#the only difference is now seven slouches

[isagrimorie]

"In light of their past and present service, the command crew of the USS Enterprise are receiving a full pardon for commandeering…Better yet, hijacking… This very ship… with your help."

Seven and Tuvok, in the aftermath of Seven's successful hijacking of yet another Federation ship.

Seven and Tuvok's been here before.

[asteroshearts]

Date Night

Itadori tags along for one of your date nights and wonders how you have a completely different Nanami Kento than the rest of the world.

Nanami x Reader

Tags: she/her pronouns, public nudity?, third wheel itadori

"Good evening, we apologize for the wait. Thank you for calling Gyomei's Ginza branch. How may I help you today?"

"Hello." You could never get sick of his voice. "I have a reservation for Nanami at 19:00. I know it's last minute, but can we add another person?"

"That can be done: we can add another chair to the table you selected," the hostess responded. Grinning wildly, you turned in the passenger seat and met your fist with Itadori's. "Do you have any special requests for this party member?"

"Don't include the drink course for him," your husband stated. Broken beams of white light from the street lamps came and went across his glasses as he drove by. "He's a child."

"Of course, will this extra person need a high chair?"

A gasp rang in the car.

"That won't be necessary." Quickly shutting off the call, Nanami huffed as you burst out into giggles at Itadori's sputtering.

"Aw, he's our son, Kennie."

"Nanamin!" his pink-haired student cried from the back seat. "Why did you say that?! Now they're going to think I'm seven or something!"

"You are a child." The man didn't even bother to glance at the rearview mirror.

"Maybe we should've gone with the long con," you teased. "Do you think they would've given us a discount if we said that Yuji-kun was twelve? That could save us a bit of money at a place like this!"

"Do you think I'm broke?" Nanami scoffed before pressing down on the accelerator, taking off in Tokyo.

Itadori hadn't initially planned to crash your date night.

Although they had finished the assignment efficiently, Nanami noticed something was up with the teen despite how quickly they exorcised the curse. From the boy's slouched posture and tucked shoulders, Nanami easily got the boy to confess what was on his mind.

"Oh…it's my grandpa's birthday today…" Eyes facing the ground, his voice suddenly grew quieter. "It's the first time I've ever had it without him."

It would've been so simple to say his monotone condolences, take a step away, and move on with his day. However, one call to you later, you had no problem with inviting Itadori along your night with your husband. In fact, you were even more certain you had married the right man when he asked permission to bring his student and help take Itadori's mind off his late grandfather's birthday.

But, Itadori didn't want to third-wheel at his pseudo-teacher's date, wouldn't that be kinda weird?

Nanamin seemed just, so – well – cold. Don't get him wrong, he enjoyed the man as a mentor, but to tag along for a date? He wasn't sure how the blond managed to score a pretty girl like you as his wife, but he didn't want to spend a night with you while Nanami silently ate at his side.

However, when he brought it up to the group chat that Nanami might be paying for his meal at this place called "Gyomei", Nobara yelled at him loud enough that he could hear it through text. A Michelin-starred and free meal was something a teen boy like him couldn't pass up.

"Um!" Itadori called out to you after Nanami had parked in the underground garage of the high-rise you were going to. "Thank you again for inviting me!" Pink coloring his cheeks, you had mentioned earlier when Nanami picked you up that if they didn't allow reservation modifications, you would just let the deposit go and find another spot to have date night at. Not only were they in the most expensive area of Tokyo, but he knew from Gojo's blabbing that Nanami's coveted date nights were never a spontaneous event. They were planned weeks, even months in advance, to get you to the best venues, restaurants, and events. To think that you had just easily let him drag along…touched him more than you realized.

You chuckled at his attempt to bow in the backseat, folding your legs so you could turn in your seat. "It's no problem at all! It's always so fun to talk with you, Yuji-kun! Good thing they let us add another chair though, I've been wanting to try this place forever."

Although, he wondered why you weren't making an effort to get out of the car. Nanamin had parked a while ago, and you still haven't opened your door. Were you waiting for him to pay for your parking spot?

"Yeah! Gojo-sensei tells me these places usually don't allow modifications for reservations."

"Oh. That." Your shoulders fell before a large smile broke out on your face, laughing at your own joke. "Let me tell you a little secret, Yuji-kun." Leaning in closer and lowering your voice, you confessed, "We lie to Gojo."

Huh?

"He wants to crash our date nights all the time, but Ken would rather eat rocks than invite him," you said with a laugh. "So we lie and tell him it can't be done."

Door opening on your side, you perked up as light flooded your car and you turned you head up to gaze at your husband holding the door.

"What are you laughing about?" your grumpy husband asked. Although his voice was dull and drab, Itadori wondered how you managed to brighten up so much just at the mere sight of the blond man. He was even more confused at how you only stepped out of the car after Nanami had opened it, so much more different than the blond he knew who was strict and hated doing anything beyond the required effort.

To the Nanami who told everyone to drag their own baggage, this seemed like night and day, yet here you were, not even lifting a finger.

Where was the real Nanamin?

"Not at you," you reassured, slipping out as Nanami stepped back slightly. "At Gojo."

Face souring as if he had eaten a lemon, he quickly told you that he didn't even want to think of the white-haired man tonight, not when it was your night. "If you wanted to laugh at clowns, I should've taken you to the circus instead."

Holding on to his arm, you looked up at your husband. "Well then, good thing we have Yuji-kun with us, right? At least someone will laugh at my jokes today."

Exhaling tiredly, Nanami pushed up his glasses to hide the small quirk of his lips.

"Itadori-kun, what are you waiting for? Get out of the car."

Eyes widening, he jolted in his spot, clumsily opening the door and trying not the hit the car next to you. "R-Right!"

"Aww, maybe you should be the gentleman and open the door for him."

Rolling his eyes beneath his round glasses, he placed his hand over your hold on his bicep. "Do you think I open the door for everyone?"

In the background, Itadori watched as you were eye-to-eye with your husband.

Oh, he realized. It's still Nanamin. It was just that you got special treatment.

"You were a sorcerer too?!" Yuji shouted in the restaurant, far too loud for your comfort.

"Itadori-kun!" Nanami snapped from beside you, wine glass held up to his lips. Gasping at his mistake, he quickly scanned the restaurant, eyes skimming across lavish tables draped with silky white cloth, dainty lighting up above, and flower bouquets scattered across the room, but thankfully no wandering or surprised eyes from other patrons that were caught up in what he had yelled out.

"Sorry…" he said, dropping his eyes to look at the first few courses in front of him. Sighing, now Nanami was even more glad that he selected the most secluded table in the restaurant, far away from the other booked tables where everyone got an obstructed view of you three, but where he could see everything in the room.

You waved off your husband's irritation and squeezed his hand underneath the table. You waited until his knitted eyebrows relaxed a bit before you even thought of looking away.

"That's alright, Yuji-kun." You had met him before this, but you were sure that you had given off the impression of someone who was pampered and privileged as you opened up the door for Nanami and Itadori that one day in nothing but a simple chemise (that Nanami covered up before the teen's eyes) and your face mask on with your hair up. Certainly not battle-ready. Not to mention, you had introduced yourself as another office worker, leading Itadori to believe that was where you two met.

"You didn't know," you said understandingly before your eyes softened. "That's actually how Ken and I met — Oh, he was so different back then. He actually gave me a whole box of poetry inspired by our favorite emo bands back in — "

"Darling," he said sharply, rather than affectionately.

Laughing off the intense aura Nanami was giving off, you continued. "You know, I come from a pretty old sorcerer family. We were a big deal back in the Meiji period, but we all died off since then." With a shrug, you added, "My mom never wanted me to be a sorcerer anyway, so I guess it all worked out that I ended up quitting after graduation."

"Huh?" Itadori tilted his head in confusion. "If your mom didn't let you, how were you able to join Jujutsu Tech?" With those old coots around every corner, it was harder to get into JJ Tech than leave.

Barking out a laugh, you grinned at the pink-haired teen. "Cause I thought I was sooo edgy back then. I thought I was being so cool." Then, suddenly — you grew pacified as the onslaught of memories hit you. When you spoke up next, your voice was a lot quieter. "I was obsessed with being different and finding myself, I thought…" When your memories conjured up a certain brown-haired boy you had lost once upon a time, you faltered. "At graduation, I realized I ended up losing a lot more than I had discovered."

A large hand landed on your thigh, and you were only called back to earth after Nanami had given your leg a quick squeeze. Nothing suggestive or intense, but as you focused on the warmth of his palm and the feather-like touch of his fingers brushing across your skin, you focused again on the present.

"I was just lucky and landed myself a good job. My brother-in-law was one of the co-founders of a well-to-do startup, and they got me a cushy position, so I'm more than happy with what I have now." Placing one of your hands on top of Nanami's you made sure to point those last words at him, just to assure him. Righting yourself up to push these memories behind you, "And besides, I'm sure Ken has the short end of the — "

Slam!

When you blinked the splatters from your eyes, you realized what had happened around you. A tripped-over waitress was hands and knees on the ground, three dishes of your lamb roast had scattered across the polished wooden floors amongst shattered plates, and furthermore, your pristine button-up shirt was warm and drenched in dark red wine sauce.

"Shit," you muttered into the quiet air, and that was all you needed for chaos to descend from every corner. Itadori was yelling something in your ear, your husband was quickly trying to pat your shirt dry, the tearful waitress was extremely apologetic on her knees, and all while the owner of the establishment came rushing forward to see what the commotion was all about.

"What is the meaning of this!" the man roared, red in the face before whirling in on the girl. "Hima — !"

"M-Ma'am, I-I'm extremely sorry," she said with her head bowed while she was still on the ground. "I hope that you can please forgive me — "

"Hey," you said easily. The last thing you wanted was for a young girl to cry. "It's alright," you tried to speak up against the overlapping voices.

"Please forgive us," the owner said, head bowed as well while he gave her a nasty glare from the side. "She's new here. I assure you that this behavior is unacceptable here, and I'll be sure to — "

"Hey," you sternly spoke through. "It's fine. Really. Everyone makes mistakes," you said gently, keeping your eye carefully on the young girl. "And it's just a shirt. This will come off." Tilting your head up toward the blond man who was worriedly hovering around you. This was something that he gifted you. "This stain will come off, right?"

Giving you a quick nod, Nanami carefully pulled out the strands of hair attached to the side of your neck from the spill. "If it doesn't, I'll buy you a new one," he said immediately.

Quirking up your lip at him, you said, "That's unnecessary. Like I said, it's just a shirt." Catching the girl's eye contact, you said calmly, "Everything's fine. Please go patch your knee up." You excused her.

The boss seemingly wanted to argue, opening his mouth to argue as the girl thankfully nodded, hidden behind a curtain of her hair before she rushed away, but the sight of your husband's dark stare from over your shoulder, as he stood large, muscled, and broad, shut him up.

"Where's your bathroom?" you asked. Your shirt was becoming transparent and sticking uncomfortably.

The owner looked extremely apologetic again. "It's currently closed for cleaning, but I'll let my employees know — no more than five minutes — !"

"That's alright," you repeated shortly.

"Go get my wife a laundry bag and a towel." The owner certainly wasn't going to argue when your husband stood like a pillar behind you. Holding his clean hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, he breathed carefully. "As fast as possible."

"R-Right away." With a bow, the owner made another uneasy promise of covering your dry cleaning, restaurant bill, and that he would send someone to clean this up immediately.

"Kennie," you called. As the spill cooled, the sauce stuck to your skin and was starting to become oily and coagulated, overall unpleasant the longer it lingered. Cringing, you said, "I don't want to wear this shirt any longer, can you help me?"

No further words were needed. With a quick flash of movement, almost as fast as how he took down curses with his ratio, Itadori watched as the older man pulled his blazer off his body and stood to hold it up around you like a curtain.

The man's large arms were nearly encircling you, muscles flexing as he tilted his body and blazer to give you all the privacy you needed to change. Facing the ceiling-to-floor windows that gave you the grand view of the Tokyo skyline, you began unbuttoning your shirt.

Although Itadori caught a peek of the top of your lacy black bra, he quickly averted his eyes with pink cheeks, both out of shame, and with how Nanami's gaze could've set him on fire.

"You can put your shirt here," Nanami gestured, nodding toward the back of his chair. Nodding, you quickly dropped your wet shirt out of your hands, allowing Itadori to see the LEMAIRE tag poking out from the folds.

You patted yourself clean with the cloth napkins you had around the table, and you thanked Itadori as he handed you his. Once you cleaned off as much of the spill as possible, your bare shoulders finally met with the sleek silk lining of your husband's jacket. As you slipped your arms around the oversized jacket sleeves, Nanami finished helping you button up his jacket.

Taking a knee, the blond man cleaned up your chair before he let you sit down. The blazer was comically oversized on you, giving you broad shoulders from the sturdy padding, and the lapels gave you a low cut where your bra could still be seen, but it was better than nothing.

The blond man let out a deep sigh. If he wasn't in public, no — if you two were the only people at the table, he wouldn't waste any time to tuck his face in your shoulder or rest his head on your lap even.

"Darling," Nanami started, and immediately Itadori was shocked at how the stern and reserved Nanami seemed so soft. "This date's been a mess, I'm sorry — " Weak even, against your presence.

"Why are you apologizing?" you said with a chuckle. "The date has barely even started yet! And now we get free food!"

Giving you a frown he added, "What's the point if you had to be embarrassed like this?" Beautiful brown eyes peered up at you, and you swore you could never get sick of the sight, not even to this day.

"Embarrassed? I've done a lot more humiliating things as a high schooler — willingly too." With a grin, you reached over to pinch his high cheekbone. "And I love wearing your clothes anyway."

"I — "

"Nothing a shower won't fix," you interrupted him by grabbing his face and leaning over to give him an Inuit kiss. "And what's the matter with one 'ruined' date?" Holding up your hand, you showed off your grand wedding and engagement ring. "You locked me down anyway," you said cheekily. "I'm not going anywhere."

Yet the blond man looked regretful anyway. Ashamed that he made your night anything less than wonderful.

You wondered where it all came from, this insane pressure to give you what he deemed as a perfect life — the perfect adulthood, rather. Perhaps it was from how you constantly repeated how much you valued and appreciated him when he was being bogged down by competitive coworkers who walked all over him.

Or perhaps it was from the look on your face as you sat next to Haibara's body in the morgue, as the light slowly dimmed from your eyes.

Heart swelling with true love, you couldn't resist pulling the man forward for a real kiss. One deep and hearty, skin against skin, until space had never existed, and you could get your atoms to touch.

"Um..." Itadori squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

Did you forget he was here?

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗪𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡? - part seven, finale max verstappen x reader (angst) series summary . . . when he wants to be normal, he can count on you, stranger.

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous )

VII. DON'T LET ME GO . . . two months after the events at the British Grand Prix weekend and Max is still doing his best try to explain. he's texted, called, and even sent a message through your work team, the Mclaren team, and Lando, all to talk to you. but you don't want to talk to Amilian anymore, (1,319 words). content warning . . . (deceptions of extremely minor Dissociative identity disorder if squinting).

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Max's fingers hovered over his phone, glancing at the screen for the hundredth time as he checked if your “online” status would blink back to life. 

For days, each check ended in disappointment. His chest grew heavier every time your name showed no signs of life, your usual messages and notifications, the two-hour calls now replaced by a glaring silence. He had chased you for weeks now, and though he knew it was a long shot, Max couldn’t bring himself to quit. you had made him feel . . . normal. And after all the years of being the centre of a world that didn't really see him, that meant more than anything.

He decided to try something different, opting to use his actual “Max Verstappen” account this time, ditching the depressed and abandoned Amillian aside. He could feel Amilian inside him crying, begging Max not to be forgotten or thrown aside in a ditch.

Max’s fingers felt almost heavy as he sent the friend request, not expecting much, but to his surprise, you accepted. 

Relief washed over him, tempered by the nervous realization of what he had to do next.

max verstappen. — can we talk max verstappen. — please

He sounded desperate, and he was. He wasn’t sure what to write exactly, he wanted to say a lot of things. “let me fix this”, “I’m sorry”, “let me make this make sense”, “i miss you”, “let me explain”, “im hurting”, “i need you”, his fingers would type if he wasn’t so anxious about it being wrong, overwhelming, and too much.

He threw his phone aside, too scared of your unlikely reply, running his hands over his face, convincing himself to breathe.

The message icon blinked, indicating your response. Max held his breath as he opened it, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

la. —  I'm in Nice for a week.

It was brief but enough for him. He didn’t waste a second, putting on a presentable pair of pants and a shirt, and picking up a car key that would allow him to go past the speed limit without overthinking it. 

When Max arrived in Nice, the tension building inside him crashed. Finding you felt like his only chance to explain, to bring clarity to the mess he had created, and to confront feelings he hadn’t even admitted to himself fully. You had been there with him in a way no one else had, and he couldn't let you go now—not when everything that felt real and safe was bound up in you. You. only you.

Max found you sitting by the coast, the Mediterranean stretching wide and shimmering under the afternoon sun. You looked peaceful, though your slouched posture held a tension he recognized, your gaze far—off and searching. You didn’t see him at first, so he took the chance to drink in the sight of you. The girl who had changed everything without even trying.

“Yn.” His voice came out softer than he intended, carrying the weight of his apology and desperation.

You turned, visibly startled, and for a moment, your guarded expression flickered to something else. “Max, you—I—” you began, but the words caught in your throat, your gaze shifting away.

Max took a shaky breath, his words coming out in a rush. “I know I messed up, and I know it’s stupid and selfish of me to even think you’d want to talk after . . . everything.”

"Max," you breathed, as if it were something delicate, breakable. And he, Max, was very breakable, “. . . It’s not selfish,” You whisper, looking away. He sat beside you on the curb, facing the sea. Your eyes were trained on the waves, your expression unreadable. 

He felt the weight of your silence pressing down on him, forcing him to be honest. “You made me feel normal, Yn. Not like some trophy to be chased or some untouchable figure in motorsports,” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. “Just . . . Max.

The raw vulnerability in his voice hit you hard, your heart twisting painfully at the sight of tears gathering in his eyes. It was strange seeing him like this—a man who had always seemed untouchable, guarded. And yet, here he was, baring his soul, admitting that he had needed something you never even knew you were giving.

Tears pricked your own eyes, a complex mixture of sympathy and sorrow welling up inside her. “You needed that, didn’t you?” you whispered, your hand instinctively reaching out to brush against his. “To feel like someone saw you—just you.”

Max’s fingers tightened around hers, the relief on his face palpable. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely audible. “More than I ever thought I did.”

Her heart thundered as he continued, his words stumbling over each other. “You were there with me, everywhere, somehow; even when you weren’t there in person, it was as if I could just . . hold your hand. Like you . . .” he hesitated over his words, trying to find the correct collection, “Like I could just be myself around you,” he said, each word carrying a depth that reached into the quiet spaces of your soul. He paused, breathing heavily, and his blue eyes met yours, an intense vulnerability reflecting in them.

“And that’s not something I ever want to lose, Yn,” he admitted, the words pouring out before he could stop them. “I don’t ever want to lose you.” He pressed on his words, desperately, his hand cupping your cheek.

“It might sound weird, but . . . I fell for you. Every time I got to be ‘Amilian’ around you, I realized why would I want anything else. And when I got Max with you, I—I—” He chuckled with tears in his eyes—”now, I can’t be without you—not ever. It hurts now— being Amilian hurts now, ever since the day you woke up in my apartment and being him hurt. The call when you were at the airport, I felt like I was bleeding from my heart.”

“I don’t need him. I just need you. Because you showed me I can be Max and I can be happy. You showed me that Max can be happy. And Max wants to be happy..” If you were deaf and couldn’t lip read, you’d think that his facial expression was of an addict, begging for help. And maybe he was an addict, taking your other hand and holding it to his heart.

You bit your lip, struggling to contain the overwhelming urge to cry. You closed your eyes, leaning your cheek into his palm. His words wrapped around your heart, each one was like alcohol to the fresh wounds you hadn’t realized were there. You closed your eyes, pressing your cheek into his palm, feeling the warmth and steadiness he offered, grounding you in the midst of your vociferous emotions.

The silence between you felt heavy, yet filled with an unspoken understanding. You reached out, pulling him into a tight embrace, your arms circling around his back as if they had always belonged there. you felt his arms wrap around your waist, his warmth enveloping you completely, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

“You’ll always be my ‘one million,’ though,” you whispered, your voice soft and trembling with the weight of everything you felt for him. He buried his face in your hair, A faint chuckle escaped him, and you felt it reverberate through you, grounding you in his presence.

Max held you tightly, as though you might disappear if he let go. You rubbed his back when he squeezed, letting him breathe in the reality of your words which echoed in his mind, and he was relieved. So relieved to be your Max Emilian, to be your one million.

“I’m so proud of you,” You whisper to him as he sobs into you.

So relieved.

[cappulcino]

hi!! saw your requests were open!! I dont have anything super specific in mind but an enemies to lovers plot with a lucifer x angel reader would be very cool!

Sure! I was originally going to write the whole thing and post it as a one-shot here, but I got overexcited with this idea and couldn't resist turning this into multiple short chapters and already giving you the first one (idk, let me know if you'd rather have the whole thing when it's done).

Seven Days Til Fall (Part 1)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7

Read on AO3 (you do need to be logged in, though)

Words: 2,185

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader

Summary: You're an angel sent on a divine mission to retrieve a powerful relic that has been stolen from Heaven. The orders are clear: gain an audience with the Devil, make deals with them if necessary, anything to return that object to the Silver City. But Hell is not quite what you expected, and neither is Lucifer.

Trigger warnings: None in this chapter (let me know if you think I should add some)

In the beginning, this assembly had seemed no different from the other monotonous celestial meetings the Divine Council liked to conduct. The session was strictly organised and full of unnecessary details, as per usual, golden light shone through the large windows, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the Silver City –routine, in short.

But now the Archangel Michael was calling your name, and you weren't so sure this would be your typical angelic meeting any more. Nobody ever called your name, it wasn't among those that mattered. Why was he calling your name?

Straightening your slouched back and wings, you answered with uncertainty. "Y-Yes?"

Michael offered a fake smile before returning to his bureaucratic demeanour, his hands joined only by the fingertips on the table.

"As you know, the Cup of Eternal Grace has been missing for quite some time now."

"The… Cup of Eternal Grace. Missing. Yes."

You had forgotten about that –your mind had surely deemed that to be another 'unnecessary detail' from one of the previous assemblies. But it was coming back to you now. The chalice, made of celestial metals and inlaid with precious stones had the power to bestow divine grace upon those who drank from it, offering visions, blessings, and, for humans, even limited immortality. And indeed, the artefact had been lost for a while.

Michael's eyes narrowed at your hesitation, but he continued.

"One of our emissaries on Earth had found a lead on the Cup tracing back to some… obscure cult. Unfortunately, by the time he got there, the humans had traded with a demon –they do like to do this for a reason that escapes me. We now have cause to believe the Cup is in Hell."

"I see," you said slowly after a short silence. You weren't sure why this had anything to do with you.

"Its presence in Hell could easily disrupt order or worse, be used to bargain with divine entities. It cannot stay there. We need someone to retrieve it," Michael replied as if annoyed to have to spell out the evidence for you.

Ah, now you understood.

"Me?"

"Yes. You."

That Heaven could have so foolishly lost an object that had the potential to tip the balance of the entire universe when in the wrong hands was already astonishing to you. But to entrust you with the task of going to Hell, assuredly face its ruler, and retrieve the Cup? That was hardly believable, and for an angel like you, who had to Believe, that said something. Why didn't Michael go himself?

"I… don't understand. I'm merely a Dominion, and the Morningstar is Your sibling, Your Grace."

"Yes, so that's your job."

That was Gabriel talking down to you as if you had just uttered the most unintelligent thing in front of the whole congregation.

"Besides, we're not going to waste our time when others have been designated for that kind of risky stuff. That would be…" He let out an inelegant snort-laugh.

"What Gabriel means," Uriel intervened in their usual soft-spoken voice, "is that angels among the higher ranks have other matters to attend to, but we cannot ask this of anyone with lesser powers. And well, it is your function to execute divine orders." Uriel paused, scrutinizing your expression. "Would we be making a mistake by putting our faith in you?"

You gulped.

"N-No."

"Good."

Plans had been made, and you were now approaching the gates of Hell. Protocol required that you banged a sort of gong by the entrance, and a dead mortal fused into the wall handed you a mallet. You had read somewhere once that the Damned made Hell what it was. At the time, you hadn't understood that meant this realm was literally made of the Damned. You winced and then, forcing the politeness out of your angelic mouth with a small "Thank you", you grabbed the tool.

The gong's echo made the other souls trapped around the gates scream and then, accompanying heavy steps, a deep voice growled.

"There's one at the door. At the gate of damnation. Is it thief, thug or–"

Squatterbloat, the gatekeeper suddenly froze in his speech when his gaze landed upon you. An angel, in Hell. Quite the unusual sight.

"Whore?"

"Peace be upon you, demon."

As you uttered them, you realised how ironic your words sounded. Squatterbloat chuckled.

"We don't accept holy brochures."

His sense of humour compensated for his dreadful looks, and you managed to stop your wings from shuddering.

"That is not why I'm here."

"Then state that business of yours."

"I seek an audience with your sovereign."

"Do you now, little cloud-hopper? I fear the Devil doesn't have time for your affairs."

You approached the gate, your wings spreading in a foolish attempt to appear menacing, your tone still polite but steely.

"I am an envoy of Heaven, and the matter is urgent. Even you cannot go against God's will, demon. Take me to your master."

Squatterbloat's eyes remained fixated on yours for an instant, and then, his keys jangled.

"Mmh. Right this way… If you dare."

"Oh, what a joyous day," Lucifer purred with a faint smile before relaxing on their throne with a sigh. "Can you feel it, Mazikeen? The innocence? So pure."

"Shall I ask for more guards to stand by Your side?"

"That will not be necessary. That little angel is no threat to Us."

You were certain the ruler of Hell had sensed your arrival –how could they not?– and your suspicions were immediately confirmed when you entered the room. Sitting regally on their throne, the Lightbringer did not even bat an eye as they eyed you and the heavenly glow that surrounded your body. If anything, they seemed… amused.

You had heard many stories about them –though most of those tales still spoke of a Samael– but you had never seen them. Imagery was forbidden in Heaven, of the Devil more than anyone else, and you had never been down to Earth to look at the various depictions humans had made of them either. Therefore, you took a moment to marvel at their appearance, so foreign and yet so familiar, and as your gaze roamed over their leathery wings, you wondered if that was what became of angels' wings after the Fall.

In fact, you wondered about so many things at once that you almost forgot your manners. But Mazikeen's insistent look quickly pulled you out of your reverie.

"Uh, yes. Apologies. Peace be upon You, Lucifer Morningstar," you greeted with a slight bow of your head. "And upon you, Mazikeen of the Lillim." It sounded even sillier than when you had said it to Squatterbloat.

Lucifer let out a small chuckle then and exchanged looks with Mazikeen. Then, as they turned to face you again, they smiled.

"It is unusual for Our Father to send His subjects down here. Almost an event, We might say. To what do We owe the pleasure?"

Lucifer's words dripped from their mouth like honey, and you weren't sure whether you found it more captivating or terrifying.

"Well?"

You shook your head and straightened your back some more to give yourself a semblance of presence, and undertook to explain why Michael had sent you here.

"Our dear brother has never liked getting his pristine hands dirty," Lucifer remarked once you were done.

They stood up, took a few slow steps in your direction with a thoughtful expression, and then stopped a mere yard away from you. The way they towered over you and the power they radiated felt overwhelming, and a shiver ran through the feathers of your wings.

"It is not a task fit for his rank," you said. And for a brief moment, you almost convinced yourself of what Gabriel had told you earlier today. Almost.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow as if seeing right through you and perfectly understanding the lack of conviction in your own words. A doubtful angel. Oh, this day could not get any better.

"Tell Us," they said, now pacing through their throne room. "What do We gain from helping you?"

The question startled you. What did the Devil gain from obeying God for once? Not another divine punishment, that's what.

"Excuse me?"

"We said, what do We gain from helping you with your task? We sure hope you did not come all the way to Our domain expecting a pretty smile to be sufficient to convince Us."

That… serpent. You clenched your jaw, resisting a sudden urge to speak from your heart while Lucifer kept on smirking devilishly.

Taking a deep breath, you chose to show yourself open to discussion instead.

"What is it You wish for, Lightbringer?"

Lucifer pretended to think about it, gazing into the vastness of their realm, and then spoke firmly.

"A single visit to the Silver City."

Your heart stopped.

"And open the gates for You to terrorise us or attack the Creator? Absolutely not."

"Then forget about the chalice."

"The Morningstar may believe angels are foolish, naive creatures, but I assure You I'm not that stupid."

Your defiance intrigued Lucifer, who gauged you for a second.

"No…" they eventually said. "Indeed. Which is why We are fairly certain you will know how to convince the Divine Council. Tell them We have no intentions of wreaking havoc in their home if that is what they are so worried about."

"Then why?" you asked somewhat harshly.

"You would not understand."

"Your Majesty, I–"

"There will be no need for further discussion, little angel. Either you manage to get Us what We want and We will do everything in Our power to help you, or the Cup of Eternal Grace remains in Hell. In which case, do not even bother coming back."

"They said what?"

"The Morningstar wishes to be able to visit the Silver City, Your Grace. Just once."

You were now standing in the bright room where the heavenly meeting that had got you sent to Hell had been held a few hours ago, alone in front of the five members of the Divine Council. You felt small, but not as small as you had felt in front of the ruler of Hell.

"Yes, we heard that part," Azrael replied rather angrily.

Somehow, their tone managed to make you feel as if you had already failed your mission, and it took a lot of self-persuasion to stand your ground. You were only repeating what you had been told, after all.

"They, uh…" You cleared your throat and tried again. "They said they had no intentions of attacking Heaven, and I think their words were genuine."

"Hello, this is Satan we're talking about," Gabriel said, exaggerating their diction as if you were mentally impaired.

"My sibling does not lie, Gabriel," Michael reminded him. The other Archangel sighed. "If you will excuse us, the Council needs to consider Lucifer's offer."

Taking the hint, you bowed and promptly left the room to find refuge in the closest chapel. Once there, you dropped to your knees for the Almighty and clasped your trembling hands so tight your knuckles turned white.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned…"

You started repenting because you couldn't help but feel as if it would be your fault if Heaven ended up needing to make a deal with the Devil. You should have resisted and told Lucifer that they deserved their banishment from the Silver City and that never would they be welcome here again. You should have fought them if needed, though you would have been doomed –you would have died a martyr, and maybe for once your name would have mattered in Heaven. But you hadn't.

Deep down, you also prayed for the Council to give up on the Cup of Eternal Grace. Hell was a terrible place, and Lucifer a dangerous monster, your sworn enemy. You didn't want to go back to Hell. Not for a stupid goblet.

But as soon as you came out of the chapel, Gabriel was standing in front of you, his hands behind his back. As God's messenger, you knew he was here to pass on the Divine Council's decision.

"So. We have deliberated and we want you to carry on with the mission. You will go down to Hell every day, do whatever you need to do, and come back up every evening to report before compline until you find the Cup. Okay?"

You opened your mouth to answer but only managed a weak, strangled sound. Gabriel didn't give you enough time to speak anyway.

"Great!" he exclaimed as he slapped your shoulder. Then he pointed at the chapel. "Is this free?" Again, you tried to answer, but he was already gone.

Feeling an irrational anger rising inside, you decided you needed a break, some time alone spent in silence, not even in prayer. Angels, like other immortal beings, didn't need to sleep, but you wanted to forget about the world for a while. So you flew back to the Dominions' quarters to lay on your soft bed.

And there was evening, and there was morning –the first day.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SEVEN: LAMB

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the seventh chapter in the series

---

The kitchen is a quiet chaos— Hannibal standing over the hob, his beautiful hands precise at their work, Will slouched, sulking prettily against a countertop, looking into the bottom of a wine glass.

His temper billows about the room. It's a wonder anyone can breathe through such smoke.

You hover at an anxious distance, afflicted by delectable smells and the scar of what you’ve done. Shame beats, eviscerated, under the boards of you; you chose to taunt and then to touch Will Graham, a conscious participant in this play of a poisonous home.

If your hosts were to give you but a minute apart from them you’d chastise yourself for your abasement: three stiff, sweat-inducing planks, a lap of your room, a prison yard exhaustion.

But they keep you under their eye, knowing, like a child, you’d surely run to burn your hand on the stove.

“How do you want me to be around him?” you ask, as Hannibal tastes a truffle sauce with a look of indecision. “Your Agent Crawford. He doesn’t know about us, does he?”

“As I have assured you, it is between you, Will, and I,” Dr Lecter answers. “Therefore, as far as any visitor is concerned, you remain my patient. That is all.”

How easily you are expected to step from one evanescent role to the other. Should your tongue slip, you may damn him and Will both, yet you know Hannibal is without fear as surely as though you had your fingers to his wrist, timing the pulse of his slow calm.

“And what am I to Will today?” you ask.

“A ward, of sorts, for now.”

The word conjures images of chill cells, bed pans, wilful neglect. Something Victorian in its sensibilities.

“A ward,” you repeat. “Right.”

In the peripheries of vision Will sets down his glass with an icy clink.

“Are you intending to be civilised at dinner," Hannibal asks, "or do we have to prepare for another devolution into infantile behaviour?”

You’d expected Will to be smug, glutted from his fill, but your mouth upon him has only calcified his antagonism into some crueller compound, still. He does not like that he has taken pleasure from you, is in denial of it, a steadfast separation.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” you say to Hannibal. “I never know what’s going to happen. Usually I’m... not myself.”

Will folds his arms in an impassable cross.

“You’re not being medicated tonight. Your actions will be your responsibility.”

The prospect of sobriety has little power to cheer. You’d rather the drooling oblivion of a dose over the chess match of having to divine the correct answer and micro-expression to every aside.

Intuiting your distress, Hannibal says, “You'll be eating from a slightly different menu to the rest of the table. Light portions, with attention to your safe foods.”

In disbelief, you take stock of the simmering pans, their contents once the meat of your routine.

“My... my safe foods,” you repeat. “But I didn’t even tell you what they were.”

What should comfort holds the sinister weight of interred dead, so familiar as to be uncanny.

“I have observed your preferences,” says Dr Lecter. “Thus, I am able to accommodate.”

He offers you a spoon to taste, which you decline.

“You’re making it easier for me to stick to my old ways,” you point out. “That doesn’t seem right. What’s going on?”

“I’m allowing you space to devote your energy to an unexpected social situation. I know they are not your strong suit, and I wish you to be relaxed. It will benefit us all.”

There is no pretence here of pure intentions; you acknowledge the respect that has been awarded to you in the absence of a lie.

“Thank you,” you say. “Could you do this... more, please?”

“If you continue to fulfil your role satisfactorily, yes.”

Hannibal glances at Will, whose breath of harsh laughter pars the conversation like a shank, short and sharp.

“You remain against her, then.”

“I don’t see that she has any genuine interest in evolving,” says Will, as though you are not there. “Just a cuckoo in an empty nest.”

The phrasing catches like a coat on brambled hedgerow. Alert, you examine your younger captor, interpreting the set of his harsh look.

“What are you to each other, really?” you ask.

“Friends,” says Will, bluntly.

The speed with which he speaks betrays a not-quite lie, a sentence with a postluding clause.

“We are aesthetes of an uncommon kind,” Dr Lecter interjects, over a pearl string of steam. “It adds dimension to our relationship few will ever perceive. In time, I expect you will.”

The kitchen, though of minimal colour—greys, black, pure, clinical white—develops a peculiar warmth. There is invitation, here, open-armed acceptance into domesticity, and whatever midnight cabal weds these two men in their brotherhood.

“I don’t think you want me,” you say, as Hannibal rinses cutlery at the sink. “I’m not interesting. I don’t talk like you. I don’t really understand art, or books, or poetry. I’m not even smart.”

Will’s head turns, the sly incline an eel from a cave mouth.

“Hannibal tells me you were academic, once. What happened?”

Seldom do you care to recollect your school days, which were lived painfully, as a mute ghost at the back of the class.

Attempts to decipher screens and pages through tears that had fallen without sound, and were, thus, philosophically inexistent. Whispers passed down through seated rows. Meetings with teachers and welfare staff on seats of poster blue plastic, your foot shaken against scuffed tiles in soothing motion.

The books and television series you’d once absorbed with eager voracity were parched of their appeal, by then. Your only reading was the secretive message boards into which you’d recessed like a forest to band with others of your starving ilk.

Such memories, and others arise to you. Your grades you can less easily recall.

“I’m only good at one thing anymore,” you say, aloud. “And I’m not allowed to do it here.”

Hannibal begins stacking washed dishes back into the cupboard, undeterred by your ceaseless denial.

“We will not chastise you for your simplicity. The palate can be developed, after all.”

“And not just for the food,” says Will. “Though that would be a start.”

“What if I embarrass you in front of Jack?” you ask; you’re losing this argument, and continue it only to prolong your defeat.

“Jack isn’t easily embarrassed,” says Dr Lecter. “Besides, he has been adequately prepared. You may rest in your room before dinner, little one. Sleep can do wonders for the appetite.”

He walks you to the kitchen door with a subtle insistence— like Will, he yearns to be alone.

Mumbling thanks that border on sincere, you make your egress via the stairs, glad to leave the kitchen and its tiers of expectation in your wake.

Passing Hannibal’s room, you find the door stood ajar. Curiosity draws you in, then, not to the bed—a symbol of tragedy—but to the conjoined bathroom, it, too, unlocked.

It is larger than your own, though similarly tiled in ivory and obsidian; there is a bathtub elevated on ornate feet, a shower walled in opaque glass, a sink with toothbrush and paste arranged like trophies, each surface of a bleached, crystalline sheen.

On the floor lies a set of scales, an oblong of clearest glass.

You had known that he would have one in the house, a man so fastidious in hygiene and health. Standing flat against one wall, you tilt your head, listening for an approach on the stairs, a change in the direction of the voices beneath.

When you are convinced of your privacy you strip of every garment and stand upon the scales, your hands braced at your sides in anticipation.

Even before the numbers flash on the mite screen you know that you’ve gained weight, have felt the itching progress of it across your hips and stomach.

The figure, as you glance down, is far higher than anticipated. Were it not imperative to be silent, you would scream.

You settle to hit yourself, instead, closed-fisted blows into your temple, left to right; only your reflection in the bathroom mirror stays your hand, a corpulent rendering of flesh.

This image has always shifted, for you, between your mental interpretation and its reality. Now they are one and the same, and you will never forgive your kidnappers for having altered your sight, as well.

Whose eyes have they given you, to make out this monster? One each of their own— you close the lids, and see the red of meat in the darkness behind them.

Later, when you return, dressed and sleep-dulled, to wait for dinner, you practice such restraint over your emotion that the effect is a noiseless hysteria. Catching sight of your face in any polished surface reveals a sickly visage, eyes bright and excitable, the skin dull, as of the grave.

Will regards you with a default scepticism, venturing no word. Hannibal, instantly perceptive, takes hold of your face in his cool hands and looks into your eyes.

“Is there something the matter?” he asks, and there is glass under the suede of his soft voice, a cutting menace.

There is a rap upon the door, and Dr Lecter steps free of you to answer. He returns shortly, followed by a man you recognise from the news, broad shouldered in a casual suit. His hair is closely cut, a trimmed goatee on a face that would have been handsome, in youth, and is presently so, though worn between the brows from the stress of his work.

“Good to see you, Will,” says Jack, shaking the younger man’s hand and pulling him into a half embrace. “You look well. Been taking care of yourself, I hope.”

Will smiles. His face is briefly pleasant, the dour mouth creasing at the corners.

“As well as I can,” he says. “The dogs keep me active.”

“Nice to hear you’re still running with the pack,” Jack replies. “How are the little rascals?”

You wait for the smalltalk to end, filing away what information sifts through that may be of note.

At last Jack turns to you, taking your hand lightly in his.

“So I finally get to meet you. Hannibal’s told me all about you, you know.”

A falsified minimum, you think.

Aloud, you ask, “He has?”

“Just enough,” says Dr Lecter. “Now, I must be temporarily rude and make myself scarce; I have unfinished work awaiting me in the kitchen.”

Jack releases your hand.

“Point taken,” he says. “Let's move this conversation to the dinner table, shall we?”

To your relief, once all are seated Jack manoeuvres the subject tactfully away to other things. The men speak of the weather—"I don’t care what anybody says; we don’t need that much rain this side of the Great Flood"—Jack’s wife—who is mortally ill, and immeasurably loved—and of mutual friends, whose names and various details you struggle to map in your ignorance of their world.

You eat with little attention to what crosses your lips; the day, in that aspect, is spoiled, and you cast it from you like a fruit’s rotten core.

Though Jack and Hannibal both attempt to include you in the chatter at points, you do not care to. There is the feeling of being presented to Jack like a shrewdly bargained for article of rare furniture; any comment from you is performance for these men to digest and enjoy, as they do all at this table.

It is Dr Lecter, however, that successfully extracts your opinion on a topic of his choosing. With an ingenuity that renders the shift in topic almost organic, he addresses his colleagues on the matter of their latest case.

“Surely our man will be on the move again,” he says, lifting a shred of lamb to his lips. “He may already be grooming his next subject.”

“He is,” says Will, flatly. “I’ve spent enough time thinking like him to know his heartbreak over losing the last one won’t last long.”

Jack raises his eyebrows, turning from one man to the other with a look that suggests he is almost as nonplussed by their union as you are.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to discuss this in front of your patient, Dr Lecter? The details of this case are particularly disturbing, as you already know. Will showed you photographs from the crime scene.”

“Indeed he did,” says Hannibal. “I will not easily forget it. However, as long as my guest resides under my roof I believe it’s only fair that she is involved in general discussion. Confidential matters of the case will, of course, be between us. But anything that is public knowledge I believe she has the right to know.”

“Fodder for Tattle Crime, you mean,” Will interjects, stabbing at his meal with spiteful vigour. “Freddie Lounds has covered these particular murders with a lurid relish. You’re aware that she’s already named the killer?"

Jack chuckles.

“'The Silicone Lover,'” he says. “It certainly lacks poetry in comparison to some of the others that are being thrown around, but it’s got that Lounds touch. It’s catchy, I’ll give her that.”

You drop your fork upon your plate with a jarring clash of steel and porcelain. Hannibal’s face stills in subtle displeasure, and you make a cringing gesture of apology, your mouth puckered at one corner.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say, “but... I remember reading about that case. I’ve always been kind of interested in true crime. I don’t know why. Books, documentaries, all that stuff; I’ve seen them all. But this killer— he’s in my city. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

It’s the most conversation you’ve volunteered all evening, and you sense the interest of your fellow guests open to you like a late bloom.

“I hope you’ve been taking precautions, young lady,” says Jack, bringing his knife to a pat of oozing meat until his plate is a bloody eclipse. “You’re aware you fit the profile of his victims.”

You stutter out an uncomfortable laugh.

“I... I don’t go out much. So I’ve been okay.”

Even before your captivity you’d been a recluse, dissuaded from venturing outdoors by an aversion to being perceived. Short, rushed jaunts to the store had been the sum of your travels, and it occurs to you now that you should have savoured the world beyond the house: the grumbling traffic, the turned dirt scent of rain, all of it, everything. The beautiful mundane.

“Staying indoors won’t keep the Silicone Lover from making you his paramour,” says Will, shortly, one arm flung in a mode of disdain across the back of his chair. “His targets always let him into their homes willingly, and there are no defensive wounds, suggesting he makes himself known to his victims some time before he abducts them. He always gets close enough to either drug or hit them over the head without suspicion.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ve read Tattle Crime, too.”

Will sneers.

“Of course you have. She’s a provocateur. Just your type.”

“Tell us what you know of this case, then,” Hannibal says to you, smoothly diffusing the tension. “Perhaps we will benefit from a fresh perspective, especially from an individual so closely fitting the profile of those unfortunate victims.”

He looks at Agent Crawford, seeking an unspoken permission.

“Go ahead,” says Jack. “As long as you feel up to it, that is.”

His voice softens as he speaks to you, and you think of his wife, folding slowly into the ravening void of cancer. This is a man who understands illness, and has a sensitivity for it; it comforts you, to have him here, obscured though his view of his friends.

Offering Jack a shy smile, you say, “I’ll be alright. It’s just that I don’t want to put anyone off their food.”

There is laughter around the table; even Will smirks, though the expression falls as he catches you looking. You wonder again at his distaste for you, surmising with a coolly adult rationality that he is jealous of you having come between him and his mentor.

“Well?” says Will, with the rudeness of a spoiled prince. “What’s the Lover’s modus operandi?”

You catch Jack’s dark eyes squinting a fraction, and though he says nothing you rally at the knowledge that he has not entirely succumbed to Will and Hannibal’s spell.

“The dead girls are always found in rivers around the city,” you say, “sealed inside hollowed out rubber dolls. You know the kind I mean. The killer cuts open the dolls and mutilates the women to fit them inside, then seals them back up again. Keeps them in there till they suffocate, or starve to death.

Some of the women die within hours, others a few days. They must be so scared, in so much pain. But obviously that’s what he wants. Every three months or so he does it all over again.”

“Meaning we don’t have long before he takes a seventh lover,” says Will. “Fortunately for you, staying here will protect you, to an extent. You’re too far out of the killer’s hunting range for him to take an interest.”

“Can’t keep the princess locked up in her tower forever,” says Jack, cleaning his hands on a napkin. “We'd better hurry up and catch him. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—”

He rises from his seat; a bathroom visit, you realise, and an opening to speak to him alone.

Thinking quickly, you reach for your water glass and dash it across your lap. Your hand is shaking enough for the accident to seem convincing.

Both remaining men glance up from the table, startled. Will all but rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, in a grovelling squeak. “I’ll go and change, if that’s alright.”

Dr Lecter, as always, is crisply polite.

“You may go. But hurry. Our guest will expect you to return.”

For once, Will makes no comment, only returns to his food with the reverence of accepting the wafer at communion.

You pad along the corridor towards the downstairs bathroom, waiting for Jack to emerge. From what you know of Hannibal’s close relationship with the police you cannot rest your hopes of escape entirely on Agent Crawford, but you have seen the occasional teeter of trust, the unspoken perplexity with which he regards the dynamics of the household.

You may yet sway his sympathies, if you are careful. Still, you are so certain of failure that you tremble with mirth, like a drunk.

Jack steps out of the bathroom, stopping short as he notices you wincing in the shadows.

“Hey, there. Are you alright? You look a little green around the gills.”

“Agent Crawford,” you say, in a half-whisper. “I was wondering if you could help me. You know Will and Hannibal pretty well, right?”

“It’s Jack when I’m not working. And, uh, reasonably so, I’d say. Is something wrong?”

You pause, labouring over your response. To imply your wardens are the enemy will surely strike Jack as too outlandish, the mumblings of the mad.

“This treatment isn’t right for me,” you say, rather weakly. “It’s too much, and I don’t think they’re really listening to me. I miss my parents, my own room. I’m suffocating here. I was wondering if you could talk to Will and Dr Lecter. Encourage them to let me go home.”

Jack’s dark eyes soften, and he stoops slightly over you, as he might in order to speak to a small child.

“Dr Lecter told me you might ask me that. The road you’re on is a tough one, young lady, but you’ve got to stick it out. Not just for yourself, but for everybody who cares about you. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure Will and Hannibal would be disappointed to see you go home so soon.”

You turn your head into your shoulder, your neck caught in a miserable spasm.

“Will doesn’t like me at all.”

“That’s just the way he is. Prickly with just about everyone he encounters. Imagine the strain on me, having to keep him in line.”

You do laugh, then, and Jack flashes you a gap-toothed grin.

“He’ll warm up to you. Though to be honest, I don’t know why Hannibal’s getting Will involved in all this when he already has enough on his plate. Between work and those episodes of his, I don’t know if he ought to take on too many other responsibilities. But I guess Dr Lecter knows what he’s doing.”

Episodes?

You’d noticed Will’s fits of illness, a certain fragility; to hear it confirmed is a gold coin in your hand to spend in the future to come.

“I’m going to head back to the table,” says Jack. “Let’s give all this a little more time. If it doesn’t work over the next couple of months I might put a word in for you, suggest therapy sessions over inpatient treatment. But I can’t push it, kid. You’re not my patient. I can’t overstep the line, here. But I’m on your side. You keep up what you’re doing, alright?”

He leaves you there, knuckling tears from your eyes. Regretting that you hadn’t spoken the truth, in all its risk.

*

You go to your room, meaning only to dress. In the end you cannot resist returning to Hannibal’s scales on the way back, called by a manic self-flagellating urge to know much further weight you’ve gained from the meal.

You are not free, will never be free, are worth nothing but numbers. They've become all you are.

It’s as you’re stepping, naked, stupid with despair onto the scale that you hear a voice behind you.

“You must learn to restrain these impulses, little one.”

You turn so sharply that something strains in your neck again. Your hands strive to cover your nakedness. A futility, considering what he has seen, that he has fucked you.

“I assume that you have also spoken to Jack Crawford,” says Hannibal. “Pleading your case to be released. How naughty you have been.”

How handsome he looks, almost young, in the tasteful bathroom light. There is something like death in his sudden beauty, a void coldness.

Terror, a stake of ice from throat to cunt.

He means to kill you, if not now, then soon.

You know of only one way he might forgive so many missteps. Another course: you eat your pride.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy,” you say. “Please don’t tell Will.”

You lower your arms, forging a sword of your vulnerability. Hannibal glances down only once, and with more amusement, then, than thirst.

“He will never know,” he says. “If you come to my room tonight. There is a lesson you must learn. It cannot wait.”

*

There is a tension about the residence of waiting, after Will and Jack have gone, the dry-mouthed breath before the silver lipped drop of the guillotine.

There is motion about the house, yet you feel rather than hear it; Hannibal has a way of carrying his physicality that seems to possess no weight at all. Ghoulish, his haunting of the rooms below as you sit on his bed, to await him.

You arrange yourself on the dark sheets in sacrificial mode, so ill with fear that it seems all your organs are in torsion, a helix of flesh from chest to womb.

It strikes you that you’d lain so, once, a night your father's friend, Leland Frost, had stumbled the many stairs to your room, beer the umber of his breath as he’d kissed you goodnight.

You had let him touch you, then, as you will let the devil touch you, now. As a child, as an adult, you are absolved: animals must eat, and their prey bear no fault when the hand of God steers them in the direction of hunger.

Hannibal ascends the stairs, each footfall making you jump. Stiff-backed, you turn to a sleek alarm clock on the bedside table, vowing to fix your eyes to its sympathetic face until the hour is done.

A name—yours—blackens your ear, a knell of things more wicked than death.

“Little one,” says Hannibal. “I will not hurt you. This lesson involves no corporal punishment.”

You sit up slightly, slippery in grey silk pyjamas, of whose cost you dare not think.

“Not the lights,” you say, hastily. “Or that metronome thing. I hated it.”

Dr Lecter removes his jacket, socks, and shoes, the quiet process of putting them away a careful rite, his prayer unspoken.

“To begin with,” he says, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your personal habits.”

He speaks delicately, but with an undertone of velvet sensuality that delivers you into fear you cannot resist.

“How often do you pleasure yourself, little one?”

“I don't,” you say.

The words form with such stumbling velocity that you cringe at your own lie.

Hannibal looks down at you with a sort of sorrow.

“If that is your response, then I must teach you.”

“No! I mean, don’t. I’m sorry. I do... do that. But it’s embarrassing to talk about it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid you must. To be a fully-fledged adult it is important to embrace all facets of yourself, including sexuality. So, please address my question.”

Hannibal steps towards the bed, not with threat, but to pursue the lost treasure of your secret.

“Twice a week, maybe,” you admit. “At night.”

“How do you masturbate?”

You’d never expected the world from Dr Lecter. He speaks it factually, without humour, priestly severe.

“With my hands,” you say. “My fingers.”

You’d been too embarrassed to order toys to the house, which still you share with your family, the humiliation of an accidentally opened box an unimaginable discomfort.

“What do you think about as you climax, little one?” asks Hannibal, a question worse still than those before it in the nature of your answer.

You’d watch videos, often violent, peruse literature online which you hastily erased from your history, afterwards. It almost seems you beckoned in this abuse, through your interests, aroused only by cruelty, and the dark.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Different things. Nothing specific.”

Hannibal takes another step towards the bed.

“Answer again.”

Tears char your vision into soot.

“I hate you,” you say, fiercely. “More than I hate Will.”

“Because I cannot be moved in my resolve, as he can,” says Hannibal. “Will is suggestible, to an extent, whereas I am sure in my standing. It sears your ego to obey a man so entirely.”

He pads, barefoot, in a half circle around the bed, a panther uncaged.

“So,” says Dr Lecter. “Speak. What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

You open your mouth, and find yourself mute, truly incapable of speech.

Hannibal seems to understand this, however, for he does not insist again.

“Undress for me. I would like to see you demonstrate.”

Your head swings in a rattling ‘no’.

“Very well. I will attempt it.”

Again you shake your head, and in cumbersome, unlovely motions you struggle out of the pyjamas, ashamed of how clumsy you appear before him.

Naked, you sit up on your knees, covering yourself with your arms as best you can.

“Legs apart, please,” says Hannibal. “Then do as you normally would. I will merely watch.”

He reclines in one of the chairs in the room, his eyes like foreign seas, reflecting the night.

Scalded with humiliation, you bring your fingertips between your thighs and stroke in looping circles. The skin there is parched, unresponsive, unyielding; to be watched in such intimacy takes the pleasure from the act, which has always been in realms of secret sin.

“I can’t do it, Hannibal,” you say. “Nothing’s happening. I don’t feel good.”

It is the only time you’ve used his first name to his face, a trespass into familiarity you do not share.

“Is it because you don’t have access to the usual stimulating material?” he asks, ignoring your blunder.

You snap your knees shut upon your hands.

“I don’t use any.”

Hannibal takes your calves in his hands, a grip which might break.

“I know that you do. When I accepted you as my patient I made a point to visit your house, when no one was home. Your room was as I expected it to be. Juvenile, and stale aired from many days spent there alone. Your laptop was open. It wasn’t difficult to breach. Your password was the title of a book on your shelf.”

Wintergirls. Laurie Halse Anderson had been a staple of your literary youth, and it had never occurred to you that anyone might guess it.

“You didn’t clear your history as thoroughly as you believed,” says Hannibal. “I was intrigued by what I found there.”

You do not resist as he opens your legs, so limp are you in your horror.

“I— what you saw— it doesn’t mean I want this. It’s not the same.”

Hannibal blinks slowly.

“No. I would be uninterested if it was.”

He sits upright again, folding his hands in his lap. How pure they look, a harpsichordist’s tools, an illustrator’s. Evil, beautiful things.

“Begin again,” says Hannibal. “Think of Will and I. What we have done to you. Our touch. Our words. The imposition of power. The ineludible fact of your belonging to us.”

Femoral heat. Your core rings crimson bronze, and your fingers follow its kulning. You want to stop, but Hannibal’s voice alone is a hypnosis, effective even without the ticking and the lights.

“Imagine Will’s hand across your cheek. Around your throat. Envision my own.”

You make some noise, not quite a moan.

Dr Lecter lowers himself down until his breath mists your cunt, and the sensation has you writhing beneath it, maddened by the ephemeral touch of air, and needing it to finish.

He looks up, and his eyes are a reveller’s, a satyr of ancient land.

“How sweet you must taste. I have prepared your meals specifically to assure that you do.”

Your hand cycles in motion, compelled by his mystical art.

Hannibal remains over you, too close, at too great a distance.

“Stop,” he says. “That is enough.”

You are so close that the command is more craven in its dealings than Will’s palm across your face.

Your breaths are the sunken heat of a pagan sun. You burn and burn.

“Why should I give you what is so unwanted?” asks Hannibal, and pauses, as though you might beg.

Speech is inconceivable to your mind, as it is now, a concept like the colour of dying. You only sit with the head of a God between your legs, forced to such a brink that your weakness rides through you like a drug.

Eyes of night pleasure, of deathly ritual—

He laps your cunt for scarcely half a minute before you career over your edge, stacked orgasms that render you sightless with their power. You arc from the bed like an antler, a horn cry blown through your soul.

The pleasure is a stellar whiteness. You writhe up towards his tongue like a wave.

“Poor girl,” says Hannibal, as you lie piteously beneath him. “You can do nothing without me. Even this.”

[katsu28]

even after all these years

pairing: Eddie Munson x reader

summary: based on the prompt “i take my little sibling to their school’s halloween carnival and you’re one of the volunteers/workers there and you’re super cute” but slightly different

warnings: light swearing, bats

a/n: is it even legal to finally be posting a halloween fic in december? let’s pretend it is and i’m not criminally late with it! but in my defense, i started writing this before halloween and then just never finished it </3

navigation + taglist

Eddie didn’t want to be here. Now don’t get him wrong, he liked Halloween just as much as the next person, but being around all these people that were ready to hunt him down and burn him at the stake just months ago, who were now pretending like it never happened, just didn’t tickle his fancy. 

But Dustin and Steve were very adamant on him coming with them, and as much as he wanted to decline, he couldn’t. 

So now here he was, shuffling behind his friends as they wandered around the Hawkins High parking lot that had been converted into a makeshift Halloween carnival, trying his best to ignore the stares and whispers aimed his way. 

Eddie was no stranger to them, but these were different. He wasn’t just a freak, he was a so called “murderer”. Even though his name had been cleared a long time ago. 

“Dude, you look like you’re about to piss yourself. Relax.” Steve’s voice drew him out of his thoughts, his eyes flicking to the brown haired boy currently raising a brow at him. “You’re fine, Munson.” 

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Whatever.” Eddie muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket sulkily. 

Dustin cast a glance back at him, frowning when he saw the older boy kicking a rock down the gravel path, much more interested in the toes of his dirty sneakers than anything else around him. He felt bad for dragging Eddie here when he obviously wasn’t having any fun, but it was good for him to get out more. He’d barely left Steve’s house at all the past seven months, only managing to drag himself to Hellfire meetings and to give Dustin an occasional ride home from school. 

“Hey, you wanna come with me to get my face painted?” Dustin asked excitedly, making his way back to tug on Eddie’s sleeve with a grin. “I was thinking like a huge spiderweb, straight across my cheek. Pretty badass, don’t you think?” 

“I guess.” Eddie shrugged, instantly feeling guilt pool in his stomach when he saw Dustin’s shoulders slump. So he tried his best to remedy it by plastering a smile on his face, clapping him on the back and pulling him closer by the collar of his jacket. “That does sound real badass, Henderson. Lead the way.” 

Dustin perked right back up, launching into a mindless ramble about some species of spider that Eddie wasn’t paying attention to all that much as they made their way through the crowds of kids and parents to the face painting table. Immediately plunking into a free chair across from one of the Hawkins High science teachers, Dustin started talking again, probably forgetting that Eddie had come with him. 

Eddie, on the other hand, was about ready to ditch him, since he was getting a few weird looks as he just stood in the middle of the array of tables awkwardly. 

“Hey, I know you. You’re—” 

“Yeah, yeah, Eddie the freak, satanic worshipper, murderer, yada, yada,” He grumbled, deciding to slouch over into another flimsy plastic chair with his arms crossed over his chest to get out of people’s way, barely hastening you a glance before focusing his scowl on the worn out knees of his jeans. 

“Uh…okay. That’s not what I was thinking of though.” You frowned. “Hawkins middle school debate team, sixth grade.” 

Eddie’s eyes snapped up, widening in horror at the sight of you. You, out of all the people he could’ve snapped at.

He remembered you, and he definitely remembered that year. The year he went to live with his uncle, which then turned into two, then three, then the rest of his life. 

He’d been having trouble adjusting to being moved around so much, so he’d started acting out. Arguing with teachers, interrupting class randomly, cutting school, the whole nine yards. Apparently, he was so good at arguing with authority figures, they decided to stick him on the debate team as punishment. But honestly, it wasn’t so much of a punishment when he realized that you were also on the debate team. 

Bright eyed and bushy tailed with the brightest of smiles, you were Eddie’s first crush. You were one of the only people who didn’t treat him like a total freak, sitting with him during debate practices and talking to him when no one else would, even going so far as to share your snacks with him. You never brushed him off or called him a weirdo, and you’d even kicked Tommy H in the nuts one time when he made a dig at Eddie’s clothes. 

So when you moved out of Hawkins, he was pretty bummed. But now you were back, and he still felt the same butterflies in his stomach right now that he did back when he was twelve. 

“What was that about being a murderer?” You tilted your head at him in confusion, to which he shook his head quickly. 

“Nothing! I’m not—my name was cleared, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t murder anyone!” He tugged at the collar of his jacket awkwardly, half expecting you to shoot him a weird look. 

But you just smiled, laughing a little bit. “That’s always good. Hi, Eddie.” 

“Hi,” Eddie said sheepishly, holding up a ringed hand in greeting. “I didn’t know you were back.” 

“Yeah, I’ve only been here for a couple weeks…” You trailed off, fiddling with your paintbrush. Hoping I’d magically run into you somehow, you wanted to add. But you didn’t. “I like your hair. Much better than the buzzcut.” 

Eddie’s hand flew to his unruly curls, trying his best to smooth them down even the tiniest bit. You remembered what his hair looked like? More importantly, you remembered him? 

“Oh, uh, thanks. I like your hair too.” His words came out in an awkward jumble that you just beamed even brighter at, eyes crinkling at the corners. I like your hair too? Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You didn’t seem to think it was stupid. “You’re sweet. How’ve you been? What’ve you been up to?” 

Eddie shifted in his seat uncomfortably. What had he accomplished since the last time he saw you? 

He’d become a drug dealer, started a club that everyone thought promoted Satanic worship, been accused for multiple gruesome murders, almost died in Hawkins the horror dimension, came back, and was now even more of a loser freak than he’d already been.

“Uh, not much. Nothing too interesting.” He mumbled. “So…what, uh, what brings you back here?” 

“My grandparents’ house was damaged in that earthquake back in March and they came to live with us right after, so we’re just here trying to…hopefully salvage some stuff, maybe see if we can fix it up.” You shrugged, waving your brush around aimlessly. “Honestly, I don’t think there’s too much we can do, that was a pretty intense quake.” Eddie didn’t mean to, but he flinched a bit at your mention of the quake, seeing as what really happened was so much worse than a natural disaster. 

You noticed, instantly scrambling to rectify your statement with flaming cheeks. “I mean, obviously, you knew that, you lived through it. Sorry, that was really insensitive of me, I don’t—” 

“It’s fine! Don’t worry about it.” Eddie shook his head quickly, brushing it off. “I’m—I’m okay.” I nearly got eaten alive by demon bats from hell, but I’m okay. Obviously he couldn’t tell you that. Not only would he sound absolutely insane, but it would definitely scare you off, which is something he really didn’t want. 

“Right, well, anyways—” You started, but were cut off by a cleared throat from a quite severe looking woman with a clipboard standing a few feet away, who was aiming a very pointed looking glare in your direction. Leaning in a little closer, your nose wrinkled in distaste, voice hushed so as to not draw her attention even more. “That’s my supervisor. She thinks I talk too much, paint too little.” 

“Supervisor? Aren’t you a volunteer?” Eddie whispered, brows furrowing. 

You shrugged. “Apparently this whole carnival thing is super serious this year.” 

“Uh huh, because painting pumpkins on kids’ faces is such a serious thing.” 

“According to her, it’s pretty much the most serious thing in the whole history of serious things.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” 

You had to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from bursting into laughter, such a simple act that still sent a shot of warmth through Eddie’s chest. It also garnered the attention from your supervisor, whose angry steps quickly spurred you back to business as usual. 

“And what would you like painted on your face today, Eddie?” 

His lips quirked into a miniscule smile at your sudden forced enthusiastic tone, which brought a flush to your cheeks. 

“Sorry,” You apologized sheepishly. “Too teacher-y?” 

“I’d say just enough teacher-y.” He observed, nodding thoughtfully. “Reminds me of Mrs. Paulson from middle school. Y’know, the old lady who always smelled like pepperoni.” 

“Pepperoni Paulson, I remember her,” You nodded as well, then squinted at him suspiciously. “Wasn’t she arrested for public intoxication a few years ago?” 

“Yeah. I stand by my point.” 

You let out a noise of indignance, eyebrows creasing and nose wrinkling in such an adorable way that Eddie almost felt the need to turn tail and run. 

“Okay, asshole, what do you want painted on you?” You huffed playfully, poking his arm with the pointy end of the brush in your hand. 

Eddie scratched at his nose. “Eh, I dunno. Surprise me.” 

“You sure you wanna give me free reign after that smug comment? Might just draw a dick on your face to be funny.” 

He couldn’t help it. A snorting laugh fell from his lips at how utterly serious you looked as you dipped the brush into the colorful array of paint in front of you. 

You were the first person outside his friends not to tiptoe around him like he was about to snap at any second. Maybe it was because you had no idea what had really happened in Hawkins, but he didn’t really care. He wasn’t used to it, but he liked it. He really liked it. 

Both Steve and Dustin’s heads whipped around at the sound of Eddie’s laughter, regarding each other with identical wide eyed stares before gawking over at him. They hadn’t heard him laugh in months. They didn’t even know he still could laugh. 

But there he was, sitting at the face painting booth across from you, head tipped back, shoulders shaking, looking…happy. 

Eddie, on the other hand, felt like he was about to spontaneously combust at your close proximity—your fingers gripping his chin to keep him still, the delicate swipe of your brush across his cheek, your knees wedged between his own to get the right angle for steady strokes. How you radiated vanilla and cinnamon and the kind of warmth that spread through his own body with every carefully controlled breath he took. 

To make matters worse, your tongue poked out from between your lips in pure concentration, something Eddie realized you had in common. Though he probably wasn’t as cute when he did it. 

His gaze bounced around, focusing on anywhere else, anything else but you. 

“You look kinda uncomfortable right now, Eddie,” You said softly, your breath a barely there puff of air across his skin that still had goosebumps raising on his arms. “Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?” 

“No, I’m—I’m good! It’s just…cold out today.” He finished lamely, fingers fiddling with the rips in his pants. 

“It is.” You concurred, smiling softly. “I gotta say, I definitely haven’t missed Hawkins in that area.”

Hawkins has definitely missed you, Eddie thought. Okay, maybe not Hawkins. Just me. 

The paint on his cheek was cold too, but it did nothing to quell the flame of his cheeks to rosy red the more he realized that twelve year old Eddie would give anything to be where he was right now. Hell, even himself from a few months ago would’ve had an aneurysm if he knew that he actually had the chance to talk to you again. 

Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, jerking him back to reality. “Alright, take a look, tell me what you think.” You passed him a small mirror, leaning back in your seat. “You can tell me if you hate it. I’ll just go curl up in a ball and die from embarrassment.” 

“I won’t hate it, I promise. I—” He glanced in the mirror, stopping mid-sentence when he saw what you’d created oh so carefully. A flurry of tiny bats scattered across his cheek, the black paint a stark contrast to his pale skin. 

“Oh my god, you hate it!” You moaned, hiding your face behind your hands. 

“I don’t!” 

“You so do!” 

“Y/N, I promise I don’t hate it. See, look,” He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket hastily to reveal a similar grouping of bats tattooed on his forearm. “More bats.” 

The scars marring his torso and chest twinged, not out of pain, but as a reminder. Bats. Obviously, he couldn’t tell you the real reason why he wasn’t too fond of bats, but he’d sooner face the Upside Down again than tell you he hated what you’d done. 

“Oh, okay. Good. Because I was afraid I just blew my chance at impressing you after all these years.” 

“You—you wanted to impress me?” He asked incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. 

“‘Course I did. Feels a little late to admit this, but I totally had a crush on you in middle school.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. I was even thinking about telling you before I left, but it just…didn’t feel right, y’know? Dropping such a big thing and then bailing?” 

“Y/N, you moved away, that’s not bailing.” Eddie shook his head, then inhaled a sharp breath. “I—I actually liked you too. And I wanted to tell you back then, but then you…y’know, moved, and I thought I’d lost my chance.” 

It suddenly felt a lot harder to breathe, but you managed to utter your next words despite it. “But now I’m back.” 

“Now you’re back,” He repeated. “You’re back, and I get another one.” His hand came down on your knee, the warmth of his palm sending a different kind of warmth to your cheeks. “I still like you. I don’t think I ever stopped. I actually think it got worse—no, not worse! Liking you was never a bad thing, it was a really good thing. It has been a really good thing, I just—I didn’t know if I was ever gonna see you again, and now that I have, I…am totally rambling, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—” 

“Eddie—” 

“—overload you with my feelings, I just felt like it was something I should tell you, since—” 

“Eddie,” You repeated, your hand blanketing his on your jeans. “Stop talking.” His mouth snapped shut immediately, brown eyes wide. “I still like you too.” 

“You…you do?” You nodded. “Even after all these years?” Another nod, this time accompanied by a soft smile. 

“Even after all these years.” You echoed, tapping along the rings adorning his knuckles. His fingers twitched, aching to entwine with yours, but he was afraid that he might be hallucinating right now. There was no way in hell you felt the same way, now or ever. He wanted to pinch himself, but he felt it might be weird. 

You could tell by the way his mouth dropped open the slightest bit that the cogs in his mind were working overdrive, so you decided to take matters into your own hands. “I’m gonna kiss you now, Eddie. Feel free to stop me.” 

Eddie wasn’t going to stop you. He’d never even dream about it. 

When your lips touched his, he could swear that he was dreaming—that any second now, he’d wake up in his own bed, back to the reality where this whole thing never happened. Where you were still god knows where, miles and miles away from Hawkins, probably not even paying him any mind at all. 

This time, he really did pinch himself, and he was beyond pleased to realize that this was real, that you were in fact here, kissing him, right now. He leaned forward into you, one hand sliding around the back of your neck while the other cupped your cheek tenderly. Yours came up to grip at his biceps, fingers curling into the worn leather of his sleeves as if you were securing him place, making sure that he couldn’t slip away the way he did all those years ago. 

And when his hands moved down to your chair to drag you a little bit closer, you took that chance to take his face in yours, tracing the curve of his jaw lightly as his mouth moved against yours eagerly. 

Both of you seemed to realize that you were in a public place with lots of people around at the same time, pulling away from each other swollen lipped and a little breathless, but still with identical stupid grins on your faces. 

“Oh no,” You pouted, holding up your hand for him to see the splotches of black paint smudging your fingertips. “I ruined my hard work.” 

“Looks like you’re just gonna have to do them all over again.” 

“Looks like it.” 

“Can I make a request though?” You raised an eyebrow at his sheepish turned suspiciously giddy grin. “No more bats.” 

“I knew you hated them, you asshole!” 

“I said I didn’t hate them! They’re really good, but bats are just…not my thing.” 

“Says the boy with the bat tattoo.” 

Cocking his head to the side, Eddie ignored you, instead opting to lean in and kiss you again, and of all the ways he could’ve changed the subject, this was by far the best. 

Eddie had never been so grateful for his friends’ constant pestering and dragging him everywhere he didn’t want to go, because it led him back to you, the one that got away. Twelve year old Eddie knew it was you, current day Eddie knew it was you, and now you knew it too. 

He’d thank Steve and Dustin later when he had the time, but not now. Eddie was too busy planning out all the things he wanted to say to you and do with you before his luck turned and you were gone again. Though if he’s being honest, he doesn’t think you’re planning on leaving anytime soon. 

Neither are you. No way in hell were you thinking about leaving when coming back to Hawkins got you paint smudged fingers, some closure, and finally Eddie Munson. 

Even after all these years.

taglist!

@wittiestrain184 @milkiane @pastel-abyss-x @liltimmyst @lilygreennn @nia-um @pinkdaiisies @maciiiofficial @oliviah-25 @scoopsahoykeery @eddiesquinn @bubsonnobx @yearningforeddiemunson @sanzu-holic @cityofidek @strawberry-canyon

[fortisfilia]

Promised Part 3 - Tom Riddle x reader

Info: This is a rewrite of a story I've posted on my old account years ago. If it sounds familiar, that might be why :)

Summary: In this story, Tom didn't grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader's sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 2.5k

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 2 | Part 4

Part 3 - Parallels and Potions

It was dark in the corridor you found yourself in. So dark, you could hardly see anything but the low light on its end. The light was subtle, yet it pulled you towards it. As you started walking, you noticed you were holding something in your hands. It was oddly shaped, but not too heavy and you couldn’t see enough to detect what it was. So you kept on walking towards the light and although it seemed so close, it felt like you had walked for hours on the spot. 

Finally, you reached the exit and entered a small room. It was bright all of a sudden and made you squint your eyes. Dozens of chairs were lined up left and right from you, with a path in their midst. The seats were all empty, except for two. Your parents sat in the first row, staring straight ahead, not looking back at you. Another person was standing at the end of the path. Tom. He wore a black suit and tie, his hands intertwined on his back as he watched you walk towards him.

Now that you could finally see, you looked down and were able to recognise what you were wearing. A floor-length, white dress. A wedding dress to be precise, classy and modest, with lace fabric that wrapped around your arms. The thing you had brought with you was a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, each one flawless and beautiful.

Tom smiled as you were slowly approaching him. He turned around and looked at his grandfather, who stood at the podium. The light went out and it was dark again. Someone screamed. Elsie. Her voice echoed in your ears as you turned to find her, stumbling around blindly. You knocked over a chair when the lights went back on and her voice fell silent. She was nowhere to be seen. 

Only then you looked around and noticed how Tom’s smile had turned into a vile grin. Both your parents were lying on the floor, unmoving. You tried to run to them, but your feet stayed pinned to the ground. The floor was drenched in red. Blood. Everywhere. It was soaking up on the fabric of your dress when Tom threw something your way and it landed in the puddle before you, more splatters of red hitting the white fabric. It was a penknife, dangerously sharp and flipped open. 

Hissing noises came from the bouquet in your hands. The roses had turned into snakes. You shrieked and tried to throw it to the ground, but your hand didn’t let go of it, no matter how hard you tried. Marvolo’s scornful laughter got louder and louder until you couldn’t hear anything else and you fell to your knees screaming.

You sat up in your bed, your forehead covered in sweat. A nightmare. Just a dream.

The poor sleep had drained you. Sipping on your second cup of tea, you slouched in the great hall during breakfast, when headmaster Dippet placed himself in front of the teacher’s table.

“Good morning students,” the Professor spoke. “Just a brief announcement for your information. I’m aware some of you have already eagerly waited for the reveal of this year’s head girl and boy. Well, it’s my pleasure to tell you now.”

People had stopped talking and the great hall turned quiet. Dippet looked through the rows of students with a big smile on his face. He was probably more excited than anyone else in the room. Head boy and girl. Wow. You hadn’t even thought about that yet. Naturally, your mind had been somewhere entirely different. 

It would be someone from your year, though. Those were the school rules. The headmaster chooses two students from year seven. And, although most students didn’t care that much about the title, everyone knew that head girls and boys had an easier start into the world of employment after Hogwarts. It was a boost. An unspoken recommendation.

Dippet had always chosen students with top grades and little to no detention records. Mostly prefects, but not exclusively. For just a second you wondered if he had thought about you while making his decision. You had good grades. Nonsense, you had great grades. You never got in trouble, you were respectful, reliable, punctual and maybe a tiny bit full of yourself in just this moment. 

What were you thinking? You didn’t have the nerves or the time for being head girl. But it would feel so good to be valued this way.

Dippet cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. 

“This year’s head boy, fellow witches and wizards, is,” he announced blissfully. “Tom Riddle.”

A murmur went round the hall when Tom arose from the table until Professor Slughorn, head of Slytherin, applauded for his student and the crowd joined in. Tom went up to the teacher’s table, where Dippet congratulated him.

It was quite clear why Tom was granted this title. He was Dippet’s showpiece. Always had been. Top of the class in most subjects, quiet yet observative, intelligent, the list went on.

“And now to our head girl,” Dippet said. 

No, this couldn’t be. It would feel like some sort of mockery if he would say your name. First the engagement and now this? No, no. Or maybe? You would make a great head girl, now that you thought about it. 

“This year’s head girl is,” Dippet went on.

Tom looked at you. Maybe he knew. Could it be? 

“Freda Morris.”

Oh. Your heart sank more than you liked to admit. Tom’s gaze went right to Freda when the crowd applauded for her. She stood up from the Slytherin table and clumsily walked to the front as well. Freda… What a swot.

“Congratulations you two,” Dippet said and shook both of their hands again. “I’m sure you’ll make a great team.”

Yes, great. Brilliant. Freda and Tom shook hands as well and the sweet aftertaste of breakfast tea turned sour on your tongue.

“Two Slytherins as head boy and girl. Now that’ll be fun,” Camille said when you walked to your Potions class together. “Totally fair Professor Dippet, as always. Thanks for acknowledging the other houses.”

You smiled. “I know, right? And Freda Morris? What was he thinking?”

“Well, I don’t know. But she seems quite okay, doesn’t she?”

“You think so? She’s such a muppet.”

“Oh,” Camille laughed. “I had no idea you wanted to be head girl. You never told me.”

“What? No, I…”

“Come on,” she grinned.

“Yeah, maybe. I hadn’t even thought about it until today. And then I thought, well, I could see myself as head girl. Then Tom got picked...”

“And you thought it was destiny,” she gushed.

“Something like that,” you said before nudging her shoulder.

You entered the Potions classroom and went to the table Camille and you always shared. When you turned around to check where she was though, you saw that she had been stopped by the door, where Tom was talking to her. Camille nodded to him, then shot you an excited look. She winked at you with a smile and went to another table while Tom walked over and sat down beside you. Oh, Merlin.

“Um, hello,” you said, wondering what he had in mind. 

All it took was Tom raising his brow to make absolutely sure he didn’t like you one bit. He even seemed appalled that you had the nerve to talk to him. Why on earth would he sit next to you then? Alright, no small talk. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

Professor Slughorn entered the classroom and started his lesson by congratulating Freda and Tom once more. Your eyes, too, rolled once more. He then instructed everyone to brew Moonseed Poison, just like he had taught you in last week's lesson.

“And as always, help each other out,” he said and sat down at his desk.

Fantastic. You opened up your book and skimmed the recipe again. This shouldn’t be too hard. You took a gurdyroot and started cutting it into small cubes, making sure not to breathe in right above it, as the fumes would burn your nose.

Whispers and chatter filled the room as the class began to prepare the potion. Camille sat with Clara McKinnon, glancing over her shoulder at you and wiggling her eyebrows as she looked back and forth between Tom and you. In response, you only shook your head and she grinned even wider before Clara turned to her so she could show her something in the textbook.

When you went to the next step and picked on some knotgrass, Tom cleared his throat. You resisted looking over to him and kept on picking carefully. He cleared his throat again. And again.

You turned your head. “Are you trying to talk, or are you choking?”

“I…,” his eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”

“First you sit with me, then you’re looking at me like I’ve gone mad when I greet you. So I can only assume you don’t want to talk to me, do you?”

He sighed and started picking knotgrass as well. “I did… want to talk to you.”

“About what?” you asked as you rolled the grass to shape it.

“I wanted to apologize on behalf of Lestrange and Avery.”

“Oh.”

The two shared a table at the other end of the room. Avery's sight collided with yours as you peered over at them, but immediately turned his back when he noticed. Both of them seemed lost in their task. They had always been among the less gifted when it came to Potions, mulling over the ingredients and Lestrange was most obviously reading the same sentence in the recipe for the umpteenth time while Avery half-heartedly began chopping up various items.

“They won’t trouble you again,” Tom said. “And, if it makes you feel better, they’ve learned their lesson.”

“What do you mean by that?” you asked as you leant forward to put ten drops of leech juice into your potion.

“I punished them.”

You almost dropped the flask. “Punished?” 

“Nothing too bad. Although I think you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“That depends. What did you do?”

“I’d rather not speak of it,” he shrugged as something in his face lit up when he added the leech juice to his cauldron. “I’ll have to set a good example as head boy from now on. Let’s just say, they were excluded from our group for a little while. Separation is the greatest punishment for the spineless.”

He really was a ruthless leader. And they weren’t his friends. They were his inferiors.

“Okay,” you answered, although it sounded more like a question. “You didn’t do that for me specifically, I assume?”

Tom crushed a toadstool and smiled. “I did it for myself. And you. If they disrespect you, they disrespect me. And I can’t let that happen.”

“I see,” you said. “Oh, don’t add the toadstool yet.”

“Why not?”

“It’s better to let the leech juice simmer for a little longer.”

“It makes no difference.”

“It does make a difference. And you need to crumble it some more. It has to be really fine.”

“I know what I’m doing. I’m good at Potions.” Tom dropped the toadstool into his cauldron without batting an eye, before he looked at you as if he was waiting for you to snap back again—a challenge.

“Yeah, I know. But I’m great at Potions,” you said and watched Tom’s grin dropping with delight.

“I let Slughorn be the judge of that,” he said and you laughed.

Tom stirred his potion while you continued to crush the toadstool in your mortar. “Congratulations on becoming head boy, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Short answers, as always. But he finally talked at least. This had to be used well, so you asked, “Were you expecting it?”

“Not quite,” Tom said. “I’ve been thinking about it last year and was sure I’d make it to Dippet’s top three. But then I didn’t think about it much until today.”

Freda probably thought about it all summer long. Maybe she even prepared for it. You watched from the corner of your eye how carefully she worked on her potion. The steam coming from her concoction was a cerulean colour already, she was a few steps ahead. Perhaps Dippet had made a good decision by making her head girl. But still… She was too eager for the position and was bound to go mad with power.

“Two Slytherins as head boy and girl,” you mumbled. “Like last year. Camille thinks Dippet’s playing favourites.”

Tom smirked, “How can he not, when the best students always get sorted to the same house?”

The toadstool was as fine as sand already but you pestled it even harder now. 

“Although I have to admit,” he went on. “Freda Morris was not on my list of potential school representatives.” His eyes met yours and something shifted in his gaze as he watched you. Either your expression gave you away, or he could actually read minds.

“At last, we agree on something,” you said, putting the toadstool dust into your cauldron. Perhaps disliking other people was what you two had in common. “Don’t touch the moonseed. It’ll burn your skin.”

“I know,” Tom sighed. “I’m not daft.”

Smiling to yourself, you levitated the poisonous plant before a sharp scream travelled through the classroom. Avery had touched the moonseed with bare hands, of course.

“There was something else I wanted to tell you,” Tom said. “My uncle sent an owl. Your sister. She’s better.”

“She is?“ You put your wand down to look at him properly. “What exactly did he say?”

“Still not cured he said, but she’s gaining weight again and has an appetite.”

“That’s great news,” you said and had to keep your voice low, so you wouldn’t yell just from how glad you were. “Merlin, I’m so relieved to hear this. Thanks for letting me know.”

Tom stirred his potion and nodded. “It’s ready. Professor!”

Slughorn walked up to your desk and examined both of your works. “Oh, would you look at that,” he cheered. “Tom, yours is excellent.”

It was evident just how proud Riddle was, especially after being lectured by you all lesson long.

“But yours Miss,” Slughorn turned towards you. “Yours is perfect. Outstanding that one! Very well done.”

Smiling felt like mockery now, so you schooled your features, not ready to dare look at his reaction - he wasn’t one to mess with. When you finally took a glimpse, he stared blankly down at the table, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Don’t say it,” he mumbled. “I get it, you’re great at Potions.”

Masterpost | Masterlist | Part 4

[the-sun-and-the-sea]

Odesta Week Day 5: Finnick Lives Friday

Wade Odair is twelve years old, and this is what he knows. 

He knows that his mother sometimes wakes up with a scream stuck in her throat, chest heaving from a threat that only exists in her mind now. He knows that his father stares at him when he’s not looking, memorizing every detail of his face. He knows that every year on what would have been Reaping Day, Aunt Johanna visits them from District Seven and she and his parents drink and talk and throw plates at the wall until they fall asleep. 

He knows all of that, but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared when his teacher starts telling them about the Hunger Games. 

“Wade?”

Wade startles a little. He’s in his bedroom, slouching on the edge of his bed. His backpack from school lies haphazardly on the floor where he left it. He meant to start working on his homework, but his mind has latched onto this one thing and won’t let it go. 

His dad lingers in the doorway. “You okay? Did something happen at school?”

He shrugs. The thing about his dad is that he always seems to know when Wade’s got something on his mind. If telepathy was real, his dad would have it. There’s no point in lying, because it wouldn’t work even if Wade wanted it to. “We started a new unit in school. The Hunger Games.”

Something flickers across his dad’s face. Gently, he joins Wade on the bed. “Ah. How did it go?”

“We’ve only watched reapings so far,” says Wade. “I saw you and Mom. You looked…really young.”

That had been the most jarring part of it all. Obviously Wade knows his parents were young once, but seeing the fourteen-year-old version of his dad climb up to that stage felt surreal. He’s never thought of his dad as young before. Just last week, his parents were laughing into the bathroom mirror, trying to see who had more gray hair. It’s not a bad thing—his parents have always celebrated aging. 

Wade is beginning to understand why. 

His dad huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. Well, I was. We all were.”

“We only watched the reapings from Four,” Wade explains. His hands are mindlessly fiddling with a loose thread on his blanket. It helps clear his head. “I don’t know. It was just weird.”

“You don’t have to watch any more if you don’t want to,” his dad says. “I could call the school and ask them to exempt you. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

He shakes his head. The offer sits like a reassuring warmth in his chest, but it’s not one he intends to use. “I want to watch. If I’m old enough to be reaped, I’m old enough to know about it.”

“It’s your decision,” says his dad, whose eyes have gone misty. “Is something else bothering you?”

He really can’t get anything past Dad. “Did Mom really volunteer for it?”

Wade knows the answer to the question, technically. He saw the video of his mother raising her hand and confidently shouting those two words, voice crystal clear and unflinching. What he’s really asking is why. His mom certainly isn’t a fan of the Hunger Games now. And based on everything he’s heard—which isn’t much—nobody wanted to participate. 

District Four was one of the first districts to join the rebellion, which has been a point of pride for as long as Wade can remember. And yet as they watched the footage of every reaping, five out of the nine victors were volunteers. Including his mom. 

“Things were different then,” says his dad softly. “I know we look back on the Games now and see them for what they were, but when you’re in the middle of it…well, it’s normal to you. For a long time, we didn’t even know that they could be ended.”

There’s still something bothering him. “That doesn’t mean you liked them, right?”

His dad shrugs and rests a hand on Wade’s shoulder. “It was never about enjoyment for us. It was always about protecting the children of our district. Doing the best we could with what we were given. Your mom volunteered because she thought it was the right thing to do. And she saved a girl’s life that day.”

Wade sighs. Call him immature, but he always thought the Hunger Games were pretty cut and dry. Unequivocally evil. And maybe they still are, but obviously his parents’ part in the Hunger Games was not as unwilling as he thought. 

“I guess I just don’t get it,” he mutters, dejected. He’s twelve years old now. That should be enough to understand at least the basics of what his parents went through. 

“Hey,” says his dad, soft and comforting. “You don’t have to get it. I’m glad you don’t. Watching you and your siblings grow up without the Games is the biggest privilege of my life.”

His heart lifts a little. “Really? I thought it was beating Mom in the gray hair competition.”

His dad laughs. “Your mom is a whole year younger than me. She’ll catch up.”

Wade isn’t sure how long they sit in silence, enjoying each other’s company. It’s something he notices his parents do a lot, especially his dad. In the quiet moments after dinner, they’ll do the dishes together. Sometimes they talk, but sometimes they don’t—it’s just about the company. Wade usually finds it hard to be so quiet, but maybe if he spent ten years as a victor, he’d want some peace too. 

“Will you tell me about it?” Wade ventures cautiously after a while. “The arena? I want to be prepared for when we watch it.”

“Let me talk to your mom, and we’ll see,” says his dad. “There are some parts of the story that you’re not ready to hear yet, even though you’re twelve. But I’m proud of you for being so brave about this.”

It’s nothing compared to what his parents had to deal with. Wade leans into his dad’s chest. “Thanks, Dad.”

[mikagero]

when i start to fall in love with you

nagireo | 1.8k

The first thing that fills the room once Reo enters is intermittent beeps and video game sound effects. Taking a couple steps and peering down the row of lockers, he spots what he’s been waiting exactly six and a half hours for.

Nagi Seishiro is hunched over on one of the benches, still in his school uniform, seemingly very engrossed in whatever he’s playing on his phone. Something flashes across the screen momentarily, and his eyebrows furrow slightly.

He’s here.

“Ah, I died,” Nagi mumbles to himself.

“Nagi!” Reo chirps, upon taking a seat and sliding next to him. It’s only then until Nagi acknowledges his presence with a slow blink, as if he was still in a daydream.

“How come you’re still wearing your school uniform?” Reo looks Nagi up and down, gesturing to his clothes, “I gave you my locker key, so you could change before I got here, remember?”

At that, Nagi sets his phone down on the bench, and ruffles around his hoodie pocket, holding the key up. “I know, but you were going to come anyway.”

It doesn’t really offer much of an explanation but Reo supposes that’s fine. They’re going to play soccer today, so he’s absolutely positive nothing could put a damper on his mood. “Okay, then hand it,” Reo says, holding his palm out, as he takes it from his hand and slides the key into his locker.

Earlier in the morning, Reo had stored both his and Nagi’s uniform here for safekeeping, until after school they had made arrangements to meet and go over some of the basics, with Nagi holding true to his promise.

“C’mon, up Nagi!” Reo unbuttons his vest as he turns to the side, to see Nagi still sitting, catching his gaze on him, staring blankly into space— or lost in thought?

“Hey, Reo… I know you said we were going to play soccer but, do I have to wear a uniform? I’m fine with my hoodie,” He drawls.

“Ah no, no, you’re changing. Plus, you don’t want your regular clothes to get full of grass or dirt, right?”

Nagi pauses, contemplating Reo’s words as if he couldn’t argue, before he gets up and stands next to him. “Which one’s mine?” Nagi murmurs, eyes raking over the neatly folded uniforms placed on top of each other, as if with gentle care.

Reo hands him the pair of jersey and shorts, the ones bolded with the number seven. “Yours.” Reo flashes a smile. They both get changed quite quickly, despite Nagi’s initial lethargicness and yawns while he pulls the shirt over his head, to which Reo laughs at.

Because the soccer team hasn’t been officialized just yet— Reo has to hand in the team’s application form, now including Nagi’s, they haven’t hosted official practices. But Reo’s pulled a few strings to have the soccer field open for their use until they set a schedule.

Once they’re done, Reo grabs the ball and bends down to sling his bag full of gear over his shoulder, making sure they have everything. But once he rises, he meets deep gray. They’re close, really close. The tips of their shoes are just barely touching.

Reo gasps, a sharp intake of breath. Despite only knowing the boy for a couple days, Reo wasn’t acutely aware of their minimal height difference. Nagi was always sitting down, and when he was standing, his shoulders were always a bit slouched. He didn’t pay much mind to it, granted the first thing he did when he met Nagi was swing his arm around him, but this?

It’s different, quiet. It’s only the two of them.

From this angle, Nagi’s eyes seem impossibly dark. Reo has to tilt his chin up slightly to meet his gaze. He gets the fleeting thought of wondering what they would look like when the sun brings light to them, the rays catching in his eyelashes. Like when the curtains are drawn only slightly in the morning, flecks of light peeking through the room. But Reo is a different kind of person. He wants to yank them wide open, letting everything all in at once.

He decides right then and there the dim lighting from the locker room wouldn’t do them justice.

“We’re ready?” Nagi asks, softly, which brings Reo out of his thoughts. “Yeah.” Reo blinks. Once— twice, “That should be my line though,” Reo says, regaining his energy.

Right. We’re going to play soccer. Showing Nagi the basics.

Swiftly taking a few steps to maneuver around Nagi, Reo leads them out onto the field. Even though it’s nearing the beginning of spring, the trees lining the high fencing surrounding it are still bare. Yet, the wind carries a sense of warmth to it, promising blooming flowers.

Last year, he thought cherry blossom season arrived too quickly. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, no. But, it seemed a bit short-lived. The pink petals adorning the trees came and went a bit fast during his first year.

Reo prefers the slow build up to the changing of seasons, even though he had a liking for chillier months. It’s much more pleasant to have that moment where it seems just a bit warmer outside and then you think to yourself— it must be spring soon.

Setting down the ball a few strides away from his feet, he looks out to Nagi standing a distance away from him. “Okay, so I’m going to angle the foot I’m not kicking the ball with in the direction where I’m aiming,” Reo says, planting his left foot on the ground just for effect, demonstrating to Nagi.

“Also, remember to strike the ball just slightly below the laces of your shoes.”

“I see,” Nagi replies, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, awaiting Reo’s next move.

And Reo believes him, despite the short answer. If there’s anything to go by, what Nagi did with trapping his phone perfectly a couple days ago, everything else could come second nature.

Too many details aren’t important now— besides, they only just met, neither of them needed long-winded explanations on anything. Everything fell into place. Reo would give his soul to keep it that way too.

They trade a couple passes just to warm up, and as expected, Nagi keeps up with the rhythm Reo sets. He takes a few shots at the goal too, getting it in every time.

But there’s something Reo is dying to try with him. It’s been on his mind all damn day.

“Nagi,” Reo says, excitement seeping into his tone, “I’m upping the difficulty from here on out.”

Again, Nagi nods his head in affirmation, but this time Reo notices an almost imperceptible change in his posture. As if they’re sharing the same surge of energy, he brings himself up just a bit higher.

Reo loves it. For the first time in his life, he’s having the exact play in his mind be understood by another, unequivocally. Gone were the days of just simply writing tactics in a notebook.

So when he sends the ball with a lobbying pass, high into the sky, he watches Nagi’s graceful form, not taking his eyes off the sight for a mere second. He jumps into the air, trapping it, killing all the momentum Reo put into his pass, and turns it into something indescribable.

Coming back down to the ground, when Nagi shoots with the might of someone that could be so lazy, slamming the ball right into the net, Reo can’t help himself. He digs the heels of his cleats into the turf and breaks out into a run.

They’re not even playing an actual match or up against any opponents right now, but it’s beyond exhilarating. It feels different than beating the final level of the Mikage VR lab’s soccer stadium. Something unearthed, a raw discovery.

Reo had spent his life being handed everything the world had to offer. But no, Reo didn’t look at the world, Reo yearned beyond the planet they lived on, to grasp something between own two hands and have it be his.

The universe held blessings within its arms, to those who traveled beyond the confines of comfort and only the things they knew, they would be able to hold the light in their hands. But here, Nagi Seishiro was an anomaly. A genius, born among stars, among miracles and things ordinary people could just wish upon— wishes to not travel through space, to never see what he’s capable of.

A treasure worth becoming of achieving dreams, I want him to be mine.

They lock eyes and Reo’s electrified, surged with gray yet again, he’d let storm clouds envelop him ten-fold if it means the breath could be taken out of his lungs and replaced with everything that makes up Nagi.

“Nagi! That was—”

Reo had the intention of jumping on Nagi’s back in celebration but suddenly at his call, Nagi turns to face Reo. His eyebrows shoot up immediately, obscured beneath his white bangs.

But Reo’s too far pumped with adrenaline to care, he leaps into his arms, using Nagi’s shoulders to propel himself up high. For a moment, Nagi is unsure what to do, his eyes wide open. But then Reo feels it, strong hands wrap around his waist to steady him.

“Amazing. Perfect,” Reo almost-whispers, with near reverence.

He’s out of breath still, not from exertion, but there’s a different kind of strength needed to keep his eyes from flitting to Nagi’s lips. And the slight, subtle squeeze he gets in return from the hands on his waist isn’t helping.

“I just did what Reo told me to,” Nagi shrugs, or at least tries to with Reo’s weight still pressing on him.

“You know, not just anyone could do that.” Reo leans in closer, their foreheads almost touching. No, he’s certain no one could. “It’s a little criminal you’re this good at soccer already.”

“Listen, we’re going to be the best in the world together, the two of us.”

Nagi holds Reo’s gaze, and from here, Reo could count his eyelashes, if he moved just close enough to touch. To graze his fingers across his cheek.

Winning the World Cup doesn’t seem so far away anymore.

But instead, Reo rests his chin on the top of Nagi’s hair just for a second, and wraps his arms around his neck in a hug. “Got that, my treasure?”

Nagi startles for a second. Reo can’t make out his expression from here but he’s worried he might’ve said something wrong. He feels Nagi still underneath him and tense up, before a hand slides up Reo’s back, slow and gentle.

He swears he might be imagining it all, but Nagi holds Reo just a bit tighter. What was supposed to be a simple goal celebration, a jump on his shoulders, turned into an embrace Reo’s slowly falling deeper and deeper into.

“We will,” Nagi says. “The best in the world together.”

And for the second time that day, Reo believes him, wholeheartedly.

[allofmytoxicity]

What A Waste of a Lovely Night

a/n: Not a request, just thought I'd do this before I fall of the face of the earth again for months. Also, really sorry if I've got the American school system completely wrong. I'm not from the US, I'm from the UK and the exam system is completely different.

Pairing: Angus 'Mac' MacGyver x specky!fem!reader (I promise there is detail involving glasses, but the only reason I added it is because I'm specky.)

Summary: When you are under threat of being overtired, your secret agent boyfriend comes in to save the day.

Fluff Prompt: [19] = getting the workaholic to bed & [16] = star gazing

Word Count: 1.2k

TW: tooth rotting fluff and a tired reader.

In theory, being a workaholic should be Mac's thing.

Being a government agent for an organisation that most of the government itself didn't know about, let alone the world, wasn't exactly relaxing. And that's excluding the fact about him possibly being involved in gun fights, seeing dead bodies and possibly being kidnapped.

That though, is in theoretical terms. Not real life.

The real workaholic out of the two of you, was yourself.

Even though you were a teacher (where ironically enough, both you and Mac could have to deal with guns during work), you still had tons to do.

Teaching films analysis to teenagers who just wanted to get out of school wasn't exactly the easiest job on earth, and the proof was in the fact that you were still sitting on the couch, long after Mac had gone to bed, working on marking practice exam questions as well as making a model essay structure for your students to follow tomorrow in class.

So, when Mac grumbled awake in your shared bedroom to you still not in bed, even though you had told him you would be there soon, Mac did start to worry slightly.

Only slightly though.

The only just awake Mac, groggily got out of bed and started to wander through to the living room where you'd sat yourself since about seven o'clock that evening.

He wasn't surprised to see you still sat there and was even less surprised to see you with your laptop open, work clothes still on and your glasses halfway off your face (totally not this author writing in bed at 1am like she normally does).

"You can't live off energy drinks at work, y'know?" Mac said, leaning against the corner of the wall, watching you with his arms crossed.

Without turning, you reply. "I know. I'll be in bed soon."

The tone felt lifeless and Mac had heard it all before anyway when you had been like this.

The monotonous voice, not caring how close you were to your glasses slipping off your face and comfy in work clothes you would normally rush in and change from almost as soon as you got in the house.

It wasn't normal but it also wasn't strange to see you like this.

Mac, knowing that even after his reminder, you would still be here until you were done, walked further into the room, sitting directly in front of you and carefully grasped your laptop and slowly pulled it away.

Your head snapped up at the action, unsure of what you were going to do if the work you were doing wasn't finished for tomorrow morning.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Mac. I- I need to finish that work Mac. I need to finish it for tomorrow morning." You plead, looking at Mac with eyes of the same tone.

Mac raises his eyebrows at you as he saves your work and shuts down your laptop. "You're not going to finish anything if you're half asleep and not able to work tomorrow because of it."

You sigh at his statement, slouching back on the couch, finally realising how uncomfortable and tired you were now that Mac had taken your priority.

"I'm honestly surprised with how long it took you to come and confiscate my laptop," you say with a dozy smile, pushing up your glasses. "I genuinely thought you'd come and drag me to bed when you switched out the lights to the rest of the house."

Mac laughed as you yawned, turning to face you now in your dozy state. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Both of you get off the couch and Mac takes your hand, partly dragging you and partly guiding you towards your bedroom.

Once you get to your room, Mac passes you your pyjamas and you quickly change into the pyjamas that were made up of one of his t-shirts and a pair of running shorts.

After changing, you make your way over to your bed where Mac was sat and readjust your glasses, pushing them up your nose and open your mouth to speak, but Mac beats you to it, his eyebrows raised.

"No, you're not getting your laptop back. Get it tomorrow morning and if I have to stick a bell on you tonight, I will." Mac says and you laugh, shaking your head. He knew what you were going to ask before you opened your mouth.

Trying to defend yourself, you retort back, a dead serious expression making its way onto your face. "I wasn't even going to ask. I was just going to say..."

You trail off, unsure of what you were supposedly going to say and look around the room quickly, spotting the clear night sky outside. "I was just going to say that doing my work tonight wasted the lovely view of the sky this evening."

Mac laughs back at you, nodding his head in a 'yeah, sure' way. "Well, I did offer to go and look at the stars with you tonight but you said that you were busy."

"I'm not busy now!" You reply, a hopeful smile on your face along with some puppy dog eyes that are enlarged even more with the magnification from your glasses lenses.

Relenting, Mac gets up off the bed and walks out the room and you jump up, grinning and wander along behind him as he goes to unlock the glass doors that led out to the fire pit you had outside.

"You're lucky I love you." Mac says and you say a small 'thank you' as he opens the door, leaving the key in the lock on the indoor side of the door.

Wandering out, you plonk yourself down onto the decking, and placing your hands behind you, you gaze up at the dark sky, making out all the constellations that you normally would never see.

A few seconds after, Mac joins you, sitting up close and wrapping an arm around your middle, pulling you even closer than you already were as you both gazed up.

"Mac?" You ask, gaining his attention.

"Hm?" He responds with, looking down at you as your head turns to face him.

"I love you." You say in a quiet voice, a sleepy smile on your face.

"I love you too y/n/n. Even if you are a complete workaholic that stays awake to god knows what hour." Mac replies in the same tone and you breathe a laugh at the last part.

"Yeah, sorry about that." You murmur looking down and Mac moves you slightly so then he could kiss the top of your head.

Rubbing his hand up and down one of your arms now, Mac replies. "It's fine. Gives me a laugh sometimes."

You both sit out there for a while in a comfortable silence, keeping each other in close company and only go back in when you both start to get cold.

"Thanks for that." You mumble as Mac locks the door for the second time that night and puts the key back in the bowl on the kitchen island.

Walking over to you, Mac hugs you. "No worries. It would be a waste of a lovely night if we didn't do that probably." He says as you both move back to your bedroom once again.

Finally taking your glasses off and getting under the sheets, you snuggle into Mac, your shoulders finally relaxing as sleep starts to overtake you.

"Night." You mumble, your voice being muffled by Mac's chest that you were squashed up against.

"Night, y/n." Mac says as sleep takes over you both, warmth radiating off of both of you.

a/n: and we have another fic out!!!!! I'm so proud of myself for actually getting another fic out while also needing to study. Also, for any F1 fans that follow me or read this, wtf actually happened at the brazil GP? It's madness!

Read this to find out who else I write for, and requests are open!

[owlhead650]

i feel compelled to ask for anything of Saphira, if that is okay

That is more than okay, a predictable yet pleasant request coming from you. Rather than a drawing I chose to write a short story about Saphira. It's about 1329 words long. I meant to make it shorter but I lost track of time and just kept writing. Enjoy.

Pokemon Reborn - Saphira Belrose & Her Culinary Ventures

Saphira was slouching on the couch and crushing her left arm in the process. Not at all a healthy sitting posture, but whatever, she’ll probably right herself in a minute. She was in that frustrating state where her eyes felt tired but her body had lots of energy, she commonly felt this way in the morning. Maybe this wouldn’t happen if she just slept longer and woke up at a better time, she was in the habit of staying up till midnight every day and waking herself up for something at seven.  

As much as she hated the orphanage her nighttime curfew was largely good for her, if nothing else about that place. 

Okay, she forced herself to sit up on the couch. She was home, the Belrose Household hidden in Tanzan Cove. She had to stop thinking about the orphanage at every possible opportunity, she had to stop. 

But how could she?

Her childhood suffering had largely defined the course of her life. She didn’t feel safe so she became strong, the strongest gym leader so she could make her own safety. She was never able to protect herself from what Sigmund did to her, so she just obsessed over protecting others instead. Just yesterday herself, Charlotte and Decibel all went to Labradorra city so that Saphira could plan how to build that youth shelter she was going to commit her career to. 

She hated the place Sigmund built so she was going to build her own place that hopefully would feel to children and teens like the place she wishes she had growing up. Labradorra was even the city where Sigmund died, would she ever truly be rid of him?

She had to stand up and do something. Stop brooding. She went into the kitchen. Neither Laura nor Charlotte were awake yet, it was a Saturday at half seven in the morning. Saphira had meant to also sleep in, but she just couldn’t.

She looked at a pot in the sink that someone was going to need to hand wash. This was the one she used to burn water. Twice.

Yesterday Charlotte had said: “You may not exactly be the motherly type, but we all know you well enough to know you’ll do a way better job than the good Doctor ever did.”

Again with the fucking Doctor. But ignoring Saphira’s own inability to put him behind her, there was something about what Charlotte said which still bothered her. Wasn’t Saphira able to be motherly?

For the better half of her life Saphira’s main love language was violence directed towards The Enemy. If she killed anyone who tried to hurt her sisters then they would feel safe and loved. When she ran out of enemies to kill then she would feel safe and loved. Honestly now that Saphira had the introspection skills to put her previous philosophy into words, it was totally insane. Saphira now realised how mad she once was, and as she sorted the kitchen knives into their drawers, she actually felt relieved that she never used one of them to end Sigmund. It’s possible that killing him would have scarred her so permanently that she would never be able to heal.

Now that Saphira knew that killing people wasn’t a healthy way to express love, she needed to find some other way. Her sister Laura was quite adept at this. Laura had so many different little ways with her words and actions to make others feel better. Saphira decided that learning to cook was a good practical way to start. If she could always make a good meal then in that sense people would trust her and depend on her.

Only issue is that she sucks at it.

After Charlotte had teased her about the whole cooking thing, Decibel had actually said something really sweet to her:

“...Saphira might need to practise some skills like cooking and organising herself, but she already has the caring heart needed to be considered ‘motherly’. That’s the most important part, the rest will come with time.”

That was the first thing Decibel had said in hours. Charlotte was left speechless. Saphira found it both mortifying and gratifying to hear.

So Saphira decided that she would make rashers and sausages for Laura and Charlotte to enjoy when they got up. She put them in the griller and waited, enjoying the smell and the sizzling sounds. 

She checked them. The colour had definitely changed, but were they hot enough? She didn’t want to risk serving them raw. Just leave them a little longer.

A ‘little longer’ turned into ten minutes of her scrolling through funny dragon type videos on her phone. She didn’t look up until she smelled smoke. “...Oh crap.” She flipped up the lid and saw that of the three rashers and three sausages, maybe two rashers were still edible albeit with a crispy flavour. She turned off the griller and put all of it onto a plate. After examining the meat she found that large parts of it weren’t burnt. 

She sliced up the sausages and in the end there were two plates with unevenly sized chunks of meat that were black around the edges, but tasty. At least that’s what she thought from her singular bite.

Charlotte and Laura had come down stairs. “Oooh boy, did you enter the kitchen again?” Charlotte was wearing a vest and shorts this morning. “Well of course I did, we’re both in the kitchen right now.”

“Uh huh.”

“I made breakfast for you and Laura.” Saphira tried to match Charlotte’s apparent nonchalance.

“I can see that.” Charlotte walked around her and took out a bowl to get some cereal.

“Thank you for making food Saphira, it was very considerate of you.” Laura gave Saphira this little pat on the shoulder and ate a sausage which had been cut at some weird seventy two degrees angle.

“It’s not bad.” Laura was wearing a very soft long sleeved pyjama top and similar pyjama bottoms.

“Woah, really?!” Charlotte looked up from her bowl of cheerios.”Saph, your food went from ‘room for improvement’ to ‘not bad’. That’s momentous!” She proclaimed in mock awe.

“...It’s okay guys. Neither of you need to eat my stuff if you don’t want to.” Even if Saphira really wished she could do things to make them happy, it’s no good expecting them to pretend to like it. She didn’t want to be some nuisance to them.

“Wait, Saph. I’m sorry.” Charlotte had caught the sadness in her voice.

“What for?” Saphira had sat down at the other side of the table and ate some of the meat meant for Charlotte. It wasn’t that good.

“For being mean, I guess. I act a certain way to be funny or cool or something, it’s just how I am most of the time. I’ll work on it.”

“No, Charlotte. It’s fine. Really I’m fine.” Saphira’s idea of feeling ‘fine’ is warped due to her circumstances.

“Saphira.” Laura said. “We’re very proud of you and we love you. You’ve grown a lot and changed for the better in a very short amount of time, but you need to realise that you don’t have anything to prove. You don’t need to be the ‘provider’ or ‘protector’ just to be a good sister. You’re enough as you are, just do your best and take care of yourself. Please.”

“...What she said.” Charlotte added.

“J-jeez. I really don’t know what to say to that. Honestly I feel like I could practise cooking for another decade and I’d still be really bad at it.”

“Just do your best Saphira. That’s all you need to do.” Laura insisted.

“I’m with her on that, I think you’re the coolest person I know Saphira. I’m glad you're my sister.” Charlotte and Laura had somehow realised exactly what Saphira needed at this moment. She loved them.

“Yeah. I’ll just do my best then.”

______________________________________________________________

And that's the story. I meant to make it short and funny but the more I thought about it the more I wanted to make it introspective and emotional. These requests have so far only been answered with short stories, with this being the second request I've taken, but depending on the ideas I get for the character requested I could do either. The previous request, the first one, was about Ace Featherstone. I know you might enjoy that one @gree-gon and also feel free to request a different character whenever you like. There's no limit on the amount of requests I can take from one person, just keep in mind that I won't always fufill them quickly or to a super high standard. The requests are more of a way for me to get prompts from people about ideas for what I should create. The inbox is empty so anyone can make the next request whenever, and obviously it doesn't cost you any money.

[renyen808]

A Date with Death: How is this Game FREE?!

Lately, the video game industry has taken a turn. When it comes to purchasing high-end games, instead of the $50 amount that I used to pay, I find that now games can cost upwards of $80, which to me is ridiculous. I mean, clearly with the success of Baulder’s Gate 3, they show that they can make an amazing, complex, and fun-filled game for $60. I can already hear people saying, ‘Well, if you want the Deluxe version, that is $80.’ Yes, it is, but it is worth it when you can play the game over and over again and have a different adventure each time. I will write a blog post later about Baulder’s Gate 3, but let’s just say I am a huge fan. Unlike games that require you to not only buy the equipment, but the game itself cough Spider-Man 2 cough. I personally never played Spider-Man 2 and I heard it is great, but it is absurd to me that I have to have a PS5 in order to play one game. Anyway, I am getting off topic a little, the point is, games are getting expensive in the mainstream and I just want something fun to play with me having to pay little to no money. I was searching through Steam when I found it, the game I am about to talk about: A Date With Death.

(Credit: Steam)

A Date with Death, which was released on December 7th of last year, is a texting and chatting based game where you are talking to a Grim Reaper created by Two and a Half Studios. You are able to communicate through text messaging and video calls for the majority of the game, with at least one chat and video call per in-game day. You can customize your own character, choosing from an array of different outfits, skin tones, hairstyles and colors, facial attributes and accessories. You can also choose your pronouns, your first and last name, and pet. You can also customize your in-game apartment with all sorts of things, such as polaroids or plants. 

(Credit: Two and a Half Studios)

At the point I am writing this, I have completed the game, obtained every ending, and got every Steam achievement available. I played the game a total of four times and received a different ending each time. There are many different requirements that you have to do to complete each ending, and while, during the game, it could seem confusing, once you figure out how Grim, that’s what I will call the Grim Reaper, reacts to your words, then you’ll be able to change the course of the story. Although this game only goes for seven in-game days, they find many ways to pack it with content. I have a total of 26.6 hours on the game (honestly, some of it is from it being idle), but that shows you just how much I played it. Before we continue, I also want to add that this game does have swearing and some suggestive content, but I think that can be assumed because this is a romance visual novel. Nothing NSFW shows up in the game. 

Also, before we continue, I have to admit that I got the DLC for this game, which was $7. It adds more dialogue and different choices you can make in your character’s appearance, so there is that. However, I can tell what was a part of the base game, thanks to a little star next to the new dialogue (I honestly thought it was saying he likes those the most, that is not the case for some of the choices). What I am saying by bringing up that I purchased the DLC is that you do not need it in order to enjoy the game. It really is great without it at its core. 

It helps that Grim himself, to me, is pretty cute. I love his snark and charm and instantly understood that that is what the developers were going for. His outfit is also unique. He is wearing a jacket, but it’s around his shoulders. He also has white hair (LOVE) and red eyes, because of course. He is video calling from his bedroom, and he is usually slouching like he is in the image on Steam. Sometimes he will perk up and blush and stuff, but he is normally guarded when he is on call with you. He will also message you in different styles since he is learning to talk with a mortal, so there is that little bit of information. Oh, I forgot, you can also completely customize your in-chat profile, changing the image and name, but only after an in-game event. 

(Credit: Steam)

The artwork in this game is absolutely stunning for a free game as well. I cannot believe how gorgeous it is. They give you a gallery, which shows all the different images of Grim and what the previsuals looked like before the in-game counterparts. They give a lot of artwork and put a lot of love into the game and I appreciate it so much. I really enjoy when I see people put their heart and soul into games they create because it shows that they love what they do. It doesn’t feel like a cash grab, but rather a passion project that they can build more off of.

(Credit: Two and a Half Studios)

Speaking of that, currently, there is a DLC expansion planned for the game. There is currently no release date at the time of this post, but I can assure you, once it comes out, I will be one of the first ones to purchase and review it! 

A Date with Death, a free game where you chat and romance the Grim Reaper was a lot more fun than I anticipated it to be. I found myself going back and wanting to complete everything instead of it feeling like a chore to achieve all the endings and achievements. While I don’t think I’ll play it again right away, once the new content comes out, you best believe I will return to Grim and our adventures. In the end, play this game. I honestly think this is a well made game for FREE, and I believe anybody will have a fun time with it. 

Also, sorry for the lack of images this time around! I don't wanna spoil anything for you all ;)

[kandlewick]

In which the Reader is part of the newspaper club and has been tasked with covering ‘The Seven Wonders of Night Raven College”.

[pt.1] [pt.2]

Despite the fact you were forcibly thrown into a world full of magic and mayhem, everything on your list was really no different than anything you’d expect from the world you were from. Maybe you were supposed to find comfort in that but really, how uncreative can students even be? One of the mysteries was that, supposedly, during a certain time on a certain day, if you walked two steps at a time up the stairs leading to the statues of the Great Seven and then walked back down them facing backwards, you would be granted access to a parallel world. What was with that? The most likeliest of scenarios would be you tripping and giving yourself a concussion and a one way trip to the nurse’s office. 

Regardless of the age of the school, nothing seemed particularly thrilling to write about and you were half tempted to go crawling back to your club leader for a new assignment, eager to rid yourself of bathroom ghosts and school basement catacombs.

“Aren’t campus mysteries a little lame?” Ace raised a single eyebrow as he peeked over your shoulder at the papers lying scattered around you at the lunch table, “Something like that feels something only middle schoolers would gossip about.” Even Deuce seemed to agree as he read them over himself.

“I didn’t know that we even had a basement at NRC?” The blue headed boy blinked his eyes in slight confusion, titling his head.

Looking up from his meal, Epel perched his elbows on to the table and stole a slip of paper and began reading it out loud for the others as he went down the long list of possible topics, “A hungry ghost whom roams the mess hall, a mysterious gargoyle that tells you your fortune, the statues of the Great Seven whispering the name of your destined lover- what’s all this shiet?” Epel’s face soured, “Feels like some bad internet rumors written by a bunch of kids.”

“Thanks for the support guys, I really appreciate it,” you groaned, slouching farther down into your seat. You had really tried your best to get as many stories as possible but even you knew you got nothing but a bunch of ridiculous tall tales. “I think half of the people who came forward with rumors were pulling my leg too.”

“Why not just ask for a new topic? I’m sure your club leader wouldn’t mind it if he saw how bad you’ve done so fa-”

“Oya? Did I hear you mention rumors?” 

Lilia was smiling ear to ear as you turned to look at him, his bright eyes narrow with mischief. You gave him a tired nod as you turned to offer him the small stack of papers you had typed up, letting him read through what you had learned.

“There’s nothing interesting in there, trust me.” You weren’t ashamed to admit it, “While I’m sure some would appreciate the stories of the school’s gargoyles coming to life if you ring a bell in their ear, a lot of them are sorta-”

“How curious,” Lilia hummed, looking at the pages from front to back, “I noticed you haven’t written anything down about the mysterious disappearing dorm that haunts the NRC campus! It’s one of my personal favorites. Nothing like a little mystery as the kids say!”

Disappearing dorm?

“Oh yes,” he smiled, “Some say it was cursed by a powerful fae to be forgotten by all who step foot on the Isles of Sages. Heheh, I’ve even heard that as soon as you are chosen to join that dorm, nobody ever hears from you ever again!”

If everyone is supposed to forget about the dorm, why does he know about it?

“Hmm, I wonder?” 

Pushing his vague response to the side for a later date, this was actually a compelling mystery! 

And now that you were about to enact the ritual to find the dorm, you were getting cold feet. You felt a little ridiculous decked out in a jacket and blindfold and the thought that Lilia was ALSO pulling your leg made you reluctant to take a step out of the Ramshackle dorm to attempt this. Not to mention the anti magic potion you had drank left a bitter taste in both your mouth and wallet. Lilia had claimed that the potion was required to get past the dorm’s cloaking ability and since magic was such a prevalent thing in most student’s lives, nobody would willingly temporarily nullify all surrounding magic as it would include their own but here you were, magicless and human. But again, you’ve learned that in this world, nothing ventured nothing gained so with a deep a shaky breath you took a step out into the cold night air.

The voice of Lilia rang in your ears as you made your way back onto campus, making sure to be extremely quiet. Sneaking onto school grounds in the middle of the night was as nerve wracking as you thought it would be and the thoughts of all the other mysteries you had written down seemed all the more plausible as the world around you seemed to still.

“First,” you reached down and pulled up the hood to your jacket and wrapped the blindfold around your eyes, “and then turn around, hold your breath, and walk backwards into the garden.”

As you walked, you could hear the blood rush in your ears. Everything was so quiet at night. You could feel the dense bushes get thicker and pokier the farther you ventured and you were thankful for the jacket the rumor had required as the night air had gotten chillier and chillier. You shivered from the top of your head to the tips of your toes and you couldn’t tell if it was from the cold night air or from your nerves. You quietly missed the warmth of your four walls and fuzzy roomate and wondered if a school article was really worth all of this, stumbling around in the dark without the uses of your sense and you could even feel the potion bubbling angrily in your stomach, threatening to come back up and make a mess of what felt like rose bushes. And you were cold. So cold. You were freezing.

Wait, rose bushes?

“Keep going until you run into rose bushes with the reddest of red petals,” Lilia’s voice echoed between your ears as you slowly began untying the fabric around your eyes, “That’s when you know you’re there. If you did everything right…”

[uraharashouten]

[[ moved from here because legacy editor ]]

@crashingheavens

Kukaku blinked, staring back as the blonde froze, looking caught at six and sevens with his whole face redder than any tomato she’d ever seen. She probably could’ve knocked him over with a feather if she’d tried. Thankfully, he seemed to come around after a bit and finally fumbled to gather himself, or rather, his clothes at least. Not that it mattered much by then, she’d already seen everything. 

“Good morning to you too, both of ya,” She’d needled lightly, “Don’t get so worked up over it, s'not like I haven’t seen a dick before,” Her hand limply waved and brushed the whole mishap off. Admittedly, Kisuke’s was… different from others she’d seen thus far, but that was neither here nor there right now. 

Kukaku turned her head to the side then and peered down the corridor, giving him ample time and opportunity to put on his clothes. She could’ve closed the door too, which certainly would provide more privacy but, it was also much ruder to talk to someone through a door than not so…

“The plan was to have some breakfast together, the four of us before I took you all to the fields way out back and showed off my newest launching technique and the canon, buuut,” She shot him a look again while a smirk crept over her face, “from the looks of it, I’m guessing you’ll be late for breakfast?”

The moment Kūkaku turned away, Kisuke began to furtively cast about for his fundoshi. It must be somewhere close by... but hunting for it was taking precious time. He made the call to throw on the yukata and locate it after the fact. Lapels grasped in his hands, he crossed them in front, only belatedly realizing that neither had he retrieved his obi. When she turned back, she’d find him slightly slouched over, holding the robe shut.

“Oh— the cannon!”  He’d been looking forward to it since last night, but they’d had to wait until dawn. She depended on sunlight for that, didn’t she? “Sun’s out, gun’s out, as it were...” In a new and different sort of excitement, he’d straightened up, nearly dropping the lapels of his yukata in the process and briefly flashing her again.  That smirk, though, he could have done without. She didn’t have to rub it in... nor did he have to rub it out. Buuut neither was he quite ready to face the gang, being in dishabille as he was.

“No no— I’ll be along shortly, just give me a moment to make myself presentable. Are the others already up as well?” Instantly, he regretted his phrasing, but as ‘others’ included Yoruichi, hopefully she’d overlook it. 

[aspenmissing]

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 (𝙿𝚝 𝟷)

Dean and a young woman lean close together at the bar.

"Seven, Four, Two, Zero"

"Seven, Four, Two, zero," Dean says, keying into his phone. "All right, you're in there. Perfect. So is that Brandy with a 'y' or an 'i'?" Sam sits at a table strewn with papers. Sam gestures to Dean, who gives him a 'wait' gesture as he laughs at something the woman whispers. Sam gestures again, and Dean's smile drops.

"All right, listen, I gotta go. Hold that thought, I'll be right back, okay?" He approaches Sam, holding three beers.

"Where's Y/N?" Sam asks. Dean gestures to the pool table, and they see Y/N playing a game with a man with a stubble beard and curly brown hair.

"Oi! Y/N," Dean shouts, and she looks over. "Come over." She nods and pots the black ball.

"I win," she says, winking at him as she passes him. She goes over to Sam and Dean.

"All right, I think we got something," Dean glances back at the bar.

"Oh yeah, me too. I think we need to take a little shore leave, just a little bit. What do you think, huh? I'm so in the door with this one."

"So, what are we today, Dean? I mean, are we rock stars, are we army rangers?" Y/N asks, making Dean grin.

"Reality TV scouts, looking for people with special skills. I mean, hey, it's not that far off, right? By the way, she's got a friend over there. Possibly hook you up. What do you think? And Y/N already found someone." They look at her as she glances over at the man she was playing pool with. He winks at her, and she smiles at him. She then snaps her attention back to her brothers.

"What?"

"Dean, no thanks, I can get my own dates."

"Yeah, you can but you don't."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. What you got?" Dean asks.

"Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York, were both found dead in their own home, a few days ago. Throats were slit. There were no prints, no murder weapons, all..." Dean is distracted, continuing to check out women in the bar. Y/N keeps sneaking glances at the man she was with.

"Guys! No prints, no murder weapons, all doors and windows locked from the inside." Dean drinks his beer.

"Could just be a garden variety murder, you know, not our department."

"No. Dad says different."

"What do you mean?" Y/N asks. Sam points at a map.

"Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York. The first one here in 1912, the second one right here in 1945, and the third in 1970, the same M.O. as the Telescas. Their throats were slit, doors were locked from the inside. Now so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern, except Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one."

"And now we got one. All right, I'm with ya. It's worth checking out. We can't pick this up till first thing though, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Dean says, heading back to the bar.

"Dean..."

"Ladies...did you miss me?"

"Well yeah," Brandy says.

"I'm just kidding. Listen, I talked to my producers, and it is looking good."

"Great. Cool," Sam sniggers. He looks over at Y/N only to see she's not in front of him. He looks back over at the pool table and sees her sitting with the man, drinking a beer together and laughing. Sam huffs a laugh.

"Twins," he mutters to himself, taking a drink of his beer.

==

Dean sleeps slouched in the passenger seat of the Impala, sunglasses on. Y/N is in the back, laying across the back seat, also asleep. Sam walks around the car, leans in, and honks the horn. Dean jumps a foot. Y/N just sits up, yawning. Sam sits in the driver's seat, laughing.

"Man, that is so not cool," Dean says, adjusting his sunglasses and mumbling.

"I just swept the Telescas with EMF. It's clean. And last night, while you were.... well...out..." Dean smirks.

"Good times," he says.

"I checked the history of the house. Nothing strange about the Telescas."

"All right, so if it's not the people and it's not the house, then maybe it's the contents. Cursed object or something," Dean says.

"The house is clean."

"Yeah, I know, you said that," Y/N says.

"No, I mean it's empty. No furniture, nothing."

"Where's all their stuff?" Dean asks.

==

At an auction house, Sam, Dean, and Y/N wander around, looking out of place in their casual, rough clothing. Dean takes a finger food from a tray. One man especially watches them pass then excuses himself from his companion and moves towards them.

"Consignment auctions, estate sales. Looks like a garage sale for Wasps if you ask me," Dean takes more food from a tray on a table as the man moves up behind them.

"Can I help you gentlemen and ma'am?" The man asks. Dean looks him up and down and then puts more food in his mouth. Dean puts on a posh voice.

"I'd like some champagne, please."

"He's not a waiter," Y/N says, sharply to Dean, cocking an eyebrow. Sam holds out his hand to the man.

"I'm Sam Connors." The man just looks at him, not moving. Sam moves the hand he's holding out to point at Dean.

"That's my brother Dean," then points to Y/N, "And that's my sister Y/N. We're art dealers, with Connor Limited."

"You... are art dealers?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Y/N mutters.

"That's right."

"I'm Daniel Blake, this is my auction house. Now gentlemen, ma'am, this is a private showing, and I don't remember seeing you on the guest list."

"We're their chuckles, you just need to take another look." A waiter goes past with drinks on a tray.

"Oh, finally," Dean says, swiping a glass. Dean turns back to Blake, sniffs the glass, raises his eyebrows then turns and walks away. Y/N follows them, Sam hastily follows, shooting Dean dirty looks.

"Cheers." Sam, Dean, and Y/N check out the items for auction and are drawn to the painting of the family.

"A fine example of American Primitive, wouldn't you say?" A voice says. The three turn to see a sleek, classy, and a young woman in a black dress, coming down a spiral staircase. They all stare at her as she turns her back while taking the final part of the stairs. Sam and Y/N turn back to look at the painting again, and Dean, ogling, slaps Sam on the back and continues staring.

"Well, I'd say it's more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses. But you knew that, you just wanted to see if I did," Sam says.

"Guilty. And clumsy. I apologize. I'm Sarah Blake."

"I'm Sam. This is my.... brother, Dean, and sister Y/N. Dean continues to stuff his face from passing trays, Y/N waves at Sarah.

"Dean. Can we get you some more mini-quiche?"

"I'm good, thanks," Dean says, mouth stuffed.

"So, can I help you with something?" Sarah says to Sam and Y/N.

"Yeah, actually. What can you tell us about the Telesca estate?" Y/N asks.

"The whole thing's pretty grisly if you ask me, selling your things this soon. But Dad's right about one thing, sensationalism brings out the crowds. Even the rich ones."

"Is it possible to see the provenances?"

"I'm afraid there isn't any chance of that," Blake says, coming up from behind them.

"Why not?" Y/N asks.

"You're not on the guest list. And I think it's time to leave."

"Well, we don't have to be told twice," Dean says in a horrible posh voice.

"Apparently you do."

"Okay. It's all right. We don't want any trouble. We'll go," Dean raises his eyebrows and walks off, Y/N following. Sam and Sarah exchange a long look before he follows.

"Dad, that was just rude."

==

Sam, Dean, and Y/N approach their motel room.

"Grant Wood, Grandma Moses?" Dean asks.

"Art history course. It's good for meeting girls."

"It's like I don't even know you," Dean says unlocking the room. They enter the room. The do not disturb door hanger is a silver outline of John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever. Disco music accompanies the camera as it pans across a totally over-the-top retro 70s disco fantasy room. The three look from one side of the room to the other and pause.

"Huh," the three say in unison. They move into the room, dumping their bags.

"What was... providence?"

"Pro-v-e-nance. It's a certificate of origin, like a biography. You know we can use them to check the history of the pieces, see if any of them have a freaky past."

"Huh. Well, we're not getting anything out of chuckles, but Sarah..." Dean snaps his fingers at Sam, smirking. Sam smirks back.

"Yeah, maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin."

"Not me," Dean says, laughing.

"No no no, pick-ups are your thing, Dean."

"It wasn't my butt she was checking out." They exchange a look.

"In other words, you want me to use her to get information."

"Sometimes you gotta take one for the team. Call her," Y/N says.

==

Sam and Sarah are seated at a table in a restaurant.

"Nice place," Sarah remarks.

"Yeah," Sam replies. There's a long awkward pause. "Glad you called. Surprised, but glad."

"Yeah."

"Although you seemed to have a hard time getting out the words 'Would you like to have dinner?'" she says.

"Ah... yeah. I haven't really been on a date in a while."

"Welcome to the club." Sarah seems surprised.

"You're kidding me." A waiter comes over.

"Here we are. The wine list." Sam looks totally uncomfortable, flipping pages randomly.

"I don't know about Romeo here, but I'll have a beer." The waiter then turns to Sam.

"And you?" he asks. Sam smiles.

"Make that two." Minutes later, the two are still talking. "So you studied art in school, huh?"

"It's true. I was an artist. A terrible, terrible artist. And that's why I'm in the auction business. And you were pre-law?"

"Yeah."

"But you didn't go to law school. How come?" Sarah asks.

"Ah, that's a really, really long story for another time."

"You're not like any art dealer I've ever met." They exchange another long look.

"So, what did you mean when you said you haven't been on a date in a while? Trying to make me feel like I'm not such a loser?"

"I'm sure you're many things, Sam. I'm also sure loser isn't one of them." They exchange more long looks. "It was my mom. She died about a year ago. Totally unexpected. It really threw me. I went into this shell. A nice warm safe shell. But lately I've been thinking. It's not what she would have wanted for me. So..." They exchange even more long looks. "So what about you? You're a reasonably attractive guy." Sam laughs, embarrassed.

"Reasonable?"

"Why haven't you been out and about?" she asks. Sam thinks, looks at her, loses his smile and thinks some more. Sarah watches him. "Another long story for another time," Sam nods slowly.

==

Back in the motel room, Dean is sharpening his blade on a whetstone, Sam is looking through some papers, and Y/N is sitting on the chair watching the two.

"So, she just handed the providences over to you."

"Provenances."

"Provenances?" Dean says, haltingly.

"Yes. We went back to her place; I got a copy of the papers..."

"And?" Y/N asks.

"And nothing. That's it. I left."

"You didn't have to con her or do any...special favors or anything like that?" Dean says, and Y/N snorts.

"Dean, would you get your mind out of the gutter, please?" Dean laughs.

"You know when this whole thing's done, we could stick around for a bit."

"Why?"

"So you could take her out again. It's obvious you're into her, even I could see that. Plus, I think Y/N wants to spend more time with a certain someone." Y/N snickers stop, and she turns to glare at Dean.

"I'll give you to the count of three to run." She stands up. "1... 2..."

"Hey, I think I've got something here." Dean sighs in relief and goes over to Sam. Y/N huffs and follows. Sam hands Dean the papers.

"Portrait of Isaiah Merchant's family, painted 1910," Dean reads.

"Now compare the names of the owners with Dad's journal."

"First purchased in 1912, Peter Simms. Peter Simms murdered 1912. Same thing in 1945. Oh, same thing in 1970," Y/N says, checking against the journal.

"They stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month. Where the Telescas bought it. So, what do you think, it's haunted? or cursed?" Dean gets up.

"Either way, it's toast."

==

Dean leaps and easily scales the meter-high metal gates of the auction house and sprints into the mist.

"Come on!" Y/N follows, then Sam. Sam, wearing gloves, disarms the security alarm.

"Go ahead." Y/N, also with gloves, picks the lock. They shine their flashlights around inside, quickly searching for the painting. Dean spies it upstairs and they sprint up the spiral staircase. Holding his flashlight in his mouth, Dean flicks his switchblade and cuts the painting from its frame. They're in and out within a couple of minutes.

==

The painting lies in the dirt, Sam holding the flashlight, Y/N looking around to make sure no one is there, and Dean prepares the matches.

"Ugly ass thing. If you ask me, we're doing the art world a favor," he says, dropping the match and igniting the painting.

"Anyone got any marshmallows?" Y/N asks. The trio looks at her and rolls their eyes playfully.

==

Now, back in the motel room, Dean rushes in from the bathroom.

"We got a problem—I can't find my wallet."

"How is that our problem?" Sam asks, packing his duffel.

"'Cause I think I dropped it in the warehouse last night," Y/N looks horrified.

"You're kidding, right?" she speaks.

"No. It's got my prints, my ID, well, my fake ID anyway. We gotta get it before someone else finds it. Come on."

==

Sam, Dean, and Y/N hurry around, looking everywhere in the auction house. Sam seems frustrated.

"How do you lose your wallet, Dean?" Dean throws his hands in the air and keeps looking. Sarah walks in and sees them.

"Hey, guys!" she says, smiling. The three spin around, then try to act cool.

"Sarah! Hey."

"What are you doing here?" Sarah asks.

"Ahh, we... we are leaving town, and, you know, we came to say goodbye." Dean and Y/N steal a glance at each other.

"What are you talking about, Sam? We're sticking around for at least another day or two." Sam looks at Dean, confused. Dean gets his wallet out of his pocket and looks meaningfully at Sam.

"Oh, Sam. By the way, Dean's gonna go ahead and give you that $20 he owes you." Y/N looks to Sarah. "He always forgets, you know." Sam looks at them, disbelieving.

"There you go," Dean says, holding out the cash, smiling. Sam snatches the cash from Dean, glaring at the two.

"Well, we'll leave you two crazy kids alone. We gotta go do something... somewhere." As the two walk away, they fist bump each other and laugh.

"So..." Sam says awkwardly.

"I had a good time last night."

"Yeah, yeah. I did too."

"Maybe we should do it again sometime."

"You know, I'd love to, I really would, but Dean and Y/N, they were just screwing around. We really are taking off today."

"Oh. Oh. Ah, that's too bad." Sam sees the painting they burned being carried past.

"OH MY GOD!"

"What?" Sarah says, jumping and turning to look.

"The... that painting... looks so good!"

"If you can call that monstrosity good, then... yeah, I guess."

"So... what do you know about that painting?" Sam asks.

"Not much—just that it creeps me out. We sold it to the Telescas at a charity auction the night they were murdered."

"Yeah, and now you're just going to sell it again?" Sam asks, his voice raising.

"As much as my dad wants to, no, I won't let him. I think it'd be in bad taste."

"Good. Yeah. You know what? Don't. Don't. Make sure you don't, okay?"

"Why? Don't tell me you're interested in that?" Sam is flustered and starts backing up.

"No. No, God, no. Not in buying it, no. You know what, I gotta go, I gotta take care of something. But umm, I will call you back... I will call you; I'll see you later."

"Wait, so you're... not leaving tonight?"

"No-o-o, I guess not. I'll see ya."

"O... kay," Sarah says, looking after him, confused.

[liyahmackenzie]

Test A0: Introduction to Test A

The clock struck nine as the Violet Eyes sauntered into the facility. One by one, they buzzed into the steel-and-stone compound, a brusque-sounding sentry over the intercom assuring safe entry with a simple “welcome”. Their first day as examiners would start with neither a bang nor a whimper, but with the slap of an ID badge on a scanner.

A soon-to-be-christened “Violet Eye” pulled over a colleague for a very pressing question. ”If we're supposed to respect the security system, why do we have to slap our ID badges onto the scanner?”

He didn’t make eye contact. ”I have a PhD in bioengineering and a masters in philosophy…, but I still don’t feel like responding to that.”

The intercom interrupts this riveting conversation.

“New Violet Eyes, report to the meeting room for your briefing”, the intercom interjects.

Six fresh faces march to a meeting room. It could have just as easily been a hospital room or shipping crate, a lone table the only indication this was meant for people at all. Security cameras peered down from the corners of the room. Five fresh faces sit down, one taking a minute to figure out the postmodern messes of the barstools they were provided. With the exception of the table, the only other sign of humanity is an electric pencil sharpener fastened to the wall. A Violet Eye takes a pencil out of their breast pocket and finagles with the device, eventually getting it to work. The machine’s whirring is followed by a witchy voice, which urges the room,”Don't you know you should go paperless? Aaaaahhhhhh!” The mechanical beast munches on the pencil, and the Violet Eye takes their seat.

Just as they sit down, the television immediately turns on. “Talk about efficiency”, murmurs the Bioengineer. A logo, prominently featuring an A, abruptly pops up on a previously concealed screen in the wall, then is wiped away by an announcer dressed in black.

”Now let's get to business.”

The Violet Eyes, caught off-guard, get up from their slouched positions.

“Congratulations on being picked by our committee for this special experiment on the human condition and the books that are made because of it. Test A is a multifaceted study relating to fictional universes and human characteristics.

“As you may know, readers are whisked into the books they read. Even as the worlds are fictional, readers can apply the lessons they learn from the books into real-world use. We place characters of one piece of media into the world of a different piece of media and see what becomes of the characters, pushing boundaries of what the media can teach. That is the essence of Test A.

“How will the characters come alive for our experiment? They, and the worlds they live in, will be generated by a computer mainframe,” the announcer pauses,”which will turn any media of choice into a live-action film of sorts, displayed on a screen. It is comparable to the mind’s eye.”

A long pause is given, allowing this to sink in.

“Of course, the devices that allow this are not simple to operate and maintain. They require… very specific care, environmental control, and upkeep. The 70-point-three-seven-degree air flowing through the above vents is for the sake of Test A. Every variable, every component, of these buildings, is for Test A. Everything, right down to your provided socks, was planned by a special committee to further the cause of Test A.

“Be sure to record everything you see. Your data will be useful, all of it. The committee that hired you is the same one that will tell you what to research. They give you prompts and expect results. We don't expect anything less than excellence. Thank you for your attention, and now, please watch the door.”

All eyes turned to the door they had entered through, now flush with the wall. The door, for its part, completely failed to do anything of note. It failed to do anything remotely door-like, and remained content to be a part of the wall.

“Okay, now you can actually leave. I was paying attention to how you pay attention. Now, go to the laboratory to watch a sample simulation.”

The Violet Eyes watched the door transform itself back to normal. They walked out the (now) regular door and followed the signs to the laboratory. A set of steel doors separated them from insanity. Guards buzzed them in, with a gaze of reverence.