#the panic in his demeanor might hint at it a little

[adrift-in-thyme]

Ah yes. One of the most infuriating puzzles in Zelda

Credit to @/linkeduniverse

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | carnage⌟

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The dawn of the contest day broke over Ithaca, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, as the tension within the palace walls thickened like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You were on your way to the great hall with a satchel swinging by your side, carrying your lyre, when muffled sounds drew your attention to a small, unused closet down the corridor.

Thunk.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open.

There, you found Cleo in a compromising position with Antinous.

His clothes were disheveled, the buttons on his tunic partially undone, and Cleo's chiton was slipping from her shoulders. Their faces were flushed, and her lips were swollen and glistening.

Marks adorned Cleo's neck, a telling sign of the moments they'd just shared.

Cleo was the first to notice you, her eyes widening in panic. She hastily pushed against Antinous, her voice stuttering as she said your name, "_____."

You felt your expression blank, your lips pressing into a thin line as you took a step back, lowering your gaze. Without looking directly at either of them, you spoke curtly, "The contest will begin soon. It would be wise to head to the Great Hall."

Antinous adjusted his tunic, a smirk tugging as he gave you a small bow of his head, his eyes raking over your form with a brazen intensity. "Thank you," he muttered, his tone dripping with smugness.

With one last lingering glance, he turned and swaggered off, his back quickly disappearing around the corner.

Cleo, meanwhile, frantically tried to fix her appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A flustered giggle escaped her as she straightened her hair, attempting to regain her composure.

For a brief moment, you battled with yourself—considering whether to warn her to leave while she still could, to spare her the fate that awaited those who chose the wrong side.

But you held your tongue.

Especially when she nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice carrying a hint of hesitancy despite her laughter as she said, "You should really loosen up, you know. I mean it, ____. Sometimes I wonder if you're not just wasting your youth—loyalty to a kingdom that may not even be the same by the end of today..." Her smile faltered, her words heavier than her usual teasing tone.

You stared at her, your expression unchanging, though your eyes hardened slightly. "I wonder if wasting one's youth might be better than spending it on someone who doesn't see past the moment." The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, a small shard of judgment bleeding through your usually calm demeanor.

Cleo's face flushed deeper, a mixture of shame and embarrassment crossing her features.

For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, but instead, her lips pressed into a tight scowl. She glared at you, her eyes narrowing with a spark of frustration.

"I don't get you sometimes," she added, her voice tinged with both frustration and a weariness that seemed to have been building over time. "You never let yourself live a little. It's like you're always on guard, always distant... and it's exhausting to watch, honestly."

Your eyes narrowed at her words, and your voice came out sharper than before. "Maybe it's because I see what happens when people let their guard down, Cleo. Look around you. The stakes are higher than they've ever been. We don't have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind."

Cleo's gaze faltered, her face flushing in deeper embarrassment, and she scowled with a cross of her arms. "Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?" Her voice held a bite now, her irritation surfacing fully.

The mention of Telemachus was no longer just a joke—it felt like a barb, a deliberate attempt to wound.

For the first time, her words stung, and you could feel your composure waver, a pang of something sharp twisting inside you. Your hand twisted around the rope of the bag, fingers curling tightly as if seeking a way to channel the restlessness bubbling just beneath the surface.

"This isn't about the prince," you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes glinting with a rare edge of anger. "This is about survival, Cleo. For all of us. You might think I'm distant, that I'm cold, but I would rather be that than blind to what's really happening."

Instead of trying to listen, Cleo's scowl deepened, her lips curving downwards in irritation. She huffed out a dismissive "whatever," before straightening up, her shoulders tensing. "I'm about to go watch the suitors warm up with the rest of the servant girls," she said, her tone dripping with defiance. "If you ever decide to get off your high horse, you're welcome to join us."

With that, she turned and sauntered away, her shoulders squared in frustration.

You watched her go, her form disappearing down the corridor, before you let out a shuddering breath.

You lifted your gaze upwards, the ceiling above seeming to stretch endlessly, and muttered softly, "Gods, please give me strength," before continuing your way to the contest.

As you entered the grand dining hall, you found yourself impressed by the change.

The sun filtered in through the high windows, casting a golden light over the space, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air.

Only the suitors and a few servants were milling about, their hushed conversations and tense laughter creating a charged atmosphere.

Unlike the grand events that were usually publicized to the whole kingdom, this one seemed cloaked in a strange intimacy, a finality that made it feel more sacred.

The once opulent room had been stripped of its familiar trappings; the grand dining table and chairs were all removed, leaving a vast open space.

Twelve large wooden boxes had been set up, each marked with a target, waiting for the archery contest that would decide the fate of Ithaca.

The air felt different; a heavy anticipation settled like a blanket over everyone present.

The suitors, standing a few feet away, were warming up.

Some were shirtless, their muscles taut as they stretched; others wore serious expressions as they prepared themselves for the challenge ahead.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, and there was an undercurrent of competition among them—some laughed loudly, trying to mask their nerves, while others moved in silence, their focus unwavering.

A glimpse towards the kitchen door revealed Cleo and a few other familiar servant girls giggling and ogling the suitors, their eyes wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.

They stood partially hidden, peeking out with smiles and exchanged whispers, as if this were some kind of entertainment meant just for them.

Further off, you even spotted the disguised Odysseus, his posture deceptively relaxed as he observed every movement within the hall.

He was studying them, the men who dared to take over his household.

Swiftly and quietly, you made your way to your designated spot.

Unlike last night, you were placed higher up, just two feet away at the foot of the Queen's seat, allowing you to see the entire contest unfold in its fullness. It was a vantage point that made it impossible for you to miss a single detail.

Turning slightly, your gaze flicked back towards Penelope's empty seat; it loomed above you, the polished wood catching the sunlight, a symbol of her resilience and her endless waiting.

A pang of unease twisted in your chest as you wondered if she would be able to handle the events that were about to unfold.

Would she be able to bear it when the truth was finally revealed?

The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders—the suitors, Odysseus, Telemachus, even Penelope herself.

You wondered if her grace would hold, or if the years of anguish would finally break free when the moment of reckoning arrived.

As you knelt down to tune your lyre, a shadow suddenly fell across you.

"Good morning, ____." You looked up, and there he was—Prince Telemachus. A soft, sweet smile graced his face, his eyes warm as they met yours.

It was the kind of smile that could light up the darkest corners of your heart, one filled with reassurance and kindness.

The sight of him made your heart skip for just a moment, but as you looked into his eyes, Cleo's words suddenly echoed in your mind.

...Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?...

The insinuations, the teasing remarks about the prince—they hit you all at once.

The smile faltered on your lips, and you found yourself looking back down at the strings of your lyre, focusing on adjusting the tune rather than meeting his gaze. "Good morning, Prince Telemachus."

Telemachus' brows furrowed, concern creasing his features. He shifted to squat down beside you, his eyes searching your face. "Hey," he said softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the commotion in the hall, "what's wrong? You seem... distant." There was a genuine note of worry there, as if he could sense that something was off.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, it's nothing, my prince," you lied, keeping your tone light. "I'm just a bit nervous about today, that's all." You tried to make the smile a bit brighter, hoping to reassure him.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension visibly easing from his posture. He let out a small sigh of relief, his lips curving into a smile that mirrored the sweetness from before. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he assured you, his voice gentle. "Everything is going to be alright."

You noticed the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and touch yours, his fingers moving ever so slightly before he hesitated, ultimately letting his hand drop to his side.

The gesture, or rather the hesitation, made your heart race just a tad bit faster.

Before either of you could say more, the double doors of the grand hall were pushed open with a loud creak. The announcer's voice rang out clearly, "Her Majesty, Queen Penelope."

All eyes turned towards the entrance, and you followed suit, your breath catching slightly at the sight.

Penelope stepped into the hall, her head held high, her expression calm but resolute.

The morning light streamed in behind her, illuminating her like a figure out of legend. Her veil was gone, her face fully visible—a deliberate choice, perhaps, to show her strength and confidence. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her gown flowing elegantly around her as she moved forward with purpose.

There was a dignity in the way she walked, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the room, taking in the suitors, her son, and the entire setting that would determine her fate.

Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and you could see the years of pain, hope, and resilience reflected in them.

She was ready, whatever the outcome might be.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at her poise, even as that unease continued to twist in your chest.

She had borne so much—far more than anyone should have to—and yet here she was, standing tall, ready to face whatever came next.

Penelope stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the room, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and something far more personal. She began, "Today is a day for truth, for decisions long delayed." Her voice was calm, yet it resonated throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention. "For twenty years, my household has waited, and now, it is time to see who among you is worthy."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes resting on the head servant. "Bring forth the bow."

Two servants stepped forward, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Moments later, they returned, carefully carrying a large chest between them.

The chest was adorned in Ithaca's colors—deep ocean blue and forest green, with intricate gold designs etched into its surface.

It was a chest that demanded respect, one that held not just an object but a legacy.

Penelope approached it, her hands brushing over the top before she slowly and gracefully opened the lid.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath as she pulled back the chest's top, revealing the bow of Odysseus.

It was a magnificent weapon—crafted from polished horn, its limbs strong and powerful.

The bow was large, and even at rest, it carried an aura of strength, a testament to the man who had wielded it. The gold detailing shimmered in the sunlight, and the string lay coiled neatly, waiting for a hand skilled enough to draw it taut.

The sight of the bow was almost otherworldly—the embodiment of Odysseus' strength, the kind of weapon that could only belong to a hero.

"This bow," she began, her voice echoing through the hall, "was not just a tool of battle. It was the pride of Odysseus, my husband, gifted from the legendary archer, Iphitus, son of Eurytus, as a token of their friendship."

Her eyes softened, her gaze drifting, almost as if she could see Odysseus standing there, beside her. She paused, a faint smile curving her lips as she continued.

"It is a symbol of his unmatched skill, his wisdom, his courage. None but he could wield it, and none but he could string it with such ease." Her voice grew softer, as if she were no longer addressing the suitors but speaking to a memory. "It is the bow of a true king, a true protector of Ithaca—of our people, our home."

There was a pause, the weight of her words sinking into the silent hall.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, as though some of them began to understand that this was no mere contest—it was a testament, a challenge meant for a man of true worth.

Penelope's eyes lingered on the bow before she looked up again, her expression composed, though a flicker of something more—grief, hope, love—remained behind her gaze.

"This contest, therefore, is not merely to decide who shall take my hand," she said, her voice carrying a firmness that left no room for argument. "It is to determine who among you, if any, possesses the strength and honor to stand where my husband once stood. It is to prove that Ithaca shall have a protector worthy of its people."

She lifted her head, her eyes sweeping across the gathered men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, unflinching and calm. "Whoever can string this bow and shoot an arrow cleanly through the twelve axeheads I have set shall have my hand in marriage and shall take their place as the ruler of Ithaca."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, the weight of her declaration hanging heavily in the air.

There was no mistaking the quiet plea beneath her strength, though—her desire for someone truly worthy, for someone who could step into the place Odysseus had left. And as she spoke, you could feel the challenge in her words; it wasn't only a test of skill but a measure of heart, of worth, of loyalty.

For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her whole history with Odysseus seemed to ripple through the air; her voice softened when she spoke of Odysseus, and you understood.

The bow was a fragment of him, a piece of her husband, and this contest was more than a show—it was her last chance to find someone who could live up to that memory.

After her declaration, she nodded once, her expression hardening once again.

Penelope then cleared her throat and addressed the suitors directly, her voice calm but resolute, "I will not be witnessing this contest. Instead, I will retire to my chambers. May you all show honor and skill today." She dipped her head in a small, graceful bow and added, "I wish you all the best of luck."

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on you, gaze softening. "Please, play something cheerful," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the silence of the hall. "Let the suitors' spirits be lifted by your music."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully. "Of course, my Queen," you answered.

You watched her leave, her elegant form moving through the hall with grace, while Eurycleia scurried behind her, her steps quick in an effort to keep pace with her queen.

Positioning the lyre comfortably in your hands, you took a deep breath, your fingers gently brushing the strings, bringing forth a bright, lively tune. The sound danced lightly through the still air, weaving around the tension and unease, bringing with it a sense of warmth and energy.

It was a piece meant to uplift, to inspire courage—even if, in your heart, you felt the unease of what was to come.

As the music echoed through the hall, the suitors began to step forward. But before any of them could make a move, Telemachus himself stepped up to take the bow. His approach was confident, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high.

There was a murmur among the crowd, a collective intake of breath as Telemachus stood before them, his hands resting on the bow.

You watched the prince, understanding why he chose to compete.

Telemachus was not just trying to prove his worth—he was making a statement to the suitors, reminding them that he, too, was a contender, not someone to be overlooked.

Telemachus took the bow in his hands, and the room fell silent, all eyes fixed on him. He tested the string, his muscles straining as he attempted to draw it.

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried once, then twice, the wood creaking faintly under his hands.

On his third attempt, his knuckles turned white as he pulled with all his strength, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation thick in the air. But then, Telemachus glanced towards the back of the room, his gaze catching on something—or someone.

There, leaning against the wall, Odysseus, gave his son a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Telemachus let out a breath and relaxed his grip, stepping back with a nod.

He turned towards the suitors, offering a small, almost playful smile. "I suppose it's not my time yet," he said lightly, though the challenge was clear beneath his words.

He handed the bow back, his gaze moving across the suitors, his expression challenging. There was no mistaking his message—he was his father's son, and his strength and skill were not to be underestimated.

The suitors shuffled, their expressions wary. The prince's near success had shown them all that this was no ordinary contest, that this was no easy feat to accomplish.

Odysseus' eyes flickered with pride as he watched his son step back and make his way back to his mother's chair; settling himself down to watch the contest with clear eyes.

The suitors were strong, yes—but none of them had the true heart of Ithaca.

Though, for now, they would proceed as planned, allowing each suitor to attempt the impossible task, to let them fail and reveal their weakness.

It was all part of the ruse, the careful disguise, the setup.

And now, the stage was set.

The suitors would each have their turn, each of them about to face the impossible task before them, while Odysseus and his allies waited, the true challenge still ahead.

The first suitor, Leodes, approached the bow, a confident swagger in his step that belied his nervousness.

He grasped the bow with both hands, his face flushing slightly as he tried to string it. The bow barely budged under his efforts, his face turning a shade redder with each attempt.

Frustration contorted his features as he strained, his muscles trembling with the effort.

With a grunt, he finally gave up, stepping back with a scowl, his confidence visibly shattered.

Another suitor, Elatus, took his turn next.

He approached with a bravado that masked his growing doubt. He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and then took hold of the bow.

He pulled at it, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together in effort. His movements became more desperate with each passing moment, his hands slipping against the polished wood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained, his bravado fading quickly.

After several attempts, he let out a frustrated growl and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Finally, it was Antinous' turn.

The blonde stood up, his eyes narrowed, a determined set to his jaw.

The room seemed to quiet even more, a collective anticipation hanging thick in the air.

He moved with deliberate steps, his shoulders squared, his head held high as though the weight of the room's expectation rested on him alone.

Antinous took the bow, his fingers brushing over the polished wood, his lips curling into a self-assured smile. He gripped it tightly, planting his feet, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic as he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed he might succeed—his arms flexed, the bow groaned slightly, bending just enough to spark a glimmer of hope among his allies.

But then, the strain began to show.

Antinous' face reddened, the cords of his neck standing out as he grit his teeth. He shifted his stance, trying to use his full body weight to pull the bowstring back, but it refused to comply.

His frustration grew, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He gave a sharp, guttural yell as he pulled one last time, but the bow remained stubborn, unyielding.

The room held its breath, watching as Antinous' confidence slowly ebbed away, replaced by an ugly scowl.

His face flushed with both exertion and the sting of public failure. He threw the bow down onto the table with a loud clatter, a sneer twisting his lips. "This is impossible!" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. He shot a glare at the other suitors, as if daring them to laugh.

The other suitors shifted uncomfortably, none of them daring to meet his eye. The silence in the hall was thick, the tension growing as each suitor came face to face with their own inadequacy.

The bow had proven to be more than a mere weapon—it was a testament to strength, a test that none of them could pass.

From your place, you watched the suitors' failures, each attempt underscoring their unworthiness. Their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, all fell away when faced with the challenge they couldn't meet.

It was becoming clear to everyone in the room—these men, for all their posturing, were not the equal of Odysseus, nor even his son.

In the corner of the room, Odysseus remained leaning against the wall, his eyes keen as he observed each failure, his expression betraying nothing.

But you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, the small, almost imperceptible nods as each suitor faltered.

It was all going according to plan, and the true test had yet to begin.

Finally, as the last suitor made his failed attempt, Odysseus, still in disguise, stepped forward, his expression humble as he approached the bow.

He bowed his head slightly to Telemachus, his voice carrying across the tense silence of the room. "I beg you, my prince, let me have a try. I know I am but a beggar, but I would be honored to hold a weapon of such greatness."

The suitors erupted, voices rising in disbelief and anger.

"Are you sick in the head?"

"A beggar? How dare he even ask?"

"Surely he's joking."

Antinous, still flushed from his recent failure, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. "What nerve!" he spat, his hand motioning dismissively. "You think a beggar like you could even hope to lift the bow, let alone string it?"

The others muttered in agreement. It was as if they feared the humiliation of even allowing him to try, the risk that he might succeed too shameful to bear.

But before their protests could grow too loud, Telemachus raised his hand, silencing them. "He is a guest under my family's roof, and all guests deserve their chance." His eyes, filled with a quiet determination, swept across the suitors, daring any to oppose him. "If the beggar wishes to take part in this challenge, then so be it."

The suitors fell silent, begrudgingly stepping aside, unable to defy their hostess without risking public scorn.

Telemachus seized the moment, giving orders for the bow to be handed to the beggar.

With the prince's permission granted, Odysseus approached the bow. He moved slowly, his every movement deliberate, his eyes fixed on the weapon before him.

The suitors watched with skepticism, their expressions ranging from disdain to disbelief, and a few exchanged mocking smirks, unable to imagine this man succeeding where they had all failed.

You kept playing your lyre, the soft music filling the tense silence of the room. Yet even as your fingers plucked the strings, your gaze couldn't help but drift toward Odysseus, your breath caught in your chest.

You watched as he lifted the bow, his hands moving over it with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice, of ownership. He strung the bow effortlessly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

The bow made no protest—it yielded to him, as if it recognized its true master.

A collective gasp filled the hall, the suitors' mocking expressions replaced by wide eyes and parted lips; shock rippled through them, disbelief etched across their faces.

The great hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the faint hum of your music as the bowstring settled into place.

Telemachus, standing by, watched his father with pride that he could barely contain, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw the reactions of the suitors. He moved with purpose, discreetly signaling to the few loyal servants positioned near the doors.

They nodded, moving swiftly to lock the exits, their movements unnoticed by the crowd, whose eyes were all fixed on Odysseus.

Odysseus stepped forward and, with steady hands, notched the first arrow. He let it loose with a sharp 'thwack,' the arrow piercing through the first of the twelve axeheads.

The room held its breath as he moved seamlessly to notch another arrow, his actions smooth and confident, as though he had done this countless times before.

You watched in awe, your fingers still instinctively playing the lyre, though the music had become mere background noise to the unfolding scene.

There was something mesmerizing in the way he handled it—like watching a legend step out of the shadows and come to life before your eyes.

The room seemed to fade around you, the music blending with the anticipation that gripped everyone present.

There, before your eyes, was the man you had heard countless stories about—the hero of Ithaca, displaying the strength and mastery that had made those tales immortal.

It was as if the years had fallen away, and you were witnessing Odysseus in his prime, every bit the warrior and king he was meant to be.

The sixth arrow flew through the air, and another axehead was split with a precision that seemed almost impossible, Odysseus moving with a grace and confidence that seemed almost otherworldly.

The silence in the hall deepened with each arrow that found its mark.

It was a silence heavy with tension, the kind that made the air feel thick and charged.

Every eye remained fixed on Odysseus, no one daring to speak, no one daring to even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that the smallest noise might shatter the spell that had been cast.

The suitors' faces were a mix of disbelief and something bordering on fear. They had mocked him, ridiculed the idea of a beggar even attempting the task. And now, with each arrow splitting through the axeheads, they were beginning to realize that something was very wrong.

A few of them exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting from annoyance to a growing sense of unease. Nervous chuckles broke out among some of the men, a weak attempt to dismiss what was happening as coincidence.

"He can't possibly think he'll win the queen's hand, can he?" one of them whispered, the words tinged with an uncertainty that belied his dismissive tone.

Another leaned towards his companion, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Is this some kind of trick? Who is this man, really?"

But none of them had an answer. They watched, eyes wide and mouths dry, as Odysseus pulled back the bowstring again and again, his focus unwavering.

Even the most arrogant of the suitors, who had laughed openly before, now stood with their mouths slightly open, their eyes darting between the bow and the beggar who wielded it with such mastery.

You played the final note of your song just as the last arrow sailed through the air, splitting the twelfth axehead with a resounding 'thwack.'

The silence that followed was deafening, the suitors frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes wide as they took in what had just happened.

Odysseus turned his head, his eyes finding yours across the room. He gave you a stern nod, a silent cue that you understood perfectly.

You nodded back, the bright, almost giddy expression on your face standing in stark contrast to the carnage that was about to unfold.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself before your fingers began to dance across the strings once more.

The song you played was deceptively cheerful at first, a light, whimsical tune that fluttered through the air like birdsong.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to change.

The melody darkened, twisted, the notes taking on an edge that was both haunting and vengeful, a shadow creeping into the brightness—the cheerful melody morphed into something almost bloodthirsty, a song that spoke of retribution, of justice long overdue.

It wasn't just music; it was a call to arms, a declaration of what was to come.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, some glancing around as if sensing the change, though they couldn't quite put their finger on what was happening.

But you knew. You had been told exactly what this song would do.

You remembered the shed, the way Odysseus had discussed the plan.

The air had been heavy with the scent of earth and wood, the small space filled with the tension of what was to come.

Odysseus had detailed every part of the plan, his voice steady as he laid out each step, each role.

You had listened patiently, absorbing every word until finally, you had asked, "What about me? What will I be doing?"

Telemachus had nodded in agreement, his face uncannily serious, his eyes fixed on his father. "Yes, father, what will her role be?" he had repeated, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness that made Odysseus' lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Odysseus had reached into his tattered robes, pulling out a simple piece of parchment.

He looked at you then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He handed you the parchment, watching as you slowly unrolled it.

"This," he had said, his voice low, "is a gift from Athena herself." The paper had revealed a sheet of music, the notes unlike anything you had ever seen—intricate, almost ethereal, as if the very ink had been touched by divine hands. "The goddess delivered this to me, explaining its purpose, its power. This song is imbued with her blessing. It will only affect those she does not protect—those who have no claim to her favor. For us, it will be a boon. For them..."

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. The meaning was clear.

And now, here you were, playing that very song, the melody shifting from bright and cheerful to dark and vengeful.

You could feel the magic in it, thrumming through your fingertips, spreading through the hall like a palpable force.

It strengthened those loyal to Ithaca, those under Athena's protection, while the suitors began to fidget, a sense of unease settling over them like a cold mist.

The suitors had no idea what was happening, but they could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden heaviness that made their hearts pound and their hands tremble.

It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, the once grand hall now a trap from which there was no escape.

Odysseus' gaze never wavered from the suitors, his eyes hard and unyielding as the music filled the space around him.

The song bolstered him, his muscles seeming to grow even more taut, his presence even more commanding.

He was no longer just a man—he was a force of nature, a reckoning given flesh.

Odysseus stood tall, the bow still held firmly in his grasp.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he let the bow drop to his side, his hand moving up to grasp the edge of the ragged cloak draped over his shoulders.

With one fluid motion, he shed the cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his presence.

The old, wrinkled skin that had disguised him melted away, replaced by the strong, rugged form that had been hidden beneath.

Muscles, hardened from years of battle, rippled beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and faint scars crisscrossed his arms and chest—evidence of the countless trials he had endured.

His hair, once matted and dull, now seemed to take on a life of its own, curling around his face in dark waves, with sprinkles of grey adding to his rugged appearance.

His eyes, once hidden beneath a tired, weary expression, now shone with an intensity that was almost chilling—a piercing gaze that seemed to look straight through the suitors, as if judging their very souls.

Fine lines marked the edges of his eyes, a reminder of his years, but they did nothing to diminish the fire within them.

A collective gasp went through the hall, the suitors recoiling slightly, their expressions shifting from shock to something resembling fear.

They could no longer deny what was before them—this was no beggar.

This was no mere man.

Odysseus took a step forward, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his authority. "I am Odysseus," he declared, his words resonating through the stunned silence of the hall, "King of Ithaca, and I have returned."

His gaze swept over the suitors, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The suitors cowered, some taking a step back, their faces pale. The arrogance, the bravado that had filled the hall only moments before, had drained away, leaving behind only fear and uncertainty.

They had come here seeking a queen, a kingdom, and now they faced a legend—a legend who had returned to reclaim what was rightfully his.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable and chilling: The true king had returned, and the reckoning was at hand.

The mood in the hall shifted dramatically, the tension thickening until it felt as though the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.

The suitors stood in stunned silence, shock and terror etched across their faces as they began to realize the gravity of their situation.

Antinous, who had been the loudest, the most arrogant of them all, was the first to react. His face went deathly pale, his eyes wide, his lips trembling as he stuttered out, "K-King Odysseus...?"

His voice barely broke through the thick silence, a pathetic whisper that seemed to crack the spell that had held the hall. 

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A collective murmur rippled through the hall, a mix of gasps, incredulous whispers, and faint scoffs.

Antinous' voice was shaky as he attempted to regain control. "This... this is some kind of trick!" he spat, though his eyes betrayed the fear he tried to suppress. "I refuse to believe it! He's a beggar, nothing more!" He glanced toward the other suitors, seeking support, but found only the same pale faces staring back at him, uncertainty gnawing at their bravado.

Another suitor took a step forward, his lips twisting into a sneer, though his confidence wavered. "Yes, this... this cannot be Odysseus!" He forced a laugh that echoed awkwardly in the heavy silence, his eyes darting between the king and the bow that now rested effortlessly in his hands. "It's impossible. The real Odysseus is dead, lost at sea! We've waited for years!" He looked around desperately, trying to ignite the doubt in others. "How could a man disappear for twenty years and just... return?"

Some of the suitors nodded slowly, as if clinging to his words, to the illusion of control they had crafted for themselves.

But the seed of doubt had been planted.

Their hands twitched nervously at their sides, and their gazes flickered to the bow, to the axes now split cleanly in half by arrows only the true Odysseus could have fired.

One of the younger suitors, trembling, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Could it really be him?"

"Of course not!" Antinous barked, though his voice had lost its force. He took a shaky step forward, pointing accusingly at Odysseus. "This man—this beggar—he's nothing but a fraud! Some charlatan! Look at him!" His words stumbled out, desperate, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "We—we can't let him fool us!"

Odysseus remained still, his eyes cold and patient as he watched them falter, their arrogance crumbling before him.

Antinous, still clinging to his denial, sneered again. "It's some kind of trickery! He's using magic or... or sorcery!" He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He couldn't string that bow—no man here could! It's not possible!" His voice grew louder, more frantic. "You saw it! This must be the work of the gods to humiliate us!"

But as his words rang out, the silence that followed was deafening.

None of the other suitors moved. None spoke in agreement.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them as the weight of their situation began to settle in.

Odysseus, his expression unchanging, took another step forward, his presence commanding. His voice was low but carried the undeniable power of a king reclaiming his throne. "You can deny it all you want. But the truth stands before you."

A ripple of fear ran through the suitors, and one of them—the youngest—dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken. "It is him," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "It's really him. We're doomed."

The murmurs of disbelief turned into frantic whispers, then into rising chaos as suitors pushed back from their places, stumbling over each other in an attempt to retreat.

One last defiant voice shouted from the back, "It's a lie! He's no king!" But the speaker's words were drowned out by the clamor of panic overtaking the hall.

In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Odysseus moved first, with Telemachus at his side—no longer the boy who had tolerated their mockery, but a prince, a warrior who had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Telemachus' sword flashed in the dim light as he let out a shout, the sound echoing off the stone walls, full of fury and long-held determination.

The blade cut across the back of the nearest suitor with cold precision, slicing through flesh as the man let out a strangled cry; blood sprayed, staining the marble floor as he collapsed in a heap, gurgling his last breath.

Chaos erupted.

Some suitors bolted for the doors, only to find them locked.

Others fumbled at their sides, reaching for swords that weren't there—realizing too late that their weapons had been removed under the guise of preventing damage during the contest.

Panic swept through them like wildfire, their faces draining of color, their eyes wide with terror.

They were trapped, defenseless, caught in the jaws of a trap they hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Odysseus, by contrast, moved with unnerving calm.

He did not rush or hesitate. Each step was deliberate, each swing of his sword controlled. He was a force of nature, his strikes as sure and inevitable as a storm.

His face was a mask of focus, his eyes cold and detached, as though he had separated himself from the violence unfolding around him. He showed no signs of anger, no flashes of hatred—only a methodical precision that made it clear this was no wild vengeance, but calculated retribution.

He wasn't just cutting down men. He was restoring balance, reclaiming what had been stolen from him.

One suitor, his face twisted in terror, fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Mercy! Please, have mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking.

Odysseus glanced at him, but his expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no flicker of empathy. His blade came down in a clean, swift arc, the man's plea silenced in an instant as his body crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, Telemachus moved with the same eerie calm, though his strikes were fueled by a deep-seated rage—rage for the years of watching his mother suffer, for the disrespect shown to his father's memory.

His sword found its next target, sinking into a man's chest. The suitor gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing, his blood pooling around him in the growing sea of red.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic.

Screams echoed through the hall, desperate, high-pitched, as the suitors scrambled over each other in a frantic bid to escape. But there was nowhere to run.

The once-grand hall was now a slaughterhouse.

Through it all, Odysseus remained eerily composed, his breathing steady, his movements as fluid as they were efficient. His face remained impassive, as though he were cutting through crops, not men.

Each suitor that fell before him was another obstacle removed, another piece of Ithaca restored.

You kept playing, your lyre's dark, vengeful melody rising above the chaos, weaving through the carnage like a thread of fate.

The suitors fell in time with the rhythm, their bodies collapsing as if your music were guiding the hands of their executioners.

And still, Odysseus showed no emotion.

His sword glinted in the dim light, slick with blood, but his gaze never wavered. He cut down suitor after suitor with mechanical precision, their pleas and cries of pain washing over him like a distant hum.

His face was as unreadable as stone, his presence filling the room with an almost supernatural calm.

He wasn't a man in that moment. He was something more, something unstoppable.

A suitor stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror as Odysseus approached, his trembling hands raised in a feeble defense. "Please, no! I didn't mean—"

But the words died in his throat as Odysseus' blade pierced his heart, swift and clean. The suitor crumpled to the floor, his body joining the growing pile at the feet of the king.

Through the madness, you kept your eyes on your lyre, your fingers moving with a life of their own, but you couldn't help the way your gaze drifted every so often towards the unfolding carnage.

You did not flinch, did not look away, even as the suitors fell, even as the hall was painted red with their blood.

There was something chilling about it—something almost surreal.

The way the men you had served, the men you had watched lounge and laugh and eat without a care in the world, were now scrambling, terrified, their faces twisted in fear and pain.

And then there was Odysseus, standing amidst it all, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart pound. His movements were almost too smooth, too practiced, like a dance he had performed a hundred times before.

There was no hesitation, no rush to his strikes—just a chilling certainty, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how it would end.

There was sorrow there, yes, but also something else—something fierce, something that spoke of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The suitors, on the other hand, were chaos incarnate—stumbling, scrambling, their confidence shattered, their bravado reduced to nothing in the face of Odysseus' calm wrath.

And all the while, the music swelled, the melody growing darker, more vengeful.

You did not stop playing, even as the hall became a graveyard.

Odysseus moved towards Antinous, the man who had led the suitors, the man who had dared to try and take his place.

Antinous had backed himself into a corner, pale and trembling, though there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands, trembling as they were, in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. "You think you're a hero, Odysseus? A king?" His voice cracked, the mocking tone faltering as his eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. "You're nothing but a monster... who abandoned his kingdom."

Odysseus paused.

For a moment, there was a terrible silence, the words hanging heavy in the air.

But then, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, steel slits.

Antinous stumbled backward, his hands now shaking uncontrollably. His back hit the wall, and for the first time, the arrogance that had always cloaked him was gone. His eyes were wide with terror, his chest heaving as panic set in.

"Wait—wait! Please!" His voice had lost all of its previous bite, replaced by a pitiful, desperate plea. "Mercy... have mercy, Odysseus! It—it was a mistake! We were only—"

But his words caught in his throat, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as Odysseus drew closer, unyielding. Antinous' legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.

"Please! I beg you!" He cried out now, his voice cracking with fear. His hands were raised in surrender, his face twisted in panic, a pitiful shadow of the once-proud leader of the suitors. "I—I didn't mean—"

His words were drowned in the silence of the hall as Odysseus loomed over him, his expression cold and unfeeling, as though he were staring down at an insect. The king's gaze flickered for just a moment, watching as Antinous cowered before him, reduced to nothing but a sniveling, desperate man.

Odysseus' lip twitched, not in a smile, but in something darker. His voice was low, each word deliberate, dripping with fury and finality. "Mercy?" He raised his sword slowly, deliberately, the edge glinting with the blood of the others who had fallen. "You know nothing of war, of sacrifice. You are a coward, hiding behind lies and empty bravado. You defiled my home, disrespected my family, and dared to covet what was never yours. Mercy was never an option."

He paused, his eyes like shards of ice, pinning Antinous in place. "Now, you will face the reality of what it means to cross the true king of Ithaca."

Antinous let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror as the reality of his fate settled in.

He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the stone floor, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.

His lips began moving in what might have been a prayer, a last-ditch plea to any god who might still be listening.

But the gods had already chosen their side, and there would be no mercy for him here.

With one final look of disgust, Odysseus brought the blade down, swift and brutal.

Antinous' eyes widened for a brief moment, his lips parting in a final, silent gasp before the light in them faded. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his arrogance and bravado extinguished in an instant.

The hall fell silent, the last echo of his pitiful pleas fading into the stillness.

Odysseus stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared to challenge him. His gaze swept over the bodies littering the floor, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes—only the quiet, detached gaze he had held throughout.

The king had returned. And he had reclaimed his throne.

A/N: ooof! 8.0k words, lordy... but i must admit, it's getting easier for me to write/picture fight scenes instead of just summarizing them in a sentence lololo;  anywho as you guys can tell by the spammed updates, i really love greek mythology lolo; who's your favorite god/goddess? mine would have to be Aphrodite; for her to be the most beautiful to ever exist, she really does get envious whenever someone even breathes the word 'pretty' in another person direction 😩---i stan a messy queen

[yan-lorkai]

Heyyy! I hope you are doing well! (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

I would like to request something!

Yan!Crowley with a darling who is his secretary! I hope you're comfortable with writing romantic stuff with the staff. If not then please ignore this request. ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

Stay safe and don't forget to stay hydrated! Byeee ♪⁠～⁠(⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠)

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ a/n: This is my first Crowley request so I hope I wrote him right. Enjoy ~

Working as Dire Crowley’s secretary is a whirlwind of chaos, exasperation, and somehow endearment. On the surface, he’s an eccentric, bumbling headmaster who constantly piles his endless workload onto you while waxing poetic about how invaluable you are to him.

He often forgets appointments, dodges responsibilities, and somehow manages to create more paperwork for you with every half-baked plan he devises - it's like you are the headmaster and he is your secretary.

And yet, despite the frustration, you stay. Maybe it’s because you’ve grown used to the rhythm of his antics, or maybe it’s because he always finds a way to charm you into sticking around. He praises you endlessly, often with overly dramatic flair, declaring that no one could ever replace you. At first, you thought it was just his usual theatrics, but as time went on, you began to notice the subtle possessiveness behind his words.

Crowley has a way of making you feel both indispensable and trapped. If you so much as hint at being overwhelmed or mention needing time off, he panics. He flutters around you, begging for forgiveness and insisting he couldn’t possibly survive a day without you.

"What would this school do without my brilliant secretary?" He laments, clutching his chest like you’ve just stabbed him thirty times. "No, no, no! You must stay! For the sake of the academy and my sanity as well!"

His behavior grows more suffocating the closer you get to him. He begins to rely on you not just professionally but personally, pulling you into his orbit with every request and manufactured crisis. It’s not uncommon for him to call you into his office for “urgent matters” that turn out to be little more than an excuse to chat or keep you near him.

Despite his shortcomings, Crowley is remarkably attentive when it comes to you. He knows your favorite tea, the way you like your workspace organized, and even small details like how you tap your pen when you’re frustrated. He uses this knowledge to ingratiate himself further, always appearing with a solution or a grand gesture at just the right time.

The turning point comes when he starts making subtle comments about your interactions with others. If you spend too long talking to a student or a staff member, his demeanor shifts. The usually jovial headmaster becomes uncharacteristically quiet, his golden eyes watching you intently. Later, he’ll casually bring up the encounter, his tone light but his words carefully chosen to sow doubt or guilt.

"Ah, I see you’ve been spending a lot of time with Professor Trein lately," he’ll say, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I do hope you’re not neglecting your duties with me, dear secretary. After all, no one understands you like I do."

Over time, his antics escalate. He begins orchestrating situations to isolate you, ensuring you spend more time with him and less with others. The line between professional and personal blurs further as he starts calling you by affectionate nicknames, brushing off your protests with a laugh.

"My dear, you work far too hard," he coos one evening, handing you a cup of tea he made himself. "Allow me to take care of you. After all, you take such good care of me."

Though his behavior is overwhelming, there’s a strange comfort in his constant attention. He’s unpredictable and demanding, but he’s also fiercely protective and utterly devoted. And as much as you might want to escape the suffocating hold he has on you, a part of you wonders if anyone else could ever match the intensity of his obsession.

[will-and-lester-defense-squad]

Anyway here’s pjo episode 5 random thoughts that I need to get out of my head, might do a similar post for the first 4 episodes too when I go back to rewatch them this week

Trio being fugitives from the law, love that shit

Annabeth seeing the fates cut the string oh that shits gonna hurt so bad in the future

Annabeths unwavering belief (denial??) that Percy can’t be dead and isn’t oh I love them

THE PERCABETH HUG!!!

Grover and Percy are supposed to be best friends I need them to give me a little more, like Grover didn’t even hug him when he found out he wasn’t dead???? (I will still defend their friendship w my life)

Poseidon acknowledged/saved Percy ONE TIME in 12 long years and suddenly Percy’s all in on this quest, sweetheart ur fatal flaw is showing

EDGE!! AS ARES!!! HE DID THAT SHIT!

“We’re all gonna die, eventually” this 12 year old is a little too comfortable w the thought of death someone please check on him???

The gabe news interview scene omgggg, I actually liked it better than the book scene w Percy because it makes more sense in this context, and it only adds more fuel to the fire that is Percy’s hate for his stepfather

“I’m gonna kill him” if there’s only thing this shows gonna do it’s show Percy’s anger bro

Gabe blaming Percy for Sally’s disappearance is insane actually

Annabeth being sassy w ares?? Talking back to Hephaestus? Percy showed up and said fuck the gods and she said “u know what, u might be right” and then did it better than he ever could!

No fr tho after what Athena did to her, I’m so glad we’re seeing annabeths demeanor w the gods changing

Again, edge is eating his role as ares UPPP

Grover “master manipulator, so good he makes the gods manipulation look like child’s play” underwood??? AS HE SHOULDDD

Percy practically asking annabeth out on a movie date??!:!:! I need to see this, either in the season finale or in a post credit scene, SOMETHING

Walkers acting, the panic, the hyperventilating, the fear in his voice, the softness and his facial expression/acting w his eyes during the emotional scenes, my god it’s scary how good he is at this at his age

Annabeths joke!!! I’m never getting over that scene I made a whole ass post about it earlier too

PERCY USING HIS POWERS ON ACCIDENT TO SAVE ANNABETH!!! No mini trope I love more than when a character inadvertently uses their powers off pure instinct to save someone they love

The entire chair scene, god I can’t even talk about it rn, I’m still processing, the acting the dialogue, the hints at each other their fatal flaws, annabeths declaration, the way she held onto Percy when he was saved, I’m gonna throw up

Percy “I give 0 fucks, if ur a god fight me” Jackson in full force this episode omgg

[milkb0nny]

××× Soft Spoken ×××

Dean Winchester x fem!nephilim (OC)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫: 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Summary: Sam discovered an unusual store in the city, dragging Dean along him. The shop possessed various books on demons, angels and other supernatural creatures. Sam decided to stay for a moment to search for further information on nephilim. Meanwhile, a woman entered the store, searching for protective sigils and spells. Dean quickly noticed that the voice sounded familiar. Again, the Winchester brothers met the nephilim and her identity crackled little by little.

Note: The next chapter will be more intriguing, as Castiel and Nevaeh will finally meet. I still enjoyed writing this one, covering the relationship between the brothers a little more.

Warnings: none

word count: 2.422

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, Sam stirred from his slumber to find the motel room devoid of his older brother. Panic momentarily gripped him as he feared that Dean might have been abducted during the night.

However, the sight of a note left on Dean's bed eased his concerns. It appeared that Dean had already left for the repair shop, which did nothing to assuage Sam's reservations about his brother's well-being. Still, Dean was ambiguous and the two of them had to get closer to the current events taking place in this city.

After a swift, warm shower, Sam dressed in his casual attire, donning a brown leather jacket to shield him from the morning chill. As he stepped outside into the crisp morning air, with the sun casting a warm glow, for a moment, he felt like an ordinary man embarking on a typical day. But the door he exited led to a motel room, and his destination was his hunting-obsessed brother. Sighing, he made his way.

The repair shop wasn’t that far from their place, only about ten minutes walking. During his leisurely stroll, Sam recalled the complexities of tracking a celestial being in a city where demons seemed to be the primary source of supernatural disturbances. He was unable to think of another cause of supernatural events, as no ghosts, shapeshifters or witches harmed anybody here.

Upon arriving at the repair shop, Sam found Dean already toiling away on the Impala, refusing assistance from the shop's employees.

Dean's attachment to the car was almost childlike, as if he needed to mend it with his own hands.

While Sam greeted the workers with a much more pleasant demeanor, his brother's irritable side was more apparent.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean huffed as he heaved the broken engine hood aside. He handled it with care but couldn't hide the pain he felt when seeing his treasured Impala in such a state.

“Good morning,” Sam replied, his gaze filled with concern as he observed Dean's tireless work. “Dean, you know you’re injured, right? Don’t you want to rest a little?” he asked him, worried about his brother's well-being.

Sam's pleas, however, seemed to fall on deaf ears. Dean, his face etched with determination and exhaustion, was quick to respond. “Sam, we don't have time to rest. This car's our lifeline, and we can't afford any downtime,” he insisted, highlighting the urgency of their situation.

While Dean was right about time running fast, he forgot that the injuries might worsen if he keeps up being so stubborn. Sam wanted to complain about this annoying personality trait of his brother, but that opportunity was denied.

Just as Dean was emphasizing the importance of their task, a deep, raspy voice interjected. A rather short yet robust man approached the brothers, his black hat and oil-stained clothes giving away his connection to the repair shop. However, it soon became evident that he was more than just an employee.

“Are you Sam?” he asked, pulling out his phone.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Sam responded with a hint of confusion. He mustered the man up and down, thinking, he was merely an employee of this garage. To his surprise, the stranger revealed himself as the owner of the shop.

“I’d give you and your brother some time here, to get your car fixed. Since you’re friends with Nev, I’ll charge you less. You’re free to use our tools but don’t break them. That'd be expensive,” he cautioned, while fumbling with his car keys.

Sam's inquisitive eyes landed on the man's name tag, which read 'Joshua Garden'—a typically American name.

“Thank you very much,” Sam smiled at him, genuinely grateful for the assistance.

Joshua grinned, inspecting the Impala. The labor of love and devotion that Dean had poured into the car did not go unnoticed by the shop owner. Though he didn't seem too keen on joining their conversation, his offer of help was warmly received. Dean was absorbed in his work, his hands and thoughts fully engaged in fixing their beloved car.

While Joshua inquired about how the car had ended up in such a dire state, Sam quickly crafted a plausible explanation. He mentioned a collision with a tree, caused by a random man who had jumped in front of their car. Joshua, perhaps sensing the awkwardness of the situation, chose not to delve deeper into the matter, accepting Sam's account as fact.

With the pleasantries concluded, Joshua excused himself, leaving the Winchester brothers alone for the time being. Sam took a seat on some nearby wheels, his eyes wandering aimlessly over the shops and houses on the other side of the street.

His eyes wandered through the various faces sitting in the cozy cafés, examined the various signs across doors and windows: Holly's Book Store, 24/7 Nightclub, Occult Shop, Betty's Flower Shop. His attention was abruptly seized by a tiny sign hanging from a dark wooden door. An Occult Shop? The existence of such a store in this seemingly ordinary city piqued his curiosity.

“Dean, do you see that shop there, next to the restaurant?”

Raising his head, Dean scanned the area until he spotted the shop his brother had mentioned. The small store appeared as bewildering to Dean as it did to Sam.

Nevertheless, whenever the two hunters stumbled upon such unique shops, they took the time to explore them in the hope of finding new information about supernatural creatures. Sometimes their visits yielded valuable knowledge and weapons against specific monsters, while other times they discovered nothing more than tourist traps.

Dean set aside his tools when his brother proposed taking a stroll through the shop. Although Dean wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, he agreed, acknowledging that his primary job was hunting monsters, not repairing cars. Perhaps they could use some assistance from the shop's employees.

“Yeah, I’ll take a break,” Dean conceded, and indicating that they should visit the shop owner. The brothers crossed the fairly busy street and entered the store through its old, creaky wooden door

The interior featured old shelves lined with books, offering a wealth of knowledge about witchcraft, the history of magic, crystals, and emanating a distinct, earthy scent. The shop owner, an elderly man who resembled a kindly college history professor, seemed to blend seamlessly with the ambiance of the store as if he had spent his entire life there. His friendly face welcomed the brothers but didn't immediately overwhelm them with his knowledge. Sam got the impression that the shop owner simply enjoyed the quiet appreciation of his wares, and the brothers followed suit.

Both stood behind a tall shelf filled with several books about demons and angels. Sam discovered a book detailing the history of archangels, covering aspects from the Bible and other religions, which he hoped might contain valuable information.

Suddenly, the door opened once more, and a soft chime echoed through the shop.

“Excuse me. Do you perhaps have any information on protective sigils and symbols against demons or angels? I've been…,” a soft voice hesitated, a voice familiar to the Winchester brothers, “researching some things again, and I could use some guidance.”

Dean surreptitiously peered around the corner, confirming his suspicions: the gentle voice belonged to Nevaeh, who was attired in her usual elegant fashion, albeit slightly more comfortable than her typical style.

“Welcome Nevaeh. I believe I have something that interests you, my dear. You might find what you're looking for in this ancient grimoire over here. It contains knowledge of various protective sigils and their applications.” he pointed to a thick, black book nestled in the far corner of the shop.

Nevaeh nodded appreciatively and replied, “Thank you so much.”

She reached for the book and began flipping through its delicate pages. Most of the sigils were already familiar to her, given her meticulous study. However, she wondered if there were new methods of protection she had yet to discover.

Dean, who had overheard the brief exchange, leaned over to Sam, who was deeply engrossed in the book, oblivious to the unfolding situation.

“Sam, did you hear that? Nevaeh’s asking about protective symbols. That's gotta be related to the nephilim,” he expressed quietly, gaining Sam’s attention.

“Yeah, uhm, alright. Then let's see what she knows,” Sam replied calmly.

He closed the book and placed it back in its original spot. Scanning the shop, he found Nevaeh sitting in an old chair, reading various pages. Dean, with a quiet admiration, approached her first.

“Hey there,” he greeted her, offering a friendly tone. Her serious expression gave way to a welcoming one, her hazel eyes now fully focused on the Winchesters.

“Oh, I didn’t expect to meet you here,” she said somewhat shyly, a bit intimidated by their presence. Nevaeh couldn't help but notice that whenever she encountered the brothers, something supernatural always seemed to be afoot. And here they were once more, in an Occult Shop.

Sam noticed her hesitation, trying to break her social resistance a little, “We overheard your question about protective sigils. We've been looking into something related to that as well,” Sam gently explained.

Nevaeh, still somewhat taken aback, inquired, “Oh, uh - So you’re saying that you’re actually into this stuff? That’s unusual. What are you looking for?”

Sam glanced back at Dean, who nodded his approval to share the true purpose of their presence in Rock Springs. While the Winchesters typically kept their hunting endeavors a secret from civilians, they believed Nevaeh could hold the key they needed.

Sam answered, “We're researching some supernatural occurrences here like unexplained events, strange symbols, that sort of thing.”

Dean chimed in, stepping a little away to create space for Nevaeh to feel comfortable in. In all honesty, the woman looked slightly frightened.

“We noticed that there is a lot of demonic activities happening here… And to be honest, this is kinda how we got into this accident yesterday.”

Nevaeh nodded, slowly closing the book and cradling it in her lap. She nervously adjusted her posture. “Wow uhm, so you’re hunters? That explains a lot.”

Sam expressed his genuine guilt,“I’m sorry we kinda lied to you, Nevaeh.”

She offered an awkward smile and replied, “No, no. I get it, it’s just not something… everyone does.”

Although Nevaeh appeared outwardly calm and composed, underneath her poised demeanor, she was in turmoil. She was silently screaming inside her own mind.

Nevaeh had unwillingly stumbled into an unfortunate situation, dealing with hunters whose prey was the very same demons she had been fleeing. Her emotions raced, and she felt lost, trapped in a sea of confusion. She questioned herself, wondering why she couldn't escape from the grip of these supernatural happenings. While she had distanced herself from her father, she couldn't help but contemplate whether he had motives other than exploiting her unique abilities. Maybe her father also loved his daughter and not only God.

“So, what do you want from me again?” She asked again.

Dean smiled, attempting to build a semblance of trust between them. “Is there any chance you know stuff about… a nephilim?

Nevaeh raised her eyebrows and averted her gaze, unsure about revealing her knowledge or her true nature, “Are you hunting one?”

“No, no—,” Sam interjected, seeking to clarify, “We’re trying to track it down, as it attracts so many demons. You know, before anyone dies because of the demons.”

A critical expression laced over her face, “Sure, but what should a nephilim do about that? It doesn’t need demons to guide over them or something. Such a creature is powerful,” she responded, growing increasingly annoyed as she indirectly referred to herself. She resented addressing her own kind as "it," feeling dehumanized and isolated.

“We don't fully understand the connection between demons and nephilim,” Sam clarified, but his explanation only seemed to heighten Nevaeh's suspicion. Her body language became defensive, signaling her growing discomfort.

“Let’s say you do catch it, then what?” she pressed.

Dean, sensing the urgency of their mission, cleared his throat and answered, “Well, we happen to be acquainted with an angel-“

Sam interjected, giving Dean a stern look, "You can't just tell her!"

“Yes, I can. you know how crucial this is,” Dean’s gaze headed back to the striking eyes of Nevaeh, who fumbled with her fingernails, “Look, there's an angel who is currently in a conflict with Heaven. Lucifer has been set free and is possibly attempting to exterminate humankind. We don't want to harm the nephilim, but we're hoping it can assist us in putting Lucifer back in his cage.”

With the brief yet informative explanation, Nevaeh visibly relaxed and gestured that she was ready to leave. The two men followed her, and as they walked back to the repair shop, a heavy silence enveloped them.

Nevaeh utilized this quiet interlude to ponder the brothers' request. She had no intention of revealing her true nature, as she held deep reservations about the Winchesters and their angelic ally, suspecting the angel might be deceptive.

However, she couldn't simply stand by and let her father unleash unspeakable horrors upon the world. The newfound information on the goals of Lucifer let her previous hope totally vanish, only bringing her rage to cook more.

Before they entered the garage, she stopped and turned to face the towering men, her expression one of distrust and concern.

“Okay. Then, you tell me all you know about Lucifer’s wrongdoings and I’ll research the nephilim for you, and I’ll accompany you both after your car was fixed. I have my personal reasons to help you,” she declared, making her intentions abundantly clear.

“Thank you so much, but you don’t have to come along,” Sam responded with a tone of care. Nevaeh shook her head firmly, her disagreement evident.

“Either this way or no way. Call me when you decided.” Her harsh voice said, before she entered the repair shop, only to pay the bills for the towing service and have a short chat with Joshua. Dean watched her silhouette as she went about her business.

He chuckled, his interest piqued, “I've got to admit, I'm intrigued. A woman who's not afraid to take charge? I'm all ears’.”

“Get a grip, Dean. Let's focus on fixing the car, and I'll take care of getting us some phones,” Sam suggested, breaking the somewhat odd atmosphere that lingered after their conversation.

The younger Winchester couldn’t help but question why Nevaeh was involved in all of this again and again. Though the answer still floated in the future.

[saltywithsarcasm]

Posted chapter three of Hair of Gold

Sanji strolls into Nami's office, a tray with a vibrant fruity cocktail in his hand and smiles as he sees her deep in concentration, her brow slightly furrowed over her work.

“Hey, Nami-swan! Thought you could use a little break.” He swoons, setting the drink down on her desk with a casual wink and Nami looks up, her expression softening as she sees the drink.

“Thanks, Sanji.” She says, her tone polite but still carrying a hint of irritation, reminding him of the fight he had with Luffy back on Whole Cake Island. Sanji feels a pang of regret, knowing that his actions back then still weigh on her mind and he's been trying to make things up to both her and Luffy ever since, even giving Luffy more food than usual. Although their captain seems to have already forgiven him, she has not. He hopes that this small gesture might start to mend things between them. “You can go now.”

Sanji stands there, shuffling on his feet and tries to maintain his cool but there's a hint of nervousness in his movements. His eyes flicker around, avoiding direct contact with Nami's and his hands find their way into his pockets, fidgeting slightly.

“Just call for me if you need anything.” Sanji’s usual suave demeanor replaced with an almost desperate eagerness and leans in slightly, a hopeful smile stretching across his face, his voice a bit too enthusiastic. His eyes are wide, almost pleading as if he's trying too hard to get on her good side. His hands still fidgeting nervously, betraying his attempt to appear nonchalant. “I’ll be an earshot away.”

“Mm-hm.” Nami is already ignoring him as she gets back to her charts, her focus completely shifting away from Sanji. This kills him a bit inside; His shoulders slump slightly and the hopeful light in his eyes dims. He stands there for a moment longer, swallowing hard before turning away with a forced smile, trying to mask the sting of her indifference. “Sanji.” He turns on his heel, eager to fulfill whatever request she might have. “Luffy told me you had a panic attack earlier, you okay?”

“Of course, Nami, dear. Don’t worry about me.” Sanji motions to her reassuringly, relieved that even though she’s still clearly mad at him, the fact that she still cares enough to ask means a lot. The navigator, however, looks at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised as she crosses her arms, clearly not buying it just yet. “It was nothing, just…got caught up in my thoughts.”

“About Big Mom or your family?” Sanji hesitates, not wanting to burden Nami with his own problems, knowing she’s got enough on her plate but also knows that she’s persistent and will get the information out of him one way or another.

“I'm worried my family might try something like that again…” Sanji is afraid of Big Mom and he knows the rest of the crew shares that fear but despite that looming threat, he finds comfort in his trust for Luffy. He believes wholeheartedly that their captain will protect them all, no matter how terrifying she is. “And I don't want you guys to get hurt because of me.”

“I doubt your father-I mean, that man will try anything again.” Nami turns in her chair to face him, her expression serious and he forces a smile, doing his best to change the subject.

“So, what's the next island on our route?”

“You know we won’t let them near you again, right?” Sanji's smile falters slightly as he realizes his attempt hasn't worked and deflates a bit, giving a small nod in acknowledgment. “And Vito from Capone's crew offered to send some extra muscle to the Baratie to protect Zeff and his men for you.”

“…Huh?” Sanji tilts his head, trying to place the name then it hits him, Vito is the weird guy who was really infatuated him when he was taken from Zou. “Why would do that? We’re from rival crews.”

They maybe be in shaky alliance with them but it’s nothing like their alliance with Law.

“Don’t know but he was asking if you had vivre card too.” Sanji feels his skin crawl because Vito's interest wasn't even in him as a person but because of his family, family he wants nothing to do with. “It’s a little odd but if him being a fanboy benefits us, I suggest giving him a little attention when we run into their crew again.” Sanji sighs, knowing she's right. Despite his discomfort around the man, the idea of some of Capone's men watching out for Zeff does bring him a small sense of comfort. “But if he starts acting a little too weird, let us know and we’ll get him to back off.”

“Anything for you, my sweet!” Sanji gives a bow to her and freezes for a moment when he feels her hand in his hair, ruffling it approvingly.

“Good boy.” She tells him and Sanji practically gushes, his heart racing with excitement from the praise and slight display of affection after she’s been giving him the cold shoulder recently.

Sanji leaves her to her work, feeling like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders and walks away with a spring in his step, heading back to the kitchen to whip something for lunch.

[whisperingexecutioner]

“Maternal” | Pesanta drabble (RE4)

____________________________________________________

Summary:

A moment of solace between the Black Robe and a lost village boy.

Notes:   

Fandom: Resident Evil 4 (remake) Setting: Lakeside Settlement (location) Pairing: N/A Theme: Hurt/Comfort/Fluff Prompt: Comfort Attire: The usual robe

Inspiration: Just wanted to write something special for everyone's favorite bb gorl; Pesanta genuinely deserves more love~

Rating: sfw

____________________________________________________

Pesanta studied the young boy's startled expression, his clear, doll like silver eyes meeting her amber gaze. Her appearance clearly frightened the child, but he hadn't ran. Maybe if she hadn't been gifted with such a vicious countenance, then he wouldn't be peering at her in such a way. Such trivial things as physical appearance were no longer a matter of her concern.

The child though...   

Catching a hint of rising panic in his eyes when she tried to further approach him, she opted to change course, instead lowering herself to one knee. It was fairly obvious that her mere presence alarmed the boy, but he seemed -to some degree- at least a little less distressed now that she was closer to eye level with him. She sighed, a soft rumbling sound leaving her as she did so. He couldn't be more than six or seven years old. To think that a single child had survived so long in this accursed village and was seemingly untouched by its plague was remarkable, and nothing short of a miracle. The young boy was so very different than Ramon, both in looks and demeanor, but Pesanta couldn't help herself from feeling a deep sorrow at the memories he mustered up within her. The many sleepless nights, that icy feeling in her heart that never quite went away. It was a stab of regret for the one time she wasn't present when her former master, her charge, needed her the most. His infatuation with that blonde agent driving him to act arrogantly, coupled with her own failure to protect him, had cost the young count his life. Her absence had been an error, a fatal mistake that she would undoubtedly take with her to her grave. There was no atonement to be made, no way to undo that which was already done but, perhaps here, in this abandoned child, she might be able to find some small measure of comfort. Perhaps even long awaited peace. 

The child visibly stiffened as Pesanta waved toward him, motioning for him to come closer, and, though greatly apprehensive, he began to draw nearer. After a few more moments of careful deliberating and creeping bird-like steps, the boy was finally within arm's reach. Pesanta released a chest-deep sigh, slowly, calmly expelling the held breath. Lifting her gaze from the ground to his face, she once again caught sight of his striking silver-gray eyes. She continued to stare into those weary depths, easily getting lost in their beauty and the lonely child-like innocence that only one of such youth could possess. Ramon had been young once, and much kinder were those days. The days which she sometimes yearned to return to even if they were all but lost to anyone now. Who are you? she can hear him suddenly asking in Italian, voice a shy quiver. Are you...alone? His tone is light, quiet, like the echo of some lost memory returning. Tilting her head slightly to one side, Pesanta rumbled out a low, in-human response, knowing full well he probably wouldn't understand her. She was different now, her body, one that had once been nothing more than human, now greater resembled those of the monstrosities that roamed this place at night. Her altered vocal cords were no longer capable of human speech, and thus produced more animalistic tones and noises. Regardless... Shortly after the verbal exchange had taken place, Pesanta took a bold step, snaking both lanky arms around the child and pulling him into a motherly embrace. He was so small, delicate, a thing altogether precious and equally irreplaceable. For a moment there was a trace of dread crawling across his features, but it quickly vanished. Following his brief trepidation, the boy allowed himself to slowly relax, relishing in the warmth radiating from his new companion. Pesanta cast a glance downward just as the young lad began to lean close, pressing his small frame into her lavish silken robes. Folding both sleeves about him, she held him close, finding a proper setting position and making herself comfortable. Currently being this close to the docks offered a perfect view of the late evening sky, and it was already growing late. By the time the first vibrant streaks of red and pink were tearing across the blue of dusk, the child was already asleep and Pesanta was settling in to watch what was quite possibly the most beautiful sunset she had seen in years. The magnificent sight increased two-fold as its colorful reflection stretched out over the lake, and for the first time in quite a long time, Pesanta remembered, in a small measure, what peace felt like.

[kidge-planet]

KIDGE headcanon 10:

In the episodes between season 7 and 8, there were a couple of important meetings that Keith and Pidge needed to prepare for. The first was on Earth ( season7), and the other was on the Atlas. My headcanon for how they prepared the second meeting is that due to the constant disruptions they faced when working in common areas, Keith and Pidge decided work in Keith's quarters. at least there, there was no distractions...

They worked on the meeting for a few houres but at some point, Pidge couldn't help it, she fell asleep.

Keith deliberated on his options. He didn't want to wake her, understanding the importance of rest for her well-being. However, leaving her to sleep in his room was not a viable solution either (unfortunately) . Resolute in his decision, he carefully lifted Pidge into his arms, mindful not to disturb her slumber. It was a fleeting moment of vulnerability that struck him, her small form cradled against his chest. He had never been so close to her.

With Pidge in his arms, Keith faced the challenge of finding a suitable place for her to rest. He realized he needed access to her room, but he lacked the key. He weighed his options, trying to decide who could assist him without arousing suspicion. Matt was quickly dismissed, he would not be happy to find out that she fell asleep in his room... and Colleen was known for her stern demeanor, so that was no... That left Sam, Pidge's father, as his best bet.

As Keith navigated the corridor with Pidge in his arms, he caught sight of Colleen approaching. Panic surged within him, knowing the implications of being discovered in this situation.

"Hey, Colleen," he greeted, attempting to sound casual despite his unease.

She eyed him curiously, her gaze falling on Pidge. "Hello, Keith. It seems you've found our little night owl. Where was she?"

Keith hesitated, avoiding direct eye contact. "Oh, well, we were working on the meeting preparations, and she, um, fell asleep."

Colleen raised an eyebrow, her expression a mix of skepticism and amusement. "You should have woken her."

"I know, I just... she's been lacking sleep lately, and I didn't want to disturb her."

Colleen nodded, seeming to understand his reasoning. "So, why are you here with her in your arms?"

Keith's mind raced for an explanation, settling on a partial truth. "I was actually looking for you. I need your help to unlock her room."

A hint of a smile appeared on Colleen's lips. "Of course, follow me."

They reached Pidge's room, and Colleen deftly unlocked the door. "There you go."

Keith gently placed Pidge on her bed, ensuring her comfort. He took a moment to tuck her in, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. An impulse overcame him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, unable to resist the urge.

As he turned to leave, he found Colleen still standing in the hallway, an amused glint in her eyes. Keith's face flushed crimson as he stammered, feeling caught.

"Um, this isn't what it looks like, I swear..." He blushed.

Colleen placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Shh, you're going to wake her. You're a good friend to her, Keith. Just remember, if you ever hurt her, I won't hesitate to take action."

Keith nodded, his heart racing for an entirely different reason now. "I understand. Thank you, Colleen."

"You know, you might have chance with her. She likes you a lot..."

Colleen said as she started to walk away.

Keith froze.

Maybe he had a chance?..

[alexiela73]

tamaki asking a shy, fem/ua student out together. but tomura also has eyes on the same girl and decides to take her so she would only be with him? if that's too much then it's fine

I don't often think of Tamaki and Shigaraki in the same line of thought, but yes! This one feels like it could get a bit too long, regrettably I’ll be writing it a certain way to keep it on the shorter end. Also, it got a bit creepy throughout Shigaraki’s end and I’m sorry?

Tamaki had no idea that when he asked you out a few months ago that you would also be the obsession of one of the top villains of Japan. Would it have deterred him? Its hard to say, because the conflict alone makes him feel anxiety-stricken, but it didn't matter now.

It didn't matter because you were reported missing fifteen hours ago by one of the teachers, and no one has been able to locate you since.

Tamaki remembered vividly the day he'd asked you out- his pointed ears were red with embarrassment, and try as he might, he couldn't get the sentence out without stammering or mumbling too quietly. You had looked so beautiful, the sun glinting off your hair, your eyes shyly lowering to the ground.

You were one of the quietest people in the school, and yet- Tamaki thought you were so incredibly brave. Always the first to jump in the way of helping others, always giving the others the credit for your hard effort. He just...fell for you in a way that not even his fear of life could control.

When you had tentatively agreed, clearly wanting to give him a chance, the two of you had taken it slow. The first month was just a lot of coffee and dinner dates- maybe more then most people have. Tamaki's favorite moment was when you came to his dorm and met his cat Little.

Little was a little white cat with a black mask and tiny pinned ears. Forgetting your nervousness, he'd watched you dote on the little cat and fall ever the harder for you.

Now though he thought he'd puke, sick with worry. Where could you be, he thought? Where on earth would you go? This wasn’t like you.

“I’ll find you, y/n,” he had muttered. “I promise.”

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

The League of Villains hadn’t understood what Shigaraki had been thinking when he had asked to take you. Yes, you were a U.A student but your quirk wasn’t overly powerful, your demeanor too soft for the villains taste, and Shigaraki wouldn’t allow anyone to extract any info from you.

In fact, the moment you’d been captured and brought back, Shigaraki had stared at your unconscious form for a few minutes before almost gingerly lifting you.

“Leave us,” he’d commanded, eyes never straying from you.

Toga had looked at Dabi in bewilderment, shrugged and then left with the rest. Shigaraki had taken you to another area of the base, one that was surprisingly more homey. 

There was a room- it was a decent size, painted a pale pink. There was a beautiful canopy bed in the middle, with satin sheets, a beautiful flower duvet and a few squishmallows. There was a desk, shelves with books and art supplies, a tv on the wall and a rack of movies. There was even a window, and what felt like natural light filtering through- but upon trying to look out of it, there was a lit up picture of a park.

There was an attached bathroom, also rather cute in design, with birds gracing the walls and some toiletries at the sink.

He’d put you in the bed, made sure you weren’t wounded, and then put a bracelet on your wrist- one that locked in place.

That was yesterday.

Today, you had woken, frightened and unsure. At first you’d been groggy- you’d had a good hit to the head, but when you remember that previously you’d been face to face with Toga, you had nearly jumped from the bed.

Panic filled you as you faced this unknown and perfectly painted room. “What-hello?” you’d called. “Hello? Anyone?” 

Immediately you ran to the window and tried to open it, but when the window wouldn’t budge and you saw the ‘park’, you swallowed hard. A fake window? The door was locked and heavily enforced...what was this room? Where were you? How long had it been?

“I-its okay,” you told yourself, “Tamaki will find you.”

It was hours of you checking behind furniture, looking over every square inch of the bathroom for some kind of exist, any hint as to what was going on, before you heard the sound of a lock opening.

Immediately you moved to the other side of the bed and grabbed a lamp, ripping the cord from the wall and holding it like a weapon.

When the door opened, you saw Shigaraki step through with a tray of food. Pausing when he saw you, it took a moment to recognize him without the hands, and your stomach flopped. He looked familiar but...in a different way too.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. He brought the tray over to the desk, placing it down. “You must be hungry. Do you have any allergies? I had them make you bacon and sausage in case you didn’t like one or the other. There’s also orange juice, hashed browns, toast-”

“Where am I? What do you want from me?” you cut him off, holding out the lamp. If only your quirk were more powerful- this man could kill you so easily, you thought, but refused to show it. 

Shigaraki tilted his head a bit. “What do I want from you?” he asked, slowly starting to walk around the bed. “I want you, y/n. I love you.”

“Don’t get any closer! You don’t love me!” Backing up till your back bumped into the wall, you swung the lamp when he got too close. Unfortunately he was fast, his hand crashing it down out of your fingers and onto the floor. “Don’t touch me-!”

Shigaraki’s hand caught your wrist tight, lifting and pinning it above your head. You tried to swing with the other, but he caught that one too and soon had both pinned. 

“I would never hurt you, y/n,” he said softly, red pupils glinting through the white strands falling over his face. “’Everyone can be saved’ you said on the TV, remember? When you were standing with your...little friend,” he said, tilting his head back.

The way he suddenly looked at you was so cold and haunting...so merciless. The TV....you remembered doing an interview at U.A the other week with Tamaki- a reporter had caught you both on the way to your date. 

“...What do you want from me?” you asked again, voice weak. 

A soft chuckle left him, and his newly free hand moved to brush his knuckles down your cheek. “Only for you to love me, y/n,” he said, his eyes softening a bit.

Swallowing again, you turned your face away, shaking. “I don’t love you. They’ll find you, you know. The heroes and Tamaki-,” you started, but his laughter cut you off.

What scared you most was the hint of glee in his eyes.

“I’m counting on them finding me,” he says, lips pulling in a twisted smile. “Then... I’ll kill him.”

[reddragon-cowboy]

Stoicism. Bushido. Apathy

Spike doesn’t give too much thought to worry or anxiety. When things turn left or right, things that take a turn for the worst, things that are out of his control, he allows it to run its course as he accepts the reality of the situation with little hint of stress – not allowing the futures uncertainty to influence his attitude in the moment of utter doom. He prefers to portray a calm, easy-going demeanor in those situations, even finding a way to derive pleasure in those last, small moments in the wake of disaster, such as casually smoking a cigarette when he thought he was gonna die. This implies he likes to take a pause and enjoy the simple things, even when things might be falling apart around him. Spike refuses to panic and give in to fear, knowing death is a certainty in an instance he can no longer control his fate, so there’s no point in worrying what’s inevitable.

This influences his view on death where he has no fear of it. Even when he was younger there was no such fear. And as a full adult, he believes he has died once in the past, but this mindset he adopts is based on him faking his death to leave the crime syndicate and elope with his lover to start a new life. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned. And her abandonment caused him to think there’s no point in living, in being alive, if he can’t have love – love is the strongest motivator that inspires life to sprout and burst within him. Without it, he feels dead. He never felt truly alive until he met her, and it’s the period where he truly felt he had something to lose – her.

This mindset also falls in line with Bushido, the way of the Samurai: to consider oneself dead so as to not fear death when it comes upon you, allows him to be fearless and accept when the time comes. Which was important to the Samurai because they may be called upon to give their life at any moment – in a life of service or seppuku ( the form of taking ones life in an act of honor). He takes the Samurai spirit during his adolescence while training in the syndicate along with learning Jeet kune do under Mao, until the belief wavers when he meets Julia where he has an actual reason to live, to which the idea of dying scared him for the first time in his life. He then desires to experience true freedom and liberation to live the life he wants while in love – the way of Jeet kune do.

But this stoic mindset he adopts could be misleading to others. Mistaken for being a stoic, he really wears an apathetic countenance due to depression. Not that he’s uncaring about things or people, but he’s lost the will to care about what happens to him. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for other people, their well-being, and life in general; he’s depressed, and it makes it difficult to find joy in life. And as a realist deep down, he accepts the reality of a situation in a realistic way, whether it can be helped or not. If it can be helped, he’ll jump to action to prevent injury to the best of his ability, if not, he moves on and tries not to dwell on it. Seeming apathetic, he may have little words to say as well, following how a samurai should speak: Seldom and only say what is needed, in which allows the other party to try to decipher the small meanings hidden within his words.

[blackcardz]

 standing  frozen,  trying  to  piece  together  what  he  had  just  witnessed.  this  whole  scene  seemed  like  something  straight  out  of  a  thriller  he  would  watch  to  unwind,  but  now  it  was  real,  raw,  and  right  in  front  of  him.  he  swallowed  hard,  locking  eyes  with  ari  as  she  approached  him,  calm  as  ever.  ❛  remind  me  never  to  get  on  your  bad  side.  ❜  he  half  joked,  trying  to  hide  the  shock  in  his  voice.  but  he  couldn't  help  the  hint  of  awe  mixed  in  with  the  adrenaline  pounding  in  his  chest.  he  looked  over  her  shoulder,  eyes  darting,  ❛  did  you  ..  was  he  really  going  to  ..  ❜  he  trailed  off,  then  took  a  deep  breath,  grounding  himself.

 ari's  calm  demeanor  was  unsettling  but  comforting  in  the  strangest  way.  he  blinked  hard,  focusing  on  her  instead  of  the  blood  specked  on  her  cheek.  ❛  are  you  okay  ?  because,  um,  we  might  need  to  get  out  of  here  ..  like  now.  you  are  not  exactly,  you  know,  innocent  looking  right  now.  ❜  he  opened  the  passenger  side  door  for  her  to  slip  in,  barely  hiding  his  urge  to  run  but  feeling  a  surge  of  protectiveness  too.  it  was  like  he  needed  to  keep  his  cool  if  he  wanted  to  stay  on  ari's  level  -  because  he  could  tell  she'd  only  done  what  she  thought  she  had  to.

 his  hands  shook  slightly  as  he  gripped  the  steering  wheel,  glancing  nervously  in  the  rearview  mirror  every  few  seconds,  half  expecting  the  older  kim  brother  or  anyone  else  to  come  tearing  out  of  the  mansion  after  them.  he  cleared  his  throat,  trying  to  focus  on  the  road  but  feeling  his  heart  hammering  in  his  chest.  ❛  so  ..  that  was  ..  intense.  ❜  he  muttered,  glancing  over  at  ari  with  a  shaky  smile  that  was  half  impressed,  half  nervous.  he  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  wheel,  the  sound  quick  and  jittery  as  he  finally  eased  the  car  out  of  the  parking  lot,  barely  resisting  the  urge  to  speed  off.

 the  streetlights  flashed  over  them  in  intervals  as  they  drove,  and  he  threw  a  quick  look  at  her.  ❛  are  you  sure  you  are  okay  ?  because  i  ..  i  think  i'm  going  to  need  at  least  ten  deep  breaths  before  my  pulse  goes  back  to  normal.  ❜  he  forced  a  laugh  but  couldn't  help  the  way  his  voice  cracked  slightly,  hands  gripping  tighter  whenever  he  saw  the  dark  shadows  stretching  along  the  quiet  streets.  trying  to  keep  his  voice  calm,  he  said.  ❛  if  we  don't  get  pulled  over  for  speeding,  it  will  be  a  miracle.  but  maybe  ..  maybe  just  a  little  faster  ?  ❜  his  eyes  darted  back  to  the  road,  focused  but  laced  with  barely  contained  panic,  urging  them  both  silently  to  get  as  far  away  as  possible.

Ari didn't like how the younger brother was staring at Hyunwoo. When he walked away, the younger Kim jolted as if he was going to attack, Ari holding is wrist still and the older brother trying to calm the younger down.

"We can't start something here, they'll catch us."

Ari held her ground a bit longer, waiting until Hyunwoo was past the elevator and she watched it close. Then another few seconds later, glaring between the two men. A silent promise and threat that they wouldn't be getting away with their threat towards her friends -- or a dare to try something. She waited a full two minutes before she was walking away and with a calm, yet hurried walk, past the expensive shallow people, the nice music, expensive champagne, then outside away from the mansion.

Of course something would happen when she didn't have her two bodyguards. She spotted Hyunwoo out by the cars and rushed the rest of the way to meet up with him, all while attempting to call her father at the same time to tell him of the situation and warn him of the potential future if the Kim brothers tried something like this again. She hoped it was idle threats from the boys pretending to act like they were stronger than they were and it would never go past that.

But it didn't. She finally caught up with Hyunwoo, still waiting for her father to answer the phone and safely get in his car and urge him to drive back to her house where she could explain everything and how to keep him safe. Only, when she heard running she turned and found the younger Kim brother running right at them. Ari assumed it was for her, but his eyes seemed focused on Hyunwoo, and she immediately interfered by pushing herself in front of the brothers path to draw his attention away. She dropped her phone just as her father answered.

The knife he held was suddenly against her throat and Ari was pinned on top of the hood of some luxury car. Both her hands were wrapped around the brother's wrist, pushing against the force he tried to use in attempts to kill her, gritting out in exertion as she managed to lift a leg and kick a heeled foot behind his knee and bring him down. Ari didn't hesitate; she caught his blade he still held and used it to jab it right in to the side of his neck just as she'd been taught to do by her father. It was the messiest way to kill someone, but one of the quickest.

It wasn't her first kill, either, so Ari stood up panting in her breath as she watched the younger Kim brother bleed out on the concrete of the parking lot, wiping a finger against her lip and face -- it smeared the specks of blood that had flicked on her cheek when she stabbed him. Ari's focus shifted from the dead body, then to Hyunwoo, making sure he was safe. Or not passed out. Just as calm as she'd been inside followed to her now as she approached her friend and tried catching his gaze, then snapped right out of it, looking over her shoulder.

She'd killed the younger brother; but where was the older one?

[generalmacek]

Tekken 8 from Nina's perspective, Chapter Two - Wayward Power

Rebuilt Millennium Tower, Tokyo, Japan

---

Nina's trip to Tokyo was brief, as the jet she took was quite fast and shortened her nerves a lot. She never got a call from Kazuya like that during all the time she was working with him since she got hired by G-Corporation after her sister Anna retired under mysterious circumstances. She worked hard on keeping all the stuff she did to rebuild Mishima Zaibatsu a secret, that meant declaring Zaibatsu territories 'lost forever' and withdrew all G-Corporation forces to face the Yggdrasil Rebellion in the north. Thoughts about what Kazuya wanted raced through her head all the way from the Tokyo airport to Millennium Tower which seemed to be rebuilt quite quickly, as she measured it with her eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses and holding one of its legs with her hand. 

"The damage does not seem to be noticeable at all." She said to herself as she walked inside the Tower. Normally, G-Corporation troopers would open fire as soon as she'd start climbing the stairs but she got used to greetings and salutes, as she had to report to Kazuya annually. She nodded her head to every soldier she met and went towards the elevator, waiting for the machine to open and walked in, pressing the button for Kazuya's office on top and leaned against the plated wall, sighing. She couldn't stop thinking about what she saw aboard the Iron Fist, Kazuya mopping the floor with Jin like that... she was impressed, but at the same time terrified. If Kazuya can beat his son just like that, what chance does she have?

The elevator rang its bell as it stopped on the floor leading to Kazuya's office. As the door opened, she walked out of the machine in a confident step, her stiletto heels clicking upon the marble floor and upon reaching the tall metal door, she knocked on the door.

"Come in." Kazuya said in Japanese as he called her in. Nina took the door handle and opened the door, walking into his office slowly and confidently. She watched the most powerful man on Earth with her eyes hidden behind glasses, her thoughts slowly betraying her. One mistake, one slight misstep, and all her plans would go erupt. It was worsening with each step she made and when she was close enough to Kazuya as she was allowed, those thoughts went completely silent as her cold demeanor took over. Her breath stabilized into a calm manner, her eyes affirmed without a hint of panic as she took away her glasses and put a hand on her hip while standing in front of Kazuya Mishima.

"You called, Mishima?" Nina asked in a coldly calm tone. The man behind the desk in a crimson vest and tie nodded his head that was supported by his clenched fist.

"We have an ample opportunity, Williams." Kazuya started to speak with illustrious Japanese as his eyes watched the blonde carefully. "I want you to organize the new King of Iron Fist tournament. You will not be able to participate, however."

That brought up a dagger into Nina's heart a little bit, though she remained silent about it. "I understand. What would you like me to do? Just organize the whole thing?" 

Her question was answered with a firm tone from Kazuya. "I want you to make sure everything goes smoothly till the final round. Observe the fighters, mark their strengths and weaknesses. I want to know everything about those who make it to the finals."

Nina nodded her head, though the thought of not participating in the tournament left a bitter taste in her mouth. Though she threw it away, not intending to be distracted. "Understood. Anything else?"

Kazuya then leaned out from his seat and pulled some folders from the desk drawer, putting them on the desk and opened them, revealing photos of two individuals Nina knew only briefly, but she had a good memory on faces. 

"Claudio Serafino and Zafina. I want you to find them and make sure they make it to the final rounds, as well. They might not be participating in the tournament, knowing the risks of their discovery, so I want you to flush them out, wherever they are." Kazuya spoke in a calm, yet firm manner as he seemed adamant on having them there. "They are the key to my plan and I want them there. Do you understand, Williams?"

Nina nodded her head to Kazuya. "Loudly and clearly, Kazuya Mishima. I will go to help with the tournament organization and find those two. If that is all, I shall get to work immediately."

"Dismissed." Kazuya waved his hand at Nina to dismiss her, eyeing her carefully as Nina turned on the tip of her heel and began walking away, leaving the office soon after. Kazuya then went deep into his thoughts, refining his plan ever further.

As she left Kazuya's office, Nina let out a sigh. Not being able to participate in a tournament she was part of since the beginning had its sour taste, but Nina understood what she had to do right now. She took out her phone and called the tournament committee, telling them that she is effectively taking over all their responsibilities for the King of Iron Fist tournament 8 while making sure they send her all the intel and information to her to process it and send it then to Kazuya. After that was off the list and the responsibility was transferred to her, Nina then went to the G-Corporation headquarters to send out spies and drones across Italy to find Claudio and Zafina. Knowing Claudio, though briefly, they might be hiding in one of Sirius Marksmen's hideouts across Northern Italy.

It took hours and days since Kazuya gave her clear orders to oversee the tournament proceeding without any bumps and problems while finding the two fugitives. Nina got a report that Jin entered the tournament for Asia Block A, alongside the unknown girl Reina and the Korean Taekwondo martial artist, Hwoarang. She was her hands full in making sure the tournament was going on without trouble when one of the G-Corporation lieutenants came into her office to report they may have found where the fugitives were hiding - the Sirius Cathedral in Venice. Nina could not believe her own ears as it would be the very last place anyone would expect Claudio and Zafina to hide. Though Kazuya gave her little information why he wanted them at the tournament finals, Nina did not intend to defy him.

"Call in the Italian forces. Be quick." She said to the lieutenant while being on the move as well. Next stop, Venice.

[ramshackle-dweller]

Don’t mind me, having a Malleus-thinker moment...

I’ve been in love with the idea that Malleus knows way more about other students than they expect (and far more than anyone knows about him.) Like he’s never invited to things and spaces out on attending stuff but also he’s still at the school, you know? Like he’s still very much watching and listening while in class and around campus, even if he’s rarely approached. 

So he knows people’s names even though they’ve never spoken to each other before and despite what everyone might expect of the high-and-mighty Prince of Briar Valley, he’s genuinely invested in what he learns about others and commits it all to memory. 

Maybe he even develops the habit of recalling these facts, hoping it will aid him in building a rapport with his fellow students. Like it’s really kinda sweet, but like many of his quirks it often backfires into making him seem that much scarier. 

Then once he’s befriended the prefect it gets so much worse. Like he’s obsessed with spending time with his wondrous little child of man, who tells him all about their shenanigans and what the others around them are up to. So suddenly he knows even more about everyone else and his passing mentions of scenarios and conversations he wasn’t present for start to seem like ominous threats or proof he’s keeping tabs on others with malicious intent. 

Coming out of an interaction with Malleus feeling confused is a pretty standard occurrence but once there's an uptick in frequency and specificity the phenomenon goes from occasional head-scratcher to full blown campus-wide conspiracies regarding the fae prince.

“Good afternoon, Duce Spade.” The dragon fae’s low tone rumbled. Deuce’s head shot up so fast he nearly clipped it on one of the bookshelves in front of him. He whipped around, desperately trying to recover from his moment of panic. 

“Erk! Oh h-hey there Dorm Leader Malleus, sir!” He chirped respectfully, trying his best to maintain his latest attempt at his new honor student demeanor. The taller man was almost comically relaxed looking by comparison- shoulders back, gloved hand leafing through the books on the shelf beside where Deuce had been hunting through the bottom shelf. The fae’s dark eyebrows had shot up at the first-year’s energetic reaction and his face still wore a look of honest curiosity. 

Instinctively, the blue haired boy started to readjust his stiff posture to look more casual under the assumed judgment of Malleus’ electric green gaze. The dragon tilted his head, about to speak when he noticed the paper in Deuce’s hand. 

“History of Animal Magic?” 

“Oh- uh- yeah the next paper for Terin’s-” Duce froze as the dark haired man reached near where his shoulder was resting against the bookshelf. Malleus pulled a book from the shelf, his gaze never leaving the other’s face. 

“It’s up a few shelves from where you were looking.” Malleus' somewhat otherworldly features seemed to show the slightest hint of a smile as he held the book out. 

Deuce, who was admittedly still adjusting to being up-close with the fae folk, snapped out of whatever fascinated stupor had overtaken him and took hold of the book, bending slightly at the waist, ‘thank you’s and apologies falling from his lips in a jumbled mess. Malleus let out a small, almost unnoticeable noise of frustration. He wasn’t about to give up though, it’s not like the boy had run screaming yet… 

“Sebek mentioned that assignment, it was only just issued to you and yet you're already on top of it, I see. I commend you for your dedication to your assignments. I’m sure your mother is quite pleased with your progress here at the college. I know how eager you are to make her proud.” Malleus felt the slightest tingle of nervous energy- he was really doing quite well this time! He was being so friendly and having such a nice chat with this human underclassman!  

“Oh! Uh th-thanks! I’m glad it seems that way!” the younger man beamed a bit at the complement. Then his blood ran cold- wait what did the dorm leader know about his mom? How could he mention something so specific? Malleus seemed about to speak again when Deuce shuffled a few steps backwards, “Well! I better get on it now that I have the book! Sorry to rush off Mr. Malleus sir! Thank you again!” he chimed frantically. Malleus simply nodded and waved him off calmly,

“On your way then, Deuce Spade. Take Care.” The prince dismissed the other gracefully as Deuce hotfooted it out of the library. 

Later that evening, he recounted the run-in with his friends…. 

“I dunno man, maybe he’s psychic?” Ace threw his hands up in surrender. 

“Is that something fae can do?” Deuce breathed, hugging the book to his chest as he walked. Grim’s ears lifted slightly as he rode on the prefect’s shoulders. 

“Woooah if they can I wanna learn!! Human, we must find a fae student who will teach me! The great Grim demands it!” He announced, thumping his padded paw on his ride’s forehead. 

“I dunno, maybe he just listens? I mean, you do talk about your mom to us a lot. I know it’s one of the first  things I would mention when talking about you.” the perfect assured Deuce with a smile.

“Ooooor He’s got super spooky evil spies all over campus that watch us all and report back to him.” Ace grinned, elbowing Deuce in the ribs.

“Oh come on, Ace…” 

“What? It’s not like you’ve ever met the guy, right? Trust me, Prefect, everyone says he's like, super scary!” 

“Still seems kinda rude to accuse people of having evil henchmen.” The perfect sighed. 

“Bold statement coming from a henchman!” Grim snickered, pawing at their face again. 

“Bold actions from someone who can’t open a tuna can without a pull tab.” They replied with a threatening squint as the four arrived at Ramshackle dorm.

“Well, goodnight! Don’t spend all night out walking around with your weirdo Diasomnia friend! He might be one of Malleus’ spies!” Ace called with a wave as he and Deuce turned to leave. 

“Hornton isn’t a spy, he’s my friend.” the perfect huffed, shaking their head as they retreated inside the rickety old building, Grim hopping off their shoulders. With a rattle, the old door shut and the prefect stretched a bit, already watching the window for the first sign of little green fairy lights.

[pontevoix]

annie’s  scream  in  the  forest  terrifies  him.  he  is  stationed  at  the  perimeter  of  the  forest,  so  the  sound  is  distant  — but  still,  he  had  covered  his  ears.  he  never  heard  annie  need  to  use  the  scream  before,  &  he  hates  it.  annie  is  cold,  sharp,  quiet.  she  isn’t  loud,  but  her  scream  is  loud.  it  made  bertolt’s  teeth  ache,  &  he  finds  that  the  sound  joins  the  panic  ringing  in  his  ears.

he  keeps  covering  his  ears.  even  after  the  scream  breaks.  even  when  conversations  start  to  spawn,  rapid-fire  questions  of  soldiers  trying  to  understand  &  sudden  awareness  of  the  rush  of  pure  titans  that  the  scream  had  invited.

he  covers  his  ears  too  long.  he  tries  to  gather  himself.  &  thinks  that  if  someone  looked  at  him  a  little  too  long,  then  he  would  might  accidentally  give  too  much  of  himself  away  —  he  hates  this,  honestly.  hates  it.  hates  trying  to  keep  the  stories  straight  &  keep  track  of  reiner’s  stories  &  losing  track  of  the  things  that  annie  has  had  to  do.

because  he  remembers  everything.  it’s  still  not  enough.

no  one  looks  at  him.  not  until  bertolt  joins  formations,  until  he  becomes  uniform  again.

still,  he  only  starts  to  feel  himself  a  little  better  when  he’s  back  on  his  horse  —  when  he’s  riding  closer  to  paradis  walls  &  wondering  when  the  demon’s  walls  started  providing  a  type  of  safety.

he  hopes  annie  is  okay.  he  doesn’t  think  he  has  it  in  him  to  help  her  if  she’s  not.  so  he  leans  down,  murmurs  encouragements  to  his  horse.  he  feels  too  little  &  feels  too  much.

later,  he  &  reiner  duck  into  the  woods  at  headquarters.  reiner  swears  &  kicks  a  tree  &  reiner  buries  his  head  in  his  hands.

they  do  the  same  thing  again  later,  when  annie  is  actually  captured.  when  she  turns  to  crystal.  it  feels  like  a  really  shitty  way  to  end  teenage  daydreams.

yes.  he  looks  at  her.  he  likes  how  neatly  she  ties  her  hair.  he  like  the  frankness  of  her  demeanor.  he  likes  that  she  doesn’t  needle  him  about  colossus,  that  she  can  handle  her  own.  but  mostly,  he  is  young.  he  trusts  her.  as  a  warrior  &  as  comrade.

&  beyond  that,  she  matches  his  lifespan.  she  is  poisoned  like  him.  she  is  killer  like  him.  it’s  just  .  .  .  neat  to  picture  the  easy  future.  easy  things.  domestic  things.  things  that  bertolt,  honestly,  doesn’t  really  see  annie  ever  wanting  from  him  but  what’s  the  harm  ?

it  doesn’t  occur  to  him  that  there  are  different  ways  to  picture  domesticity.  to  picture  himself  as  something  a  little  less  conventional.  to  have  the  freedom  to  think  about  what  it  means  when  reiner  kisses  adrenaline  into  him  when  they  think  they’re  going  home.

reiner  goes  home.  bertolt  just  chases  safety,  chases  new  life.

in  the  process,  he  feels  too  little.  he  feels  too  much.

his  father  let  him  feel  things.  told  him  that  men  who  felt  a  lot  knew  a  lot  of  life.  he  watched  his  son  cry  something  frustrated  once  when  it  had  been  a  bad  harvest.  soil  kept  coming  up  dry.  there  were  no  worms,  no  hints  of  life.  life  was  yellow  &  dry  &  it  had  everything  to  do  with  the  rain  season.  he  watched  his  son  cry,  &  he  told  him  that  men  who  knew  a  lot  of  life  saw  all  parts  of  it.

his  father  let  him  feel  things.  depending  on  the  day,  what  bertolt  felt  was  enough  to  let  him  be  seen  or  to  make  him  a  spot  of  confusion.

everyone  has  good  days.  everyone  has  bad  days.

reiner  feels  too  much.  it  makes  him  a  better  person  than  bertolt.

&  yes.  maybe  bertolt  looks  at  him  too.  he  likes  his  hair  a  few  weeks  after  he’s  trimmed  it.  when  it’s  starting  to  fall  a  little  more  loosely.  he  likes  his  charm.  he  likes  his  warmth.  he  likes  his  steadiness  &  how  he  manages  to  ground  bertolt.  even  when  he’s  being  naive  &  optimistic.  even  when  he’s  being  awful  &  performative.

bertolt  drops  his  hand  a  bit.  he  pinches  some  of  the  fabric  of  reiner’s  shirt  &  tugs  at  it  a  little  bit  to  loosen  stray  pieces  of  dirt.  he’s  not  sure  if  it  helps  very  much.

‘  i  don’t  like  it  very  much  when  you  start  talking  philosophically,  ‘  he  decides.  bertolt  lets  the  fabric  of  reiner’s  shirt  drop,  but  he  can’t  bring  himself  to  retract  his  hand.  he  splays  his  hand  against  the  mid  of  reiner’s  shoulder  &  curls  his  fingers  a  little.

he  doesn’t  like  it  when  zeke  talks  philosophy,  either.  it  feels  a  little  desperate.  it  feels  a  little  vague.

it  doesn’t  sit  well  with  the  things  that  colossus  teaches.  that  things  are  just  arbitrary.  that  there  is  no  pointing  in  pointing  out  what’s  an  ideal,  what’s  a  life  sentence,  what  fills  the  space  in  between.

bertolt  shakes  his  head,  keeps  his  hand  still.  ‘  sorry.  not  you  specifically.  i  didn’t  help,  either.  i  just  mean  .  .  .  however  you  looked  at  me,  it  didn’t  have  very  much  to  do  with  any  way  that  we  talked.  probably.  ‘

he  rolls  his  neck,  tries  to  think  back.  he  doesn’t  speak  for  himself.  he  doesn’t  speak  towards  the  charm  &  the  warmth  &  the  steadiness.  he  had  been  the  one  to  kiss  reiner,  hadn’t  he  ?  this  time  ?  before  reiner  waved  it  off,  acted  like  he  hadn’t  asked  for  anything,  told  him  he  was  adrenaline.

he  feels  a  little  as  though  he’s  trying  to  give  reiner  a  way  out  of  caring  too  much.  because  he  always  cares  too  much.  without  boundary.  he  always  care  too  much,  &  it  makes  it  hard  for  bertolt  to  identify  any  of  the  personal  flares  that  might  set  him  apart  from  any  person  who  does  something  as  unthinkable  as  valuing  his  life.

it’s  a  very  base  kindness.  it’s  a  very  arbitrary  kindness.

&  reiner  is  still  volatile.  he  is  terse  to  hear  about  annie’s  survival,  so  bertolt  drops  his  hand.  reiner  turns  to  face  him.

‘  you  resent  her  for  crystalizing,  ‘  he  reasons.  he  combs  through  his  hair  with  his  fingers  so  that  it  might  be  a  little  less  in  his  way.

he  doesn’t  understand  the  resentment,  either.  he  supposes  it’s  a  part  of  caring  too  much.  he  supposes  it’s  a  part  of  surviving  too  much.

if  it’s  so  easy  for  reiner  to  resent  annie,  he  doen’t  see  why  he  can’t  resent  him  too.

they  had  all  been  warriors  in  paradis,  soldiers  in  paradis.  annie  had  a  reason  for  contempt,  but  they  had  all  been  children  fighting  childish  moments.

at  the  time,  bertolt  had  wished  that  they  would  just  stop  fighting.  now,  he  wonders  how  the  fight  never  stopped.

he  wonder,  too,  how  the  fight  turned  dirty.  it  shows  in  the  composure,  the  cold  confidence  that  reiner  laughs.  in  the  midst  of  all  his  charm,  his  warmth,  his  steadiness.

the  upturn  at  his  lips  makes  him  feel  too  solid.

bertolt  is  colossus,  but  he  feels  a  bit  like  annie  —  scrapping  &  raw  &  circling  his  opponent  because  there  are  parts  of  him  that  will  never  not  be  at  a  disadvantage.

he’s  not  sure  if  it’s  because  reiner  &  his  confidence,  grown  into  vice  war  chief.  he’s  not  sure  if  it’s  because  he  feels  drawn  to  reiner,  still.  he’s  not  sure  if  it’s  because  he  doesn’t  trust  his  own  survival  in  the  midst  of  all  this.

‘  you  always  scream.  you’re  very  noisy,  ‘  bertolt  mutters  &  tries  to  adjust  himself  back  into  something  a  little  more  military.  ‘  choosing  to  be  bratty  is  just  another  type  of  cheating,  anyway.  ‘

he  waves  a  hand.  feels  a  little  unfair.  bertolt  also  feels  less  fight  surging  between  them  when  reiner  shoves  something  goodnatured  at  him.

even  so,  he  feels  something  like  residual  petulance  ticking  at  him.  he  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  it.  he  doesn’t  mean  it.  he  doesn’t not  mean  it.

he’s  not  sure  how  reiner  can  claim  intimacy  around  him,  claim  ease  around  him  when  he’s  still  struggling  to  look  at  bertolt’s  life.

the  shared  mourning  space  of  livingman  &  deadman  is  a  tricky  one.

&  reiner  navigates  it  terribly.  bertolt  can’t  stop  himself  from  grimacing  at  the  prospect  of  four  more  years  spent  horribly.

some  life  is  better  than  no  life.

he  can’t  help  himself  from  grimacing  at  reiner’s  jest.  ‘  is  that  really  an  indulgence  to  you  ?  ‘  he  murmuring  a  response  without  thinking.

vices  are  fine.  sins  are  fine.

but  reiner  only  joke  about  prolonging  self-destruction  for  another  four  years,  &  bertolt  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  it,  with  fitting  himself  into  that  story.

in  his  four  years,  he  wants  to  grow  a  bellpepper.

in  the  meantime,  bertolt  casts  gaze  sideways  long  enough.  he  studies  the  dirt.  HE  only  remembers  belatedly  to  pluck  reiner’s  canteen  from  his  hold  again.  he  looks  at  the  dents  he  left.

the  thing  probably  will  still  hold  liquid.  it  will  probably  still  screw  tight.

probably.

‘  just  take  mine.  ‘

it’s  all  he  can  do  from  keeping  himself  from  wrinkling  his  nose  at  reiner.  he’d  rather  not  fill  out  a  request,  either.  he  doesn’t  mind  the  damage  that  he  caused.

everyone  has  good  days.  everyone  has  bad  days.

reiner  feels  too  much.

he  always  has.   he  was  a  warrior,  but  he  was  soft.   if  it  hadn't  been  for  marcel   &   his  interference,  he  wouldn't  have  gotten  the  armored.   porco  would  have,   &   he  would've  been  in  marley,  waiting  for  his  chance  still.   if  it  would  ever  even  come.  

he  thinks  about  it  often.   how  he  has  grown  into  the  armored   &   the  armored  has  grown  into  him.   how  they  have  melded  as  one   &   his  titan  body  is  just  as  nimble  as  his  actual  one.   how  when  he  fights   &   really  fights,  doesn't hold  back,  he  is  a  power  house  that  no  one  can  touch.   the  armored  is  meant  to  shield,  but  he  has  turned  it  into  a  machine  that  is  well  oiled,  that  knows  how  to  fight  in  order  to  protect.

he  thinks  of  every  sacrifice  he  has  made  in  the  name  of  actively protecting.   he  thinks  of  every  time  he  has  fragmented  himself   &   cut  himself  into  tinier  pieces  so  that  there  was  something  to  escape  to.   to  escape  from.

he  thinks  of  every  time  he  has  watched  one  of  his  friends  die   &   felt  that  sinking  sensation  in  his  stomach,  that  raw  anger  that  boils  up  after  it.

he  thinks  of  hearing  annie's  scream  in  the  forest   &   turning,  only  blending  because  the  other  scouts  had  as  well.   he  remembers  being  terrified   ––   the  plan  had  went  wrong   &   that  much  was  clear.   but  there  was  no  going  for  her   ––   bertolt   &   him  would've  given  up  their  own  covers  if  they  had,   &   they  weren't  ready  for  that  yet.   but  he  does  wonder  if  he  would've  been  able  to  save  annie  in  the  long  run  had  they  blown  it.   she  had  managed  to  get  back,  but  at  what  cost?

for  as  good  of  a  fighter  as  annie  was,  she  wasn't reiner.   she  wasn't marcel.   she  wasn't  porco.   she  was  just  fast   &   implemented  what  her  father  had  taught  her.   in  the  end  it  hadn't  been  enough  brute  strength  or  agility  against  eren.   in  the  end,  it  had  left  another  hollow  mark  against  them,  another  failure   ––   under  his  command.

reiner  has  always  shouldered  responsibility  when  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  about  it.   he  was  just  a  kid  who  his  mother manipulated.   who  had  seen  a  fragile  child   &   thought  that  she  could  twist  him  so  that  she  would  get  her  revenge.

sometimes  it  leaves  him  hollowed  out  inside.   sometimes  it  leaves  him  in  that  same  dark  place  that  he  can't  get  out  of.   sometimes  it's  too  much.   sometimes  he  flails   &   tries  to  swim  but  he  ends  up  swallowing  too  much  salt  water   &   thinks  he'll  never  make  it  back  to  the  top.

it's  why  his  chest  feels  cracked  open  the  more  that  bertolt  denies  it.   &   in  a  way  he's  right   ––   they  had  been  kids  then,  not  knowing  what  they  were   &   just  coming  into  themselves.   but  there  are  things  that  reiner  knows,  things  that  he  doesn't  let  go  of.

there  are  things  that  are real  for  him  that  aren't  real  for  bertolt.   they  were  just  kids  to  bertolt.   looks  meant  nothing  back  then  because  teenage  hormones  run  rampant. 

it's  never  been just  that  for  reiner.   he  sees  his  point.   it  doesn't  make  it  hurt  less.   it  doesn't  make  him  feel  differently.

〝   yeah,  maybe  it  is.   maybe  we're  all  just  ideals  in  order  to  cope  with  a  life  sentence.   〞    or  maybe  that's  why  reiner  does  feel  so  much   ––   because  he  only  has  a  limited  time  to  feel  them.   so  when  he  does  feel  them,  he's  sure  of  them   ––   the  armored  in  him  screams  to  protect,  to shield.    it  never  matters  if  it  costs  him  himself,  because  that's  how  this  works.   that  is  the  sacrifice  you  make  when  you  take  on  a  titan   &   learn  what  it  means.

reiner's  always  felt  too  much. 

he  remembers  the  day  he  inherited  the  armored.   he  remembers  shaking  like  a  leaf  in  the  already  too  cold  room,  looking  up  at  the  man  that  was  drugged  out  of  his  mind.   he  remembers  coming  to  after  eating  him   &   promptly  throwing  up  everything  in  his  stomach  until  he  was  dry  heaving   &   shaking   &   all  they  did  was  clap.   like  it  was  some  victory  to  have  watched  a  person  get  eaten   &   the  transference  of  a  titan.   like  it  wasn't  something  horribly  grotesque   &   traumatizing  for  a  child  to  do.

he  remembers  his  mother's  happiness  when  he  had  shown  her.   he  remembers  how  she  had  cried   &   he  had  felt  pride.

but  he's  always  felt  too  much,   &   he  felt  the  horror  creeping  up  his  stomach  again,  ready  to  empty  himself  as  he  thought  of  what  it  meant,  what  he  had  endured.   what  he  would  always  remember. 

he  wondered  if  he  would  get  the  armored's  memories  from  prior  shifters.   he  never  did.   he  thinks  it's  a  good  thing.

thumb  runs  over  his  nape   ––   thoughts  still,  bring  him  to  the  present,  push  the  past  behind  him  once  more.   it's  all  the  paradis  heat   &   humidity   &   bertolt.

he  finds  that  learning  about  annie  is  less  exhilarating  than  he  would've  hoped  it  would  be.   he  finds  that  selfish  thought  that  it  would've  been  easier  if  she  had  been  dead.   〝   yeah?   then  she'll  come  out  soon  enough.   then  they'll  have  the  attack,  the  armored,  the  colossus,   &   the  female.   pretty  sure  they're  gearing  up  to  win  this  war.  〞

annie  could  come  out  of  that  crystal  any  time  she  damn  well  pleased.   &   he  has  no  qualms  about  knowing  that  bertolt  would  probably  be  one  of  the  first  on  the  scene,  a  friendly  face   &   a  proven  survivor.   annie  would  react  best  to  him,  anyway.   her   &   reiner  have  never  exactly  been  on  the  best  of  terms. 

(   a  bitter  part  of  him  wonders  if  they'd  fall  in  love  then.   if  she'd  look  at  bertolt   &   how  he's  grown   &   realize  what  she's  missed  all  these  years.   if  they'd  have  a  paradis-esque  wedding   &   live  those  four  years  out  happily.   bertolt  deserves  to  be  happy.   )

reiner  has  always  felt  too  much.

there's  a  small  smile  that  graces  his  lips.   yes,  he  has  fought  dirty.   he  had  to  learn  how  to  fight  dirty  in  order  to  survive.   the  sweeping  motion  of  a  thumb  over  his  nape  feels  colder.   his  chest  feels  raw   &   scraped  out.   but  he  chuckles  nonetheless.   because  this  is  what  he  has  to  do.

sometimes  being  a  shield  means  shielding  yourself,  too.

〝   to  be  fair,  the  scream  was  enough  of  a  warning  so  how  is  that  cheating?   〞   the  light  scoff,  a  gentle  shove  to  his  chest  now.   the  warmth  of  a  heart  beat  through  his  clothing  a  reminder  that  yes,  bertolt  is  alive.   yes,  he  is  here.   that  sometimes  you  have  to  rewrite  history  in  a  good  way.

honey  eyes  dart  up  though   ––   they  take  him  in  for  a  long  moment,  take  in  the  words.   four  years.   that  is  the  clock  that  is  ticking  over  their  heads  that  they've  known  about  since  they  were  children.   somehow  it's  never  felt  as  damning  as  it  does  now.

what  if  i  want  to  spend  them  with  you?  

he  almost  says  the  words.   almost  opens  his  mouth   &   lets  it  out.   he  thinks  better  of  it  though   ;   lets  his  heart  do  that  funny  thing  it  does  when  they're  this  close,  but  doesn't  let  it  get  out  of  hand.

they  were  kids.   they  didn't  know  any  better.

love  is  a  mistaken  thing.   sometimes  you  love  because  you  have  nothing  else  to  give.

〝   spend  'em  drinking   &   in  the  local  brothels,  got  it.   〞   a  lighter  jest  as  he  straightens  up  a  little  bit  more.   the  sun  settles  overhead  like  it  does  in  the  afternoons,  in  the  way  that  makes  you  feel  like  you're  burning  out  from  the  inside.

he  misses  sea  salt  air  so  much.

he  breaks  the  contact.   he  heads  over   &   snags  his  canteen,  frowns  at  the  dents  that  are  there.   a  soft  scoff  leaves  his  lips  as  he  lightly  shakes  it  at  bertolt,  faux  anger  sliding  across  his  face.     〝   you're  filling  out  the  request  for  a  new  one.   i'm  not  dealing  with  levi's  scrutiny.  〞

they  were  just  kids.

reiner  has  always  felt  too  much.

[waitimcomingtoo]

The Hint

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!reader

Synopsis submitted by @jasmine11685: Peter gets jealous when you have to flirt with someone on a mission

Masterlist

“Wow.”

That was the only word Peter could say as you descended the staircase in a form fitting black dress. The slit up the side added an elegant touch, something needed for the ball you were going to.

“You look pretty “wow” yourself.” You smiled shyly as you lifted the hem of your dress to walk towards him. “The suit is a nice change from the flannels, though I do love those.”

Peter opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words formed in his brain. As soon as you put your hands on his collar to tuck it under his suit jacket, his name was lost on his and all he knew was yours.

“So this is what it’s like to be speechless.” He chuckled nervously as you straightened his jacket.

“Shut up.” You giggled as your face flushed. “Your ties a little crooked.”

“Thanks.” Peter whispered as you adjusted his tie. “You look beautiful. Like, the kind of beautiful that makes you want to cry when you look at it.”

“Thank you.” You laughed again, out of habit. You looked at Peter through your eyelashes as your shaking hands slid down his jacket.

“Nervous?” He asked softly when he noticed your unsteady demeanor.

“A little.” You smiled weakly. “It’s uh, it’s a shame I’m gonna have to waste all this beautiful on some douche who won’t appreciate it.”

“Well I appreciate it.” Peter assured you. “All of it. What is your mission exactly?”

“I just have to get some information out of Harry Osborn. Apparently he’s the only one who knows what’s his father has been doing up at Oscorp. We have to find out his plans before he does something dangerous. Could you help me with this?” You asked as you handed him a diamond necklace. You turned around and Peter carefully moved your hair off of your back.

“Oh.” He said in surprise as he clasped the necklace around your neck. “And how are you planing on getting that information?”

“I’m gonna flirt with him like my life depends on it.” You said confidently as you turned back around. “Because who knows? It might.”

Peters face twitched in confusion as his eyebrows knit together. He felt a white hot jealousy run all the way to his scalp when he learned about the plan.

“You have to flirt with that asshole?” Peter laughed nervously and cleared his throat. “He’s a total playboy. He’s probably never done his own laundry a day in his life.”

“I think I can handle him.” You winked at him as you touched your your lipstick. “And his laundry.”

“I have no doubt in your abilities. I just wish you didn’t have to use them on him.” Peter said, mostly to himself.

“It’s fine, Pete.” You assured him. “I’m actually excited to do it.”

“Excited?” Peter began to sweat.

“Yeah.” You grinned in excitement. “This is the biggest role I’ve ever had in a mission. I really want to do a good job so I can impress my dad. That means I’m gonna have to pull out my best flirting.”

“Your best flirting?” Peter was really beginning to panic now.

“Yup. I need this boy to fall in love with me.” You told him. “Watch, by the end of the night, he’ll be putty in my hands.”

“I don’t think you should do this, Y/n.” Peter blurted. “I think we should get Natasha or someone else to do it. You shouldn’t have to be the shiny object we use to distract the enemy.”

“I’m fine with it, Pete. My dad didn’t give me this role because I’m pretty. He gave me this role because I have good communication and manipulation skills. Plus, I’m closest to Harry’s age. It all works out.”

“He could be really dangerous.” Peter protested. “You could get hurt.”

“I’m really dangerous.” You stated. “And he’s definitely gonna get hurt.”

“Just be careful, okay?” Peter sighed, making you look at him. You walked over to him and cupped his face in your hands, making his breath hitch in his throat.

“I got this, Petey.” You said gently. “I know you’re worried about me, but you have no reason to be. I can do this. And you, Sam, and my dad are gonna be listening the whole time. We’re gonna catch this guy. I know it.”

“I just don’t want you getting hurt. If things go wrong-“

“They won’t.” You cut him off. “Go ask my dad. He drew up every possible outcome of this plan and they all end with Harry getting his ass kicked.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded and gave you a smile. “I’ll go talk to Mr. Stark.”

~

“You just had to believe in her.” Peter grouched as he barged into Tony’s office. “You just had to recognize her talent and trust her enough to carry the mission.”

“I’m sorry. Is that anger directed towards moi?” Tony touched a hand to his chest. “Are you mad at me?”

“Yeah, I am.” Peter said. “You know I like Y/n and sent her off to flirt with the richest playboy in New York City?”

“Hey.” Tony said sternly. “Playboy is my thing.”

“Why did you have to make her do this job?” Peter whined. “She’s gonna fall in love with him and forget all about me.”

“He’s a criminal, Peter.” Tony reminded him.

“So? Girls love that!” He protested. “You remember how she acted around Loki.”

“Don’t remind me.” Tony rolled his eyes. Peters face shifted back to his forlorn expression and Tony saw how much this was hurting him.

“Look, kid, don’t sweat this mission.” He said as he put a hand on Peters shoulder. “She’s just gonna get the information she needs from Harry and you’ll never have to worry about him again. You can go right back to your little will-they-won’t-they bullshit or whatever it is you’re doing.”

“I have a plan.” Peter insisted. “And Harry is going to put a serious wrench in my plan, thanks to you.”

“You have a plan?” Tony doubted. “Ive been watching you pine after my daughter for years. When is this plan going into action exactly?”

“I’m just going to think really hard about how I’m in love with her and wait until she realizes.” Peter mumbled as he adverted his eyes.

“Yeah?” Tony cocked his head. “And how’s that going for you?”

“I think she’s just about to get the hint.” Peter said and Tony let out a groan.

“Kid, just ask her out.” He reasoned. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She could hear me.” Peter stated. “And then say no.”

“She’s never gonna take the hint unless you actually give her the hint.” Tony reasoned. “Why don’t you try tonight? She’ll be all giddy from successfully completing the mission. Perfect time to confess those bottled up feelings.”

“I don’t know.” Peter sighed. “Maybe.”

~

An hour later, you were making eyes at Harry from the bar. After locking eyes a few times, you signaled for him to come over.

“Hey.” Harry knocked on the bar twice and looked down at you. He sized you up before smiling in approval and sending you a nod.

“Hey.” You gave him a sultry smile as he sat down.

“You all by yourself?” He asked as he drummed his fingers on the bar.

“I was.” You took a sip and looked at him through your lashes. “Until you came along.”

“Mind if I stay?” He raised an eyebrow as he flagged down the bartender. You made a face as he ordered a drink before smiling at him.

“I prefer it.” You flirted.

“Good.” He accepted his drink and took a long sip. “I don’t like being told no.”

“Then you better give me something to say yes to.” You leaned on your hand and leaned towards him. Inside, you were gagging at his arrogance. On the outside, you were eating it up.

And that made two of you.

“Oh God.” Peter gagged as he listened to the banter through his ear piece. “This is torture.”

Sam, who was standing next to him as they both kept an eye on you, gave Peter a look.

“Relax, kid.” He sighed. “She’s just doing her job.”

“You’re a pretty bold girl. I like that.” Harry cupped your chin before releasing it. “Just not as bold as me.”

“Oh yeah?” You raised an eyebrow, grabbed his drink, and downed the rest before slamming the glass down. “How about now?”

“Oh, you are going to get me into trouble.” Harry chuckled and he scooted closer to you. Peter watched in disdain as the jealousy coursed through his veins again.

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” You crawled. “Don’t you like trouble?”

“I love it.” He insisted as he held out his hand. “My names Harry Osborn. You’ve probably heard of me.”

“I have.” You smirked as you shook his hand. “I’m Y/n.”

“Why is she talking like that?” Peter whined upon hearing your flirty tone. “She never talks like that.”

“Because she’s not trying to sleep with you, dummy. Thats why.” Sam snorted as he continued to watch.

“What?” Peter snapped his head towards Sam. “She’s not trying to sleep with that guy. She’s just getting information out of him.”

“Yeah well, guys tend to talk a lot more once you’ve tired them out.” Sam shrugged as he sipped his own drink. Pete’s face fell as he stared Harry down with daggers in his eyes.

“She wouldn’t do that.” Peter mumbled.

“Shhh.” Sam waved his hand. “I’m trying to listen.”

“So,” you took another sip from your drink, “Whats it like being the son of one of the most powerful men in the city? Wasn’t your dad like, 25 when he founded Oscorp.”

“23, but who’s keeping score.” Harry shrugged as he looked around the room. “I’ll probably do something like that soon. Maybe something even bigger. I already have a lot of ideas. Pretty impressive, huh?”

“Totally.” You egged him on but rolled your eyes when he looked away. “Do you ever get to watch his experiments?”

“Baby, I’ve seen just about all of them.” Harry bragged as he played with your dangling earrings. “He’s done things you wouldn’t believe. Things that aren’t even legal.”

“Yeah?” Your eyes widened in excitement and you leaned in closer. “Like what?”

“I can’t tell you here.” Harry pulled away suddenly and sighed. “I don’t want anyone hearing.”

“Alright.” You purposefully took the bait. “Then let’s talk somewhere else.”

“Do you know a place?” He played nonchalant as he put a hand on your knee. Peter watched the scene in front of him and looked away.

“Yeah. My bedroom.” You smirked and stood up. “Let’s go there.”

“Bold.” Harry rubbed his hands together and stood up as well. “You’re dangerous.”

You took his hand and lead him towards the elevator, feeling the gun that was strapped to your thigh brush against your leg as you walked.

“You have no idea.” You mumbled. You passed Sam and Peter and gave them a nod as you lead Harry towards his interrogation. Peter looked like he was ready to fight someone and Sam looked entirely amused. You gave them a thumbs up before leading Harry upstairs.

~

“What’s the craziest thing your dad has done?” You asked as you sat down on the bed. You flicked your leg out and pretended to examine your heels to draw his attention. Harry took the bait and held your ankle in his hands, admiring the fancy shoes Mr. Stark had given you for the mission.

“Why do you want to know?” He asked coyly as he looked up at you.

“Because I like to get a little crazy myself and I want to know how much you can handle.” You shrugged as you shook your hair out. Peter gulped as he listened, feeling his jaw tighten in anger. Tony joined him and Sam at their post and looked around for you and Harry.

“How’s the mission going?” He asked when he didn’t see you anywhere.

“Horrible.” Peter grumbled.

“She didn’t get him to the secondary location?” Tony worried.

“She did.” Sam cut in. “Peters just mad that his girlfriend just found herself a boyfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Peter snapped. “Maybe she would have been if Mr. Stark wasn’t a destroyer of young love.”

“Parker, quiet.” Sam commanded. “I’m trying to listen.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Harry folded his arms as he looked down on you.

“You can trust me.” You told him as you reached up to grab his tie. You used it to pull yourself up and off the bed before planting a kiss right on his mouth.

“What was that?” Peter touched his fingertips to his ear piece when he heard silence from your end.” Why did she pause?”

“She didn’t pause.” Sam shook his head as he checked his watch.

“Then what-“

“She kissed him.” Tony cut in while giving Peter an apologetic look.

“She kissed him?” All the color drained from Peters face and Tony felt he was to blame.

“You know the Green Goblin?” Harry asked once you pulled away.

“Yeah.”

“That’s my dad.” Harry admitted, and Tony and Sam quickly wrote it down.

“No way.” You pretended to be impressed. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. He was dying so he invented this serum to keep himself alive. It ended up giving him all these crazy abilities.” Harry boasted, incriminating himself further. “And he’s got this glider that he can fly around on. You’d love it. It’s very shiny.”

“Wow. I love shiny.” You gushed, fighting the urge to punch him in the throat then and there. “How much serum did he make?”

“He has one more vile that he said he’d give to me when I’m older.” Harry tweaked his eyebrow as he smirked.

“So you’re gonna be the next Green Goblin? Isnt he a bit of a bad guy?” You continued to draw information out of him as your fingers danced around his collar.

“Maybe I am bad guy.” Harry shrugged. “Like father, like son.”

Harry leaned in to kiss you again but you dodged it and laughed as you moved away.

“Bad, huh?” You composed yourself so you wouldn’t be suspicious. “What else has he done?”

“He gave one of our scientists these metal arms. They can rip a person in half. Ive seen it happen.” Harry continued to brag and you recorded every word of it.

“Dr. Occtavius.” Tony realized. “That’s how he got his weapons.”

“Thats crazy.” You gasped and played with his hair. “What’s your dad gonna do?”

“He’s basically forming a league of bad guys.” Harry shrugged like it was no big deal. “Guys way worse than the Avengers.”

“Does he have a problem with the Avengers?” You wondered.

“My dad hates them. I hate them too.” Harry scoffed and you held back a laugh. “That’s why we’re gonna wipe them out. New York can’t rely on a bunch of guys in dress up, and we’re gonna show them that.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“With an attack on New York City on the 8th.” Harry told you, and Tony immediately wrote it down. “The Avengers won’t know what hit them.”

“That sounds pretty scary. Will you keep me safe?” You batted your eyelashes at him and he ate it up.

“I can’t listen to this.” Peter took out his earpiece and slammed it on the counter. “I’m going in there.”

“Parker! Stay where you are and - you know what? I don’t care.” Sam shrugged it off and continued to listen to your conversation.

“Of course baby.” He cupped your face in his hands. “It’s gonna be a direct hit on the Avengers tower. A pretty thing like you won’t be anywhere near there.”

“Actually”, you took his hands off your face and dropped your smile, “I will.”

“What?” Harry’s face faltered at your sudden mood change.

“Did you get that guys?” You touched your fingers to your ear piece and waited for the confirmation. “Copy that, dad.”

“What?” Harry’s face twisted in anger. “You’re an Avenger?”

“Look at you! So smart. You figured it out.” You said sarcastically.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I don’t believe you. There’s no way you’re an Avenger. You’re my age and a chick.”

“Not just an Avenger. I’m a Stark too. Want me to prove it to you?” You asked casually.

“How?” Harry raised an eyebrow. You gave him a swift punch to the throat that knocked him on his back.

“Like that.” You blew your hair off your forehead as you checked your nails.

“You bitch.” Harry wheezed from the floor.

“You see, I can’t have you and your father attacking my friends.” You crouched down beside him and shrugged. “I’m gonna have to take you in.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Harry swiped at you but you dodged it.

“I know. But this cute little microphone recorded everything you said and sent it to the police.” You pouted and pointed to your mic. “They should be here soon. You might want to wipe the lipstick off your face before the get here.”

“I’m not going to prison.” Harry grumbled as he sat up.

“Aw, but you are.” You said as you pulled him off the floor and put his hands behind his back. “Daddy can’t bail you out of this one, like how he bailed you out of your 17 parking tickets.”

“How do you know about that?” Harry asked as he looked over his shoulder at you.

“I know everything, bitch.” You leaned into his ear to growl.

“No. I’m not going down for this.” Harry broke out of your hold and swung at you. You dodged the first one, but he got you right in the jaw with the second one. You stood up and got ready to fight him as he put his fists up.

“You’re not even that pretty.” He exclaimed as he swung at you again. Right as his fist collided with your face, Peter burst in the door.

“Yes she is!” Peter shouted as he jumped on Harry’s back. Harry threw Peter onto the bed and lunged for you again. You close-lined him with your arm and dug your heel into his back once he was on the ground.

“Peter? What are you doing here?” You asked as you stepped on Harry’s back harder with your heel. “I got this.”

“There’s something I have to tell you.” Peter panted as he got off the bed.

“You won’t get away with this. I will sue!” Harry writhed around beneath your heel.

“Can it wait?” You asked as you pulled Harry off the ground. “I’m a little busy.”

“It can’t wait.” Peter shook his head as you shoved Harry against the wall. “There’s something I’ve been holding in for a long time and I need to tell you.”

“I wouldn’t even bother dude.” Harry said with his face squished against the wall. “She’s a total bitch.”

“Was I talking to you?” Peter growled before shooting a web at Harry’s wrists to handcuff him.

“Ohhh I see.” Harry laughed humorlessly. “Spiderman is mad that I stole his girlfriend.”

“Can you shut up? I’m trying to have a conversation here.” You barked at Harry. “I’m sorry, Peter. Please continue.”

“I didn’t want you to flirt with Harry tonight because you can do a lot more than just sit still and look pretty.” Peter began.

“I know that, Peter.” You nodded.

“I also didn’t want you to flirt with him because I was jealous.” He confessed.

“Jealous?” You asked as you put Harry in the hotel chair and began to tie him up.

“He likes you, stupid.” Harry grumbled. You shot Harry and angry look, but when you looked back at Peter, he was nodded.

“He’s right.” Peter admitted , taking you by surprise.

“You like me?” You lips twitched into a smile as you tightened Harry’s rope. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was scared you wouldn’t like me back. You’re my best friend, Y/n.” Peter said softly. “If you didn’t like me back, everything would change. We’d still be friends but it wouldn’t be the same. I didn’t want to risk that.”

“I’m sorry.” You frowned. “I should’ve been more clear then.”

“Do you seriously have to do this here?” Harry whined and you smacked him on the back of the head.

“Clear about what?” Peter wondered.

“That I like you too.” You smiled sheepishly at him. Tony listened to the confession over the ear pierce and smiled to himself.

“There you go kid.” He mumbled to himself. “She got the hint.”

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[sweetobsessive]

hi! can i request the acolytes reacting to a touch starved darling after the events of the impostor au quietly approaching them for a hug?

Well, they're all (no matter who you approach) so grateful that you came to them, even if you don't trust them as much as they'd wish. However, this signals process!

I'm going to do the main 3 archons we've got, plus some Xiao for fun!

Zhongli's extremely surprised, but he's also the type to be more observant than others. It may not seem it, but he's extremely attentive to all of his God's needs.

He's most likely noticed that his God looks longing for touch, but also seems to be shyer. He might be the one you approach to ask for a hug, but he's definitely dropped a couple hints that you can ask from him, and in turn it's made you more comfortable in asking.

He doesn't dare squeeze too tightly, but he's firm in his hug and doesn't move until you do. He'll most likely approach you afterwards and ask if you'd like another. He's still respective of your boundaries, especially if you still seem nervous around him.

Venti is a little more... oblivious compared to Zhongli. He's less likely to notice how you're uncomfortable asking for a hug. As a general personality trait, he's not shy about getting in other people's personal space, so he can't really empathize with you feeling almost hesitant. If it were him, he'd take without even asking.

He'll totally oblige though! He doesn't really notice the atmosphere of the room in the end, and takes this as permission to tackle hug you randomly whenever he sees you. He's super wiggly when you hug him, and the hugs are never long. He's always all over the place, ready to do something new the instant it catches his attention.

If it ends up making it worse, being touch starved and wanting hugs, but also being terrified of Venti tackling you (after all, it brings back memories of cold eyes and a bow pointed at your throat without hesitation), Venti's really apologetic. He'll probably end up swallowing whatever scraps of pride he has and ask another acolyte on how to best fix the situation. He can't help himself in the end and might forget sometimes but - hey, he's trying, right?

Ei is probably the worst of the three. She hasn't had human contact - or really any contact - in a hundred years, especially not since her sister died.

So, in the end, she's as touch starved as you are. She needs the contact and is the quickest to give you a hug. However, she's extremely stiff the entire time, like she doesn't know what to do.

If you're hesitant about approaching her, she'll try and understand that her appearance brings back bad memories of her puppet trying to kill you. She's probably more focused on the events around asking for a hug more than the hug itself - when she hears you're arriving, she's ready to give you anything you'd like, and readily holds your hand if you look like you need it. When she does hug you though, she makes a silent promise to herself to improve her hugging - although how to do so is another matter entirely.

Xiao, much like Ei, doesn't really know how to do a hug. He's pretty awkward about it, and he just kinda... stands there until you release him.

He doesn't want you to stop coming to him for hugs though, so he's in a sort of panic trying to figure out how to not scare you off with his stiff demeanor and awkward personality.

Unlike Ei, he doesn't think of asking Zhongli or any other acolyte for help. He just kinda... suffers.

He'll loosen up eventually, of course. It's only natural. But he can't help but remember how he had knocked you onto your back and almost killed you on the beaches of Guyun, and it makes him panic that you've brought him so close again. He doesn't have a super high opinion of himself in that case, and is extremely conflicted. Should he bring you closer to make you more comfortable? In that case, what if he ends up hurting you again?

There's a lot of self sabotage in there - he's grumpy if you stop coming to him, but scared if you do keep coming.