#the magic yellow cup series

[acid-ixx]

that's my type! (again &. again drabble)

ft. yandere john constantine x gn! neglected reader w/ the batfamily

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist !

absolute shitpost, but i keep thinking in my series, again &. again, the awkward tension of having to reject all your suitors right in front of your family.

they don't explicitly force you to tell anyone off – suddenly, bruce believed in the means of gentle parenting after your abduction – but you can tell with their expectant eyes and damian's harsh glares or cass' fighting stance against the small crowd, that if you don't play with their whims, there might be more than broken bones and sore bodies after, compared to simply rejecting them as nicely as you could.

it's kind of like a peace treaty, a silent agreement between your side and theirs to ensure no harm befalls anyone you're close to, if you think about it.

you're still too considerate for your own good, after all.

"... sorry, haha... i'm not interested in dating any one of you right now," your voice is faint like the ghastly whispers of the hallways you're once subjected to, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt, eyes downcast in fear of watching their reactions churn out.

if you don't take kindly to the past rejection of your family, then what of them?

imagine the silence that ensues first, then the short celebration after from your family's side. steph shoots your love interests a harsh glance, shooing them away in her high-pitched mockery paired with a mean grin and a tongue sticking out at the heartbreak plastered all over their faces.

there's a brief, "hn," on damian's side. despite the short reply and his still-crossed arms, you can tell it's a tone of satisfaction with just how his lips quirks up at the corner of his mouth.

you look away when your eyes meet his.

at first, you braced for the blinding shame that overcomes your being, these were people precious to you after all. yet the more you think about yourself even further, the more the cup spills with overwhelming anger instead.

anger at just how you allowed your sardonic, dictatorial family the belief that they could just control who you should and shouldn't spend your years of romantic pursuits with.

it's your dating life, not theirs! and you're a full-fledged adult, mind them!

no! this shouldn't be their moment, you shouldn't lose your dignity and reputation, seen as someone in the public eye allowing the very same people who estranged them the delusion of control over your emotional autonomy to romantic feelings.

you don't allow the time to stretch even further, touching your precious amber necklace when you're sure nobody's looking. it's gifted by someone special, and you hope your beloved on the other side, in another dimension, could hear your distressed signals.

there's an unsound churn, a melodic beat akin to the thrum of a heart that plays mechanically at the pattern your fingers run on the shiny crystal. a warm, intangible glow encases your body like a hug, he'll be here for you soon.

then before the celebration ensues, before dick could explode with absolute joy, praising his baby bird about how he's so proud that they're prioritizing themself or any other patronizing bullshit he wants to splurge, or before bruce can come over to you to give you a pat on the head, possibly even an awkward sidehug, and one of his rare smiles; you breath heavily, then with all your heart, retort with:

"— in fact," your voice booms with a sudden assertiveness that shocks even you, commanding everyone's attention on your furrowed brows and tired glare at the nuisance they're causing. once their eyes are looking expectedly on you, you continue with no hesitation.

"...i'm- well... i'm actually into older men...

— hell, i'm dating one right now..."

a magic circle appears right behind you, encasing your form in a sheer, yellow glow. goosebumps erode from across your body, both from giddy anticipation and the dramatic entry of wind that kisses your skin cooly.

after a momentary beat, alongside watching your wide-eyed crowd, john fucking constantine steps out of the space, his arms already wrapped dangerously close to your hips to be considered not intimate. you turn your back, head meeting his chest, and bring your arms to envelop his shoulders.

he smells of booze and pride.

"miss me already, darlin'?" john laughs and sweetly kisses your sweaty forehead, you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his shaved beard hovering above your head and the faint scent of cigarettes hitting your nostrils.

"oh, more than you could ever know, babe."

his lips find their way to your mouth in a quick peck, as your nose nuzzles with his. there were no other sounds surrounding you other than your shy laughter when his hands explored further below your hips.

after a moment of love-filled gazes, he turns his head to the crowd and offers them a bemused smile, the expressions of those watching makes your shameless pda all the more worthwhile.

alfred's jaw drops to the floor, the tray on his hands cluttering on soft, velvety capets, poor him. even your father couldn't even believe, in all his years of living, that this man had the balls of steel stealing the heart of his precious child.

he doesn't even have the contingency plan for- for this...!

cue the absolute shitshow that plays in everyone else's mind, as you try to convince your boyfriend to get you both out of the place because sloppily making out with you and fondling with the sensitive parts of your body in front of your suitors and family isn't the best course of action if he wants to lose all his limbs.

jason already got his guns out, damian his sword, and duke wouldn't waste a beat triggering his metahuman powers— you know your man, constantine, is a capable lover and fighter with years of experience, but against a crowd of metahuman love interests and a literal house full of trained combatants, you don't want him to sore his body out protecting you before the real fun begins in your shared bed.

all that trouble, when he's capable of teleporting you both away into a safer area, a different dimension where it's just you two. and, you know...

his hand playing with the fat of your ass is already enough to cause a heart attack for all of them, anyways.

a/n: woah, my writing style fluctuates a lot. as i've stated, the more i become invested with the dc fandom, the more i want to branch out with other characters too. i also want more creative plots ngl. this is inspired by my own fic, just a taste. please leave comments below, it's my main motivation bec i'm an attention whore (slash jay) and my works have been flopping lately LMAO. i hope you guys become as feral as i am for this british man.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 2: Tiger's Eye]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.7k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

The taxidermied tiger head hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room, its jaws agape in a perpetual roar and its eyes polished spheres of metamorphic rock the color of dusk. Daemon shot it in Burma years ago—valleys of saturated green earth, mountain ranges like a crooked spine—shortly after opening his third black opal mine in Australia. You stare at the disembodied creature and she stares back, a silent scream, a doomed eternal terror in her tiger’s eye gaze: Help! A man is killing me. A man is taking me from where I belong. A man is nailing me to a wall so all the world knows he is the one whose bullet severed my aorta, filled me with hemorrhaging blood until I sank down, down, down.

You say, still looking at the slayed beast: “Did we really have to bring that with us?”

Daemon glances over as he fastens his cufflinks, onyx with red beryl in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen family crest. “I’m sure you’d prefer a finger painting from that Italian tosspot you’re so enamored with. What’s his name, Pizarro?”

“Picasso. And he’s Spanish.”

“Even worse.”

You turn to Daemon, and you can feel yourself wilting, becoming pitiful, vulnerable, needy. “Where are you going?”

He smirks as he stalks past you. “Wherever I want.” Then he passes through the doorway and out into the hall, flanked by the ever-grim Edward Rushton, black suits and polished leather shoes.

It’s midday on April 12th, and you and Fern are now alone in the Targaryen staterooms. Laenor is down on F-Deck enjoying the Squash Racquet Court with his new Parisian companions, Rhaenyra is in the Reading and Writing Room with a group of ladies led by the Countess of Rothes, and Dagmar has taken Draco…somewhere. Meanwhile, your sweet-tempered maid is flitting around making beds and collecting empty cups and soiled linens. “Fern?” you call.

She peeks out of Draco’s bedroom. “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

To leap overboard and swim back to Ireland. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Promenade Deck with me? Breathe some fresh air, look for dolphins and whales, have lunch at the Verandah Cafe?”

Fern is apologetic in that soft, skittish way that she has. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I have to finish cleaning the rooms before Dagmar comes back.”

She doesn’t say why—that would be insubordinate—but you know. Just like on the family crest, the dragon has three heads: Daemon, Draco, Dagmar. All must be appeased lest their fire turn you to ash. And Fern lives in terror of the gaunt Scandinavian tyrant. “Right. I understand.”

“I should be done in an hour or two. When you return from your walk, I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re too kind.”

She is confused. “It’s my job, ma’am.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re the one doing it.”

Fern smiles, small and hesitant. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your walk.”

Outside on the Promenade Deck, the sun is bright and the wind brisk, just warm enough to forego a coat, black mink or white ermine or grey rabbit or reddish fox, pelts harvested, creatures butchered. Your dress is a cheerful yellow, as if attempting to conjure the golden-haired magic of the Targaryens, their willfulness, their invincibility, their habit of bending the world’s truth in their hands until it snaps. Yet none of them are here with you; you are alone, you are unnecessary. As you walk, you pass women reading novels on teak deckchairs, children playing with spinning tops and dominoes under the watchful eyes of fathers and governesses, men smoking cigars as they debate business and politics and which gemstones they should purchase for their sweethearts. You have to get away from them.

You take the Grand Staircase up to the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and to distract yourself you count the covered lifeboats that are stowed there. This does not assuage your anxiety; you see only twenty, and while you have made a practice of avoiding sailing and therefore are no expert on the issue, this does not seem like enough. You go to the railing—about as tall as your waist—and lean over it as you stare, thoughts troubled and brow furrowed, into the wild, uninterrupted blue of the North Atlantic, five hundred miles from the coast of Ireland. To your left is a man painting a sheet of paper clipped to an easel, a palette held in his hand, viscous globs of color from small silvery tubes. Seventy feet below where you stand is the sea, thrashing against Titanic, a wood-and-steel intruder. You lean a little farther over the side of the ship. The water is cold, you imagine; cold, deep, dark, silent.

If I fell in, this would all be over, you think. No more Daemon. No more anyone. The only people who would miss me are my parents, and they’ll never see me again anyway.

But no; you cannot abandon Draco. He’s a piece of you, even if he doesn’t know it. You cannot allow him to become a monster.

The viola player peeks out from behind his easel. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?”

You gasp, startled, and then cover your face as you groan. “Why are you always out here?!”

“Aw, fancy rock lady needs a member of the perpetual underclass to malign,” he says as he adds brushstrokes to his painting. He has procured a suit somehow—black, slightly too big for him, likely stolen—to better masquerade as a first-class passenger. “What’s the matter, rock lady? Did your servants not put enough sugar in your tea this morning? Did they tug a little too hard as they brushed your hair?”

“You’re not well mentally. You need a straightjacket.”

“I’m not the one about to throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean.”

You glare at him, bitter, defensive. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Then what were you doing?”

You can’t answer; you wring your hands and press your lips together so tightly they ache, watch dark smoke billow from the nearest funnel, coal shoveled into blazing furnaces, treasures of the earth extracted like teeth and consumed.

“Hey, I didn’t, um…” The viola player lowers his paintbrush, repentant. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

You ask to change the subject: “What are you painting?”

“People,” he says, grinning, then turns his easel to show you. It’s a father holding his daughter so she can look over the railing and pointing to show her something out in the waves, dolphins, perhaps. His work is excellent, you are surprised to see: wispy curls of hair, irises alight with emotion, shadows and wrinkles and cheeks ruddy from gusts of wind, imperfections of reality.

“It’s good,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings.

“And of course you’re shocked.” He points to a scuffed brown leather portfolio resting against one leg of the easel. “I have plenty more, if you’re interested.”

You open the portfolio. There are men worriedly counting coins, women waiting on park benches, children beaming as they feed ducks or tend to their dolls, people giggling and scowling and burning up with clandestine longing, people sipping drinks in smoky pubs. In the bottom right corner of each painting is a moniker for the subject: Crystal, Big Red, Sunshine, Baron, Carnation, Tiny, Mars, Archer, Harpist, Pennies, Henry VIII, Belfast Belle. Unwittingly, you smile to yourself. “You give them names.”

“I watch people, but I don’t usually talk to them,” the viola player explains as he dabs thick oil paint on the paper clipped to the easel, treated to resemble the texture of linen. “I like to catch them unawares. Keeps the moment genuine, truthful. Otherwise they start acting for me.”

“Why paper instead of canvas?”

“Easier to travel with. Lighter and less bulky.”

You recall what he told Daemon at O’Connell’s Bar back in Galway: Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact. You gingerly slide his paintings back into the portfolio and tease: “Who do you think you are, Picasso?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. His sand-colored hair trashes in the wind that blows off the ocean, salt and mist. “I am under no such delusion. I’ve met him, though.”

You gawk at the viola player. “You’ve…you’ve met Pablo Picasso?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “In Barcelona. I love his Blue and Rose Period stuff. Now he’s doing some weird cubism bullshit.” The viola player shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s his art, he can paint what he wants. But I prefer something a little more…real.”

“I do too,” you confess. “I went to Paris once with my parents. I saw some of Picasso’s work in a gallery, but he wasn’t there at the time. I bought a few paintings.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother and Child from 1905. Flowers from 1901.” You hesitate. It’s a bit scandalous. “Blue Nude.”

But the viola player neither cringes nor makes a joke. “I remember that one,” he says softly, watching you. After a moment he asks: “Are they hanging in your rooms?”

“They’re in a trunk. Daemon doesn’t like them.” And the animosity in your voice is an act of treason, however small. You glance around for Daemon, Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and thankfully find none of them. You avert your eyes, ashamed. A husband you hate, and fear, and obey, and lie awake at night conspiring how to please.

There is something that ripples across the viola player’s face—sympathy, distress—and then he resumes putting the final touches on his portrait of two unnamed passengers. “Do you paint?”

You laugh. “Very badly.”

He offers you the paintbrush, saturated with a reddish-gold color like dusk. “You can help me fill in the man’s scarf. That’s hard to fuck up.”

Your jaw falls open.

“That’s hard to mess up,” he amends.

Smiling shyly, you take the paintbrush and add a few tentative strokes to the scarf. The viola player accepts the paintbrush when you forfeit it.

“So besides making awful paintings, how did you spend your time back in Galway?”

Reminding my father who he is. Taking long walks through the fields with my mother. Sitting in the garden wondering how my life went so wrong. Trying to stop my only child from becoming a demon like his father. “I read a lot. Mostly Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” he echoes, amused. “Recite some for me.”

You take a moment to decide on a passage.

“Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” the viola player says, much to your amazement. He’s a thief holding a third-class ticket, and yet he’s learned. This is rare outside the blue-blooded aristocrats and the titans of industry. Fern can barely read and write.

“Where were you educated?”

“The world,” he replies, grinning.

“And the world included lessons on Shakespeare?”

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Alright then, let’s hear an excerpt.”

He considers this, tapping the handle of his paintbrush against his lips. Then he says:

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

“King Henry VI,” you say, admittedly impressed. “I didn’t know poor people read Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare’s plays were written for everyone, fancy rock lady. Standing tickets at the Globe cost pennies.”

You study the viola player as he paints, feeling a bewildering combination of curiosity, amusement, fondness. “What’s your name?”

He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say, then gives you a sly, crooked grin as he replies: “Picasso.”

Now a steward is approaching, and the viola player is alarmed, perhaps anticipating being revealed as a fraud and dragged back to the third-class accommodations; but the steward is only passing by with a tray full of champagne flutes, offering them to illustrious passengers as they stroll the decks. You take two glasses and he continues on his way. You down one flute in just a few gulps and offer the other to the viola player. He smiles politely but does not reach for it.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Have you ever met a man who doesn’t? You can’t think of one. And you are suddenly aware of how quickly you finished your champagne—unladylike, improper, but surely no great disgrace in front of this audience—and how yearningly you’re already glancing at the second glass, carbonated amber, fool’s gold.

“I’m not someone who can stop at just one or two,” the viola player says. “I’ve learned that about myself. Tried to fight it for a while, turns out acceptance is easier. I hardly even miss booze anymore.”

“How long did you fight it?”

“Ten years.”

You are caught off-guard. “What? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Since he was thirteen? Can that be right? “We’re about the same age,” you say instead, taking a distracted swig from the glass that would have been his.

“Yeah,” the viola player agrees thoughtfully.

You finish the champagne and hand both glasses to a passing steward. “I should go,” you tell the viola player. “I don’t know where Daemon is on the ship, and…” I don’t want him to see us. I don’t want him to hurt me.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Good luck with your painting.”

“I’ll make one of you next,” he promises, and you’re certain he’s joking.

You smile and turn to leave. “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

You walk towards the Grand Staircase that leads back down to the Promenade Deck. As you pass the Gymnasium, you steal a glimpse through one of the windows and see them inside: Draco giggling as he rides the electric horse and yanks gleefully on the reins, Dagmar beaming as her gnarled, arthritic hands hold him by the waist so he doesn’t slide off.

You lay your palm against the cold glass, separated by a few steps that might as well be miles, wreckage peering up through the darkness from the bottom of the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fern helps you dress for dinner: a glittering gold gown, a tiger’s eye amulet from Burma. Laenor has brought a companion, one of the Parisians he’s become so well-acquainted with, a count’s son named Hugo. As Laenor is preoccupied, Daemon escorts Rhaenyra to the First-Class Dining Saloon down in D-Deck. They meander together, her arm linked through his, murmuring gossip about the other passengers and snickering contemptuously. You trail behind them, feeling invisible, a sun that casts no warmth.

All around you are other first-class passengers descending the Grand Staircase: Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress two decades his junior, John Jacob Astor and his pregnant eighteen-year-old wife, railroad tycoons Charles M. Hays and John B. Thayer, steel industrialist George Dennick Wick, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown, the eminent journalist W.T. Stead, the White Star Line’s managing director J. Bruce Ismay. But your gaze keeps drifting to Macy’s department store owner Isidor Straus and his wife Ida, neither young, neither beautiful, and yet so evidently devoted to each other. You wonder how that feels; surely nothing like a bruise, a reproach, a back turned to you in the marriage bed.

On the A-Deck landing of the Grand Staircase is the viola player, his horsehair bow gliding over four thick strings to loose an energetic, jubilant song, standing there in his suit that no one else notices is too big for him because they don’t really see him at all. He is less than a fixture of the ship; the first-class passengers marvel at the glass-and-wrought-iron dome overhead and the Neoclassical clock on the wall and even the bronze cherub statue at the base of the steps, but the flesh-and-blood machinery of Titanic wears a sort of camouflage, unremarkable and interchangeable, uncomfortably human. The viola player gives you a wink and a quick, subtle smile as you pass by him, and you smile back. And for a moment, it is like you have a friend aboard the ship, a groundswell of fleeting joy, gratefulness, peace.

Dinner is oysters, salmon with hollandaise, corned ox tongue, chateau potatoes, asparagus soup, Waldorf pudding, other things that you pick at without much interest. You miss Lough Cutra Castle, you miss your parents, you miss Ireland, you miss your life before Daemon Targaryen stalked into it with his ever-glinting green eyes and his talent for making you so desperate to satisfy him. Instead of eating, you mostly drink champagne, draining glasses of it until your cheeks are warm and your thoughts hazy. You look around for the viola player, but he never appears in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Instead, the five-piece string ensemble that welcomed you aboard Titanic yesterday is playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Daemon has invited a guest to share your table, chief designer of the ship Mr. Thomas Andrews. He is gracious and even-tempered, exactly the sort of man Daemon likes to entrap and enchant and have his way with. As you drown in champagne, Daemon tells Mr. Andrews about surviving a hurricane while mining Larimar in the Dominican Republic, domesticating a ring-tailed lemur in Madagascar (Daemon had named it Aegon and kept it on a leash), getting lost for three days in the Australian Outback and resorting to eating snakes and dingoes, bludgeoned to death with rocks and roasted over campfires. Rhaenyra observes all of this with a proud, radiant smile, encouraging Daemon with nods and oddly girlish giggles. Laenor, meanwhile, is chatting with Hugo and paying little attention to anything else. He and Rhaenyra have three young sons back in England, though they resemble Laenor Velaryon far less than they do Harwin Strong, Viserys the Duke of Beaufort’s former Master of the Horse and Rhaenyra’s rumored lover. The virile, dark-haired Harwin Strong was killed last year in an unfortunate riding accident, whereupon Daemon rekindled his previously strained relationship with Rhaenyra in the interests of helping her cope with the loss. As it turned out, Daemon’s niece had grown up to be much the same as he is—daring, sarcastic, charismatic, incorrigible—and as if you didn’t have enough difficulty winning his affection before, now you must compete with his kindred spirit, a golden-haired wildfire only a few years older than you and who Daemon can delightedly torment his estranged brother with by capturing her in his orbit.

Daemon is saying, his elbows on the table and miming clutching a massive gemstone in his palm: “As a famed French fashion critic once wrote, The jewel, which is so well adapted to a woman’s adornment, is a combination of the riches of nature and art.”

“Not just any fashion critic,” you say without thinking, the champagne parting your lips before you can reconsider. “Charles Blanc. And I’m the one who gave you his book, remember? It was one of my wedding presents to you.”

Everyone turns to stare at you, as if abruptly being made aware of your existence. Laenor and Hugo appear puzzled. Rhaenyra is frowning with disapproval. Mr. Andrews nods politely. Daemon, after a moment, chuckles in that low, rolling, sardonic way that he does.

“Yes, dear, you certainly did. Clearly it made an impression.” He looks to Mr. Andrews. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, good sir. I’m afraid she has a weakness for champagne.”

“Don’t we all?” Mr. Andrews replies diplomatically.

“The truth is,” Dameon says as if he’s confiding in the shipbuilder; and yet there’s an exhilaration he can’t entirely disguise, a malicious triumph, proof of the power he has over you. “She’s petrified of sailing, has been for years. And this journey…well…it’s been quite an ordeal for her. But under no uncertain terms was I leaving Ireland without my family. Where I go, we all go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your rattled nerves, Lady Targaryen.” Mr. Andrews’ eyes are soft with pity for you, a neurotic and illogical woman, tortured by her own nature. “Is there anything I can say to alleviate your fears? Have you been on a ship that’s run into trouble before?”

“No, no sir, I just…” You push through the warm, amber-gold fog of the champagne to explain. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking of all the water beneath us, and a ship…even one as large and luxurious as Titanic…it seems too vulnerable to me. One puncture and we all go straight to the seafloor.”

“That’s why I built Titanic with watertight bulkheads that go up to E-Deck,” Mr. Andrews says, smiling reassuringly. “There are sixteen total, and the ship can stay afloat with several of them flooded. This is meant to contain any possible breach in the hull.”

“Oh, how ingenious!” Laenor exclaims. “Hugo, isn’t that extraordinary?”

Mr. Andrews continues: “Truly, Lady Targaryen, I have built you an unsinkable ship. You have nothing to worry about here on Titanic.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Daemon agrees.

“And there are lifeboats, I suppose,” you say. “Although…I didn’t see very many up on the Boat Deck. What is their total capacity, I wonder…?”

“Over 1,000 souls, ma’am,” Mr. Andrews replies.

You are horrified. “That’s half the people onboard.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “But as I said, Titanic cannot sink.” Again, he smiles blithely. “Besides, in the event of an evacuation—engine failure or damaged propellers or some such thing—the lifeboats would only be needed to ferry passengers from Titanic to the vessel we’d hail to rescue us with the wireless telegraph machine. The lifeboats were never intended to be able to hold all the passengers at once, that would be absurd.”

“Impossible,” Daemon concurs. “What on earth would necessitate a swift and total evacuation?”

“What about an iceberg?” Hugo says as he eats a heaping spoonful of Waldorf pudding, vanilla custard mixed with nutmeg, apples, walnuts, and raisins.

Mr. Andrews titters patiently, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “No iceberg could damage Titanic enough to flood more than three bulkheads. And we have lookouts employed to spot them and sound the alarm so we can turn in time. Icebergs are not a concern whatsoever.”

“Très bien!” Hugo declares, redirecting his full attention back to his Waldorf pudding.

Mr. Andrews looks to you, his voice kind but patronizing. “Do you feel better now, Lady Targaryen?”

“Much better,” you lie.

“Good. Then no more worrying. And no need to drink yourself under the table either.”

Daemon says with a derisive snort: “Well, she is Irish.”

Everyone laughs; everyone but you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Targaryen staterooms, Rush is waiting by the door to take your coats. Laenor and Hugo bid everyone goodnight, then depart; Rhaenyra, seemingly reluctantly, takes her leave as well. She and Laenor have separate accommodations as they always do while travelling, not unheard of among first-class passengers but also not helping to dispel the rumors concerning her sons’ parentage.

Dagmar is perched on one of the sofas like a falcon on a branch, her talonlike fingers knitting a forest green blanket for Draco. Your son, meanwhile, is sprawled on the sitting room floor and at war with Fern, who is trying to coax him out of his shoes and day clothes and into his pajamas.

“Draco, please, my love, it’s time to get ready for bed now—”

“I want to go back to the Gymnasium!” he screeches, wriggling out of her grasp. From the sofa, Dagmar chuckles as if this is charming behavior, a portent of superb athletic fitness, perhaps. “I want to ride the horsey!”

Fern is exasperated. “Darling, the Gymnasium is closed, no one is allowed to use it any more tonight. But I promise you’ll be able to go back tomorrow—”

“No!” Draco shrieks. “Now! Right now!”

Fern finally manages to slip off one of his shoes, and faster than anyone can stop him, Draco draws back his hand and slaps her across the face, open palm, a sharp crack in the air, and of course he’s too young and too weak to do anything but stun her, but he won’t be four years old forever.

One day he’ll be able to hurt people. He’ll be able to break them, bruise them, ruin their lives.

“No!” you shout, then bolt to Draco and drop to the floor to hold him by his frail little shoulders, firm yet careful not to harm him, no scratches, no bruises, no pools of trapped blood that will ache with violent memory. “You never do that! You don’t hurt people! You don’t hit women!”

“Mam?” Draco whimpers, his lips quivering and tears shimmering in his eyes; and he almost never calls you that, he almost never acknowledges you as his mother at all. But he knows, he must, this proves it. “I’m sorry…I won’t do it again…please don’t yell at me…”

Immediately remorseful, you embrace him, and Draco clings to you as he sobs. Fern is watching you with huge, frightened eyes; then they flick to someone standing behind you.

Rush grabs you by both arms and wrenches you away. You yelp in shock and pain; Dagmar swoops in to take Draco and vanishes into his bedroom, glaring at you over her shoulder, frigid lethal fury. Fern is covering her mouth with her hands so she won’t scream.

Rush hurls you to the carpet and backs away. When you look up, Daemon is standing in the doorway of your bedroom, orange dusk-like light spilling out from behind him.

“Come here,” Daemon says, beckoning you with his right hand.

You are terrified; you are shaking. “No.”

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“No,” you say again. You glance at Fern, but she can’t help you; she turns away, stifling a cry with her palms. The room is spinning, your thoughts are slow, your skull aches with rhythmic pulses like blows from a hammer. You peer up at Rush, blinking blearily. “Do you like working for a man who beats his wife?”

Rush doesn’t reply; his face is grave but otherwise unreadable. Fern curls up on the floor, shaking her head. The taxidermied tiger head roars silently from above the crackling fireplace.

Daemon says from the doorway: “Dear, I’m losing my patience.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You crawl towards him, then at the halfway point stagger to your feet. Daemons steps aside so you can cross through the threshold. He closes the door and locks it. You stare at him, swaying a bit, your hands hovering in front of you. You’re trying to figure out where he’s going to hit you, but he’s good at not letting on, and you’re drunk. You guess stomach, but it’s your face, just like Draco struck Fern; his open palm sets your cheek on fire and rocks your head back. You lunge for him, fingers clawing and knuckles jabbing at his ribs. Sometimes you fight back and sometimes you don’t—occasionally he finds it endearing and leaves you alone, more often it exacerbates the situation—but tonight you are overwhelmed with wrath for this man who has taken everything from you, your home, your parents, your son, your future.

You shove Daemon into his writing desk, then he pins you to the wall, slides open a drawer of the desk with his free hand, pulls out his gemstone-studded dagger and lays the blade against your windpipe. And you scream, because for all his roughness and his threats Daemon has never done this before. No one appears to rescue you; no one would dare.

“You will not correct Draco,” Daemon says. “He is my son, and I will deal with him.”

You seethe, teeth bared: “I don’t want him to be like you.”

“Think about it, dear,” Daemon hisses, the blade cold against your throat. You can feel it stinging, a thin slice like a papercut you’ll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If you were to take a tumble over the railing, who could say if it was an accident or a suicide or a crime of opportunity committed by some third-class scoundrel? There would be nothing to investigate. You would be gone, and that would be the end of it. Draco is past the fragile years of infancy, he is healthy and he is fierce. Your father’s quarry is already under the control of my managers. What do I need you for now? Why the fuck would I tolerate any further obstinance from you? Your usefulness has come and gone. You stand on the thinnest of ice. One wrong step, and you’ll find it splintering beneath your feet.”

He lifts the dagger away and strides out of the bedroom. You stand there in the tawny lamplight like a sunset, trembling all over, gasping for air, your hands flying up to your neck. When you check your fingers, they are sticky and copper-smelling with a small amount of blood.

He could have killed me. I think he wanted to.

There is a tall oval mirror by the bed, its frame gilded and glowing in the ochre lamplight. You stare at yourself, tears flooding down your cheeks, a gold dress worth more than you are. Everything you own is Daemon’s. That will be true for as long as he lives.

You flee out onto the small private deck attached to your rooms, through the back exit, and into the labyrinthian hallways of B-Deck. You run towards the stern of the ship, dodging stewards who ask if you need assistance and men sauntering back from the First-Class Smoking Room after dinner, puffing on their pipes and their cigars, nursing stout glasses of brandy to keep them warm. When you break out into the open air, it is bitterly cold. The ocean is a vast lightless void; you could mistake it for nothingness if it wasn’t for the thunderous rumble and salt spray of the waves. Your gleaming gold dress billows around you as you sprint to the metal railing that encloses the stern, grip the top rung with shaking hands, stare down into the roiling depths churned by the propellers.

Where can I go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere else to run to.

“Hey,” the viola player says; you recognize his voice immediately.

You turn away, not wanting him to see the swelling on your face, the traces of blood at your throat. You are heartbroken, you are humiliated. You agreed to marry a man and now he’s ruined your life. You wrap your bare arms around yourself and sniffle, shivering, swiping tears from your eyes.

After a while, the viola player says cautiously, realizing you aren’t in the mood for disclosures: “It’s cold tonight.”

“Obviously.”

He takes off his black wool coat, presumably stolen like the suit he wears underneath, and offers it to you. “I have more layers on.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Please shut up and take the coat, okay?” You accept it and put it on, and instantly you begin to feel better. The viola player asks gently: “Does he hit you?”

You shrug, petulant like a child. “Sometimes I hit him back.”

The viola player sighs, but he’s not just disappointed; he’s saddened, he’s pained. “Look, I know what it’s like to get knocked around. That’s why I left home.”

You remember what he told you when you first realized he’d followed you onto Titanic: I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit. “Why would you ever want to see them again?”

“Things are different now. I’m older, I’m not afraid to walk out and be on my own, I’m confident that I can advocate for myself better than before. And they aren’t all bad. I have…” He hesitates. “I have two brothers and a sister in New York, and I miss them.”

“What are their names?”

“Um,” he stops to think. Clearly he’s making them up. “Arnold, Henrietta, and Dean.”

“Do you actually have siblings or is this some sort of metaphor?”

He laughs. “No, they’re real. The names might not be, but the people are. Want to see your painting?”

“You were serious?”

He carefully pulls it out of the brown leather portfolio he’s carrying under one arm. And if it’s supposed to be you, he’s failed, but still the image is mesmerizing: a young woman—too beautiful, far too beautiful—glancing over at him from where she was pondering the waves under a clear midday sky, her hair in disarray from the wind and her eyes fearful, an oil-paint snapshot of desperation, defenselessness, wonder, hope.

“It’s very nice,” you say at last. “But I don’t look like that.”

“Yeah you do.”

You examine the bottom right corner of the painting to see what he’s named you. You skim your thumbprint feather-lightly over black cursive letters, drawn with the smallest of brushes. “Petra,” you murmur.

The viola player says self-consciously, as if hoping you’ll approve: “It’s Greek for rock.”

You smile faintly. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, fancy rock lady took Greek lessons in school.”

“Of course I did.”Greek, Latin, French, Irish Gaelic. You muse softly, still studying the painting: “Petra and Picasso.”

You don’t have to look at him; you can hear the grin in his voice. “Guess we’re friends now, huh?”

“I’ve never had a poor friend before.”

“Well, firstly, you can’t call me your poor friend. That’s offensive.”

With great unwillingness, you surrender the painting and give it back to the viola player. “I can’t keep this. I’m sorry, I want to. But Daemon might find it.” And then he’ll push me overboard and I’ll be dinner for the sharks.

He tucks the painting safely into his portfolio. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Forever, you mean.”

“You might not always have to worry about Daemon.”

You share a dark, horrible truth: “I’ll never be free of him.”

“We’ll see,” the viola player replies, undaunted.

We’ll see.

[thebestofoneshots]

MARAUDWEEEN

Feels Like The First Time | James Potter x reader

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Word Count: 6 k

Warnings: Smut, fingering, P in V, lots of praise, consent is sexy, lusty!James, bashful!James, he literally can't take his eyes off you.

Prompt: As a part of the Marauween Series, this fic takes you to an Alternate Universe where James Potter is a fireman, telling the story of how you met, and how your first time came about.

Maraudween is a Halloween-inspired anthology series where each chapter transports you into a distinct alternate universe. From the real world to old western Texas and even through the dark times of vampires. These standalone tales invite you into a realm of boundless potential. Experience the enchantment of Halloween as it weaves its spell, intertwining the magic of costumes, AUs, terror and spice.

NSFW (Smut under the cut) ♡

“What can I get you, sir?” You asked, not looking up from the register as you were trying to close the tab of the previous order. The machine had been acting up lately and no matter how hard you tried, it seemed to take its sweet time between closing an old order and opening the feed to start a new one. 

You were almost scowling at it when you heard a low chuckle from behind the counter, you instantly recognized it. The cute fireman, you felt your cheeks flush at the thought. 

“Everything all right, angel?” he asked, voice soft even as a little smirk played on his lips. 

“James!” you said with a smile, deciding to ignore the machine and talk to the man instead. He lived a few blocks away, in your same building, and he always passed by the shop to get some coffee and a snack before he finished his walk to work. Sometimes he came on his way back too, he was over so often, that you almost knew his orders by memory, “Americano?” 

He shook his head “I’m feeling up for something sweeter today.” 

You hummed in response, running his typical orders in your head “Late with a pump of strawberry?” 

He tilted his head, seemingly thinking about it, you couldn’t help to let your eyes linger over his uniform. He’d typically alternate between blue, yellow and grey. Today he was wearing grey and you would be lying if you said he didn’t look disarmingly attractive. He was big and well built too, but that was a lot easier to appreciate on hotter days when he wasn’t wearing his jacket on top of the usual either crisp white or neat black shirt, “Yeah, that’s perfect.” 

You smiled and started writing down the details in his cup. When you realised there was no one on the line behind him, you decided to prepare his drink yourself, instead of passing it over to Marcus, your coworker, and better barista between the two. James knew, and yet, he much better liked the drinks you prepared. 

“Want me to add a bit of whipped cream?” You asked. 

“You spoil me,” he said with a smile, you turned to give him a questioning look, a smile playing on your lips as he nodded, perhaps that’s why he liked your drinks best, they almost always came along with a smile. 

“You do spoil him,” Marcus added as he used one of the machines to draw pictures over a latte. 

You gave him a pout as an answer and continued with your preparation. Once it was done you turned around, Marcus had gone off to tend some table and you walked over to James, handing him his cup straight to his hands. His fingers lingered over yours as he took it from you and you felt your stomach flutter, “I’d add some cinnamon for spice,” you told him, he nodded and walked over to the sugar table, doing exactly as you told him.

“Hey, James?” 

“Hmm…?”

“Good luck at work today,” you added with a smile, Marcus from one of the tables almost rolled his eyes, while James’ smile only widened. 

There was a huge fire that day, you saw it on the news on the small TV in the corner of the shop, one of the old buildings near the centre of the city had caught fire. Since it had been during work hours there hadn’t been that many people inside, and thankfully no one died but about 2 dozen had ended up in the hospital due to smoke toxicity. Or so was reporting the news lady. 

“Do you think James’s all right?” you asked, turning to Marcus with a little frown. 

“Why don’t you go home and check on him? He lives almost in front of you anyway. This happened about an hour ago, he might be there soon...” 

You nodded, and hurried with the wiping of tables, still looking a bit nervous and rushed “I’ll finish up closing,” he added. 

“Thank you,” you said as you went to pick up your stuff and remove your uniform from the back room. 

Marcus called your name, you turned to him “Bring him something. His favourite treat of whatever… I’m sure you already know it by memory.” 

“I… Well, I mean…”  

“Don’t play dumb and just take it to him, whatever it might be. Would serve you well, maybe admit that you like him as well.” 

You flushed “Shut it, Marcus.” 

“He likes you back, did you know?” You gave him a look “Hey it’s true! I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” 

“He’s just polite.” 

“Polite my ass, he’s never looked at me like that. Go on, knock on his door, patch him up and admit your crush. Maybe get it going with him too. What do you think he’d look like with those snug pants and a pair of suspenders? Only a pair of suspenders.” 

You flushed a lot more this time around, the image floating to your brain unprompted, and you weren’t able to shake it off that easily. Curse your imaginative mind and Markus’ dirty one to put the idea in your head. 

“So… his favourite treat?” 

“It’s the lemon tart,” you admitted reluctantly. “He orders it whenever he’s feeling down. And also after bad days.” Markus smiled and leaned down to take two of them and place them on a small box for you to take home, “Thank you.” 

“Thank me when you’ve seen him with only pants and suspenders!” he joked, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smile still plastered on your face as you did. 

You got home after a short walk and went straight for a quick shower. It was then that you heard the thud of heavy boots in the hallway. He was walking towards his apartment. You hurried to finish and changed into simple shorts and a sweatshirt before walking the 2 door distance to his apartment. You took a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

There was no answer, you considered leaving, your nerves getting the best of you, but you remembered you still had the lemon tarts and decided to try again. This time you heard some shuffling and then the door opened, revealing James, still wearing his uniform, hair clinging onto his face from sweat and blotches of soot patching his cheeks, he looked tired, but he smiled the moment he saw who it was at the door. “Fancy seeing you here, darling.” 

You swallowed, his gaze having a powerful effect on you “I… I uh… I saw the news and well, I assumed you had been there, I guess I was right,” you added after gesturing toward your face, trying to refer to how blotchy he was “I thought I’d come to check if you were all right… I also brought you some of those lemon tarts you really like.” 

He stared at you for a second, as if trying to process the fact that you really had taken the trouble to bring him food, just because he’d had a tough day. When he realised you really were there, and not only a fragment of his imagination, he smiled “You picked my favourites,” he said pointing at the box. 

You gulped, as if scared of getting caught but nodded “You… order them often,” you said with a shrug. 

He hummed “And you know all of your client’s orders?” he asked, a flirty tone slipping as he moved to the side to let you in, nodding towards the kitchen, although you already knew where it was, since the layout of his apartment was almost an exact mirror of yours. 

“Only the ones of my favourites,” you responded, which got him to raise his eyebrows as he pulled out two plates and a pair of forks, placing them on the counter. You opened the small box and gracefully served one of the pies on each of the plates, he didn’t wait too long to dig in, moaning at the sweet and acidic flavour. 

“You’re the absolute best,” he told you as he continued to eat “Getting this after a fire might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

You just giggled at his exaggeration, you didn’t know he didn’t mean only the pie, but also your company. As the two of you finished your meal, you stood up to go back to your apartment but he stopped you, a hand gripping softly onto your forearm “Hey wait!” You turned to him “Let me pay you back.” 

You gasped and then shook your head. “Oh no, don’t worry about it, I get free treats since I work there.” But he didn’t let go of your arm just yet. 

You saw him bite his cheek, looking to the side as if trying to find the right words “Regardless, I–  Let me take you out, yeah?” 

“Out… to the door?” You asked with a frown “I mean I know where it is but–” 

“Out on a date.” 

“You want to– Me?!?” He nodded fervently in response. 

“So...?” 

You smiled, you were sure you were blushing madly but his nervousness only made him even more adorable “I’d love that.” 

He’d taken you to a small Italian restaurant that his friend Sirius had recommended, he told you about his life, about how he got into firefighting and you told him about yours, how you were working at the cafe as a side job to pay for your online studies. He thought you were a hero, which was almost ridiculous because if anyone was saving people between the two, it had been him. 

After that date you went on many others, he frequented the cafe a lot more often, sometimes to order something, sometimes to drop by a bouquet of roses or some other kind of flower. Markus had teased you relentlessly after that, but he really was happy to see you happy. He also started giving you treats to take home a lot more often, but that was because he knew you were always sharing them with James.  

“Thanks love, see you at dinner?” James asked as he took the takeaway coffee cup from your hands, you had written “Prongs,” and drew a pair of antlers on it just to tease him, since he’d told you about his friends giving him that nickname in school. 

You nodded in response “Sure, want me to bring something?” 

He leaned over the counter as if it were about to say something of the utmost secrecy “How about some of those chocolate tarts?” he whispered. 

“Sounds about perfect to me,” you agreed and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before pulling back. He smiled dumbly after that and waved on the way out, almost bumping into a tall teacher who was also your regular. 

“Watch your step, lover boy,” he told him. That day you found out Remus –the teacher who was a regular– and your boyfriend not only knew each other, but had been best friends for the longest time. He’d told you about him many, many times, but you had no way of knowing the calm, concentrated teacher who sat on his laptop grading students was the same mastermind prankster he always called Moony. 

“So… how does he look in suspenders?” Markus asked you as he eyed your boyfriend finally leaving. 

“Oh… well, I mean… I haven’t– we haven’t-“ 

“Shut it,” he said turning to you “You’ve been dating for a while now, like 2 months, right? Didn’t you tell me you slept at his apartment the other night?” 

“Yeah, I mean, I did… I fell asleep watching the telly and he didn’t want to wake me.” 

“I thought you meant something else…” he said as he shook his head “Maybe he’s asexual,” he added with a shrug “Total bummer for you.” 

You frowned “I don’t think he– I think he’s just trying to be a gentleman.” 

Markus shook his head, unconvinced “Have you tried to initiate anything?” 

“We’ve snogged a couple of times.” 

“And when it gets more heated?” 

You shrugged “Don’t know what to tell ya.” 

He hummed “You need to try harder.” 

“I need to try?” 

“Well to find out at least, don’t you want to?” 

You shrugged it off then, but truth be told, the idea had already cemented itself in your brain. You paid closer attention to the times you snogged after that. Be it on the couch, or the counter of yours or his kitchen, it was always romantic kisses and even if he certainly seemed affected, be it his ragged breath, pink lips or expanded pupils, he never pushed for more. Perhaps he really was waiting for you to initiate things. 

A few nights later, there was another fire, you had already gotten the key to his apartment so you waited over at his, bringing over some cream puffs and setting yourself on the couch while you waited. He arrived a little late, covered in soot like he had that first time you walked into his house with lemon tarts in your hand. He smiled the moment he spotted you on his sofa “Fancy seeing you here, darling,” he teased, echoing the words he’d said that first night. 

You smiled “How are you feeling?” you asked. 

He sighed, his shoulders slumped at that “We couldn’t… One of them didn’t make it.” You frowned, you knew he’d torment himself about it all night, so you walked over to him, taking a wet towel as he sat near the counter and started wiping some of the soot from his face.

“‘S not your fault.” 

“But if we had gotten there sooner maybe–“ 

You pulled his chin, making his eyes look straight into yours “Jamie,” you said sternly, trying to ground him “It’s not your fault.” 

He sighed again “I know, I know…” he said, and buried his head in your neck, smelling your perfume as he grabbed onto your hips, “Stay over tonight?” he asked “Please, I don’t– I don’t want to be left alone with my thoughts.” 

You smiled, placing your hand on the back of his head, brushing it lightly over his messy hair before settling it at the nape of his neck “Of course, my love,” you responded simply, and pulled his shoulders back to look straight at his face “come on, let’s get to the sofa, maybe we can play something on the telly to get your mind off things.” 

He pouted “I’m sweaty, and I smell of charred wood.” 

You tilted your head, a small smile drawing on your lips “I think you look sexy,” you teased, before grabbing his hand to pull him up and towards the sofa. He had a diverted look as he followed. 

They were screening Karate kid for like the 5th time that week, but both of you were watching it patiently. That was until the commercial break started and you turned to James, he had a small frown on his face, almost imperceptible, as if he were trying to hide it from you, but you knew him well enough to know. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?” 

James turned to you, a sorrowful look in his beautiful hazel eyes, “I found them, I tried, but…” You kneeled on the sofa and gave him a bone-crushing hug, or at least your version of one, since you had about half the strength he did anyway. Regardless, you heard the huff of a laugh coming from him. 

You gave one last look at the telly, they were still going on some infomercial about a magical razor, yeah, no way in hell he gets distracted by that. “Hey Jaimie,” he hummed in response “How about we find another way to get your mind off things?” you asked, pulling back a little so he could see your face.

He gave you a look, “Like playing Monopoly or…” he didn’t even finish his sentence since you crashed your lips against his with a kiss. He was surprised at first but followed the kiss shortly after. Tightening his grip on your waist. 

“Like this?” you said as you pulled out for air. He still had a bit of a frown, so you leaned into him again, determined to erase it with a kiss. He pretty much melted into you again, at some point you crossed your knee over his lap and you were straddling his thigh. You didn’t lean closer to him too fast, you wanted to give him some time. 

Your lips started to travel from his lips to his jaw, he was right, he was sweaty, you could feel the salty taste of it as you kissed, and there was something else too, a little bit of that smoked flavour going on. You didn’t care, if anything, it really made him feel sexier. You landed on his neck, and started pressing wet kisses on a section you knew from experience he liked, and you heard a low moan coming from his throat, music to your ears. 

“Wait… wait… hold up,” he said as he patted your shoulder softly, you didn’t pull back “Angel, please, I’m gross right now…”

“Don’t care,” you said between kisses “I like the way you taste.” 

He stifled grunted after you said that –partly because of what you said, partly because of the way you sucked onto a particularly sensitive part of his neck– it was hard enough for him to restrain himself as it was, and you saying things like that was only making it harder. 

You, without quite noticing what you were doing, started grinding against his leg, not quite against his crotch yet thought, you could still think enough to know it’d be too soon. You leaned back, trying to get to his mouth when you spotted him, he had a rather interesting expression on his face, brows furrowed, as if he was trying really hard to concentrate on something, or not to concentrate on something. 

You smiled, holding back a laugh before placing your hand on his cheek, he opened his eyes, a worried look on his face “James, what is it darling?” 

He swallowed, his breath was heavy, “I’m just… I’m trying not to– thinking of something else.” You raised an eyebrow at him, not sure exactly what was going on until you saw his gaze flicker down to his crotch. 

“Oh.” You said quietly, and then, in an outburst of bravery, pulled your hand down to pat him. He hissed, grabbing your hand and pulling it back.

“That– that’s going to make it worse.” 

You smiled again, tilting your head just a little as you stared at your beautiful boyfriend “Allow me,” you said softly “I want to make it worse.” He looked at you as if he was trying to decipher whether what you were saying was true, and you leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek “Pretty please?” 

You had your forehead against his when he bit his lip and nodded, letting your hand free as you pushed it towards his crotch again. He was a lot harder than you had initially assumed he’d be, but you started rubbing your hand up and down regardless, feeling out his entire length which was nothing short of surprising. His head had somehow ended up on your shoulder again “fuck,” he said and trailed off with a few other curse words you weren’t sure you had heard him say before “That feels incredible Angel, You feel so good,” he whispered. 

Eventually, you pulled your hand backward and he gave you the most reproachful look, “Hey… I want to be able to kiss you,” you said softly before leaning in for a kiss and finally closing the gap between your bodies. You had been wearing a pair of simple lycra shorts, so everything felt very close when you finally leaned your hips over his, grinding your core against the rough texture of his firefighter pants. 

James was about to moan when you pulled him into a kiss again, so he moaned into your mouth, half attempting to return the kiss. His hands had now travelled to your hips, and he was helping you grind onto him, gripping almost a little too tight, not that you minded. If anything, you thought seeing this less controlled side of him was the hottest thing. 

Your hands travelled to his jacket, he’d been so lost in thought when he arrived home that he hadn’t even taken it off, but that was fine, you could help him with that now. You found the plate box and started to unbutton it one by one, he had been so engrossed in you that he didn’t notice what you were doing until you moved your hands to his inside shirt to push the thick jacket to the side. 

He helped you shrug it off and you set it to the side of the couch since you knew how much he cared for it. He gave you a smile through huddled lids and this time around he was the one pulling you towards him for another kiss. 

You went to the buttons of his pants this time around, grinding on his thigh in an effort to not stop the buildup you’d already created. “Angel what are you…?” 

“Material’s too rough,” you managed to mumble. His eyebrows knit in concern and he helped you in an instant. While he did that you fumbled with your shorts and took them off as fast as possible, not sparing a second glance to see where they fell on the floor, they were pretty ruined either way. He didn’t notice you had done that, not until you went back to straddle him and he felt the wet patch of your panties on his trouser. On his cock. 

“Fuck dove,” he said when he realized. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, almost shy, thinking he might think it was gross but he shook his head.

“Don’t be, it’s fucking hot,” he said as he grabbed onto your hips again and started sliding you against him, grinding you against him. This time there was a lot more purpose behind his movements, he was quite literally rubbing you right onto his cock, you could feel it almost in between your folds through the two layers of clothing separating you from each other. 

The room started feeling too hot, and you removed your hands from the back of his head and brought them to the hem of your sweatshirt, attempting to pull it off when his hands travelled to yours. 

He pulled back from the kiss and stared at you, searching for your eyes “You don’t have to– Not because of the…” he took a deep breath, trying to think straight “We don’t have to do this just to distract me.” 

Your expression turned soft, as you looked at him. How on earth did I get so lucky? You thought. You licked your lips, biting the bottom as you brought your hands to the side of his face. “It’s not just because of that, I want to do this Jamie, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” He swallowed. “You think that sexy little uniform does nothing to me? I’m only human James.” He chuckled, eyes averting to the side in an adorably bashful expression that you were certain only James Potter would be able to pull off. When he looked back you gave him a teasing smile “Help me?” you asked again, nodding down. 

This time it was he who bit back a grin, almost giving you a wink before he let his hands to the hem of your hoodie and helped you pull it off. He stared at you for a second. You were wearing a simple sports bra, nothing fancy, in fact, you’d dare say it was a little embarrassing since the bottom hem was frailing a bit already, but that didn’t seem to matter to James. He was staring at you as if he’d seen the hottest woman on earth. As if you had been wearing the most exquisite set of lingerie. 

You blushed, obviously, you blushed, and hid your head on his neck so he wouldn’t notice, pretending you were going for a kiss, but he stopped you. “Hold up, I wanna enjoy the view,” he complained. 

“When I’m wearing nicer underwear I’ll let you,” you said, pushing against him to go to his neck again, but he was stronger, if he didn’t want you to move, there was no way in hell you’d be able to move. 

“Darling, your underwear is the last thing I’m paying attention to,” he said honestly. You took a deep breath and allowed him to pull you back, his eyes were blown with lust as he stared at you, at your bare shoulders he’d seen a couple of times, although not many since you started going out in winter and it still was winter. At the supple curve of your hips. At your breasts, you felt his hand twitch in your shoulder, as if he was holding himself back from touching anywhere else. 

“James,” you said, getting him to turn his gaze back to your face, although you noticed it flicker down a couple of times, “You can touch.”

It was as if that had been all the permission he needed, he brought his hands down, letting them roam through your bare waist as you started to grind against him again. He was harder, if that was even possible. He groaned as you rolled your hips against his, and started trailing kisses down your neck, setting in the curve of your breasts as you continued to dry hump him. 

He could see your hardened nipples through the thin cotton fabric. He’d actually seen them harden as he kissed, and then he did something you weren’t expecting, he held your waist and pulled you up a little, you almost whined at the loss of contact, but he pushed his head forward and gave an open mouth kiss to your breast, sucking and nipping through the fabric, you were now helping him hold you up with your own legs and holding onto his strong shoulders, absolutely lost in the feeling of his mouth. 

He pulled back, giving you a mischievous look as he trailed his fingers over the frilled hem, there was almost an innocence to the way he was looking at you “May I?” he asked. 

“Please.” He was already digging his fingers under the hem and pulling it over your head. “You too,” you added, pulling at his shirt. He quickly passed his hand to the neck of his shirt and yanked it off in a second. You gulped, you’d never seen anyone take their shirt off in such a hot way. 

He was staring at you as he placed his hand on your waist and pulled you towards his face, this time licking from the underside of your breast all the way to your nipple before he closed his mouth around it and started sucking again, without the fabric in the middle you could feel his wet tongue and teeth grazing against your sensitive skin, you arched against him, and moaned his name when he bit softly. 

His other hand was already massaging your other breast, kneading it and brushing his thumb over your nipple every couple of seconds. It felt incredible, and you relished on the feeling until your neediness got the best of you, “James,” you somehow managed to form the words, and grabbed the hand that was still kneading on your breast, pulling it down, to your core “Here, please.” 

You saw him pull back to look at you, and he swallowed thickly but nodded, moving to kiss your neck as he traced his fingers over your wet panties “fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispered between kisses. You gripped onto his shoulder a little harder, when he pressed his finger onto your folds, you were already pretty sensitive from so much rubbing onto his hard uniform pants that even the slightest touch had you on fire. 

After toying with you for a bit, he slid his finger through the hem and pushed your panties to the side, digging his fingers on your folds, while his thumb searched for your clit. He found it in the blink of an eye and you were pretty much bucking your hips against his hand in search of more friction. He let out a breathy laugh “So needy,” he said before setting one of his fingers near your entrance and digging it in. 

His finger was long, much longer than yours and it reached places you wouldn’t have dreamed of, he curved it in a particular way and you let out a gasp “Yes! Please, James, do that again,” you said as you panted, he obliged, and had you grinding against his hand again in no time. 

“Angel you’re too tight,” he whispered as you leaned in to kiss him again, slowly lowering yourself onto his tight. He went in for another finger as you kissed him and swallowed your whimper. He was already moving his fingers and slowly opening them inside of you, trying to prepare you, in case you wanted to continue because hell knew he did. 

He pressed his thumb against your clit again, he could feel you faltering on him, your hip movements becoming sloppier as he continued to rub “Jamie I’m gonna…” 

He kissed your neck “Please do.” 

You leaned closer to him digging your nails into the muscles of his back as you bit your bottom lip. James separated from your neck for a second to look at you, you looked fucking stunning as you whimpered and whispered his name and a few course words almost incoherently. 

“So fucking stunning,” he told you with a smile. It took you a second to come back and be able to pay attention to him, to the way he was looking at you. 

You huffed a laugh “Shut up Jamie,” you said with a smile as you shook your head, he still had his fingers inside you, and it looked like he didn’t have the intention to remove them any time soon.

“How are we doing?” he asked. 

You frowned, “Why do you– oh.” He flicked his thumb over your clit again, thrusting his fingers in and out in a rather sharp way “James you aren’t thinking of…” 

“Of course, I’m thinking of it angel, I need to see that pretty face of pure bliss on you again.” 

You almost let him convince you but you shook your head. You didn’t miss the way his smile faltered, you leaned into him, making sure to let your clit rub onto his thumb again as you shifted your weight and your hips “Not until I see yours,” you whispered in his ear, bringing your hand down to the hem of his boxers and digging your hand to grope him. 

He groaned at your harsh movement, but his head fell back, an expression rather similar to yours as you dragged your hands through his length. 

“Help James,” you said, words cut with sharp breaths from the effort you were making to pull his boxers down. He lifted his hips and helped you do it, all the while you continued pumping him. There was already a bit of white precum coating his tip, even if the boxers had sucked up most of it, you used it to allow your hand to glide easier around him. 

“Faster,” he asked, you complied, he was already bucking his hips into your hands, “fuck doll I think I’m going to– “ You instantly stopped moving your hand and his eyes snapped open, looking at you like you had betrayed him. But you didn’t give him an explanation, you used your legs to prop forwards and lined him against your entrance “Wait, doll–“ you lowered yourself onto him, “fuck.” 

You gulped, allowing yourself to adjust before giving him a look, he was looking at his cock buried in you attentively, and he swallowed thickly, you didn’t wait too much after that, and started grinding onto him, “Fuck Jamie you fill me up so good,” you whispered, as if he needed any more encouragement. You thought he did since he wasn’t moving, but that wasn’t the reason he wasn’t. 

He grabbed onto your hips, and halted your movement “fuck, angel, hold up– I need–“You looked at him worriedly, accidentally bucking your hips again as you tried to search for his eyes, and then you felt it. Wet and sticky, inside you. He’d cum.

He looked at you with the most mortified expression on his face, as if he was sorry “I’m– I’m so sorry I…” 

You just laughed, placing your hand on his cheek to prompt him to look at you “Hey, It’s okay my love.” 

“But I didn’t… Not even like 30 seconds I–“ James was completely flustered, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him that flustered before, you pulled him into a kiss. 

“I’m taking it as a cumm-pliment,” you told him, he gave you a reproachful look and you gave him a peck on the lips. A small smile wavered its way towards his lips. 

“That’s the– what a terrible pun,” he added. You bucked your hips against him again “fuck.” 

You raised your eyebrow at him “Keep insulting my puns and I won’t help you with your little issue,” you threatened playfully as you started to buck your hips again, helping him empty himself completely. This time a lot slower, enjoying the way he felt on you, the way he was filling you up, how much easier it was to glide onto him with his warm cum all over you, some of it dripping to the side of your thigh and onto his already, you continued until he patted on your tight. 

You nodded and pulled out slowly, setting yourself on his lap still. He still seemed awfully bashful, “Come on Jamie, I really don’t mind it.” 

“But it was– our first time and I… ugh” he placed his hands over his face, groaning as he replayed the events in his head.

You bit your tongue not to laugh. At least he wasn’t thinking of the fire anymore. Mission success? You sighed and placed your hands onto his own and pulled them down, tilting your head a little in search for his eyes.

 “How about…” you started, it seemed to gather some of his attention, although he was still looking at you with a dissatisfied expression “We go get a bath, and clean up…” you continued, he had finally lifted his head towards yours “we relax together a little,” you added, letting your fingers trace over his muscles, “we clean all the soot of that pretty face of yours,” you added, pinching his cheek which earned you a playful scowl from his part “and then chill for a while, see what happens next,” you finished, making sure your tone, raised eyebrows and half bitten bottom lip was suggestive enough. He looked at you, a diverted smile playing on his lips. “If it makes you feel better, we can pretend the shower was our first time instead,” you added just to spite him. 

He huffed, a smile on his face as he placed his hands on your waist and stood up, holding you against him with ease. You squealed and laughed at the sudden action “James!” you reprimanded “We didn’t even take your boots off, you’re gonna fall and drop me in the process,” he looked down and groaned when he realised it was true. Regardless he tried to jump his way before the two of you ended up back on the couch. You were laughing merrily as he huffed. 

“Come on hot fireman,” you told him with a smile “Take off those pretty boots of yours…” you smiled as you sneaked out of his grasp “I’ll meet you in the bathroom.” 

He pretty much groaned as he saw you leave, staring at your ass as you disappeared through the door. 

A/N: this one came out so much sweeter than I expected it to, but I kind of love it. It really captures that James Potter humour, doesn't it? Maraudween and The Five Senses are the anthology series where I explore writing smut, all as a way to hone my skills for the moment I write it in my Wolfstar x Reader series that's currently being posted on a weekly basis. If you have feedback, please leave it in the comments below. I absolutely love reading your comments <3

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[deliverusfromevillll]

Formerly Yours [Adam/F!Reader] [01]

❝ Wow babe, you really make it sound like you care about me. ❞

warnings ⨾ angst, miscommunication, eating disorders, self neglect, swearing, pinning, no beta we die like adam

terms ⨾ ❝ Powers ❞ In biblical terms, those who assist in governing the natural order.

notes  ⨾ I intend on making this a long series, as I've been hyperfixated on this character for a stupid long time and have created an OC and commissioned artwork of future scenes. If you would like to be part of the process ( as I am currently looking for beta readers ) and/or generally would like to see WIPs feel free to join my discord ( NgT88bybyY ).

[01] [02] [03] [04]

As always minors DNI.| 3.8K words

"FUCK!"

[F/n] recoils, frantically waving and flicking her hand as a burst of steam emerged from the box at her desk. She blows cool air on her exposed fingers, sighing as she tore off the damaged glove.

Despite the shock of energy, she quickly ignores her own pain as her project seemed to have been a success.

The translucent cube radiated a bright yellow at every edge, keeping a clear see-through surface otherwise. Her heart raced, eyebrows raised, as she ogled it further.

Reaching for it confidently, she plucks it, watching the yellow edges reverberate at her touch.

Awe-struck by her success, her features immediately shift into a smirk.

Sera would be pleased.

She sets it back down on her workbench, scooting her chair back. [F/n] opens a drawer, fishing for a new glove among the unorganized mess.

It takes a second but she gets it, fanning out the article before replacing it over her hand. Turning back towards the cube, she cups it under her palms.

She sits up straight, inhaling deeply, eyes flutter shut as she did her best to concentrate. Her celestial magic resonated with the cube, steadily shifting from the gold color to a cool silver.

The next step was extremely precise, she must focus.

"[F/N]—!"

[F/n] jolts, knees hitting the desk. The cube jutted a few increments away, returning to the gold color it was before.

"—My favorite person! Man you're great, so fucking great I know you can quit whatever the fuck you're doing and fix my guitar string right now!"

The panic on her expression grew as she looked over the box, groaning audibly as she rotated to glare at Adam.

"Adam how many times have I told you not to come in my lab immediately screaming my name?!"

"Oh come on Karen, you know I'm the only exciting thing going on in your life. You can stop pretending like you hate me now."

Adam huffs and crosses his arms, looking away aimlessly. His eyes dart back to her then away again after realizing she was staring at him completely unconvinced.

[F/n] sighed.

Getting up, she waves Adam over as she moves towards the open space next to her. Adam grins, offering her his guitar as she mounts it horizontally on a latch installed specifically for his guitar.

"How the fuck did you even break it this time?"

She asks, opening another unsorted drawer and pulling out a box of guitar strings.

"Uhh, well, while you were busy declining my invitations and being a huge lame nerd: I just came back from my kick-ass gig at a party. I went in too hard, y'know what I mean?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

[F/n] absentmindedly lets out an uninterested, "uh huh," at his innuendo.

Adam rolls his eyes, losing interest at her dismissal. He wanders.

She takes a small golden string, weaving it around her fingertips as the broken strings on the guitar reach for the thread. Bringing her hand closer to the guitar, she allows the threads to connect and renew itself using her magic.

Smiling she strums it gently satisfied.

"Alright Adam it's— Adam?" She turns to look where he originally stood, worried when he was no longer there.

"Man what the fuck is this?" He points at the cube, finger dangerously close.

[F/n]'s eyes widen. "DON'T—!" Her wings flutter in panic as she rushed towards him.

Though it was too late. Adam poked the object: It lashed at him in response, absorbing him into the cube in the blink of an eye.

It had shrunken him as well, entrapping him through its see-through walls. Adam pounds at the clear walls, the force reverberating as if it were fluid.

He was shouting. However unable to be heard.

[F/n] groans even louder, face palming as she walks over to pick up the cube. Her brows furrowed, bringing him to eye level.

"You're such a fucking idiot!"

Adam covers his ears at her shouting, sending her the bird in return. He resumes shouting and it translates similarly to the squeak of a mouse. Bringing her ear closer [F/n] could make out two words; "warned" and "me."

Setting him back down in the table [F/n] plants her face into her palms. She's not sure whether she should prepare dying a second time or what, but an epiphany comes to her.

"No, hold on, maybe this can be a good thing."

Adam rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

"I wasn't anticipating something like this so I don't know how to break you out just yet. After I figure it out we wont have to worry about something stupid like this again."

She could feel the hairs on her neck stand, swiping off a bead of sweat as she nervously reinspects their current predicament.

There was no telling how long it could take to bust him out.

The cube's golden color was replaced with a wine red.

"At least it works."

[F/n] laughs nervously to herself.

Adam walks up the the wall, seemingly charging up his swing as his knuckles crash into the barrier. He quickly loses the grip on his fist, shaking off the pain. His other hand comes to soothe his knuckles.

"Oh, your magic is completely snuffed in this thing."

He groaned, though the sound was once again absorbed.

"This is supposed to be a prototype to capture powerful entities but in its current state I'm the only one who can really touch it; since, well, it's made with my magic." Adam looks up at her with a raised brow.

"...I really have to be ready to present later."

[F/n] kicks herself away from the workbench on her rolling chair, shifting through a few test tubes: plucking one.

"You're so fucking annoying, y'know?"

Scooting back towards Adam, she tilts the vile over him slowly.

The silver fluid shimmered through the glass, gleaming further at the angle it was leaning towards. A small drop falls, landing on top of the box. It get absorbed quickly. The red hue pulsated as it was overridden by the familiar golden color from before.

"This is good..." She mutters.

Adam however kept his displeased expression.

[F/n] swipes another bead of sweat from her forehead as she remounts the test tube on a nearby stand. Cupping around the cube, Adam finally breaks his scowl as he nervously looks up at her and mouths something unintelligable.

"Don't worry, this was the next step before you came and touched things you shouldn't."

It took hours. Hours of incremental progress with no solution in sight.

Adam was still entrapped, [F/n] blinking completely blearily as the overuse of her own abilities finally began crawling up on her.

Strands of [h/c] hair stuck out in random spots.

In the timeframe however, the muffling of his voice became weaker and weaker. "You look like shit." Was something Adam would say often after each failed test.

They had also discovered she was able to teleport items into the block: after accidentally transporting her coat while her connection to the cube was still fresh.

She was able to replicate this using his guitar so he at least had some form of entertainment.

Busy mixing a new concoction, her stomach growled. Adam shifted from his seat against the wall, flapping his wings to help himself quickly stand.

"When are we gonna eat."

"After I get you out."

"But you're hungry, I'm hungry: you feel like shit, I feel like shit— c'mon babe don't fuckin' be difficult."

[F/n] groans, placing down the objects in her hands as she stood up. Alright, one quick meal break, that's it: this asshole wouldn't keep his mouth shut otherwise.

Adam grins as she gently grabbed his container and headed out of her lab. Completely ignoring the stairs under her feet as she flew up and through the open door.

She sets him on the counter nearby her fridge.

Opening the freezer, she yanked out a frozen pizza, setting it beside him. [F/n] begins preheating her oven.

"Oh hell yeah. How'd you know I was in the mood for pizza babe?"

"It's the only thing I have in my fridge."

Adam quirked a brow.

"Only pizza?"

"Only pizza."

There was a pregnant pause.

The sounds of the pizza unboxing and quiet shuffling filled the air for the next several seconds while she placed it on a pan. He was deliberating his next few words.

"You don't cook— or order anything even?"

"I don't have time for it." [F/n] sighed. "My research is more important."

Adam could hardly tell because of her robes, but upon really staring at her he did notice she was becoming thinner than usual. There were dark bags underneath her pearly yellow irises and he'd even notice her slow blinks.

He frowned.

"So what do you eat when you work?"

Now it was her turn to stutter, dropping the pizza into the hot oven a littler harsher than intended. The pan clattered but rested nonetheless.

[F/n] shuts the oven closed as she takes a seat next to the counter.

"I... I don't." She sighed again.

Adam hated that answer.

He secretly assumed so, but pushed in hopes of hearing a different response. It made him feel terrible.

Though he would visit her often he never noticed anything askew. Not until he was forced to just sit and watch. After this he swore he'd double his visits either with grub in hand or to drag her out the lab.

He knew he could talk Sera into forcing her to take a break, maybe then it would incentivize her to be more receptive to his visits.

He failed to understand why she was always breathing down her neck, but when he'd ask he would always be met with a nonanswer. 

Adam stood up and walked towards the closest edge to her.

"I need to get you out the of the lab more often, doing this shit all day fucking sucks." Adam stated.

[F/n] cocked her head at him, running a hand through her messy [h/c] hair.

"That'd only set me back on my work."

"Well fuck— then I can drop by and help out or something."

She tried to stifle a laugh. Her attempt didn't go unnoticed. "You serious? Your definition of helping out is messing with all my shit, what makes you think I'd want your help?"

She quirked, picking up the box and brought him to eye level. "Yeah, I'm..."

Adam's stoic expression became sullen in a way he appeared nearly defeated.

It was so odd to see someone with such a huge ego begin to crumble at the idea of rejection.

Adam was someone who can easily fill his schedule, it's not like he needed [F/n] to keep him occupied neither her approval, so: "why did it matter?"

He had Lute in his corner, his band, groupies, friends. Was this pity? It had to be, or maybe some sort of leftover obligation he'd mustered up in his head since she had previously held the title as his best friend: or in his terms his number one bitch.

Times change everywhere, heaven included, there was just no room for leisurely things anymore. 

"I'm... Glad? I'm glad! For, uhh, the offer. Maybe we can after I get done with this you can h—."

It was as if a firework went off in his head. "Fuck yeah! I knew you couldn't say no to me bitch!" He strummed his guitar in excitement.

[F/n] cracked into a smile. She watched in amusement as he strummed a quick verse: immediately perking and repeating the verse.

"You just gave me the best idea for a new song!"

His guitar sings the tune he played beautifully. Adam flaps his wings, kiting around what little space he had in rhythm to his own music methodically.

Her golden irises stare at him almost in awe. He looked akin to one of those wind-up music boxes.

It was cute.

He was cute.

Then it dawned on her. This wasn't a visual she should have, nor a thought she should imagine. Adam wasn't even supposed to be encased in her snare in the first place.

[F/n] sets him down carefully in embarrassment.

Her thoughts interrupted as the oven chimed in, and she shifted to pull it open. With the wave of her fingers, the pan floats out of the oven and sits on top of the stove.

She wills a pizza cutter, manifesting it out of thin air. It radiates a gentle yellow, rolling over the pizza and cutting it into equal slices.

"Guitar sol— OW! FUCK!"

[F/n] flinched, pizza cutter rolling over incorrectly as her magic stuttered. She turns around, blinking.

"Uhh?"

Adam stood before her, ripping his mask and glove off to pop his finger in his mouth. No longer in the confinement of the cube, he looks up at her before realizing he was now free.

"What the hell happened?" [F/n] asked in clear confusing.

Adam muffled. "I fuckin' cut myself rocking out too hard." He takes his finger out of his mouth, a small dribble of golden ichor coats his finger.

Glancing between him and the box that was now a cool silver. That's all it took. The blood of an angel. He was free.

[F/n] sighed, he really did help solve it after all. She chuckled in disbelief. Adam immediately shot her a look before reminding her of his injury.

"Uhh hello? Still fucking bleeding here." He takes the seat she was on earlier.

"Hold on."

Adam watches her disappear into another room for a minute, reemerging with a medical kit in hand. She sets it next to him, unzipping the material before pulling out some of the contents.

A bandage, cotton balls, and a black bottle with "Hydrogen Peroxide" in large white letters.

"Is the peroxide really necessary? I-I mean it's a small cut!" Adam huffed, looking worried as his eyes met hers.

[F/n] sits down beside him, extending her wing to blanket him comfortingly while she dabbled a cotton ball into the liquid. "Lord knows how much sinner remnants or mystery fluids are still on your guitar, when's the last time you properly cleaned it?" 

His feathers brushed against her own causing him to shiver internally. It was like a spark shot through his spine. Adam relaxed for a moment against her warmth.

"Uhh, like, a week? I dunno."

She mumbled. "That can get infected. I'm not risking that."

"Wow babe, you really make it sound like you care about me." Adam grinned.

"It's cause I do."

His grin shrunk slightly, taken aback at how she admitted it so easily.

Despite all the years together where their friendship mainly consisted of him either teasing or irritating her, he fully expected to hear a "no" or anything of the sort.

Adam felt chest tighten.

Then he hissed.

The cotton gently being pressed against his open cut made the pain worse tenfold. No pain compared to that of rubbing alcohol.

He didn't even notice her taking his hand among his thoughts. Though still in pain, he could feel her small hands cup his large one.

"Who knew a bit of angel blood was all this thing fucking needed? Man I feel so stupid now." [F/n] mutters mostly to herself, but Adam still heard through coping with own pain.

"Y-Yeah, you're welcome." Adam forced a grin.

She had removed her lab gloves during the process. He was able to feel her skin on his, the first thought he had being how soft her skin felt. Her hands were so much smaller compared to his own.

Her touch was so gentle.

Even when she was wrapping the bandage around his finger she treated him so carefully as if he were some delicate thing. It felt so nurturing. Loving almost. It made him smile.

"There, better?"

Adam looks at the bandage that had yellow star prints among space. Of course she'd own this over regular skin-toned bandages. He smiled, quietly chuckling.

"Yeah. Thanks babe."

[F/n] smiles, clearing her throat as she teleported the pizza before them. She picks up a slice, taking a small bite to answer her growling stomach.

"Man this isn't so bad."

Adam does the same, taking a chunk into his mouth.

He chews for a moment before tensing, side-eyeing her to watch as she pulled it back to her mouth for another bite. His hand reaches out to stop her arm from bringing the damned thing close enough to her lips.

He spits the chunk out of his mouth.

"Are you fucking insane? This tastes like shit!" He corrected. "You can taste how aged this garbage is! How long did you keep this for?"

Adam stands, placing the slice back on the pan before turning towards her fridge. He yanks it open.

His eyes are met with nothing more than a few bottles of water, most of them were open and at various levels. Opening the freezer wasn't any better. There sat but a single pint of french vanilla ice cream.

"I told you." [F/n] shrugs.

He turns to [F/n].

"I'm ordering us some real food."

"Seriously though, but I'm telling ya, the look on her stupid fucking face when I told her the extermination date was cut to six months was everything!" Adam laughed in between bites. 

"And —oh fuck— get this: she tried to imply they don't deserve death— that they could ascend and cross those pearly gates! HAHA! Can you believe it?" 

He extended a wing out, coiling around her like a large blanket as he nudged her closer to him on the couch. The tv playing in the background filled the silence in between pauses. 

"It's so hilariously pathetic!"

[F/n] nodded along with him, nervously laughing.

She hid the straight line on her lips.

"See? Better right?" Adam grins as he bit into the meat-lover styled pizza. [F/n] nods in content as she popped the final bite of her slice into her mouth. She hummed in delight. 

She was accustomed to mainly eating frozen foods, eating was mostly an afterthought, especially as of recent, so admittedly there were days she either completely forgot or was too spent to even bother.

There was something really endearing about the idea Adam would still go out of his way to do this, considering he could've literally just left after he was freed.

[F/n] sinks into his wing, feeling her feathers ruffle against his. He was warm, very, very warm. She felt slightly guilty accepting his comfort.

"I'm surprised you didn't immediately bounce after you got out." [F/n] admits. 

Adam side-eyes her before turning to face her. "Why would I? I'm exhausted and starving."

She rolled her eyes, lightly elbowing him. Adam glances towards the open box then back at his piece. "I mean shit, did you even eat more than a slice?"

"I don't see how this matters?"

"Yeah how about you let me decide what I wanna fucking worry about or not nerdy-tits, got it? Thanks now open up." 

Adam hovers his already bitten piece before her lips, giving her an encouraging nudge as she blushed. She paused in embarrassment. [F/n] huffed, swallowing her pride with a bite of his slice.

"His lips were on it..." She thinks to herself, watching the satisfied smile on his expression grow before being hidden as he takes his last bite, tossing the crust back onto the box among the other uneaten slices.

"Was that so hard?" He asks with a mouthful.

"Y'know, sugar-tits, you seriously don't have to be locked in your lab all day. You're too hot for shit like that."

"So you want me to leave my work for what— to be your fucking mindless groupie instead?"

They both look at each other. [F/n] more shocked than anything as the words just left her tongue with no prior thought. Her response came off harsher than intended. 

Was that really how she felt?

She knew Adam was popular among women, he was the first man after all, self proclaimed "dick master" before all. It never bothered her before, well, not the the extent where she outwardly lashed at him. 

Even if she did feel as though he replaced her, she never faulted him for it no matter how it pained her.

[F/n] never wanted to acknowledge the emotion because it would only materialize further, and realizing she did exactly that annoyed her.

He was nice to her, cared and fed her, this seemed unnecessarily hostile and out of left field. 

"Sorry." She sighed, rubbing her eyes. 

That's what it was, exhaustion. 

After leaving the lab she didn't notice it until she properly sat down but she has been feeling the weight of her work this entire time. The stress of it, and the labor. All this among Adam coming in readily available to create a larger mess.

"Geez babe, didn't take you for the jealous type."

"I am not jealous, just tired."

"Lying is a sin y'know."

"I'm not LYING!"

She'd gotten up, leaving the warmth of his wings. [F/n] walked over to the sliding door connected to the room, nearly ripping it open. She had sucked in an exasperated breath.

Enough of this nonsense. 

Her brows knit together. "You need to leave, now." She muttered loud enough for him to hear, head pointed over her shoulder to look at him.

"What? Why? Because I teased you?!"

[F/n] rolls her eyes. "I need to keep working without you barreling into my lab preferably this time."

Adam shot up, shoving his mask on as he'd stomp over at her. He'd wave both his hands outwards, face wrinkling in frustration. "What's got you on your period? You were never like this in the past!"

There was that word. The past. She hated it.

This was childish, a thing of history, not the person who she was now.

Her job was important, far too important. It angered her she'd allow herself to be lured out like this. Heaven's work was more urgent than whatever residual sentiment existed between them. 

"I said get the fuck out!"

[F/n] had shoved him to the other side of the wall, despite his protests.

The clear door rattled as it closed in the middle of them, locking itself with magic.

Adam stares at her through the glass, eyes wide and with some level of shock or anger, or perhaps even both, but she couldn't decipher all that well and honestly didn't want to.

[F/n] holds his stare looking distant. Her lips creased.

It's difficult to do this, but this was faster than dragging it out. She could only hope one day he'd come to appreciate or gain some level of understanding why this turned out the way it did. 

For now, no matter her feelings, this was easier than explaining.

[cringekind]

AGOT reread prologue -> catelyn I

i said before that i wanted to "liveblog" my reread of agot that im doing while following a podcast, i guess this is that! I say "liveblog" because I'm annotating as I read and this is more a reflection on that and general thoughts, it would be too disruptive to actually write every time I had a thought to share! long post incoming

brief heads up that if i quote something and the text is colored, that's the color tab I used when I read the book initially. I have 7 colored tabs when reading agot and they are:

yellow - world building details / foreshadowing

orange - simply pretty or funny

red - sansa / jon / jonsa related

blue - any of the other starks centric

green - literally any other character

purple - marks deaths

pink - daenerys related

For the sake of this reading post, both "yellow" and "orange" tabs will be in yellow should I quote them. Having read the book already once I'm not sure if this is exactly how I should've set it up, but hey it there. I'll probably change is for ACOK, who knows.

Sometimes I'm going to quote whatever I tabbed without comment, but not always. Only if I simply think the line is good / pretty.

Prologue

Having the POV character be Will instead of Gared or Waymar is sooooo smart. Despite being high fantasy I like that we aren't dropped into the brain of a Knight right away, but also Will being a hunter is best equipped to actually notice all these little details being told to us.

i have a lot of things highlighted that are simply wonderful to read. I know we talk about it a lot, but George really is an amazing writer, like an actual delight to read. Like this quote:

"Will could sense something else in the older man. You could taste it, a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear."

On a craft level its so good! It tells us something about both Gared (his fear of whatever is in the woods, currently being covered by surliness) and of Will (how observant he is, using all his senses, but also how intuitive he is), and on top of all that it reads so smoothly.

because of my color coded tabs it literally made me giggle to highlight the description of Waymar as "...grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife." knowing I'm only thinking of Jon and jonsa. Sorry Waymar, you're beauty is only important to me for ship reasons.

Another thing that struck me as very Jon like happens only a couple lines later:

"It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected... Gared must have felt the same."

Despite currently doing a reread of AGOT, I've never read past this book, but this feels so Jon to me. His status as a beloved bastard creates all that tension with his brothers, I imagine the more status he receives the more his brothers feel this. Jon is capable, but then so is Waymar. Doesn't stop Gared and Will from not taking him seriously.

If this chapter had been in Waymar's POV it would have read like a detective novel. He's clearly very analytically minded, but poor Waymar that brain and bravery isn't going to do you any good here.

"It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while."

Both Will and Gared have this instinctual fear of the Other's despite not knowing they're real. Like they can feel something is about to happen. I don't believe either of them is from the North, but I wonder if the longer you spend in Beyond the Wall, the more the magic of the place gets to you.

The entire fight between Waymar the the Others is perfect. Waymar's bravery yes, but more importantly it's the perfect introduction to what will be The Big Threat Beyond The Wall for the entire series. They're so nonhuman but not in an animal way, in a Fae way. Cruel and so beyond even a strong man's power, inescapable. Will hiding in the tree was smart and all but him being smart and observant like a hunter and still dying really pushes the idea again that no man is a match for these creatures.

Bran I

Being reminded instantly that Bran is only seven in this book broke my heart so bad. Still such a baby, and on his first big boy duty, watching an execution. If I think about it too long I'll start to get mad at Ned even though he's trying to do what he can to prepare his son's for adulthood.

"He had taken off Father's face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell."

Ned's first and last actions in the book being a beheading fuck me up so bad. Every action he takes in these early chapters damns him in some way down the line, no matter how noble the intentions.

"Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice." is such a silly and yet sad thing for Bran to think. It's so younger brother of him to assume Jon at 14 holds all this knowledge inside him, considers him wise, but Jon is just a child too. It's sad knowing that Jon is expected to act like a man, will be considered a man soon.

"Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast."

Whatever could all these details mean! This is one of those details from all those Jonsa metas that really fucking got to me. Like three pages before Waymar is described the exact same way, and I'm not meant to connect them in my mind? And then eventually we find out Sansa had a crush on Waymar? idc if I'm grasping at straws it feels real to me.

I love that immediately after than Robb and Jon show just how young they are and race to the bridge. It's one of the last times they'll allowed to be kids.

"Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?' 'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him."

I think that quote is like a thesis statement for the Starks as a family. I know their words are Winter is Coming, but all of them are eternally brave in the face of their fear. Even Catelyn, so proud of being a Tully, is a Stark in this way.

People always bring up the 'the man who swings the sword' bit from this conversation between Bran and Ned, but the more important bit is just after. "A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is." This is about the Starks yes, but more importantly it's about Westeros and everyone in it. Like. I can't articulate how important it is, but this is what Ned is trying to teach Bran, not just that Bran should take responsibility for his decisions by fulfilling them himself.

Theon is such a shit, but also Jon snarking him back "I see [a direwolf] now" is the start of Jon's dry ass humor. Why did people make me think Jon is all duty and somber monologues, this kid is funny!! And he continues to be after this iirc!! Jon funny canon please remember this people!!!

The direwolf being impaled on antlers is maybe the least subtle foreshadowing of any in this series and yet it feels so smart to me! To plant this here before we know the Baratheon sigil. And that from the eyes of innocent seven year old Bran this means almost nothing, other than him remarking on how gruesome it is, but later is superstitious Catelyn's eyes it takes on new meanings!!

"He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had some right only because Jon had omitted himself."

For all that Catelyn has no reason to like Jon, in other circumstance she might love the guy. "Family, Duty, Honor" right? That's all Jon is! Here he is, putting his little brother's wants above all else, even as he struggles with not being Ned's trueborn son. To voluntarily bring it up so that Bran can have a puppy... the family>duty>honor is in the room with us, coming from one Jon Snow!!

Ghost's eyes being open = "but there was little [Jon] did not see" yeah, yeah exactly! soul wolves are here besties!!!!

Catelyn I

Catelyn is that girl, I'm sorry she is the superior POV in this series. First of all she's very smart, always thinking and making connections. It's why we get this infodump from her right away, because Catelyn really can't think of being in the Godswood without comparing it to her childhood home. Second of all I love the way she is religious. Most religious characters in books and film are sort of boiled down to religious zealots or someone deeply conservative. For Catelyn it's simply part of her, a part that will never go away. She doesn't feel at home in the godswood of Winterfell because those aren't her gods, but she doesn't call them fake. They simply aren't hers. She's spiritual, it's why she see's the antler in the direwolf as a sign and takes it seriously ("dread coiled in her like a snake...") when Ned won't. I just think it gives her a unique perspective in this story, one that leads her to be almost genre aware.

"...but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came."

oh no i hope we don't find out that someone is using the trees to watch people that would be so creepy /s

"'Beyond the Wall?' The thought made Catelyn shudder. Ned saw the dread on her face. 'Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear.' 'There are darker things beyond the Wall.' She glanced behind her at the heart tree, the pale bark and red eyes, watching, listening, thinking it's long slow thoughts."

like this! there is no reason for Catelyn, a woman raised in Riverun, to fear beyond the wall more than Ned, who was born in the North. I know he spent a lot of his childhood in the Vale, but you can't tell me baby Ned wasn't told stories of what's out there. But it's Catelyn the eternally superstitious who believes them. And she's right! Always right, my poor Cassandra.

She's also so politically minded. Ned is nothing but excited to see and old friend. It doesn't even worry him that the King is making an unannounced visit. Catelyn though, she knows. Jon Arryn dead, Robert coming, the direwolf. It might aswell be in neon flashing lights to her!!

Alright, that's it for now. Daenerys I, Eddard I, and Jon I should be next, with a three a week pace is all goes according to plan. This took me way longer than I thought it was going to but it was so much fun, and as long as it continues to be fun I will continue to make them!

[sunstone-smiles]

Candy Break!

Original request: "For Day 30, I want some trick or treating Wright Anything Agency shenanigans! Though I guess it would be more like tickle or treat here. I just want our attorney trio and Trucy messing around while getting some candy, even if some of them think they’re too old for that."

Author’s note: Wooo! With this, the final request for Tickletober (and possibly the final fic for the month) is complete! Thank you to everyone for all your wonderful support during Tickletober and I hope you enjoy Day 30: "Trick-or Treat" and "Magic" from August’s Tickletober List and Nim's Tickletober List!

Series: Ace Attorney 

Characters: Phoenix Wright, Trucy Wright, Apollo Justice, Athena Cykes

Word count: 1,275

Summary: Trucy thinks that the three lawyers of the Wright Anything Agency need a break, and what better way for a Halloween themed break than with candy! Although, in the spirit of the season, some of the treats may have some silly tricks.

---

“Knock knock,” Trucy peeks out from behind the door frame and taps her knuckle on the wall. She steps into the office (that doubles as a living room) with a blue bag in her hand. “You know what time it is? I think it’s time for a break.”

Phoenix, Apollo, and Athena look up from their spots. Phoenix is at his desk with a pen in his hand, Apollo is sitting behind a foldout table he uses as a temporary desk, and Athena sits on the sofa as her necklace projects a screen in front of her that she taps her fingers on.

The three attorneys have been hard at work researching for an upcoming case, so much so that the Wright Anything Agency has been silent, dead silent, for most of the day. Only rare bits of communication has been had, so Trucy, finding the silence becoming unbearable, decided that the lawyers are in dire need of a break.

Phoenix stretches his arms above his head, making sure to stretch his back muscles in the process. “I guess we have been going at it for a while. Sure, I could use a break.”

Athena checks the time on her screen, seeing that it’s already late in the afternoon. “Oh wow. Have we really been working for that long? Count me in on this break!” Athena waves away her screen for the projection to disappear, then sprawls out over the couch as she stretches before returning to a proper sitting position. Trucy walks over to Athena with the bag in her hands. Apollo still remains silent as he scribbles down notes at his desk.

“In the spirit of Halloween just around the corner, I’ve brought candy for us to enjoy! But there’s a catch. In order to get some, you have to guess the magic phrase that’s totally not obvious and does not correspond at all with the spooky season,” Trucy explains like she was performing one of her magic acts.

Athena raises her hand like she was answering a question in class. “Ooh! Ooh! I know!” Athena says with excitement. “Trick-or-treat!”

Trucy giggles and rummages through the blue bag that sounds like the crinkling of plastic wrappers. “Here you are, Athena!” she hands her a candy bar.

Athena cups the candy bar in her hand. “Ooh! One with caramel and nuts! Thanks, Trucy!” The lawyer in yellow opens the wrapper and begins snacking on the chocolate treat.

Trucy makes her way over to Phoenix. She holds out the bag. “Want one too, Daddy?”

“Well, I won’t say no,” Phoenix smiles. “Trick-or-treat.”

Trucy grins back at him, then pulls out another chocolate bar and hands it to Phoenix. She turns and walks towards the front of Apollo’s desk.

“Your turn, Polly!” she holds the bag out to him.

The lawyer in red glances up at her and tilts his head to the side. “Trucy, don’t you think we’re a little too old to be doing this?” He stands and walks to the front of his desk to stretch his legs. “I mean, I know it’s in the spirit of Halloween and everything, but do we really have to say it?”

Trucy rolls her eyes and places the bag of candy on the table desk. “Ugh, I knew you were going to be like this. Just say it, Polly. I guarantee that it’ll be fun.” Trucy grins, though perhaps with too many mischievous warning bells for his liking. Still, whatever she has planned up her sleeve can’t be that bad. Maybe she’ll coax him to be her assistant for a magic trick. It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Trick-or-treat,” he says begrudgingly. 

Trucy smiles and hands him a candy bar.

“Thank you,” Apollo takes it in his hand, but he stops when he sees a white piece of paper taped on top of it with writing on it. He turns the treat rightside up to read it outloud. 

“‘Gotcha’...? Trucy, what does this mea–AH!” He looks up the exact moment that Trucy tackles him to the floor. Before he can object to any of her shenanigans, he feels a quick scribble to his sides. The lawyer yelps and immediately starts giggling as a wave of tickly energy hits him.

“This is what it means, Polly!” Trucy exclaims. “You’ve been tricked! After all, it is called Trick or Treat!”

”Mohohore like tickle or treheheheat! Gehehehet off mehehehe!” Apollo playfully shoves at Trucy.

“No way! You need to embrace your child-like side! That’s why I put those trick candies in there! Who says that you’re too old to say trick-or-treat?” Trucy scratches up at Apollo’s ribs, causing the lawyer to clamp his arms down with louder giggles.

“Ohoho yeah? Yohohou want mehehe to embrace thihihihis? Thehehen how about this!” Apollo shoots his arms out towards Trucy and scribbles at her ribs. The magician squeaks and throws her arms down for protection as giggles fill her voice. She leans to the side and flops to her back, allowing Apollo to quickly roll over to sit up and continue tickling her.

“Eehehek! Pohohoholly!” she squeaks again when he wiggles his fingers at her underarms.

“Well, well, well, Trucy. It looks like your trick backfired. I guess you should have stuck with regular old treats,” Apollo teases.

“Athenahaha! Hehehehelp!” Trucy calls out through her giggles.

“Way ahead of you, Trucy,” Athena says, already at Apollo’s side. She kneels down and dives her hands towards Apollo’s ribs, causing him to shoot his arms down with a bark of laughter.

“Hehehey! Ohoho no yohohou dohohon’t!” Apollo exclaims and nudges Athena off balance. She falls over to her back and Apollo pounces at her, swiftly scribbling into her belly to make her scream with bubbly laughter.

“Nohohoho! I fell fohohohor the same-hehehe trick!” Athena pushes at Apollo’s hands as her legs kick behind him. 

Trucy jumps at Apollo’s back, tickling him and helping Athena, and the pattern continues as the three of them get into a mini tickle fight—leaping at one another, rolling around on the floor, laughing, and overall having that moment of unbridled fun that Trucy intended. Their sounds of joy fill the office and remove any trace of the stale silence from earlier in the day.

Phoenix chuckles to himself as he watches them all play like three puppies piled on top of each other in a playpen. He stands from his desk and walks over to Apollo’s table to be closer to the silly scene. 

“Okay,” Phoenix chuckles again. “Enough fighting, everyone. You're going to wear yourselves out.”

The three on the floor come to a stop after listening to Phoenix, pulling their hands away and catching their breath as residual giggles remain in the air.

Phoenix lets out another chuckle. “I guess this was an eventful break, wasn’t it? And it all started with a bag of candy.” Phoenix reaches into the bag to grab another treat for himself. He pulls it out, though the wrapper feels different than usual. He looks down at his hand to see a similar piece of paper taped on top with “Gotcha” written on it. 

Phoenix looks up; his eyes go wide as he sees the three on the floor glancing at one another, then staring at him with big grins on their faces. 

“Uh oh…” is all Phoenix manages to say before the three leap at him and tackle him to the ground. Soon, Phoenix’s booming giggles join the newly cheery atmosphere of the office. Looks like Trucy’s treats can lead to tricks, and the tricks can lead to the treat of sweet sounding laughter.

[madwomansapologist]

━ ✧ unraveling you | chapter 3 - the hound and its leash

masterlist | pinterest board | spotify playlist |  AO3

series synopsis: Trapped inside Westview, Agatha Harkness was reduced to Agnes. The noisy neighbor and nothing more than that. Until a meteor rain brought something strong to Westview. Something strong enough to help her, and maybe strong enough to free her. You. In a journey to save herself by teaching you the ways of magic, Agatha Harkness wants one thing only: to avenge herself.

Leaning against the door frame, Agnes blew the cup of tea between her hands. She watched your back as you sat on the ground with a canvas between your legs and placed some paint pots near the fence on the backyard.

― Where did you found those old things? ― Agnes yelled from inside the house, forcing herself to remain distant from you. ― They look a century old.

― The attic, I think ― you shrugged, more interested on your canvas than on her. Agnes sighed. ― I wasn’t paying attention.

Of course you weren’t. Your mind is always somewhere far away. Not that she’s one to judge you. Agnes’ body may be trapped here, but her mind is quick to wander away from Westview. From this hellish house.

Kitchen with such white walls, a couch far too small in the living room, curtains so thin they’re almost transparent. Nothing feels right. Fire that doesn’t burn, smoke that doesn’t choke. A house, not a home. Simply a vessel, bending as the scarlet witch decides it’s time to.

Stop, the voice inside her head demanded. Her voice. She must remember: it’s her voice. Agatha Harkness. That’s her name. That’s her voice. That’s not the truth. Admit it. Don’t lie to us. Do never lie to us again.

― I’m delirious ― Agnes said instinctively. She wasn’t even aware that word was about to come out of her mouth. Still, it felt right. It felt true. ― Insomnia, paranoia, hallucinations. I can’t trust myself.

Madness. Most of the time, Agnes is able to notice when her perception of the world around her isn’t to be trusted. When her thoughts aren’t right, and the things she sees aren’t really there. The house is the same as it has always been. The problem is her mind. Six months trapped inside herself, dreaming a dream that doesn’t end.

Before an wolf chasing her enemies, now just a rabbit with a broken paw.

― I mean no offense ― she sat on the floor, reaching out for Señor Scratchy. He jumped to her lap, enjoying Agnes’ warm hands. He bit at her fingers, not meaning to hurt her. She does the same all the time. ― Not that you would understand that.

Hope meant so little now. Hope wouldn’t save her, wouldn’t glue the broken pieces of her soul back together. She can’t go back to be the powerful being she once was. Not after being defeated, humiliated again and again. But rage would do it. Rage would lift her up.

The house looked just like a house now.

Agnes grabbed the books for your classes. She tried to mess with Wanda’s head, make her see that her reality was just as fake as the old shows she loved, and that created a chaos Agnes wasn’t ready to deal with. With you, she’ll be more subtle. All Agnes need is for you to question your reality.

At the backyard once again, she almost stepped on a canvas. Agnes kneeled down to get it out of the way but found herself unable to move. A wide sky, in tones of blue and purple. Great stars, comets, nebulae. It was… intricate. Complex. An elaborated design.

Your laugh made her look away from it. The blonde girl sat next to you made her worry. She had a rose on her hands, once yellow but now carefully painted purple. Just as you had one of Agnes’ flowers dripping yellow paint.

― A guest ― Agnes smiled, but her high pitched tone wasn’t as polite as it usually is. She knows that child. Sarah’s kid. Meanwhile Dottie had a busy life being the mean neighbor, her kid got locked away on her bedroom for weeks. ― Does your mom knows you’re here?

She doesn’t. Agnes knows that. Sarah hates her guts, she would never let her precious daughter be a guest in a witch’s house.

That put another smile to her face. A more real one, more cruel one. They all know she’s a witch. She came after the hex, and most of them saw some aspect of her fight with Wanda. Her neighbors just think she was unable to stand against her, used as the final boss in their broken sitcom.

Not Sarah. She knows Agnes did nothing to help them because she didn’t want to. Because it wouldn’t have beneficted her. Somehow, and that Agnes isn’t aware of, she found a proof of her free will during the period Wanda controlled them.

It feels nice to be understood.

― A lovely guest ― you said. ― We’re working on a special project.

― Painting flowers? A waste of time. Paint. And flowers.

― We’re the Red Queen’s soldiers ― the girl explained. Agnes tried, but she couldn’t remember her name. ― She ordened us to paint the roses red. Since we don’t have red paint, we are improvising.

― My idea ― you took another of Agnes’ flowers. She doesn’t like to see them yellow, but hates the idea of seeing them red.

― I gonna hide this one in my mom’s garden and see how long it takes for her to notice it.

Agnes sat away from you both, watching as you ruined her flowers. You tried to get her to participate, she pretended to be reading. After a few minutes, she heard Sarah calling for someone named Giselle.

― Over here! ― Agnes yelled.

Sarah approached the gap in their fences, unsure if Agnes was talking to her. She usually does her best to pretend not to notice the witch’s existence. To see someone else there surprised Sarah. But besides the woman stood her daughter.

In a matter of seconds she was holding Giselle’s arm, pulling her towards their home.

― What did I said to you? ― Sarah hissed at her daughter. She turned to Agnes, pointing at her. ― Get away from my family.

Agnes looked so at peace, so put together, but you could feel it. The boiling rage of being insulted and unable to react. Looking at Agnes, you didn’t saw the woman you came to know. You saw a hound dog incapable of biting back.

― Then maybe you should get your family away from me ― she barked. Her mouth tasted like iron. ― Have a nice day, neighbor!

Giselle gave you a sadly smile, and you waved at her. Agnes sat again, mouth shut and eyes tired, anger just a layer beneath her skin. You looked at the flower drying. It wasn’t fun anymore.

― What is your favorite flower? ― You tried to distract Agnes from whatever she was thinking about. To make that feeling echoing from her cease to exist.

― I don’t have one.

― Then you’re a liar.

― I just… ― she brushed her eyes after they twiched. It wasn’t a good day for her. It getting so much more difficult to control her mind, her feelings. ― I guess orchids. Probably orchids.

― That’s better ― you smiled. ― Now what does an orchid looks like?

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The screen turned black as the movie stopped, reflecting your images. Nothing but your eyes escaped from under the blanket, just two little white dots. Agnes was so focused on devouring buttered popcorn, only now noticing how little of your skin was being show.

― Are you fine? ― She asked, mouth full. You nodded slowly, and Agnes tried to suppress the urge to laugh. ― You don’t seen fine, sweetheart. Remember. There is a different between fiction and reality.

― I can’t even move ― you murmured.

― That’s a children’s movie. Are you so easily scared?

― CHILDREN ARE ALLOWED TO WATCH CORALINE?

― A bit unfair to deny them this feeling.

― Why would they want to feel… that? It’s horrible. I don’t want to ever feel that way again.

Agnes put the popcorn away, licking the salt from her fingers. She looked at the open window. It was getting dark now. Besides you, she didn’t even felt the hours passing by.

― It isn’t that bad. Also, fear is addicting. It makes your mind realizes you own a body. A mortal body, that can perish and rot. Nothing makes one feel more alive than admitting the existence of their own eventual, inescapable death.

Nothing makes her feel more happy than being the one to survive after a battle. Agnes smiled to herself. She missed it. How enemies can accept a common truth: they both will do their best and worse to get out of it alive.

― If it made me feel so awful, why did I liked it? Because I did. Wasn’t I suppose to only like things that are good?

― Just because it was uncomfortable doesn’t mean it was bad. You got angry at her parents. Disliked them because of their indifference. You saw something, thought about it, and got to a logical conclusion. That’s a good thing. Means you can think for yourself. Also, I heard the way your stomach snored as she drank the mango milkshake.

― It looked so good ― the excitement disappeared just as quick as it came. ― It hurts me that mango milkshake don’t exist.

Now Agnes was laughing. How couldn’t she? Her belly ached, but she was too amused to stop. Her skin turned red, lungs begging for air, and Agnes ignored a tear falling throught her cheek.

― It is real ― she was barely able to say it. ― You dumbass.

― No fucking way!

Agnes rose from the couch, heading to the kitchen with the bowl, but stopped in the halfway. She looked at you, shock all over her face.

― Where did you learned that word?

― Don’t know ― you shrugged it off.

― You know what? We deserve mango milkshake.

Walking to the ice cream shop, Agnes felt her body getting lighter. Weeks ago that would make her want to set fire to her skin. At least pain would mean she was feeling something. Now, it brings her joy. To go to places, acting freely: it delights her.

― It burns ― you cried out loud, laughing with milkshake still on your mouth. You sat on a high chair at the back of the shop, and Agnes stopped beside you. So close. ― It is cold, why does it burn?!

― It’s cold ― Agnes giggled. ― Really, really, really cold. Now press your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

You did as she instructed. Agnes reached for you, rubbing your forehead with her thumb. You melt against her touch, eyes suddenly heavy. Something burned inside Agnes.

― Why does it feels better now? ― You whispered.

― No one knows ― Agnes sighed. ― But it does.

Eyes closed, you felt the presence. You heard a melody, one that you already knew. It isn’t the first time this happened. Some people work in tunes, other in colors and feelings. Whenever Sharon is near, you feel cold. Abilash is a breeze, light and comfortable. She haven’t opened her mouth, but you heard her.

You smiled at Sarah, thinking that would be the end of it. Whatever problem she has with Agnes, you know nothing about. Sarah doesn’t have a problem with you, and for you that’s all.

The smile was a little gesture, but a kind one still. Sarah wouldn’t do anything if it wasn’t for that. You looked like a good person. Someone decent, at least. Someone Agnes would hurt without a second thought.

― Hi, Sarah ― your words made Agnes look away from you. ― Have you found the flower yet?

― Aren’t you disgusted at yourself? ― Sarah’s words were clear, but you saw her hands trembling as she looked at Agnes. More than just enraged, Sarah was scared. ― Aren’t you embarrassed?

― Sarah ― Agnes hissed, a smile spreading throught her face. This time you noticed how fake it looked. How insulting it felt. ― Don’t you have a kid to look after?

― Acting as if nothing had happened ― Sarah continued. ― They can fall for your pretty words, but I see the truth. You’re just like that monster that toyed with us. You can fool them, but not me. Watch out, lassie. She’ll only hurt you.

You couldn’t understand what was happening, but you felt it all. Agnes and that same rage once more, but something else was there too. Fault. In some way, Sarah’s words affected her. Maybe they carried truth, maybe they were just cruel, but it hurted Agnes nonetheless.

― I think you better step back ― getting between them both, you covered Agnes from Sarah’s gaze. ― There is no need for that.

Agnes couldn’t look away from you.

So close from Sarah, you allowed her emotions to consume you. The pain, the loneliness. She was hurt and nothing could change it. Helplessness. To be powerless for so long… You too would sometimes forget that things had changed. That hell is before, not around you.

Inside her eyes, you saw a half-open door. The crack glowed in scarlet red. A door she couldn’t fully open, releasing who was trapped inside it. Somehow, you knew. She would rather die than to ever feel that way again.

― It wasn’t your fault ― you spoke softly, a hand rising to stroke her shoulder. ― Don’t carry that burden. It isn’t yours.

As your hand stroke her skin, Sarah stopped breathing. Yes, you were right. It isn’t hers to. Sarah looked at Agnes one last time, before giving you a smile just as kind as the one you gave her.

― Why did… ― Agnes bit her lips. Watching Sarah walk away, she struggled to breath. ― Why did you protected me?

You sat back, your whole body so tired you could fall asleep there. You were exhausted.

― My body did it ― you shrugged. ― You told me scary feelings makes your mind remember that you own a body. Does it work the same way with good feelings?

Agnes hesitated.

― I wouldn’t know. I’m not used to the good ones.

― What a shame ― you poured. ― You deserve good things.

Agnes thought about holding your hand.

― You too.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

― Stop that ― you yelled, trying to clean the mess Señor Scratchy made. ― I will roast you.

Sat on a chair in the backyard, one she bought recently, Agnes took a sip from her tea. The cup on her hands had little purple orchids painted on. She didn’t look up from her book.

― Don’t threaten him ― Agnes turned to the next page. ― Or I will roast you.

The grass wasn’t even green anymore. You were patient, but it was the third time in a row he made another mess right after you cleaned it all up. You barely draw at all.

― Bad habbit ― you hissed. ― Bad habbit.

He ran away, taking one of your brushes with him. Following after Señor Scratchy, you saw the traces of paint he left behind. Less time painting, more time cleaning. Awful, awful rabbit.

― You little thief! No more carrots for you!

You found him in front of the door leading to the basement. He dropped the brush and scratched the door. He didn’t want to mess with you. He just wanted help. You reached for the doorknob.

― Don’t.

Startled, you turned to see Agnes right behind you. You didn’t even heard her. Agnes kneeled down and took the brush from the floor, putting it on your hand. As your fingers brushed against her, you could almost touch her concern. She was trembling.

That’s not the first time Agnes can’t say something out loud. Althought that’s the first she went out of her way to stop you.

― What’s down there? ― You interwined your fingers with hers. She squeezed your hand. ― You can tell me.

― I can’t.

― That’s your home ― you whispered. ― You can.

You opened the door before she could stop you. You won’t allow whatever that is stopping her to control you. That place was left untouched for long enough.

A cold breeze reached you. It didn’t felt like another part of the house, but something entirely different. After the first step down it, it was easier to move. Too alluring to ever stop. By the end of it, you knew it was just an ordinary basement.

― See? ― You turned to her. ― Is just a…

You froze as the purple energy moved around Agnes. Coming out of her fingertips, it made impossible for her to move. Agnes couldn’t open her mouth. You heard her teeth clenching. The energy lift her up, just to throw her against the wall.

― Fuck you ― Agnes screamed in pain. It sounded more like a beast than a human. ― And fuck your stupid rules!

You ran after her, but that same energy moved towards her neck. Before you were even able to throw yourself on the ground, Agnes couldn’t breath.

Nothing you did stopped it. Agnes wasn’t breathing. More scared than you have ever been, tears rolled down you face as Agnes writhed on the ground. They fell on her face, but one of them were different. It glistened, like a precious jewel. The crystal disappeared on her skin.

― I’m so sorry ― you call you, hoping that whoever was doing that to Agnes could hear you. With tears blocking your vision, you kept on begging. ― Don’t hurt her. She’s good. Don’t hurt her.

You didn’t saw when things changed. When someone inside you was shattered, giving space to something older and stronger. Something ancient. With a pearly glow, your heart exploded.

Begging for help, you stroked Agnes’ hair. Bowing over the woman who only ever helped you, the wings breaking free from your back were nothing but a little discomfort compared to the cacophony of emotions boiling inside of you.

The pearly light was gone, and the only thing you could see was darkness. Its embrace lulled you into a deep slumber. It was warm. It was welcoming.

Besides you, she knew. With her eyes wide open, tears drying against her skin, air reaching her lungs. She knew it all.

Her name is Agatha Harkness.

GENERAL TAGLIST: @lovelyy-moonlight

UNRAVELING YOU TAGLIST: @harknessshi

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[saintsenara]

sparkling cyanide hokey & hepzibah smith general | 1.4k words

they is not knowing that we is knowing how to take the lives we is wanting from them. and that is why they is not thinking about how many weapons they is putting in kitchens.

tom riddle had nothing to do with the death of hepzibah smith. hokey had just had enough of being a slave.

this piece was written for week fourteen of @ladiesofhpfest, which focuses on the non-human ladies of the harry potter series [you can find the masterlist of the week’s fics here], which, here, means hokey, the house elf enslaved by hepzibah smith.

or, as we shall call her from hereon out, eokhí, which is how her name is accurately transcribed from the elvish language [more on which below].

for a story which only has 1,400 words, there is a lot to say about this one. some author’s notes under the cut:

the title is the same as that of agatha christie’s 1945 novel sparkling cyanide - published in the united states as remembered death - for which there are some spoilers immediately to follow. it is not, let me be frank, agatha’s best [not least because it’s a rewrite of a poirot short story, the yellow iris] but there are several things about it which appealed to me when i was writing this: that it deals with a death initially presumed not to be murder; that it has multiple suspects, including a young man who appears to desire wealth; and that the murder weapon is a poisoned drink.

the poison - in christie’s case and in mine - is potassium cyanide. this is obviously a deviation from what we are told in half-blood prince - in which dumbledore describes the poison used to kill hepzibah as "rare" - since cyanide is probably one of the better known methods of doing away with troublesome old ladies, but it has been my headcanon for quite a while: cyanide looks very similar to sugar; it's highly soluble; its bitter taste requires something sweet [like cocoa] to mask it; it kills its victim extremely quickly; and it wouldn’t be completely bizarre for it to be found in a wizarding house. cyanide was a standard component of silver polish until surprisingly recently, and i am choosing to believe that this is the same in the wizarding world. in her interview with the aurors, eokhí just happens to mention that hepzibah wanted a pair of silver candlesticks polished the day she died, and everyone considers the matter settled.

i’ve always been fascinated by the murder of hepzibah smith, not least because - as it’s described in canon - it’s a massive deviation from voldemort’s usual modus operandi. hepzibah is the only person we know to have been poisoned by him, and the only person we know to have been killed using - essentially - a muggle method [even if the poison in jkr’s head is magical, stirring it into a cup of cocoa isn’t]. above all, i am obsessed about what it says about voldemort that the hyper-feminine [even if the text treats her attempts at femininity as ridiculous - something which eokhí agrees with] hepzibah is killed in such a feminine-coded way: poison is known in pop-culture as a "woman’s weapon" - even if statistical evidence doesn’t confirm this - and a domestic one; and the image of hepzibah dying in her own home, over a cosy cup of cocoa, as punishment for insulting voldemort’s mother [whose death kept him from that experience] is really striking.

a part of the murder which is more usual for voldemort is that he frames someone else. however, unlike with his framing of morfin gaunt for the murder of the three riddles, which is made to look deliberate, he makes eokhí’s involvement in hepzibah’s death look accidental, and eokhí appears to receive no punishment from the ministry of magic. this undoubtedly has nothing to do with any compassion for her on voldemort’s part; he chooses it because it’s the most plausible cover he can give himself, and this must be because wizards know that elves cannot deliberately harm their masters.

or, at least, think they know that.

poison’s association with women and the domestic sphere obviously means it has a reputation for being the means by which servants bump off their masters - and, specifically, how female servants bump off their mistresses. i very much like the idea of witches laughing in a self-satisfied way, thinking that they never have to worry - like silly old muggles - about being done away with by their cooks, while the loophole which elves have noticed and have been exploiting for centuries stares them right in the face.

because we see in canon that elves are perfectly capable of indirectly harming their masters - dobby spends the entirety of chamber of secrets doing it - and so, when eokhí decides she has had enough of her mistreatment at hepzibah’s hands, all she has to do is get the poison out of the cupboard, put it in a dish, and let hepzibah choke on her own arrogance.

eokhí is a type of elf we only see glimpses of in canon - one who does not want to be a slave. the house-elf plotline is the weakest in the series for many reasons, but one i always find particularly galling is that dobby’s revolutionary zeal in chamber of secrets, in which he talks of whisper networks of elves decrying their ill-treatment at the hands of wizards and celebrating voldemort’s death, vanishes in goblet of fire, when the standard elvish position seems to correspond with the wizarding one: that being a slave is great and wanting freedom is bizarre.

eokhí said fuck that. this story is one of disrespect and rage and revenge, and of the triumphant pleasure of reclaiming the space which was once used to oppress you, as eokhí goes from waking up in a nest of blankets on the kitchen floor - because she’s not allowed a real bed, unlike hepzibah - to eating the cakes she has always been denied while hepzibah lies dead in the parlour.

it is also a story of language.

we hear several elves speak in canon, although only three in any great detail: dobby, winky, and kreacher. there are differences across their speech - dobby and kreacher tend to speak in the third-person, winky tends to speak in the first-person; kreacher uses the present continuous the least, winky uses it the most - but none speak in standard british [or american] english, and there are similarities - such as a tendency to use non-standard conjugations of verbs ["i is not sure you did dobby a favour, sir"] - among all three.

in harry potter, characters who speak in non-standard english are generally coded in one of three ways: foreign [fleur, krum]; simple-minded [hagrid]; or shifty [mundungus fletcher, amycus carrow]. which - if any - of these readings is intended for elves is up for debate, although my own view is that elves’ language is intended to make the reader agree with the standard wizarding opinion that they are less sophisticated or rational than humans and that their subordinate position in wizarding society is natural and justifiable. this is, obviously, something the text partially pulls the rug from under - the underestimation of both dobby and kreacher’s powers and agency is a significant contributor to harry’s victory - but it always feels, given the series’ failure to fully stick the landing on whether it thinks slavery is a bad thing, not as pointed or ironic as it may have been intended to be.

i prefer to think of elves as having their own language, used among themselves, to which wizards have no access. but i also think that it does them a disservice to think of the language they use to interact with wizards as simply non-standard - or, more dismissively, "broken" - english. i think we should imagine that all adult elves are fluent speakers of two languages: the elvish language; and what we might call elvish creole, which - like all creole languages - is not a dialect, but a full language in its own right.

eokhí’s story is written in this language. some of its linguistic features are:

phonetics: in goblet of fire, dobby is shown to think that ron’s surname is pronounced "wheezy". he thinks this because the elvish language of course has its own phonetics, which particularly affect the transcription of proper nouns which are not habitually used in elvish or elvish creole. two examples are important to this story: the elvish language doesn’t have an aspirated h- [as in, how a speaker of standard british english would pronounce "hokey"] and it doesn’t have a plosive p- [as in, how a speaker of standard british english would pronounce "hepzibah"]. that hepzibah expects eokhí to pronounce her name properly and yet doesn’t extend this basic courtesy to her should not surprise us.

names: three elves we meet in canon - dobby, winky, and hokey - have names which end in an "ee" sound. as eokhí explains, this is because elves are usually named after nouns, and the nominative singular of nouns in the elvish language end in -í. plural nouns end in -é. [kreacher’s name appears to be an adaptation of the word "creature", which suggests that he was dehumanised to such an extent that his masters wouldn’t even make an attempt to pronounce his real name.]

elves do not speak the names of their dead. eokhí refers only to eokhí’s mother, rather than using the name she had when she was living. wizards do not realise they are being disrespected when elves use their names after they are gone.

pronouns: the elves we see in canon tend to use illeism. that is, they refer to themselves in the third-person singular - he, she - most of the time. although winky uses the first-person singular - i - regularly, dobby only uses it occasionally, and kreacher never does. they also tend to use their own names as pronouns - "kreacher is cleaning" - particularly when needing to add emphasis or clarity to sentences. eokhí never uses the first-person singular, for reasons connected to elves’ traditions about the self. she would explain to us that when elves refer to themselves as "i", they are choosing to speak standard english for the benefit of their wizarding audience, and she doesn’t feel hepzibah deserves that effort.

verbs: the elves we see in canon generally only use the third-person singular of verbs - "i says" - regardless of pronoun choice. eokhí does the same, since both elvish and elvish creole have no plural verb forms and only one grammatical person, once again connected to elves’ traditions about the self.

the elves we meet in canon also tend to use the present continuous - "my master is telling winky some things" - frequently, often in a context which would not feel intuitive for speakers of standard english. in eokhí’s speech, the present continuous is used to show actions which are repeated or habitual - "eokhí is waking up one morning in her nest on the kitchen floor" - while the simple present refers both to general statements of fact - "eokhí is a slave" - or to one-off actions "eokhí decides that is it".

in the past tense, similar principles apply: eokhí uses the past continuous - the smith family "was wanting to be looked after" by eokhí’s mother - to describe repeated or habitual actions and the simple past for general or singular events. the future continuous is used both for actions which will be repeated or habitual and for actions which will take a indeterminate time to conclude - "eokhí is going to be fighting back", her battle is not just done with hepzibah dead - rather than simple actions with a defined end-point.

such as "she will eat".

[chuuyrr]

Request what if Baby witch fushiguro gives flowers for papa gojo after having a bad day

ヾ(❀╹◡╹)ﾉﾞ

scarlet witch! baby fushiguro! reader gives papa! gojo flowers

jujutsu kaisen x reader

masterlist of the series

╰➤ CW(s): jujutsu kaisen 0 spoilers, fluff/comfort content

╰➤ PAIRING(s): platonic! jujutsu kaisen x child! reader (adoptive father! gojo satoru)

╰➤ SYNOPSIS: you notice how sad gojo looks, and you have no idea why he is down, but with a bit of magic, you decide to make and give him some flowers in hopes to cheer him up

you never quite understood what your father meant when he said that your uncle suguru geto was no longer coming home, but whatever it was, it clearly made gojo satoru sad.

gojo spoke to you in a sullen and soft voice, which was completely unlike him. gojo was usually cheerful and ecstatic when he spoke to you, even smiling and laughing. there wasn't a single smile this time, but a frown.

sure, you missed your uncle geto and were saddened by the news that he would no longer be returning home given that he was your favorite person next to gojo, but seeing the look on your father's face concerned you more. you couldn't stand seeing him like that.

gojo's gaze was fixed on his own palms. he felt as if he were reliving his youth as he recalled his time as a second-year student with suguru and shoko. everything, from the shenanigans to the missions, was over now. everything was now just a memory for him to reflect on, rather to live.

"d..dada..?"

when gojo heard your small voice, his eyes widened. he shifted his gaze to his three-year-old, or rather, his adoptive child, given that you weren't exactly his.

as you approached him, the pitter patter of your shoes thumped against the ground, your tiny hands grasping his pant leg. gojo's expression softened as he was dragged back into reality, away from his ocean of thoughts.

"hi, mochi," gojo said as he peered down at you, managing a smile.

with that, gojo slowly drew away from your tiny hands and knelt down to your height, extending his much larger hand to give you a head pat and sighing as he ruffled your [color] hair.

"what'cha doing here, kikufuku?" gojo asked, his much larger hand now cupping your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek, "thought you were playing with your stuffies, hmm?"

"[name]-chan has gift for dada!" you exclaimed with a smile gracing your lips.

gojo tilted his head to the side, confused by your words, "a gift for me?"

"mhm!" you nodded your head with a smile.

gojo found himself softly chuckling at your words. what could you possibly offer him? but, whatever it is, his sweet little child had temporarily distracted him from the thoughts that were drowning him earlier.

gojo's eyes were fixed on you as you maneuvered both of your tiny hands behind your back, as if you were getting something. you then returned one of your hands to your side, your dominant hand extended in front of you, his blue eyes now widening in surprise.

there were a bunch of lillies in your tiny hand, white lillies to be exact, as well as some yellow and orange daisies.

"tada! i got you flowers!" you cried out happily.

"e-eh?!" gojo was greatly astounded.

gojo immediately peered behind your back and around his surroundings. where did you get those flowers?

there were no flowers with you when you came to him, nor were there any around. not to mention, the flowers you got him were hard to come by, and yet here you were, holding several in your tiny hand as if it were nothing.

"do you like it?" you exclaimed, handing the flowers to him.

"y-yes, i do," gojo responded, still in disbelief. he grasped the flowers and was able to confirm these lillies and daisies were very much real.

"but, [name]-chan, how did you get these flowers?" gojo asked, brows furrowed slightly.

"magic!" you exclaimed, now giggling.

"magic, you say?" gojo raised a brow, still confused by what you meant.

"yeah! magic!" you nodded, "i saw you looking so sad so i gifted you flowers."

gojo's chest instantly became fuzzy and warm as he softly stared at you. even at three years old, you were quite mature and essentially an empath. he wasn't sure how you got these flowers or what kind of magic you were referring to, but all he could think about right now was how sweet and caring his beloved child was to him.

"but why flowers, kikufuku?" gojo asked, now unable to hold back a smile—a genuine smile.

"flowers make me happy, and i wanted to make you happy too," you said, looking away shyly as you now fiddled with your thumbs, "i know you're sad because of uncle geto."

"of course you do," gojo sighed, motioning you to approach him, which you did only for him to embrace you while holding the flowers you had given him.

"are you still sad, dada?" you asked, realizing how quiet gojo's tone of voice as you looked up.

"not anymore, [name]-chan," gojo shook his head before pressing his lips against your hairline, smiling as he stood up and took you in his arms.

"i'm happier now, and that's because i have you. both of us will be okay even if suguru's gone. i just know it, mochi."

[ author's notes ! sorry if this was short, but i do hope it was short but sweet enough <3 i'm tired from our sports week and the environment i'm currently in isn't exactly helping with my exhaustion ... but i still wanted to write something that will also cheer myself up, so yeah !!

here are small trivias for the flowers that little reader-chan gave papa gojo :)

lily of the valley symbolizes happiness, love, and purity. it is also a common gift to give to loved ones, but knowing how young [name]-chan is, little reader most likely gave it because it is white like papa gojo's hair.

yellow daisies symbolize joy, cheerfulness and well wishes. they are the perfect "get well soon" flower.

orange daisies symbolize happiness, joy, friendship and warmth. they are the most joyful type of daisies to send and receive! the perfect pick-me-up to easily make someone's day with a bunch of bright orange daisies.

thank you so much for requesting dear anon. enjoy <3 ]

[bullet-prooflove]

Hallmark!Series Part Eight: Replacements - Mike Duarte x Reader (feat: Joe Velasco) - NSFW

Tagging: @kmc1989   @resonmalvo @@littleone65   @thesandbeneathmytoes    @mydarkestsecretlol    @evee87   @wooshwastaken   @hearthockey  @justreblogginfics         @rosaliedepp @thatesqcrush    @storiesofsvu   @whateversomethingbruh  @burningpeachpuppy  @legit9thlunaticwarrior       @kiwiithecrazybird  @spooky-pomegranate     @telepathay   @weiwei0210  @spaghettificationandpretzels  @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @magic-multicolored-miracle @cycat4077 @deekaag @cixrosie @upsteadlogic @imaginecrushes @anime-weeb-4-life @hey-dw @alwaysachorusgirl @telepathay @nu1freakshow

Hallmark!Series:

Hallmark (feat: Mike Duarte) - Joe watches you fall in love with another man.

Be With Me (feat: Mike Duarte) - Joe tells you how he feels.

Placeholder (feat: Mike Duarte)  - Mike fears he’s a placeholder.

Think About It (feat: Mike Duarte) - Joe recalls what happened the night of Fin's engagement party.

Positive - Mike finds out about what happened between you and Joe.

Five Months - You and Mike catch up.

Baby Talk - Joe and you have a frank talk about co-parenting.

Mike’s problem with your pregnancy is the physical logistics. It takes him a minute to get used to the changes in your body, the hormones, the altered shape, the way you sleep. All of it’s different and he accepts that, what he can’t get used to is how sensitive you are. When he touches you, you respond to him with needy moans and that does wonders for his ego.

Tonight is no exception. He has you on your knees on the bed, your back against his chest as he holds you close. His lips chase up the curve of your throat as he fucks you in long, punctuated strokes that have you breathing out his name. He loves the intimacy of this position; how close he feels to you in the moment.

“You think you can give me another Mi Vida?” He whispers, his breath ghosting in your ear. “Come on my cock again and let me hear that pretty noise you make?”

His palm strays down to cup your breast, his thumb toying with your nipple. It doesn’t take more than a couple of thrusts before you’re coming for him. You clench around his dick, gripping him so tightly he sees fucking stars. The sound you make, it takes him over the edge with you. He spills his release deep inside of you as he cradles you close, his lips brushing over your shoulder. There’s never been a woman that ruins him like this, that wrecks him so absolutely.

“I’ve missed this.” He tells you in the aftermath.

The two of you are lying face to face, tangled up with one another. Mike’s fingertips chase over the apple of your cheek as he looks into your eyes.

“I’ve missed it too.” You tell him.

He kisses you slowly, savouring the feel of your lips on his. His thumb trails along the line of your jaw as he smiles because it’s moments like this that make him realise just how much he loves you.

He’s still there the next morning when Velasco comes over to paint the nursery. You’re in the shower when Mike opens the door with a mug of coffee in his hand. He’s wearing his rumpled t-shirt from last night and jeans with no socks or shoes. His hair is dishevelled and his cheeks unshaven.

“Velasco.” He greets, holding the door open for the other man to step inside.

“I’m guessing you stayed the night.” Velasco says as he puts the can of the appropriately named baby yellow paint down on your kitchen table.

“Yea.” Mike says before gesturing to the coffee pot.

Velasco shakes his head.

For a moment there’s silence between the two men before Velasco rubs his palm over the back of his neck.

“Fuck, this is weird.” He says, his lips set together in a grim line.

“I’m her boyfriend.” Mike tells him, taking a sip from his mug. “I’m going to stay the night.”

“It’s not the staying over. It’s the…” He trails off unable to say the words. “She’s carrying my kid.”

“She’s also a person outside of that.” Mike reminds him, picking up the coffee pot and refilling his mug. “A woman who has needs…”

“Which you clearly took care of last night.” Velasco interrupts.

Mike fixes him with that dark look of his because Velasco has no fucking right to question what the two of you get up to. You may be carrying his baby but you’re still Mike’s partner.  

“I remember you taking care of them yourself at one point.” Mike says, his voice low and gravelly as he sets down his coffee cup. “How long after I left, did you wait to make your move? Ten minutes? Twenty?”

Velasco’s jaw clenches and Mike knows he’s right.

“Don’t blame me because you couldn’t get your shit together and tell her how you feel.” Velasco snaps, jabbing his finger at Mike. “Do you think she would have fucked me if she had known that? Jesus Christ, she was in love with you even then. I know that because she said your name when I was fucking her, not mine, yours.”

The revelation hits Mike like bullet, it tears through his chest because even then when you were fucking another man, you were thinking about him. There’s a relief in that because somewhere under the surface he’d had this fear, this stupid ridiculous doubt that after the baby was born, those feelings you had for Velasco would resurface and he’d be left alone all over again.

“When she…” Velasco looks away as he searches for the right words. “When she got there, it wasn’t my name she called, it was yours. I knew then that it wasn’t me she wanted, it was you. Afterwards when we talked about it, she told me she was in love with you. This baby… She should be yours not mine.”

It’s in that moment that Mike realises where all this animosity between him and Velasco stems from. At first, he thought it was jealousy but it’s not, it’s fear, fear that one man will replace the other. Velasco as your partner, Mike as the baby’s father.

“You’re scared that I’m going to swoop in and play daddy.” Mike says meeting Joe’s gaze and Velasco tilts his head from side to side in admission. “I don’t want your baby Joe, that child is your responsibility.”

He points his finger at the closed bathroom door, he can still hear the water still running on the other side.

“Mine is to her, the woman I love. If your kid needs me, I will be there but I’m not looking to take over your family. When that baby arrives, I know that I’m being demoted to a supporting role at best…”

“Is that what you’re scared of?” Velasco shoots back. “That when this baby comes along, you’re going to become an afterthought?”

The muscle in Mike’s cheek twitches and it’s his turn to look away because he can’t stand the fact that Velasco sees his insecurity.

“Mike.” Velasco says quietly, his hand coming to rest upon Mike’s shoulder. “If my kid has to have a stepdad, I’m glad it’s you. I know you would do anything to protect her, to support her. I can’t ask for more than that.”

Mike clears his throat.

“My old man was a drunk and a gambler, I figure I know not what to do.” Mike says gruffly, as he tilts his head towards the bathroom door. “She tells me you’ve been reading the parenting books, trying to bond with the baby as much as you can before she arrives.”

Mike exhales as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I think you’re gonna be a good dad Joe, maybe even a great one, but the two of us need to put our shit behind us. It doesn’t benefit anyone. The people who are going to get hurt are the two people we love, and I don’t want that, and I know you don’t either.” Mike gestures between him and Velasco. “So if we can agree I’m not trying to replace you and your not trying to replace me, I think we can move forward and get on with doing what’s important which is supporting the woman that’s having a baby in four months.”

“I can do that.” Joe says, leaning against your kitchen table before he picks up a paintbrush and waves it Mike. “Wanna help me paint a nursery today?”

“I’m not doing the stencils.” Mike tells him, snatching the paint brush from his hand. “That’s her Papi’s job.”

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[vodika-vibes]

Your Favorite Person

Summary: After being late for your date, your favorite person in the galaxy decides to make it up to you.

Pairing: Commander Bly x Reader

Word Count: 1061

Warnings: Uh...suggestive?

Tagging: @trixie2023 and @the-bad-batch-baroness (who encouraged me to write for Bly, lol)

A/N: Bly gets no love, so here I am, creating love for Bly. Also, this is partly practice for me writing Bly for the next part in my Magic and Knights AU.

Divider by Saradika

He’s late.

A small pout crosses your lips as you swing your legs, allowing the heels of your boots to thump into the stone wall you’re sitting on. He’s late, and he hasn’t even called to tell you when he’s going to arrive. You continue kicking your heels against the concrete wall as you dig your comm out of your purse, absently checking for missed holos…or missed messages.

None.

Your pout becomes more pronounced. 

You open up the chat between you and your favorite person in the galaxy and send him a series of question marks. And then some sad faced emojis.

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching you causes you to look up, and you smile at the man running over to you. He stops in front of you and hops up onto the concrete barrier to sit next to you, panting for breath.

“Sorry, cyare! The meeting ran over so-”

“Bly, did you run here all the way from the Jedi temple?” You ask worriedly. 

“...I didn’t want to be too late!” He says defensively, “How long have you been waiting?” He glances at the chrono on his comm, and his face falls, “You’ve been waiting almost an hour?!”

“It’s okay!” You reassure as you lean your weight against his shoulder, “Work is work, after all.”

Bly sighs and leans back against you, “What did I do to deserve someone as amazing as you?”

You giggle and turn on the barrier to look up at him, your hands coming out to cup his face, “You bought me a chocolate rose, and said-”

“Something sweet for someone sweet,” Bly finishes with a sly grin, “I can’t believe that worked.” He admits.

“Oh, it was easily the most corny way a man has ever hit on me before,” You agree with a laugh, “or since, for that matter-”

“Wait, men still hit on you?” Bly asks, straightening, “Where am I when this is happening?”

“Men don’t hit on me in front of you, Bly.” You retort with a raised brow.

“What do you do when they hit on you?” He asks with a furrowed brow.

“I tell them the truth. I’m not interested and I’m spoken for.” You reply absently as you rub your thumbs across the yellow tattoos on his face, “The only man I’m interested in, Bly, is you.”

He releases a soft sigh, “I know. I still don’t like that other people hit on you when I’m not around.”

You release a laugh, “I would be surprised if you did.” You lean in and brush your lips against his, a delighted giggle falling from you as he hooks his arms around you and immediately deepens the kiss.

He pulls you so you’re sitting on his lap and breaks the kiss, only to press light, teasing, kisses across your face. Bly’s grip is firm around you, clutching you tightly as though he’s afraid that you’re going to slip away. “I love you,” He murmurs as he kisses your nose.

“Love you too,” You reply as you lean into his kisses, “Our reservation was canceled.” You add quietly.

“Mm, sorry.” He murmurs quietly.

You shake your head and lightly direct his lips towards yours, “I’m not mad,” You whisper, your lips ghosting against his, “How about we go to my place, and we order some horribly greasy fast food, and we just spend the night together?”

Bly hums thoughtfully, “You got all dressed up though,” He replies, as he drags his calloused hand down the soft material of the shirt you’re wearing.

“I got dressed up for you, you silly man. Not for other people.”

“Hm…” He takes the soft material of your shirt and rubs it between two fingers, “Well, if you want to model for me, who am I to stop you?”

“Exactly!” You reply with a grin. You shift on his lap, and then hop to the ground, with Bly on your heels. You take his hand with yours, and lace your fingers together, before you start tugging him in the direction of your place.

Bly allows you to lead him for a moment, and then he tugs you down a side street and he pulls you flush against him. He walks you backwards until your back is pressed against the wall behind you, and he leans in to kiss you. “So pretty,” He murmurs just before his lips meet yours.

You slide your hand up his chest, and then wrap it around his neck, allowing him to pull you closer, “You just can’t keep your hands off me,” You tease quietly.

He kisses you quickly. Once, twice, three times…and then he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against yours. “Course not, have you seen yourself? Absolute perfection.” His hands slide down your sides, teasing but not improper, “Food might have to wait,” He adds with a small grin.

“Yeah?” You ask, shivering as his hands ghost down your body, “You have other plans?”

“Mm…” His lips trail to your jaw, and then down your neck, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses against the tender skin there, “I do have plans.” Bly promises as he ghosts his lips to just under your ear, pulling a quiet moan from you, “They involve you and me…”

“Go on,” You whisper.

He chuckles, “With no clothes and maybe that silky rope that you keep in your closet.” Bly offers, and then he pulls away to meet your gaze, and mischief slides across his features, “But only if you behave, princess.”

You flush and press your forehead against his chest, “...I can behave.” You say, flustered.

“Mm. You’ll have to prove it, princess.” He tilts your head back and kisses you deeply, “I’m not convinced that you can.” Bly adds with a wide grin. He kisses you one more time, and then takes your hand with him, “But, we have to get home first.”

You whine low, and Bly laughs, “Oh, my adorable little princess,” He kisses your forehead once, chastely, “You have to be patient. No one is allowed to see you like I do.”

“Jealous,”

“Damn straight I am,” Bly agrees, he kisses your forehead one more time, and then guides you back to the street, delighting in the way you’re blushing, and already working on a series of plans that will make you blush for him even more.

[spectrechosts]

If Anything Could Ever Be This Good Again - Chapter 5

The Shining Rangers are splintered, and a new team rises from the ashes.

Full Series

Tara dropped a handful of gems into a big cardboard box with a satisfying clink.

"Okay," She said, "That's Canary, Flamingo, Peacock, and Tangerine."

"Huh. Lotta birds in that batch." Said Phoebe, crossing them out on a checklist and looking over a wall of plans. "That rounds out the yellows and pinks."

"And blues."

"What? There should be one more blue besides Azure."

"…You, babe. You're the last one."

"Oh. Right. Then all we're missing is three reds, one more orange, two purples, two greens, and Azure herself." Phoebe said, capping a marker.

"Any leads?" Tara asked, handing her a cup of coffee.

"Nope." Phoebe said, taking the cup in both hands and sipping from it. "Azure hasn't been seen in almost two weeks, HQ is abandoned, Rangers aside from that group you just got have been operating independently if at all."

Tara wrapped her arms around her and rested her chin on her head.

"You know, I don't think I could ever have done this without you."

"My girl says she wants the Shining Rangers destroyed, the Shining Rangers get destroyed."

"How chivalrous. But I mean it, I was just lashing out before I had you on my side and now- Now you have plans, you're like calculating and methodical and-"

"Cold?" Phoebe asked, smiling.

"I wasn't going to say it. Now it's like, we're actually going to do this. And once they're gone we're gonna have like, a better magical girl team. One that tries to fix problems instead of just being cops."

"I'm still not entirely sure how we're going to get that team made. We'll need someone else to get it started, our identities aren't exactly secret. And I think you could have figured out 'stealing their gems so they can't come back later' eventually."

"Mm, I have my moments of brilliance." Tara said. "But while we're on that part of your planning, what uh, what are we doing with them? Because the box is pretty heavy now and I don't know if it's great to just, have a bunch of dubious magical power sources under our bed."

"Hmm. I wanted to save the next step until we had them all, but the stragglers could take a while to round up, and someone could just come take them all back. Maybe we should just deal with the box now and any other gems we pick up we'll figure out as we get them.

"Sounds good to me."

"Ehhhhhhhh yeah fuck it, let's do this."

"Cool. What's the plan?"

~

"This is the plan?" Tara said, shivering in the winter night air of the construction site they had snuck into.

"It's the best I could think of." Phoebe said. "I don't want to risk destroying them, and I don't want anyone finding them."

"So we're just… dumping them in a big hole?"

"Not any big hole. We're dumping them where they're about to lay the foundation for a skyscraper. I saw it in an episode of Columbo, they're gonna be under tonnes of concrete that nobody can dig up without permits."

"Did Columbo dig it up?"

"Well- yes, but he's Columbo. Nobody's gonna dig these up. They have no reason to even think anything is down there."

"Okay, so let's dump 'em"

"Well, hang on." Phoebe said. "We should… Say something? This is a big deal, this is like, the end. We do this and there's no chance of the Shining Rangers ever recovering."

"Okay, um... you go first."

Phoebe thought for a moment. "The Shining Rangers were a bunch of psuedo-cop mean girls, and this city will be better off without them. I don't know where these gems came from, and I guess I never will, but I know that they're more trouble than they're worth. I blame them entirely for all the harm I caused to innocent people after mine broke, and I think that no matter how many villains there are we'll all be safer with them entombed in this pit."

Tara nodded.

"That was nice." She said. "The Shining Rangers suck ass, these gems suck ass, I hope Azure shows up so I can drag her to Venus and leave her there."

"That's all you have to say?"

"Yup. Fuck alllllllllllll of this."

"Okay. Dump it."

Tara upturned the box into the pit, dozens of gemstones disappearing into the depths.

"Hm. Feels anticlimactic."

Phoebe shrugged.

"Azure's still out there, we don't know what she's up to." She said. "I'm gonna find someplace to hide out until this gets filled in, make absolutely sure. You can go wait at home."

"I'll stay, we can wait together." Tara said, stuffing her hands into her pockets for warmth.

"Tara, I'm going to be cold either way. You can go get warm."

"I'll live, babygirl. C'mon."

~

15 months later

"You're not listening to me, I'm telling you that those two are known supervillains!"

"Okay, miss Azure, I don't know who you think Guardians Synth-Metal and Coldwave are-"

"Look at the photos!"

"I'm looking, they don't look that similar in my opinion. Now I know you don't want to hear it but-"

"They look the SAME!"

"-But, the Shining Rangers are no longer recognized by the International Magical Girl Association as the protective force of this municipality-"

"But those two are-"

"Miss, those two saved several busses full of children from a volcano that appeared under their school yesterday morning. Even if I did believe you, which I don't, why would I want to stop them?"

"I- But- But they're villains!" Azure whined.

"And if they do anything villainous, we'll take care of it. Until then, this is Musical Guardian turf and we don't appreciate you harassing our members."

"But-"

"Grindcore, please get her out of here."

"Wh- Jet? Jet you know me! You know I'm right!" She protested, as Musical Guardian Grindcore escorted her from the building. "This isn't over!"

All was quiet at the Musical Guardian front desk, and then once they were sure she was gone Phoebe and Tara poked their heads out from a doorway.

"Thanks for getting rid of her, Hyperpop." Phoebe said.

"No problem." Said Hyperpop. "You guys off to try and talk to the Mushroom Monarch again?"

"Regrettably yes." Tara sighed. "She should've sprouted up a few hours ago, she'll be making her move anytime now."

"I have pamphlets on the environmental benefits of fungal composting at the municipal level!" Phoebe said, eyes sparkling. "This time she'll listen."

"Mm. I see why Azure is so afraid of you two." Hyperpop said, scrolling on her phone.

"I still don't get why we don't deal with her ourselves." Complained Tara.

"Because we're already in an incredibly precarious legal position." Said Phoebe. "Killing people who annoy us undercuts our whole 'nonviolent criminal reform' thing."

"But baaaabe. Just think about it: Venus."

[secretly-a-catamount]

I updated this work for Braedafina/Serafaeden Week. The prompts I used were Post Series, Class, and Stargazing (although the last one’s the weakest).

————————————————————————

  The eighteen year-old girl watched her reflection in the looking glass with a weary gaze. Could she pass for a boy? It was critical that she could, but Serafina worried that she couldn’t.

  Even dressed the way she was (long-sleeved shirt, long trousers, concealing coat), with her features softened and scars erased by Rowena’s magic, and her mane of black hair — brushed and braided for once — tucked up under a hat, Serafina worried she couldn’t.

  And she had to. She simply had to.

  Everything hinged on it. Everything.

  “Miss?” Essie’s voice penetrated Sarafina’s wooden door, the Lady’s Maid right on the other side. “Are you getting along all right in there? You don’t need any help?”

  Serafina wrenched herself away from the mirror and padded over to the door, unaccustomed to the heavy boots currently swallowing her feet.

  As Essie Walker buzzed into the room, Serafina was surprised to see that her friend had let her dark, curly hair down for once and wore a sunshine-yellow dress.

  “Essie, you’re comin’ with me? Jess—“

  “The baby.” Essie said in answer, running her hands down the dress’ skirt, fingers trailing across tiny daisy embroidered in the fabric. The baby was not Jess and Essie’s child, but simply the newest orphan child that the two had a voluntary hand in raising.

  A second knock on the door, the sound as gentle and kind as the man who made it.

  Braeden’s clothing was as inconspicuous as Serafina and Essie’s were, bland, basic, boring and forgettable. The best feature of his disguise, however, was the lack of Gidean. It was distressing for Serafina to see her lover without his trusted dog, the Doberman was one of the only reasons that she ever let Braeden out of her sight with any regularity. She trusted her friends and family — no one else, of course — but the black dog was the only one she trusted with Braeden’s life completely besides herself.

  So to see Braeden without Gidean, while knowing that she hadn’t been with her best friend on the short walk from his room to hers, set Serafina’s nerves on edge. (Paranoia. That what the doctors said. Foolish, Serafina thought, because it wasn’t paranoia if everything was actually out to get you.)

  Despite her thoughts scuttling about like drunken mice, she sculpted her face into a smile as Braeden walked over to her and pressed his lips to her temple, and then, a moment later, under his soft touch and his softer reassurances, her smile was genuine. (Or as genuine as any of her smiles ever were. Which was to say half-sincere, half-threat.)

  “Are you ready, my love?”

  “Always.”

  “The two of you make me want puke.”

  “Come on now, Ess,” Serafina teased, “It can’t be any worse than the time you walked in on us—“

  Brown eyes widening, Braeden slapped a hand over Serafina’s mouth. “We talked about this! It — it never happened!” He sputtered, his cheeks flaming.

  Essie simply raised an eyebrow (Serafina had always wanted to be able to do that) and pursued her lips. “If you say so, Braeden.”

  She turned and practically bounced to the doorway, stopping only to call over her shoulder, “If you don’t hurry up, love-bugs, this wedding’s going to happen without you.”

  Well-worn boots with mud in their treads made their way down cut bricks, weak winter sunlight shining through glass panes, the air dense and thick, wet and heavy, wrapping around the young man like a doused wool coat.

  He found his aunt sitting at a small, circular table near the middle of the greenhouse, soft hands delicately folded around a cup of steaming tea, nails slightly pointed and painted a gentle sea-shell pink. She wore a plum-colored dress and a shawl around her shoulders made of gray wolf fur.

  Braeden took the seat opposite her, his leg-brace creaking, and took a swig of his own drink, letting the sugary and syrupy liquid settle on his tongue, letting the chill radiate into his aching hands. He swallowed, then spoke. “You called for me?”

  “I did. I felt that we needed to discuss some . . . upcoming events.” She was perfectly poised, still as a marble statue.

  “You mean my proposal to Serafina.” Braeden said flatly, the sweet-tea suddenly bitter and cloying in his mouth.

  “Yes.” Edith responded, crossing her ankles. “That is what I would like to discuss.”

  “And what part of it exactly would you like to discuss?”

  “Its entirety. The fact of the matter is that you simply cannot marry her.”

  “And why is that?” Braeden clutched the glass so hard his knuckles went white. He took several shallow breaths and then set the glass down gently. Edith watched his repressed anger hungrily, her dark gaze stabbing through him like a needle through an insect.

  “Now, darling, don’t be upset. I simply want what’s best for you, what’s best for the whole family, and I’m not certain that Serafina is . . . right for you.”

  “I love her. I will always love her.” Braeden responded, wondering not for the first time in his life if it was normal to want to claw your aunt’s face off.

  “Will you? You’re at a difficult age, Braeden, one where, if not properly guided, you’ll make decisions you’ll later regret.” For a second her face was a paper-mask, her smile drawn on by a crooked hand, her eyes flat and dull, and then he blinked, and she wasn’t, back to a flesh-and-blood woman whose only signs of aging were the threads of silver woven into her dark hair and the faint lines at the edge of her dark eyes and pitiless mouth. “And that’s to say nothing of how it would . . . look. While I don’t believe it, people do talk and, well, they say the most . . . dreadful things about your Serafina. About what she actually wants out of your relationship.”

  A ugly flush spread across Braeden’s face, the idea that anyone would ever think that of Serafina disturbed him.

  Edith calmly took a sip of her tea, as if she hadn’t just ripped his world to shreds with her soft voice and perfectly manicured nails. Her movements were precise and controlled, calculated, and Braeden suddenly felt that his aunt wasn’t human at all, but something mechanical, made of gears and wires, completely and utterly unable to be pursued by matters of the heart simply because she did not have one.

  “I do.” His voice was steady.

  “Than I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may now kiss—“

  The rest of the officiant‘s words were cut off by Serafina’s lips and the feeling of her fingers entwining in his hair.

  Somewhere behind them Essie and Waysa cheered, while Rowena was almost certainly being the source for the polite clapping.

  “Braeden, darling, you really do have to consider the consequences of your actions.” 

  “I have.”

  “Than you see—“

  “I don’t care what you want.” He interjected, standing abruptly. “I care that she’ll be happy, that is my main priority and it will always be my main priority, and if you can’t understand that,” he looked away for a moment, took a deep breath, and then continued, “I will marry her. With or without your permission.”

  “Braeden, wait!”

  But he was already gone.

  “You really missed something,” Essie nuzzled her head in the crook of Jess neck, “I almost cried.”

  “Waysa did cry.” Rowena said, leaning against the unlit fireplace.

  “So?” Waysa (who was sitting on the couch with Jess and Essie) countered, “I cry when I’m happy.”

  “I must make you cry often then.”

  “Quiet frequently.”

  Wrapped in each other’s arms, Braeden and Serafina sat on the windowsill, unaware of their friends teasing.

  Braeden whispered to her, his mouth gently brushing against her ear, “I used to sit on this windowsill every night and wish on all the stars that I’d have someone who would love me one day.”

  “You sound as if you still don’t believe it.” Serafina whispered back, smiling.

  “Of course I don’t,” Braeden admitted, “what man could possibly look upon a goddess such as yourself and believe that you choose him?”

[authorautumnbanks]

How To Tame A Sorcerer (36)

Series Master list

The old manor is dark, illuminated by the various spider webs spun into makeshift chandeliers and candles. Naraku leans back on the mountain of plush pillows, opting to reminisce of a time long past than to partake in these couches. He enjoys being lower to the ground—an oddity considering his spider-like tendencies. But low was good. It gives his opponents a fake sense of security that he is one of them, or at the very least, weaker than he appears. His purple haori hangs loose. The sake on his breath is about as strong as a newborn spiderling, but he slurs his mannerisms all the same.

"Is that all you do? Drink your days away?" Mahito asks, stepping under the spiderwebs. His mismatched eyes shine with mischief and a desire for more.

"Did you get the scroll?" Naraku raises the cup to his lips, his arm folded across his knee. Mahito pulls a scroll out from his pocket—smaller than what he was expecting, and tosses it to Naraku's feet. "So, this is all the information they had?" He doesn't pick it up, instead rolls it around with his foot. The magic radiating off of it is ancient, and he'll need more time to devise how to break it. Naraku rolls his head from side to side as he sets his cup down next to the bottle.

"Where are they?" Geto walks into the room behind Mahito. Stays in the shadows, away from the spiderwebs.

"Here." He waves a hand. The webs blow, swinging back and forth. There's a man—a young one, quite plain looking, even by human standards. His mouth sewn shut from the silk of Naraku's spiderling. To the right, there's another man—bigger than the last. His eyes hazed over, covered in white. There's a horn coming out from one half of his skull, the other half is smooth—not even an indention or scar. Both men are weak. Naraku smirks at the last man. His face is fixed in a permanent smile, with two spiders holding his mouth in place. His yellow eyes flicker with each swish of the web chandelier, his tail twitches with pent up anger. "One human, a half-breed, and a demon." Naraku shifts on the pillows, runs a hand through his long black hair.

"Huh? I thought any human would do," Mahito says, taking a step forward. His focus on the would be vessels.

"Any would do," Geto says, answering Mahito, but Naraku rolls his eyes at the indirect question to him.

What a shame that Mahito let it slip to this curse user of their interaction. Was it his ultimate desire to see Sukuna's rebirth that overrode his hunger for power? Loyalty- such a fleeting concept.

"A small experiment."

"You think the strength of the vessel matters?" Geto tilts his head, assesses. A chill runs through Naraku's veins, but he hardens it, throws the fear away as quickly as he discards those that disobey him. Those that hesitate, those that allow emotions to rule them, only end up dying before they reach their true desires. He's made that mistake once before.

"Have you ever used a demon?"

"They're pretty scarce."

"That so?"

"Tell me—this Shikon Jewel."

"Not much to tell, if we cannot get this scroll open." Naraku kicks it to his other foot, passes the scroll back and forth.

"Why ask for it, then?"

"The demon vessel will be the stronger of these cursed paintings. What are you willing to bet?" Naraku picks up his cup again, pulls a hefty dose of sake.

"Of course, you'd turn out to be a drunk," Mahito chimes in, pulling out one of the frozen fetuses. He cuts through the web, forces the man to swallow. He repeats this for the next two, though the demon nearly takes his fingers off.

"I have heard rumors that no one can control the Shikon jewel except for the Shikon priestess."

"So you have heard of the jewel."

"The woman, linked to Satoru Gojo. Her soul burned." Mahito turns from the newly made vessels. Their bodies jerk and seize from the out-pour of tiny spiders crawling out of their orifices. "Got to say, the spiders are creepier than Jogo trying to appease Hanami."

"If she really is this Shikon priestess, then that is not a landmine we need to set off at the moment."

"Still planning your Halloween chaos."

"Taking Satoru Gojo out of the equation is of the utmost priority."

Naraku grabs the bottle, takes a large drink from it. Wipes the excess liquid that drips down his face with the back of his hand. That Satoru Gojo is a problem—he's too strong, allowing Sukuna free rein is just as annoying. "Demons don't care too much for curses."

"And yet, you work with them."

"And yet we do." Naraku bobs his head, turns to look back at Geto. A spiderling crawls along his shoulder, another crawls on the ceiling – spinning a beautiful web. He wonders what kind of pattern it will spin. Simple? Or maybe an intricate one where you cannot tell the ending from the beginning. "It would behoove you to factor them into the equation."

"Their sudden appearance could work in our favor," Mahito says.

"No one would suspect an actual demon on Halloween."

"What is it you need?" Geto crosses his arms, flashes a charming smile.

"Not much. What everyone wants. Power." Naraku gestures to Mahito. "We need half-breeds. The demon was hard enough to come by, but the half-demons are easy." He also needs Kagome on his side, but ah – Geto can't make that happen.

"You want me to round some up? Find some more cursed objects for them?"

Naraku chuckles. "No. I want you to use idle transfiguration on them. Turn them into full demons."

"The demons will not help us, but their half-demon children will in exchange for becoming full-fledged demons." Geto eyes the spiderling crawling up his legs.

"This isn't about exchange. You want chaos? Force the change on them." Naraku smiles. His spiderling casts an intricate pattern. It falls down on top of Geto's head. The webs stick to the stitches along his forehead.

Geto slaps the spiderling away, rips the web to shreds. He dusts his hands on his kimono. "Let's go Mahito. I trust that you will let us know when those three awaken?"

"Of course." Naraku raises the bottle and scroll, toasts it to the air. "You can always count on me."

[flowergirlmiwa]

my personal relationship with the pokemon stadium series and the leadup to my pokemon stadium japan blogging

my personal relationship with the pokemon stadium series

Pokemon Stadium was the first game i remember owning for Nintendo 64, the first home console i properly owned as the Sega Genesis was my dad's. i played it aaallll the time back then, but i didn't make that much progress into the cups, just one or two of the easier ones and maybe up to lt surge but that was all i could muster. my dad still jokes about it to this day. "what's the matter, trainer?" i literally left the game on for days at his house

like i alluded to in my previous post, while i did have a transfer pak and pokemon games, the transfer pak was prone to failing when the controller it's inserted into is moved and i move all the time so i was fucked as i only owned one controller. i actually only owned the one n64 controller (blue) until around 2012 when i bought a shitty third party one just to make multiplayer even POSSIBLE. before then i reached multiple moments where i regretted the lack of additional n64 controllers. with my modern wisdom, a transfer pak controller is simply left to the side to sit and look pretty after getting it set up so the game will recognize it.

as i also alluded to, in late 2002 i forgot a game case including my game boy color and almost all of my games (sparing solely Pokemon Trading Card Game, which, based, but,) on a bus during my first weeks living in Mexico. needless to say this blew as i had only recently managed to procure pokemon silver and thus complete my collection of all pokemon games on the game boy color (even the spinoffs). losing my collection also included such games as super mario bros deluxe and game and watch gallery 2 so yeah it fucking sucked it was a huge shame.

after this i didn't get another pokemon gen 1 or 2 cartridge until around 2009. adding to this, despite renting it multiple times and always very much desiring it, i never actually got a copy of Pokemon Stadium 2 until around 2019. this left pokemon stadium in sort of a weird position for me. rentals only.

truth be told it wasn't the entire reason but pokemon stadium was a pretty big motivator in me collecting those pokemon cartridges back and taking me on the journey i went on where i can say i 100% completed both and now knock on the door of the japanese entries. but it was a long dark lonely road until then. basically a decade where every now and then id pick it up again. same old menus. same old pokemon stadium. like this game was baked into my dna at this point. there was one change, however, an inciting incident. 2017. when i discovered that speedrunner werster had basically compiled optimal rental teams during his runs and watched the points where he struggled, it gave me the motivation to pick the game back up again.

basically the rest went like this -i eventually finished R1 of stadium using werster's teams -i bought a cartridge of Pokemon Yellow to help me through the rest -with the power of using my own team through Yellow, complete R2 of Stadium -bought Stadium 2 -complete most of R1 and maybe a little R2 in Stadium 2 using Yellow -acquire Pokemon Gold cartridge -complete a bunch of R2 using Yellow & Gold's combined efforts (i think i also got Blue before Gold but honestly i don't really remember lol) -only Challenge Cup is left in R2 and i put off doing it -learn how to solder and ensure all my game boy cartridges will have good batteries, encouraging me to buy more cartridges, like for Silver and Crystal -i get 151 in Yellow partly thanks to abusing Trainer-Fly glitch -i buy an N64 Everdrive -with the power of this everdrive i can play the japanese stadium games without shelling out for the real game and doing cartridge magic on them to region-break them -i buy a cartridge for pocket monsters red version and begin formulating ideas for how to play pokemon stadium japan -i build the team and the moves that were used many months later when i got around to actually implementing it, only really changed since i somehow didn't have the TM for explosion or ice beam -eventually i decide to also get a cartridge for pocket monsters silver after realizing i would need some method to trade in order to use an alakazam like i had planned -in the meantime i finally get around to finishing R2 of Pokemon Stadium 2 by getting some good runs on Challenge Cup -after several months of getting around to progressing my japanese!silver cartridge to the point where it can trade with japanese!red, i start assembling the puzzle pieces of capturing team members -reliving the teambuilding from the yellow days, i abuse the missingno glitch in red to get 99 of every good item to streamline the process -i completed up to ultra ball on the LV1-30 on pokemon stadium japan -i begin blogging….!

NEXT: THE REAL TEAM INTRODUCTIONS FOR REAL THIS TIME!!!! tauros exeggutor lapras starmie alakazam pikachu

[twistednuns]

October 2024

Kissing.

Meeting Sri in Würzburg. A calm train ride and ancient trams. Working in harmony. Learning. Accepting that our exercises won't be perfect but they'll be good enough.

Reading so much. I just finished Alice Hoffman's Practical Magic series.

C. went to the bakery to buy dessert and asked me what I was in the mood for (creamy and fruity). No special occasion. Such a treat.

Visiting the garden exhibition with Tine. Overseeing Lian's playground time, giving him little challenges. Walking back after sunset with a cup of warm Chai Masala in my hands. Staged photographs.

Feeling very patient and calm. Taking the time to explain something thoroughly, playing a 4 hour board game; enough energy to manage my emotions and even go grocery shopping.

Heart-shaped pink Begonia blossoms.

Marjolien and Tobi visiting us for dinner. I made a yummy pasta bake. And pumpkin quiche the next day.

Quality time with Findus, the cutest of the cuties. He's so gentle and playful.

Fast-acting nasal spray.

My cozy, autumnal mood. The light just after dawn - foggy and high-contrast. Taking an additional soft blanket to bed. Pumpkin Spice porridge with apple slices.

Realising that I need stillness to get in touch with what I need and come back to myself. I even drew two matching OSHO Zen cards: Patience and Success.

A full day of consistent energy.

I went to Schauburg theatre with Becky to see Die kleine Hexe and loved the play. The witches' costumes, dances and the eerie music were perfect and the guy who spoke everyone's lines was so funny. And time with Becky is always so nice. She really is one of the best friends I have.

Support from a few people in my Gestalt therapy group after I shared the news about my current situation. Talking to Markus who's been through the same shit as me. Feeling hopeful.

A blind intuitive touch exercise with Friederike. I felt very comfortable with her, especially when she put pressure on me and held me.

I found a postcard with a beautiful text from a local Gestalt therapist: Lass es sein.

A moment when I realised that my was body annoying me - which meant that I was actually IN my body at the time! And it was so much easier to be present and look at people!

More self-diagnosis: I'm a Highly Sensitive Person and a High Sensation Seeker, possible also highly intelligent. Which explains my contradictory nature. I need to rest AND I'm easily bored. Understimulation is just as stressful to me as overstimulation. Which probably means that what I've experienced at work is a qualitative bore-out, not a burn-out. I need more excitement and challenges in my life! I want to learn and apply my creativity. I want to stop all the hesitation and avoidance to find the courage to create the circumstances I need to thrive!

I took the same road to my seminar on Saturday and Sunday and on both days a kitty was waiting in the same spot. It talked to me and allowed me to pet it. A blessing for the day!

Doing improv comedy. I completely over-acted like the little drama queen that I am and made people laugh. I was surprised by how much fun I had!

Noticing that my jungly, artsy apartment is so me. I feel quite at home here.

Roasted cauliflower with lemon, garlic mayo and feta. A clementine and a crisp apple with tahini for dessert.

Writing a letter about fall vibes, sending witchy novels to a friend.

Going to the supermarket for some fruit and milk just to find my favorite snack of all time on the shelf: Smash. Highly addictive. So tasty.

Painting at C.'s kitchen table while waiting for him. Listening to podcasts. Switching to illustration when abstract painting felt a little frustrating.

The moment when all that talk about problems and negativity switched to playfulness and we started laughing, teasing each other, interacting freely and joyfully.

Cuddles from Andrea after a boring choir meeting.

All the yellow flowers I keep seeing at the moment. Whole fields of late-blooming canola and sunflowers.

Revisiting an old favourite after lunch with Frank at Café Beethoven: hot chocolate with whipped cream and sea salt.

An extra blanket in bed.

Journalling.

Crisp, tart apples.

Fall colours. Leaves in all shades of yellow, orange and red. Muted greens and browns.

Driving towards the bright full moon illuminating my path.

Double trouble with the kitten bois trying to "help" me with the laundry.

A weekend with Christian and his housemates. Cooking together, long walks in the mountains and along a lake, playing games and getting to know each other a little better. Feeling really happy even though it wasn't always easy. Perhaps living in community really has its benefits.

Consoling C.'s son, making him laugh.

Squeezing into a small hostel bed together. Occasional touches, smiles and winks.

Austrian supermarkets.

C. remembered my story about chest pockets and surprised me with a little heart doodle in his shirt pocket. He also left a lovely note for me on his kitchen table in the morning.

Feeling euphoric. Loved. Cared for. When he massaged me. Told me to take it slow. Pinched me. Kissed me. I told him it was the best sex I'd ever had and meant it.

Walking through the forest looking for mushrooms. Stepping on huge puffballs, also finding several edible ones. Spooking a few kittens. The late afternoon light coming in through the trees. Eye contact with a horse.

All three kitten bois asking for attention at the same time.

Hugging my Gestalt therapist.

Stumbling upon Wood Soup Girl's ASMR videos.

Snake-like movements in yoga class. So good for my spine.

Celia reaching out to me with her vision of a collaboration. I have so many thoughts about community, working with purpose, helping yourself and others. Is this the time to start something big?

Painting on a stone. Just because.

Making coconut sticky rice with frozen mango cubes.

A relaxed vision after yoga class: imagining spending some time with my mum in the forest. Hugging, feeling and smelling each other. Encouragement and smiles. Wrapping our arms around a tree.

Talking to Miri and Lucie about late career changes, crisis, and accepting help.

Waking up with the impulse to do weight training. So I did. I even practiced with my FeetUp trainer and went for a long walk through the forest. An old man greeted me and made me smile. A magic moment: I thought about a cat I'd sometimes met on the street I was on and right that second a beautiful red cat came out of a driveway. Kitty manifestation.

Coming home. Taking a shower. Lying down. Feeling the warm, soft blankets. Relaxing.

Hanging out at Frank's place like in the good old times with Fabi, Marie and Christian.

Planting 22 fruit trees with Christian's neighbors and two cats. It was hard work I'm not used to but I had fun nevertheless!

Doing breathwork together. We both had a beautiful journey! I drew a mandala card before and after: gratitude - follow your bliss.

Enjoying each other's presence. Cuddles, fantasies, fun, lots of healing touch. Our last weekend together before my month in the clinic. At one point he picked me up from the bathroom door singing Heal the World, dragging me along into a little dance.

Meeting beautiful Celia. Walking over to Westpark together. Talking about our lessons, difficulties, visions. Making plans. Mercury in Gemini team!

A little test from the Universe demonstrating that I'm not as well as I thought I was. One little problem and I'm nervous, afraid, helpless. However, I managed the crisis and was rewarded with a graceful solution.

Doodling faces. Using my sketchbook. It felt nice.

Smelling the cat's earthy toe beans. Cute aggression is real.

Holding hands with L. when he came into our bed in the morning. Getting up with him. Starting to build a marble run out of cardboard.

My huge room at the clinic. The fantastic food. Good company.

Showing my vulnerability openly by asking for help with something as simple as the candy in my mini bar.

Realizing that other people don't perceive me as awkward and incompetent. Quite the opposite actually. It's all in my head.