove, he left the kitchen and searched the living room. Nothing.

He lets out a small sigh and pulls his phone from his back pocket. He quickly dials my number and listens to the ringing. Faintly, my ringtone sounds to his ears and he looks around. He slowly starts following the sound while holding his own phone in his hand. He makes his way upstairs.

“Babe! Baby!” He calls out to me. Now, he was starting to worry. Why weren’t you answering?

But I don’t answer him. I can barely hear him over the sound of my own sobs.

I sit on the floor of my shower, crying uncontrollably as the hot water crashed against my body. I had been in that same position for almost 15 minutes. I’ve tried to pull myself together and get out, but my attempts were met with more tears.

After cooking dinner for myself and Taron, I tried to motivate myself to put something on my stomach. But after what happened earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to swallow anything other than water. So, I left the cooked food on and in the stove, waiting to be served. I wandered back upstairs to take a shower and clear my mind.

Maybe the hot water could wash away my troubles.

15 minutes later, my body was clean, but I couldn’t stop crying. Faintly, I hear my phone ring from inside the bedroom. It was probably Taron calling. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, tears stinging as they fall freely. I hear Taron calling my name. but my voice is too hoarse to respond. So, I continue to sob quietly.

Taron finally makes it into the bedroom and sees the phone on the floor. Raising his eyebrows, he ends the call and picks it up, placing it on top of the dresser. His ears focus on the sound of running water and his attention turns to the bathroom door. He quickly walks in and as his eyes land on my figure, his heart aches.

He quickly makes his way over to the shower and opens the glass door, turning off the water and kneeling down to hug me tight. I wrap my arms tight around his body and take in his scent.

“What happened to you, my love?” He speaks softly, rubbing my back. I respond in a sniffle and tighten my hold on his body. I needed the comfort so badly, and his arms always felt safe. “It’s alright, I’m home now. Everything’s alright.” He says and kisses my temple. I nod and loosen my grip to look in his eyes.

Taron brings his hands to my face and gently holds me, thumbs caressing the sides of my face with such care and tenderness. I melt into his touch, closing my eyes and calming down little by little. He sits with me just like that for a while before I open my eyes once more.

“Hey babygirl.” His lips pull into a small smile when he sees the action. I nestle my face into his hands as a response. “Are you okay to get out of the shower?” He asks in the gentlest voice I have ever heard.

I nod slowly with soft eyes. He smiles and kisses my forehead, slowly standing up and stepping onto the floor mat. He holds out his hands, and I take them happily. After standing, Taron tells me to wait for a second while he grabs a towel. While watching him, my heart flutters as he is set in taking care of me without even knowing the problem.

He comes over with a warm towel and dries me off with the utmost care. I don’t give him any resistance as he does the task. Instead, I take in how soft he is and how he admires my body for what it is. It almost makes me feel ashamed for how I was feeling earlier. I slightly cower away, and he notices the action and slowly stands tall. He wraps the towel tightly around my body and wraps his arms around my waist. Mine wrap around his neck and look into his eyes.

“What’s troubling you, my love?” He whispers while rubbing small circles on my back. I lightly blush and break eye contact, looking down in shame. But he brings one hand to my chin and gently lifts my head with his finger. “No need to hide from me, love.”

Taking a deep breath and clearing my throat, I finally speak after what had felt like hours of crying. “I was feeling in-insecure about my body after trying to find a d-dress for the wedding.” I force the words out of me in a small voice. I see the concern, but a loving aura reflects in Taron’s eyes after I spoke.

He leans down, closes his eyes and kisses me, gentle yet passionate. It slightly catches me off guard, but I immediately melt into the kiss. He pulls away and lays his forehead on mine, looking at me. My eyes remain closed for a bit, then finally open to those blue-green orbs I love the most.

“You know you are the most beautiful girl in this world.” He speaks with confidence.

“Yea, but Taron-“

“No buts darling. You have the body of a goddess. And no matter what you look like, I will always love and adore you.” He says in a firm, but soft manner. He places a kiss on my nose to solidify his statements.

I blush hard and bury my face in his neck. “Do you promise?” I whisper, my heart fluttering and growing warm.

“I promise, my love.” He reassures and rubs my back. My eyes began to water and I hold him tighter. “I love you, from now until the end of time. You will always be beautiful to me, no matter what.” Taron whispers, placing another kiss on my temple.

“I love you too, Taron.” I speak just loud enough for him to hear.

[ladyartemesia]

The Secret

◐ PART IV of THE ALPHA ◐

◐ Part I ◐ Part II ◐ Part III ◐ Series Masterlist ◐

Pairing: Alpha Werewolf Jimin x Omega Reader

Rating: Mature (for this installment)

Warnings: ABO sexual dynamics including discussion of scenting, marking, mating, and claiming. Violence and discussion of violence relating to ritual combat. Jin’s pheromones need their own warning. Yoonji and Yunli are not the same person.

Word Count: 3600

Author’s Note: This update literally made me sob because I edited it and formatted it and it just disappeared when I posted. I seriously felt my heart drop because it took so long to format... ANYWAYS I wonder if anyone guessed the secret.

”You can’t do this, Luna ... Come back inside.”

Your hand tightened on the doorknob.

“I was just going out for some air-”

Jin shook his head, letting his lanky frame collapse onto the overstuffed chair by the fireplace. 

“And after the air... then what?”

Your terse silence was confirmation enough. 

He sighed heavily, hating himself a little for what he had to do. 

“You cannot go to him. They’ll smell you on his skin and it could cost him... dearly.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“I just wanted to see him...,” you whispered. “I wanted to talk to him just once before-”

A sob bubbled up in your throat and your hand flew up to cover it. 

The dawn would come in two hours. 

And then Park Jimin would be gone. 

Jin’s arms wrapped around your shoulders and you fell against him hopelessly. 

“They’re going to make me watch, Jin-ah. I-I have to watch him-”

Bitter tears overtook you, wracking your body with the violence of your despair. 

“I know...,” he murmured softly into your hair, “I know.” 

“Do you think he’ll really show up?”

The chief elder glared fiercely at the young man who dared voice such a question. 

The entire pack had jammed themselves into the clearing where the challenge was taking place and despite the solemnity of the occasion, the atmosphere buzzed with barely contained speculation. 

“Park Jimin was chosen by the goddess herself to be her champion or to be the divine test of her champion. Have some respect,” he hissed. 

The young pup had the decency to look abashed, but the chief elder was already ignoring him in favor of the newest arrival... 

A Luna wore only three ceremonial colors at any given time. 

Green for celebration and harvest was worn in times of laughter and gaiety. 

Blue for mourning and peaceful resolve was worn in times of trial and hardship. 

Red for passion and vengeance was worn in times of war and signified the sacred bonds that wove the pack together. 

Your mother laid out a blue cloak as it was the color chosen by every Luna who had ever faced down a provocatione ritual.

But you arrived in sumptuous Red. 

It was a stunning act of defiance, a wordless declaration of your fury. You were here to obey the goddess, but in a crimson cloak you would not embrace this challenge with peaceful resolve. 

An attack upon your mate, even under these circumstances, was an attack upon you. 

You had come dressed for war. 

Jimin heard the gasps echo around his meditation cell.  

He and Namjoon arrived at the sacred circle a full hour before dawn and sequestered themselves in the small, free-standing hovels on opposing sides of the the site. 

The tiny pods were spaces for an individual to commune with the goddess and center themselves before engaging in the typically life-altering events that brought them there. 

Sometimes it was marriage or celebration, sometimes it was acceptance to one of the guilds or a promotion to a higher rank within your family’s clan...

Today it was life and death and the future of the pack that weighed upon the combatants’ shoulders. 

The sudden swell of movement and sound pulled Jimin from his meditative state. 

What happened? 

He got his answer soon after an elder came to escort him into the circle. 

It was you. 

Your hands and feet were bound to the ornately carved chair they had seated you in. This was a typical precaution because it was natural for a wolf to defend their mate if they were in danger and the restraints kept the Luna from doing so. 

The pain in your gaze was agonizing, but in red, flowing down from your shoulders with fiery obstinance, you were every inch the warrior queen. 

Yet it was not your rebellious cloak or even your incredible beauty that caused his heart to pound and stutter in glorious shock...

It was the familiar praesidium bracelet wrapped around your wrist; an intimate message of devotion that he and he alone would understand. 

Pride and possessiveness roared to life in Jimin’s chest. 

She’s mine.

“You look... surprisingly calm.”

Taehyung jerked guiltily. 

“What? Me? I don’t know anything - I mean I’m not calm - I’m frantic. I - I don’t even understand the question.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows raised right up into his hairline. 

“Taehyung-ah? Did you put those special mushrooms in your broth this morning? You’re acting a bit strange-”

“No,” Taehyung’s voice cracked. “This is me - this is totally normal me. I’m not - there were no mushrooms-” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “So - uh - how’s Yoonji?”

“Oh my go- really?!” 

The chief elder began to recite his speech, reminding the pack of the profound significance this moment carried...

But Yunli could barely hear his words over the ringing in her ears. Her gaze fixed on Namjoon from the moment the elder brought him forward... yet he had not glanced toward her once. 

He looked so strong and confident. 

So capable of victory. 

A faint whimper of abject sorrow worked its way passed her lips and Namjoon’s eyes flew to her instantly. 

As if he had always known exactly where she was. 

Longing split his features for a fraction of a second. 

Then his gaze shuttered again and Yunli’s wolf howled in silent, mournful agony. 

Anticipation bore down upon the assembly as the chief elder uttered the last few sentences with reluctant finality. 

The moment had come.  

Both alphas stepped into the circle. 

You began to tug frantically - futilely - against the bonds. Jin’s hand gripped yours as a tear slipped heedlessly down his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon whispered - to you - to Yunli - to Jimin -

To himself. 

Then his claws lengthened to a deadly point and he tore forward with a chilling snarl. 

Jimin remained unnaturally still, watching his rival barrel towards him with almost calculated intent. 

Namjoon’s arm drew back to land the first strike and- 

———◐———

Last Night...

———◐———

“Wait - WHAT?!”

“It was... me. I broke the table.”

Taehyung drew back slowly. His eyebrows furrowed in profound confusion. 

“With what? A jackhammer!?”

Jimin tilted his head in amusement. 

“Hammerfist strike... actually.” He shrugged. “I lost my temper.”

“You - You lost your-“ Tae began shaking his head rapidly. “Is it a spell of some sort?! Goddess you know better than to get tangled up with witches! You let them give you a band aid and then they show up ten years later asking for your firstborn!”

Jimin rolled his eyes. 

“Of course not! No... it’s...” he bit his lip. “You remember that time I came to your house a little too early and... Yoonji had you tied to a bed...”

Tae paled. 

“We agreed never to speak of that.”

“And I haven’t - spoken of it - especially since Yoongi still thinks his precious baby cousin is unaware of big bad boy wolves and if he found out you were corrupting her-”

“Wait. You think I was corrupting her?!“

“The point is... it’s a secret. And I know you have your reasons for keeping it that way so... I hope you’ll understand what I’m about to tell you...”

———◐———

Fourteen Years Ago...

———◐———

Jimin’s hands fidgeted nervously over the flyer that the human boy offered him. 

“But I’m only in Seoul for the summer.”

Just long enough to miss Alpha Camp entirely. 

“That’s perfect because it’s only a summer program. Seriously, you were so fast catching that jar I knocked over. Your reflexes are amazing and it looks like you’ve got the perfect build for it too.” He tapped the flyer for emphasis. “Think about it.”

No one had ever told Park Jimin that he would be good at anything like this. In fact most people told him he needed to be better...

Bigger. 

Stronger. 

His eyes traveled over the large letters printed at the top of the brochure. 

“Taekwondo...”

——◐——

“...so thank you all again for signing up and attending the orientation. I will see you tomorrow for our first class.”

A strange sense of anticipation hummed through Jimin as he gathered his coat. He was finally doing something for himself; something that had nothing to do with being an alpha-

“You’re a wolf, aren’t you...”

The young instructor who gave the initial demonstration and spoke for most of the orientation stood behind him with his arms crossed.

Jimin’s eyes widened in shock. 

“How did you know?”

The stranger tapped his nose. 

“My grandfather had a human mate and his pack exiled him for it. I’m mostly human, but this nose can pick up another wolf’s scent just as well as yours.”

Modern packs didn’t exile wolves with human mates anymore, but fifty years ago the practice was still unfortunately common. 

“I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

The young man smiled. 

“He lived a long happy life with his mate and his family. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He stretched out his hand. “Lee Taemin.”

“Park Jimin.”

They shook firmly, and Taemin continued to examine him with unconcealed interest. 

“Tell me, Park Jimin, what’s an alpha wolf doing all the way out in Seoul? The only pack around here married their last child into one of the mountain nations years ago.”

“That was my mother, actually... I’m here visiting my grandmother.”

Taemin tilted his head curiously. 

“I’ve never known wolves to be interested in human martial arts. You lot prefer to fight shifted... In fact, I doubt a mountain wolf could even throw a punch,” he snorted, “not that they’d need to with those fangs.”

Jimin’s shoulders fell a little. 

“So... you don’t think I’ll be good at it.”

“On the contrary, I think you could be incredible.”

The young wolf’s face brightened immediately. 

“Really?! Even if I’m not as strong as other wolves?”

“Taekwondo isn’t about strength. It’s about speed. Master the speed and the strength will follow.”

———◐———

“Relax your body. Focus your energy.”

Jimin drew in a deep breath as he moved  through the pattern Taemin taught him. 

“The power and speed of your wolf is constant, but most wolves do not bother channeling it in human form. Concentrate on your wolf and bring that power into your strike.” 

His hand came down on the thin press wood and-

It hurt. A lot. 

Taemin chuckled as Jimin cussed and swore, cradling his tender fist grouchily. 

“You’ll get it. Just keep practicing.”

“Are you sure I’ll be able to break the boards one day?”

The boy’s face was so round and adorably hopeful. Taemin nodded confidently and offered him some ice. 

“A human with training can break boards, but a wolf who harnessed his natural speed and strength could break much more than that.” 

———◐———

Twelve Years Ago...

———◐———

“You’ve improved a great deal since last summer. Were you finally able to find a teacher near your pack?”

“Yes - but... she’s not as good as you.”

Finding a local Taekwondo teacher had been the easy part. 

Constantly making up excuses to explain his habitual disappearances... 

That was trickier. 

His mother thought he was hunting with Taehyung, Taehyung thought he was sniffing around some human girl and needed a buddy to cover his tracks. 

Sneaking away to practice wasn’t too difficult, but he panicked when Yoongi caught him moving through forms in the woods once and pretended to be doing an interpretive dance. 

With no music.

Yoongi had looked at him a little funny since then. 

Taemin grinned. “Of course she’s not as good as me. I’m the best. Now take position and let’s see if you can finally land this kick.”

———◐———

Ten Years Ago...

———◐———

Jimin glared at the thick oak board Taemin sent him home with this year. 

“It’s a 4x6 solid oak plank. I want you to break it before the winter solstice.”

He snorted, positioning the board between the makeshift vices he fashioned to hold it in place. 

“Sure, I’ll just get right on that.”

“...Who are you talking to?”

Jimin groaned internally.

Of course. 

“Hey guys,” he turned to greet Jungkook and Hoseok brightly (while completely ignoring the question). “Where - where are you two headed today?”

Jungkook’s eyes sparkled with excitement. 

“One of the elders is going to teach us how to build traps! He invited all the unmated alphas to go with him past the boundary lines to test whatever we make!”

A familiar embarrassment settled heavily in Jimin stomach. 

“Oh... I uh... I didn’t hear that.”

“I’m sure it was just a mistake that they didn’t call for you,” Hoseok rushed to reassure him. “You could come with us. I don’t think the elder would mind.”

The older boy’s gaze was filled with discomfort... and pity. 

Jimin cleared his throat and forced up a sunny smile. 

“No that’s fine - I have work to do anyways so...”

Jungkook nodded quickly, desperate to escape the unexpectedly awkward conversation. 

“Have fun!” he shouted, already beginning to jog away. 

Jimin watched quietly as their figures grew smaller, waiting till their clumsy steps no longer disturbed the stillness around him. 

He should be used to it by now... 

The passive rejection. 

It shouldn’t bother him anymore. There was no malicious intent... just casual dismissal again and again and again-

An angry roar tore past his lips as he brought his hand down on the board. 

It cracked in half. 

———◐———

Eight Years Ago...

———◐———

“It’s strange but - I feel like the better I become at this, the stronger my wolf is.”

“That isn’t strange at all. You and your wolf are two halves of a whole. The more you balance your energy, the more your strengths can be shared. Now - stop stalling and get to it.”

Jimin eyed Taemin’s latest idea with a reluctant groan.

“None of the other students have to break cinder block.”

“None of the other students are wolves. Besides, it’s been 6 years, you’ve broken stacks of boards. It’s time for a real challenge.”

“I’m lucky I haven’t broken a bone,” Jimin mumbled irritably. 

He did that day, but it was healed in a week and he broke his first cinderblock a month later.

———◐———

Five Years Ago...

———◐———

“Remember, timing is everything. Never let your opponent see what you’re going to do.”

“How many times do you think I’ve heard that over the last ten years?”

“Not enough, clearly. You’re still telegraphing with that right foot.”

Jimin’s left hand shot out and connected with Taemin’s jaw.

“Am I?”

Taemin blinked up at him from the floor. 

“Ok. I admit. That was pretty impressive.”

———◐———

Three Years Ago...

———◐———

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I was looking for Jin.”

Jimin scrambled to his feet, dumping the pile of pebbles he collected (for his mother’s garden) noisily to the ground.

“Luna...”

He took a discreet step backward as your gaze scanned the area in frustration. 

“You haven’t seen my cousin, have you?”

Jimin gulped. 

He had seen Kim Seokjin - leading a curvy beta girl (nose first no doubt) in the direction of the old wading pool. It took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to laugh out loud each time Jin bashfully declared that he was a ‘good boy’ and to ‘be gentle with him,’ - after all, he’d given the same speech to two other she-wolves last week. 

Best not to scar her for life. Some things cannot be unseen.

His mind darted briefly to the scene he’d walked into at Taehyung’s house yesterday.

“I have no idea where Seokjin is, Luna.”

You sighed, gnawing absently at your lip while you considered his words, and Jimin felt a familiar hint of futile longing whisper through him. 

He’d never been so close to you, and now that he was, his wolf was making all sorts of insane suggestions to keep you near. 

Do a backflip. Climb a tree. Build her a house. 

Jimin bent quickly to gather his scattered stones, ashamed at the direction of his thoughts. 

You were so incredibly beautiful...

It was almost enough to make him forget that he would only ever be Park Jimin.  

He couldn’t blame the others for fighting and fawning over your attention like they did. You were the moon and every man around you was drawn in like the tide. 

“Today is my seventeenth birthday, you know.”

Jimin looked up to discover that you had moved much closer and were now looking down at him expectantly. 

He blinked. Twice. 

“I - yes. I did know.”

The entire pack was celebrating. He’d have to be comatose not to know.

“Should I save you a dance, Park Jimin?”

Up until that exact second, Jimin would have bet his life savings that you did not know his name. 

Yet here you were - so very close to him - gazing down into his eyes almost shyly.

He nodded because he couldn’t think of a single reason not to give you anything you wanted. And when you smiled so brilliantly -  he almost believed that you truly wanted to dance with him...

Almost. 

He never went to your party. 

He never danced with you.

Not that day. Not ever.

Because deep down he suspected that if he held you in his arms - even once - he would never truly let go. 

He was sure you wouldn’t notice his absence...  You wouldn’t remember talking to him by the time the evening rolled around. 

He never saw you search the crowds for his face right up until the midnight bell. 

He never saw you turn down dance after dance hoping that the beautiful boy from the forest would finally come and take your hand. 

He was your only wish that birthday. 

But he never knew. 

———◐———

One Year Ago...

———◐———

“I’ve never seen anything like your skill. You’ve long since surpassed me. I’m not sure what more I can teach you,” Taemin smiled, bumping Jimin on the shoulder, “Perhaps you should find a woman and spend a little less time practicing.”

An unwelcome flash of silver eyes and a laugh like sunshine danced through his mind. 

“No. I’m... not really the type wolf girls go for.” 

Taemin snorted. 

“I don’t believe that. Aren’t you an alpha?”

“Yes, but it’s... complicated.”

“Isn’t everything?”

Jimin laughed. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Silence settled comfortably between them as they nursed several bottles of soju on his grandmother’s porch. Taemin had charmed the old hellion quite thoroughly and he would often drop by for a visit even when Jimin was back home with his pack.

“So what will you do now?” he asked. “You can’t compete. I can barely withstand sparring with you, and you’d kill a human - even if you landed a blow at half strength.”

Jimin ran his fingers absently through his hair while he pondered his mentor’s words. 

“I learned to fight because I was searching for something that would help me sort out who I was.” He scoffed. “I don’t know that I’m any closer to that goal.”

Taemin shook his head. 

“No. I think you’ve got it all wrong, Park Jimin. No one achieves what you have without knowing who they are. You’ve always been a fighter and some part of you realizes that.” He sighed heavily and finished off the rest of his drink. “Now I think you’re just... waiting.”

“For what?” Jimin chuckled playfully. 

Taemin pulled out another bottle and met his gaze with a knowing grin. 

“Something worth fighting for.”

———◐———

Now...

———◐———

Jimin remained unnaturally still, watching his rival barrel towards him with almost calculated intent. 

Namjoon’s arm drew back to land the first strike and- 

It was fast. 

So fast it almost seemed like magic. 

One moment the Kim alpha was the barest breath away from a swift and decisive victory-

Then he was crashing backwards onto the dirt. 

Those who watched carefully saw Park Jimin spin into a vicious kick, one that connected solidly with the middle of his opponent’s chest. 

Stunned silence pressed in from every side as Namjoon scrambled back to his feet, his expression wavering wildly between excruciating pain and monumental shock. 

Jimin smiled, letting his razor sharp canines lengthen menacingly as he flowed back into a perfect combat stance. 

“You didn’t think I’d just let you have her, did you?”

Please comment if you would like to be added to the taglist! If you have already asked, you will be tagged automatically in every update. 

Please please please let me know what you thought of this chapter! (*insert puppy face here*) I am so excited to hear what you think of everything that went down in this update and I savor each word of feedback like fine wine. Your theories and commentary have been such a gift. It truly keeps me writing. 

[whentherewerebicycles]

okay guys we are FINALLY zeroing in on paint colors after one million trips to home depot and benjamin moore. here’s what I’m going to swatch:

upstairs dayroom (east-facing): roasted corn from behr + provence crème from benjamin moore. they’re optimistic sunshine yellows but pale enough I hope they won’t overwhelm the space. both are warmer yellows in the same color gradient but provence crème is paler and roasted corn is fuller bodied. the thousands of forum posts I’ve read in the last two weeks say that yellow is always 100x more intense than you expect, so to get that warm sunshiney yellow you should go 1-3 (!) shades lighter than the color you like best on the card. so I have a feeling it might be provence crème. yellow lotus and light yellow (BM) are also contenders here.

my bedroom (west-facing with filtered light and lots of green outside): the finalists are dreamcatcher + antiguan sky + let it rain + skydive from benjamin moore. these are teals that lean green and I find them breathtakingly beautiful omg. skydive is my favorite but it’s the darkest by far and I am a little afraid it’ll look overpoweringly dark on the wall (though that might work well with the cozy cave bed feeling I’m going for). my number one criteria for a teal is that it leans green rather than blue in changing light and all of these will fit the bill. for cost I’m probably going to try skydive (the darkest) and then let it rain (the lightest) first, then look at my backups. edit: actually I’m looking at photos of the colors in diff lights and I’m worried they’re too turquoise. hmm ok maybe I’ll paint one and then also grab one from the slightly bluer colors one strip over.

kitchen: I am also considering roasted corn down here. fascinating how different the same color looks in different lights!! it’s a much bolder yellow downstairs.

living room: I’m leaning towards a light sage green but I plan to wait for the couch to arrive before I do anything. one good/clarifying thing here: my neighbor invited me in to show me his plants and I saw that his living room is painted white and it looks SO washed out and kinda sickly. aha that’s so mean to say when he kindly invited me into his home!! I’m sorry peter!! but it made me realize that I think color really is the answer there. I am going to try to find a light enough green that has a high LRV it won’t look muddy on the walls… but again I want to see how massive the sectional is and how dark it feels in the space.

[make-me-imagine]

Daffodils: New Beginnings

Valentines Special: Day Eight

Day One: Morning Glories  //  Day Two: Blue Salvias Day Three: Sunflowers  //  Day Four: Pink Camellias Day Five: Yellow Tulips   //  Day Six: Violets Day Seven: Lisianthus - Day Nine: Red Roses (link to post with all endings listed)

Plot: The reader keeps receiving flowers and sweet messages every day from an anonymous source leading up to Valentines Day. But who is sending them?

Choose your own character ending (coming on Valentines Day).

Gender!Neutral Reader x ???

Triggers: Brief mention of fighting        Words: 1,569

Marvel Taglist: @aquariuslavenderhoney​​​, @thebookbakery​​​, @groovyfluxie​​ Requested Taglist: @spuffyfan394​​​, @gaitwae​​​, @fablesrose​​​, @kitkatd7​​​, @thefallenbibliophilequote​​​, @beksib​​​, @destynelseclipsa​​​, @criminaly-supernatural​​​, @tammythompson-singslikea-muppet, @belloangelus​​​, @snarky--starky​​​, @saintbootlegloras​​​, @wecallhimbrowneyess​​​, @empath-bunny​​​, @okkulta​​​, @katinthemoon,  @ravennight41​​​, @youcancallme-rae , @radhumandragonclam, @unfortunateidiotinadilemma, @past3l-w1ngs​​​  , @anonymous-pls-dont-click​​​ , @username23345​​​, @hulkswitch​​​, @theofficialzivadavid​​​, @lainphotography​​​, @fred-deeks-ben​​​, @normanijauregui​​​, @goinggoinggonzo​​, @mxxnmocha​​, @euphouriaszn2​​, @trikruismybitch​, 

February 13th

"You sure you’re alright?” Wanda asked as she watched your rub your shoulder. 

“I’m good, just a little sore.” you said reassuringly. 

You had been called out on a mission with Steve, Wanda, and Natasha to check out a possible hit on a SHIELD office. You managed to catch the assault team before they made it into the building, but a fight broke out. When you were fighting one of the men, he pulled you down a short flight of stairs, you banged your shoulder pretty bad, but it seemed to be alright now. 

You were riding back to the tower now, sitting in the back seat with Wanda.

“You should get your shoulder checked out when we get back, just in case.” Steve said, looking at your through the drivers mirror. 

“Is that an order Captain?” you asked with sarcasm as you leaned forward, talking to Steve over the seat. 

You could see him smirk at your question as he peaked back at you “If it has to be, then yes.” 

You smiled in amusement as you sat back in your seat “Yes sir” you said, saluting, making Wanda chuckle and Natasha and Steve smirk at your response. 

Doing just as he said, you had your shoulder scanned in the medical wing once you returned. But finding no real damage you went back to work. Entering into the large main room, you staggered back as a man carrying a large box passed by you when you came through the doors. Looking around you saw a bunch of people walking around. It took you a moment before you remembered that they were the people hired to set up the Valentines party.

This room was going to be the main room for the party, tables set up for the dinner and a stage in the front for the entertainment. Seeing through the large doors to your left, you figured that would be where the dancing would take place. 

Looking around, you could tell the color scheme was going to be gold and red, classy, but a bit gaudy in some areas. You saw Tony walk through nearby doors, explaining something to one of the decorators, turning, he spotted you. Leaving the decorator with a last instruction he walked over to you. 

“So, what do you think so far?” he asked as he stood next to you, motioning to the room. 

“No chocolate fountain?” you asked with sarcasm. 

You saw his eyes light up as he snapped his finger “A chocolate fountain!” Turning to one of the nearby people, he got their attention “Any chance of getting a chocolate fountain?” 

You rolled your eyes “Tony, that’s too much!”

“No no, it’s a good idea” he said to you before looking back to the other person who began writing something down “And get some skewers, fruit and marshmallows, it can be like a giant fondue station.” 

“That doesn’t sound very sanitary” you said with a frown.

He hesitated for a moment “No, it’ll be fine, we’ll put up a sign, no double dipping” You shook your head with a laugh as he turned fully towards you “So, how’d your little mission go?”

“Fine, we stopped the assault, arrested all of the members, Nat and Clint will be questioning them.” 

Tony opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as someone called him from across the room “Go ahead, I’ve got to get back to work anyway” you said as you parted ways. Leaving the room you felt anxious again thinking about the party and what would happen. Trying to shake away the anxiety, you got back to work. 

- - -

You managed to distract yourself by working the rest of the day, and now you were sitting at the kitchen bar in the public part of the tower. Public meaning it could be accessed by all of the Avengers. 

“Hey” Wanda greeted as she wandered in “What are you doing in here?” 

You smiled at her and lifted your hand in greeting “Just finished work, I’m waiting for the rest of the party planners and decorators to leave for the day, they are constantly using the elevators and stairs, filling them with people and stuff.” you chuckled. 

She sat down next to you “Yeah, I couldn’t even get to the elevator in the first place” she chuckled “How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s good, no pain anymore.” you responded “So, are you looking forward to Tony’s party?” you asked her. 

She shrugged “Not particularly. I’m not one for crowded parties.”

“Me neither, but Tony will never get over it if I don’t show up, you too probably.”

“Oh yes I know, he told me so himself” you both chuckled. 

"Tony and his parties.” you commented just as the doors opened. Clint, Steve and Natasha walking in. 

“Ah, there you two are. “ Clint said as they made there way over to you. Clint and Steve sat at the bar with you and Wanda as Nat moved behind the bar. 

You sat and talked with the others for a while, about today’s planned attack, about who they were hired by, and then about Tony’s party. You started to feel the now familiar anxiety rise in your chest. Making yourself yawn, you feigned drowsiness before rising “Alright, I need to get some sleep.” you said, knowing that, though you were tired, you might not be able to sleep anyways. 

“Goodnight” Wanda, Nat and Steve said as you began to leave.

“Hey” Clint said.

Turning back to him you rose your brow. “Did you get any flowers from your secret admirer today?” he asked with a smirk.

“Ooh, yeah I almost forgot about that” she smirked as she looked at you. Wanda and Steve turned to look at your as well. 

“Uhh, no, but I haven’t been back to my room since lunch, soo”

“Soo, maybe there will be something now?” Nat said with a smile. 

Saying nothing you just smiled, cocked your head and then spun around, leaving in silence. Hearing chuckling from the others behind you as you left. You had actually successfully been distracted to the point where you forgot about the flowers. 

Luckily all of the decorators and planners had been long gone, so you could make your way to your room easily. As you stopped at your floor, you braced yourself for what would be on the other side, feeling a sense of familiar excitement. 

As the doors slid open, your eyes were already trained on your door. And placed at the bottom, was a tall bouquet of pale yellow daffodils tied together with white silky ribbon, a note dangling from the side. 

Quickly making your way to your door, you unlocked it before picking up the bouquet and going inside. This was the last bouquet you would get before learning who was behind all of this tomorrow. Your heart seemed to be hammering in your chest as you stared at the note.

You were almost afraid to read it. You hesitated before setting it down and going to the bathroom. Getting ready for bed, you grabbed the flowers and put them into a vase, a new one you bought at the store. Sitting on your bed, you fiddled with the note in your hand. Slowly opening it, you psyched yourself up a bit before you began to read the note. 

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ Daffodils

Daffodils mean “New Beginnings”. I chose these because tomorrow will be the start of a new beginning for the two of us. No matter what happens. I, of course have my own wishes of how tomorrow will go, and I am sure you do as well. Perhaps you have your own desires of who I am, and I hope that I do not disappoint you when you find out who I am.

I have so much more I want to write, but cannot seem to put it properly into words. I’m sure we are both nervous about tomorrow, but I do truly feel as though we are meant to be. And though I cannot see the future, I know tomorrow will be the start of something new, and I can only hope that it will be great. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Reading over the note a few times you lied back on your bed as you stared up at the ceiling. You had stopped trying to figure out who it could be. Knowing that they were careful enough not to let anything seem obvious. And if you had been talking to them one on one, or when everyone would be talking about the flowers, they were careful enough not to say anything that would make them seem suspicious. 

For a moment, you debated not going to the party at all. And chickening out instead. But you only entertained the thought for a moment before you felt guilt for even thinking it. They did not deserve that. No matter how afraid you might be about what might happen tomorrow, they didn’t deserve to be stood up, especially not after everything they have said and done. But then again, what if they stand you up? What if they change their mind, and you never find out who they are?

You closed your eyes, your thoughts running rapid through every possibility of what could happen tomorrow. Eventually, without really realizing it, you had drifted off to sleep.

xx xx xx xx xx

Sooo, tomorrow is the day!

I will be releasing every ending throughout Valentines Day (10 in total); starting around 5am MST. Let me know if you want to be tagged in any specific endings.

The endings will be: Bucky, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Thor, Loki, Clint, Natasha, Vision and Wanda. 

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Wound By a Key

I was given the opportunity to collaborate with the marvelous, amazing, talented, fantastic @spielzeugkaiser​ for this story/piece and it was SO MUCH FUN! Thank you for drawing something so amazing, thank you for sharing it with me, and thank you for this fun collab!

Based on “The Music Box Song” from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

---

The first thing Geralt noticed, as he led Roach down the main road of the little hamlet, was how oddly quiet everything was. There were a few people meandering in the marketplace speaking in low tones, but otherwise the midday streets were empty. It was unusual. Especially for springtime. 

He heard the small pocket of villagers speaking as he passed them, their curious and nervous gazes following his every step.

“Do you think that’s the White Wolf?”

“Look at his hair! Who else could it be?”

“Do you think he’ll be able to break the spell?”

He reached the door of the town’s only inn and tied Roach’s reins to the hitching post outside. He gave her an affectionate nuzzle and a few quick pats before ducking through the low wooden door, the villagers’ pointed conversation pushed to the back of his mind for now. 

He needed food and lodging, first.

“Afternoon,” the innkeep nodded. Geralt nodded back and took a seat at the bar. The rotund, middle-aged man turned to face him, not a glimmer of fear or apprehension tainted his welcoming expression. “What can I do for ya, traveler?”

“I’ll have a tankard of ale, please; and stew if you have it. I also need a room for the night and a stable for my horse.”

“Two full pieces of silver will get you all of that and a bath to boot,” the man offered. Geralt gave a small, grateful smile and pulled two silvers and a copper from his purse, setting them on the counter directly in front of the beaming innkeep.

“As a thank you for your unexpected but welcome kindness.”

“Appreciated, sir.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt was just bringing the first spoonful of venison stew towards his mouth when his gaze caught on something behind the bar. His eyes narrowed and he looked down at the food suspiciously. Perhaps the man had been a little too kind to a Witcher. Maybe the kindness in his eyes really was just a well-practiced act, after all.

“Where’d you get that lute?” Geralt asked. He’d almost asked - Where’d you get Jaskier’s lute? - but that would have revealed too much.

“Oh, right. I had nearly forgotten about the lute,” the man frowned and shook his head. The Witcher caught a whiff of relief and sadness drifting off the stranger and grew even more confused. “That’s a tragic tale, really. Not good for a traveler’s appetite.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a Witcher. I’ve seen and heard a few unpleasant things in my life.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” the innkeep chuckled. “But that’s just because I’m not a very observant person. If you’re a Witcher you might just be able to help the lad out. Would you care to hear the bard’s tale and see if it’s something your Witcher magic could fix?”

Geralt nodded and took a bite of stew, convinced that the man wasn’t actually trying to rob or kill him (or both). “Go ahead, then. Who is this bard and what horrible fate befell him?”

“A few weeks ago, just after the second thaw, children from the village started going missing at night. They’d come back at midday, their faces pale and their limbs heavy like lead weights. They would sleep for days before they could get out of bed again, and they were incredibly weak. When that bard wandered through on his way to find his friend, he heard of our blight and followed a child into the woods one evening, determined to solve the mystery and stop the madness.”

“Hmm.”

“Turns out it was the Fae -” Geralt’s head snapped up. “- And they were making the children dance all through the night for their entertainment. The faeries would make them dance until the poor little dears were totally exhausted and only had enough strength to wander back home. The bard offered to dance and play for them for two full days in exchange for the childrens’ freedom… and they agreed.”

“Fuck.”

“You sound invested in the lad’s wellbeing,” the innkeep raised an eyebrow. “I can take you to see him, if you’d like.”

“He’s here?”

“Sort of,” the man rubbed his hand up and down the back of his neck and the scent of anxiety spiked through the air. Geralt shook it off, determined to finish his meal before attending to his foolish friend and companion. “The Fae weren’t exactly happy about his interloping, you see. They accepted his terms and let him play for the full two days, and the children have been safe ever since, but they didn’t return him the way he left. Apparently the faeries decided that it would be more fun to curse him a little bit and watch the aftermath play out.”

“What is a little bit, exactly?”

Geralt had never heard of just a little bit of cursing. There were either dire consequences or death on the other end of curses and neither one were fitting ends for Jaskier’s colorful, too-short life. 

“It would be best if you finished your food, Sir Witcher. If you’re as close to the bard as I think you are, it’ll spoil your dinner to see him like this.”

---

The alderman ushered his two impromptu visitors inside and closed the door quietly behind them. He gave Geralt a slow, calculating once over. “So I take it you’re a Witcher, eh?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve come to break the fae’s curse on this bard?”

“Depends on the curse.”

“Apparently he knows the lad,” the innkeeper added helpfully. Geralt glowered and pulled his hood back away from his face. 

“I haven’t actually seen him yet, but it’s very likely that this bard and I are acquaintances.”

“Right this way, then. I’ve kept him out of the children’s hands. I didn’t know if the singing and dancing routine would still make him tired or not and I wanted to be safe; for all the help he did to rescue them from those dastardly faeries, the villagers certainly seem to enjoy turning the key and making him perform.”

Geralt grew more and more worried with every word that passed through the alderman’s lips. Singing and dancing routine? Turning the key? Making him perform? What had the faeries done to his stupidly caring friend in return for his bravery? What kind of curse had they placed on the silly, fun-loving human?

The three men crossed through the manor’s sitting room and dining room and into a clean, empty storage room that ran against the very back of the building. Positioned in the center of the floor was an enormous, intricate music box. The figure standing up from the top was facing away from them, so Geralt took a moment to inspect the stand itself. 

The square box was carved around the bottom edges with buttercup blossoms and had paintings across all four sides, depicting the childish, storybook version of Jaskier approaching the Fae in the woods, his two nights of dancing and singing, his transformation, and, as they came around to the front panel at last, his imprisonment. The doll on top of the stand was Jaskier; or it had been, once upon a time.  

The bard looked only slightly different in his current accursed form, but it was enough to unnerve the usually stoic Witcher. The blue of Jaskier’s eyes was misty and glazed over. Glass, Geralt realized. He suppressed a horrified shudder at the thought. His eyes look like they’re made of glass. His skin was pale and when Geralt reached out to caress his arm (bent stiffly at the elbow much like a jointed doll’s would be) it felt waxy and too-smooth. Inhuman. 

Jaskier’s body was bent slightly forward at the waist, both arms resting oddly at his sides with the elbows bent at ninety degrees. Two circles of rouge brightened his cheeks and his eyes had been lightly lined to make them seem wider and more doll-like. A wreath of colorful flowers had been pinned into his hair and the blue silk doublet Geralt had last seen the bard wearing was nowhere to be found. 

The Fae had clearly taken their time with dressing and decorating him. His waist was cinched into a colorful corset-style vest that tied up the front with little blue silk bows and his legs were outfitted in tight-fitting, navy blue breeches that buckled just below the knee. His hose was off-white and complimented the shapely curve of his calves and ankles. He was wearing the buckled, heeled shoes of a nobleman and they shone with polish. There was nothing holding Jaskier up, which meant that the curse itself was keeping him upright and in place. 

The Witcher turned to glare at the alderman, his emotions finally boiling over at the sight of his bard’s transformation. “Did the Fae tell anyone how to break the curse?”

“We think the answer is in the song.”

“The song?”

“When you wind the lad up he sings a little song. He’s standing on a music box, after all.”

“Hmm.”

The alderman approached the side of the box and wound the large key jutting out, twisting until he was red faced and the bronze-painted peg would turn no more. He released the key and stepped back to join Geralt and the innkeeper where they stood with their backs against the far wall.

A few soft, tinkling metallic notes played through the room before the doll came to life. Jaskier’s back straightened and his arms reached out towards his audience in jerky little movements. Every time one of his joints extended or shifted there was a loud wrenching sound as the inner workings of the music box manipulated his limbs in time to the melody. 

Jaskier’s bright, lilting tenor flowed forth as he danced mechanically atop his pedestal. He turned in a slow circle, his arms reaching up and around as if seeking an embrace as he sang: 

“What do you see,

You people gazing at me?

You see a doll on a music box

That's wound by a key.

“How can you tell

I'm under a spell?

I'm waiting for love's first kiss!”

Geralt blushed as the doll-Jaskier reached directly out towards the space where the Witcher happened to be standing, almost as if he was reaching out for the true love he sought to break his spell. Geralt’s eyes met briefly with the wax figurine’s and he felt his heart skip a beat. Jaskier is so close and yet he still doesn’t see me. The Witcher gave a heavy sigh and shook his head as the bard continued his automatonlike performance. 

“You cannot see...

How much I long to be free,

Turning around on this music box

That's wound by a key!

“Yearning, yearning

While I'm turning around and around…”

The tune faded away into nothing again and Jaskier fell silent. His torso drooped forward. His hair fell into his eyes and Geralt reached out to move it away without thinking, letting his fingers brush the bard’s painted cheek as he pulled back. “So do you know anyone who could possibly free him? He only has a few days left.”

“What?!” Geralt snapped. He spun to face the innkeep with a thunderous look on his face. “What do you mean!?”

“The curse has to be broken before the end of the month or he’ll be stuck like this forever.”

“Fuck. Why didn’t you tell me that first?” the Witcher snarled. He gazed hopelessly at his friend and clenched his fists at his sides. 

It was so much easier to kill monsters. It was so much easier to break curses when they were placed on princesses or nobles or foolish peasants who had meddled where they shouldn’t. But Jaskier had been doing a good deed without being prompted and he had done it all alone without Geralt there for backup or protection. The stupid bard had rescued an entire village’s children by offering himself to the fae and now… now…

Geralt sighed and shook his head. He needed to think. He needed to breathe.

“I’m going to contact some friends and see what we can do,” he finally said. “But first I need rest. May I return to my room at the inn?”

“Aye. Good luck, Witcher.”

“Hmm.”

---

Geralt tossed and turned, unable to sleep. 

Two glassy blue eyes kept following his every move, searching for him in the dark. 

He knew he had to rescue Jaskier, the only problem was finding someone who loved him enough to break the curse. The Witcher rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling. Dawn was only a few hours away and he’d failed to get any sleep or meditate deeply enough to rest. He kept hearing those words, high and breathy, echoing through his head over and over:

“You cannot see...

How much I long to be free,

Turning around on this music box

That's wound by a key!”

The thought of anyone else kissing Jaskier sent a tight, angry buzzing sensation flickering beneath his skin. He bristled. He frowned. He… He was jealous. The moment Geralt tried to picture Essi Daven or Priscilla or that one foolish Count with ashy-blonde hair and broad shoulders he’d caught the bard with late one night even coming close to kissing Jaskier, the Witcher felt the urge to growl and bare his teeth. He wanted to curl around the music box and snarl at anyone who came too close for his liking. He wanted to wrap Jaskier in his arms and keep him there forever, where he could hear the bard’s heartbeat and feel his warmth.

An unnerving thought.

He’d always been a very possessive lover. 

Fuck.

But what if he tried to kiss the bard and the spell didn’t break? Then he might lose Jaskier regardless of whether or not he woke up. If Jaskier’s curse dissipated at the hands of another and he knew that Geralt had kissed him, had acknowledged his love for the bard and faced it head on and failed, then the Witcher might break down forever. Without Jaskier, what reason was there to return to the inn or the campfire at night? Of course there was Roach, but once she died he didn’t have to seek out another…

He could just disappear like many of his Witcher brethren often did. 

Geralt groaned and rose to his feet, slipping on his boots and cloak as quietly as possible. He crept through the sleepy town under the blanket of night and snapped the lock off the alderman’s back window. He gripped the lower sill and took a deep, steadying breath before heaving it open.

He had to try, at least.

He had to know.

The Witcher climbed silently into the storage room and walked in a slow circle around the music box. Jaskier was standing perfectly still, the painted smile on his face and the silk flowers in his hair looking as brilliant as ever, even in the darkness. Geralt stood in front of his cursed friend and sighed quietly. 

“I wish you didn’t have to find out just how much I care about you like this, Jaskier. I wish I could have told you about my rather prominent and passionate feelings before any of this nonsense had happened. If I fail you now, if you don’t wake up because this love is one-sided, I’m sorry. I want you to know that I’m so incredibly sorry for not being able to love you enough to save your life.”

With his soul bared and his confession carefully whispered into wooden ears, Geralt reached up and placed his palm against the bard’s waxy cheek. He had to stand on tiptoe in order to reach Jaskier’s mouth with his own and the position made him feel strangely vulnerable. He tried not to think about it as he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the smooth, painted wooden mouth of the music box doll that had once been his most faithful friend.

He pulled away after a lingering moment of contact, shaking his white hair out of his eyes. A few terrifying seconds ticked past and nothing happened. The Witcher was about to cry out in frustration and disappear out the window again when he heard a shallow breath being drawn. His worried amber gaze snapped up and met, for the first time in far too long, a pair of bright blue irises that flashed with recognition and confusion. 

Geralt held out his arms and caught the bard just as he went limp, his body exhausted from being held upright for so many days on end. He felt like a pile of crumpled laundry in the Witcher’s arms, all deadweight and no control over his limbs at all. “Are you alright, Jaskier?”

“Hnn.”

He was still waking up from the spell and likely had no memory of what had happened. Geralt bit back the pang of bitter disappointment that threatened to echo through his heart; he had no real claim over Jaskier and it wasn’t fair to make one now. Not if the bard didn’t remember his declaration.

“Let’s… Let’s get you back to the inn and get you taken care of, Jaskier. I can tell the others about the broken curse in the morning.”

“Do you mean it?” Jaskier rasped. His head lolled against Geralt’s shoulder and he glanced up with tired but frightened eyes, “Do you really love me?”

“Hmm. Yes.”

“Good,” the bard managed to shift closer despite his full-body exhaustion. “I love you, too.”

“No more running off and trying to save people by yourself.”

“Well you aren’t always around to help, Geralt, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll be around from now on,” the Witcher asserted. He pressed another quick kiss to the bard’s lips and watched as Jaskier blushed and stuttered in his firm bridal carry. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

---

“Geralt please stop humming that song.”

“I can’t help it! It’s so catchy, it just keeps getting stuck in my head. Will you sing it for me? Maybe that will help.”

“Fine,” the bard muttered, settling down next to the fire with his lute. “Just once.”

“Thank you.”

Geralt sank into his meditative kneel and closed his eyes. A smile played at the corner of his lips and Jaskier pretended not to see it.

“What do you see,

You people gazing at me?

You see a doll on a music box

That’s wound by a key.”