#there are crosses everywhere but they don’t look at them! it’s just a tool

[magpie-trove]

There’s something fundamentally kind of. sick? In the atmosphere of Buffy, but the characters manage to exist as goods in it despite it all, and maybe that’s what feels sick about it (sick as in ill, or not whole). It seems like all the bigger things are evil and all the original and fundamental things are bad and the only thing standing against them is a few people who shouldn’t have to. And are too small to. It’s about the crushing weight of responsibility without the relief of it being just a part of something bigger.

[pucksandpower]

Crazy Cravings

Max Verstappen x wife!Reader

Summary: pregnancy cravings can make you (and your husband) do crazy things … neither of you particularly minds

Warnings: 18+ content and pregnancy

You sit in the Red Bull Racing garage, feeling the warm Spanish sun on your face through the open door. The roar of engines and whirring of power tools surrounds you as the mechanics prepare for the race.

Your eyes are drawn to the iconic blue and silver cans scattered around the garage. Those tantalizing cans of Red Bull that everyone else seems to be drinking so casually.

Everyone except you and Max, that is.

You rub your rounded belly, feeling your precious cargo kick and squirm inside you. At six months pregnant, your cravings have been … intense, to say the least. But none more powerful than your longing for the crisp, fizzy taste of Red Bull.

The caffeine is off limits, of course. You would never dream of jeopardizing your baby’s health. But oh, how you crave that sweet, energizing flavor that used to be such a routine part of your life.

Max emerges from the back room, his bright grey eyes instantly finding you. He strides over, that effortless confidence and raw athleticism making your heart flutter, even after all these years. His gaze drifts to the Red Bull can in a mechanic’s hand and a grimace crosses his face.

“Liefje, are you alright?” He murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I know how much those are torturing you lately.”

You force a smile, not wanting him to worry. “I’m fine, Maxie. Just … ignoring the siren call of carbonated temptation.”

His thumb strokes your cheek as he studies you, clearly not convinced. Max has been so incredibly supportive during this pregnancy, abstaining from Red Bull himself in solidarity. Cutting out his biggest vice, just so you don’t have to be tormented by the sight and scent of it everywhere.

“We should get you out of here,” he says, looping an arm around your waist to help leverage your bulk out of the chair. “The smells can’t be helping those crazy cravings.”

You open your mouth to protest, not wanting to pull him away from his work, but a fresh wave of dizzying desire hits you as a mechanic cracks open another can. The fizzing hiss and unmistakable scent make your mouth water uncontrollably.

“Max ...” you whisper, feeling your throat tighten with barely restrained craving and hormonal tears prickling your eyes.

He follows your yearning gaze to the Red Bull can and understanding dawns. “Oh, liefje ...” Scooping you into his arms, he strides from the garage, shooting an apologetic look at his crew.

Once outside in the fresh air, you bury your face against Max’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting cologne as he carries you to the motorhome. He eases you onto the couch, brushing kisses along your forehead and temple.

“I’m so sorry, schatje,” he murmurs, anguish lining his handsome features. “I hate seeing you suffer like this. If there was any way I could make the cravings stop ...”

You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his calloused ones. “Max, you know I would never actually ask you to give up Red Bull, right?”

He shakes his head fiercely. “Not being able to have it for nine months is nothing compared to your sacrifice, carrying our baby. I don’t deserve you.”

Pulling him down beside you, you cup the chiseled line of his jaw, making him meet your gaze. “I happen to think you deserve the very best, Mr. Verstappen. And right now, the very best for both of us would be ...” Your voice cracks with fresh longing. “A damn Red Bull.”

Max’s eyes blaze with sudden determination, that iron willpower that has made him a champion coming to life. “Then that’s what I’ll get you. If those tossers at Red Bull Company won’t make a safe, caffeine-free version for pregnant women, I’ll personally make them regret it.”

You laugh shakily. “Max, you can’t just bully a corporation into creating a new product line for one person’s weird craving!”

“You’re not just one person,” he growls, tangling his fingers in your hair and bringing his forehead to rest against yours. “You’re my everything. And our baby deserves for its mother to be happy and have her cravings satisfied.”

Pressing a fierce kiss to your lips, he adds, “I’m calling them right now. And then straight to the CEO, if I have to. I’ll get you that Red Bull if it’s the last thing I do.”

True to his word, the indomitable Max Verstappen spends the next several days working every possible connection and calling in every favor. You catch bits of conversations, his clipped tones making it clear just how serious he is about this bizarre quest.

“No, I don’t care if it’s not ‘cost-effective’. This is for my very pregnant wife ...”

“She’s risking her health to grow an entire person! The least your company can do is make a freaking caffeine-free energy drink ...”

The crew quickly learns not to open any Red Bull around you, lest they face the wrath of an overprotective Max. Which is slightly embarrassing … but also incredibly sweet.

Your hormones most definitely approve.

Finally, there’s a break in the stalemate. Helmut Marko himself shows up at the motor home, those bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed.

“Max, this is ridiculous. They will not reconfigure an entire product line just because Y/N is having a little … craving.”

You brace yourself for the explosion, but Max just levels Helmut with that intense stare. “If you could experience these cravings yourself, you would be singing a different tune. Y/N is sacrificing everything to have our baby. The least Red Bull can do is give her a safe option to have the flavor she misses so much.”

Helmut’s expression softens slightly at the obvious devotion in Max’s voice. “You know that corporate will never go for it. Not for just one person ...”

“Then make it for all the other pregnant women dealing with the same issues,” Max returns, unruffled. “Or is a company that plasters ‘Gives You Wings’ on every can really too cowardly to follow through on empowering people?”

You suck in a shocked breath at his daring play. But the flicker of anger and resigned capitulation in Helmut’s eyes shows that it worked.

“Fine, you little shit,” the older man growls. “I’ll talk to product development. But I’m not making any promises!”

Except somehow … Max’s sheer bullheaded tenacity eventually batters through all the corporate resistance and red tape. Three weeks later, an unmistakable bright blue can appears on the counter, the iconic Red Bull logo stamped across it.

“What’s this?” You ask in confusion.

Max slides an arm around your waist, beaming proudly. “Open it and see.”

You crack the seal, sniffing cautiously … and almost melt at the nostalgic, beloved scent of Red Bull. But just as you start to panic about caffeine, you notice the slightly different flavor.

“Max, is this ...”

He nods, grinning. “Zero caffeine but all the taste you’ve been craving. No more tears over those damn energy drink cans, okay?”

Throwing your arms around him, you yank his head down to capture his mouth in a grateful kiss. “Have I mentioned lately how incredible you are?”

“Once or twice,” he jokes, then sobers, cupping your belly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you and our baby happy.”

“You’re giving me everything I ever wanted and more.” You take a long pull of the perfectly flavored liquid, sighing in blissful satisfaction. “We hit the jackpot with you, Max Verstappen.”

He kisses you again, reveling in your obvious enjoyment. “The only jackpot I need is right here.”

***

Your baby bump has popped out to truly impressive proportions now at eight months along. What started as an innocent craving for Red Bull has escalated into an all-out physiological war.

Nothing seems to satisfy you for long — you’re a walking bundle of hormones and insatiable desires.

From the plush solitude of the Red Bull hospitality suite, you try not to gaze wistfully toward the Ferrari encampment. But you can’t resist fixating on the tantalizing cones of rich gelato constantly streaming from their hospitality tent.

Watching a couple of Ferrari mechanics stroll by, licking at scoops of pistachio and stracciatella, is enough to kickstart a powerful new yearning. Your mouth waters shamelessly as they pass, the creamy dessert leaving you weak in the knees. Before you can overthink it, you’re shuffling toward the entrance, one hand cradling your belly.

“Scusi,” you call out hesitantly as you peek inside. “Mi dispiace … is it possible to get some gelato?”

You half expect to be waved away — it’s well known that the Ferrari team is notoriously insular and protective of their spoils. But the cheerful greeting you receive is instantaneous and overwhelming.

“Madonna mia! Look at this beautiful piccina!”

Suddenly you’re engulfed by a whirlwind of chattering Italian voices, greeted by smiling faces from the team of elderly signoras who comprise the Ferrari hospitality staff. Weathered hands pat your belly and cheeks, clucking sympathetically at your swollen state.

“You poor bambina, absolutely enorme! Of course we’ll get you some gelato to refresh you. And biscotti too! You need to keep up your energy, si?”

You’re ushered toward a plush sofa, various grandmotherly types fussing over you like you’re the most delicate, precious thing. It’s … surprisingly wonderful. They clearly adore babies and pregnant women. You get the sense that indulging a mother-to-be is hardwired into their very beings.

A tray of gelato cups appears, the rainbow of flavors almost dazzling in their variety — chocolate, pistachio, prickly pear, lemon, stracciatella. Before you can reach for one, it’s plucked from your grasp.

“No no no! Leave it to Nonna Maria.” A stout signora with a green paisley dress and frosted silver curls shakes her head sternly. “I’ll start you with the lemon to whet your appetite. Then a nice creamy stracciatella as a proper treat for the bambino.”

The tangy flavor of the lemon gelato hits your craving exquisitely. As soon as you’ve polished off that cup, Nonna Maria presents another brimming with the creamy chocolate chip perfection of stracciatella. You moan in appreciation, unbothered by the chorus of approving noises from your doting new entourage.

Before you know it, you’ve been plied with cups of hazelnut, strawberry, and caramel flavors as well. These hospitable Italian ladies simply won’t be deterred from pampering a future mamma. As you scrape the last smears of gelato from a ramekin, a new grandmother settles on the sofa beside you.

“Now ... tell Nonna Gina what this little maschietto or bambina has been craving, eh?” She pats your belly affectionately. “We have chefs who can whip up anything your heart desires!”

Is it a pregnancy thing, this sudden wave of tears that blurs your vision? Or just being so insanely touched by the kindness and maternal care of these lovely strangers? You blink rapidly, swallowing hard.

“Honestly … gelato has been my biggest craving these past couple days. I don’t know if I can eat another bite.”

A chorus of disapproving gasps and tuts rises from the assembled grandmothers. “Bah! This pregnancy has ruined your appetite, piccina,” one crows, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll soon get it back to rights, don’t you worry.”

For the next hour, you’re lavished with attention, fussed over and coddled like the most precious jewel. Cold drinks and chilled towels appear to keep you comfortable as the nonnas take turns sitting with you, petting your belly and swapping outrageous birth stories.

Their colorful Italian voices swell and ebb as they bicker over whose recipe for pasta al ragu is most authentic, who has the most grandchildren, and whose first-born grandson is most handsome.

It’s chaos and noise and overwhelming affection … and you’ve never felt so utterly content.

As the afternoon light slants golden through the awning, a familiar figure appears in the entrance, haloed by the fiery rays.

“Liefje? I’ve been looking everywhere ...” Max’s disbelieving gaze sweeps over the scene in front of him — you, surrounded by a veritable coven of grandmotherly Italians who seem entirely absorbed with you. “What in the world ...”

A chubby signora with a bright orange shawl wrapped around her ample form hops up, beaming widely. “Ahh! We have been absolutely spoiling your beautiful wife, of course. Did you know she had a craving for gelato? Well, no problem for us — we have taken her like one of our own bambinas!”

The others cluck and murmur in outraged agreement at his shocked expression.

“We absolutely will not let a piccina in such a state go hungry or uncomfortable! Now you sit down so we can get you a plate of some proper food too!”

Max gapes at you, utterly nonplussed as you grin back at him with unabashed glee, utterly stuffed with Italian desserts and reveling in the indulgent babying. You pat the space beside you invitingly.

“You’ve got to try Nonna Gina’s tiramisu, Maxie. It’ll knock your socks off.”

He settles beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and still looking rather dazed. But the instant the first warm smile and pat lands on his arm or knee, Max’s expression melts. This team of fussing Italian grandmothers has clearly adopted you both as their own.

Nonna Maria reappears, shoving a plate stacked with crispy arancini, indulgent risotto alla Milanese, and a creamy slice of tiramisu into your husband’s hands. “Eat up! You need to keep your strength up too, caring for this sweet cosa bella.” She plants bristly kisses on both your cheeks before scurrying off again.

Max watches her go, then turns to you with a bemused chuckle, squeezing you close. “Well, schatje. I have to hand it to you — at least your pregnancy cravings bring you to some … interesting places.”

You hum in agreement, perfectly content as you snuggle against his side. “Can you really think of a better place for me to nest?” You grin as another nonna appears to pat his cheek, welcoming him into the chaotic fold. “I think I may have just found my second family.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes sparkling with warmth. “Anything that makes you happy and keeps our baby healthy.”

As he kisses you tenderly, surrounded by clucking encouragement and rapturous croons of “bello, bellisimo” from your new Italian grandmothers, you know you’ve never felt so blissfully cherished.

You and Max make your way slowly back to the Red Bull motorhome, stuffed to the gills with gelato and trailed by a gaggle of besotted well-wishers calling out farewells and advice.

“I still can’t believe you managed to befriend the entirety of Ferrari hospitality,” Max laughs, helping ease you onto the couch in his driver’s room. He nudges your belly playfully. “This little one is shaping up to be quite the international charmer!”

“Says the man who single-handedly compelled Red Bull to create an entirely new product line,” you point out, patting your swollen middle contentedly. “I have a feeling this baby is going to be the most spoiled child on earth.”

Max settled beside you, gathering you close with a tender smile. “Can you blame all our people for wanting to give the world to you two?” His thumb traced your jawline reverently. “You’re carrying a little miracle, liefje.”

Your breath catches, as it so often did when he looks at you like that. Like you’re his entire universe. With so much pure adoration and love shining in those grey eyes.

“Our miracle,” you correct softly, cradling his calloused hand over your belly. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just supporting me … but giving me everything I could ever dream of.”

He opens his mouth like he wanted to protest, but you press on, needing him to understand how treasured he makes you feel.

“You don’t stop until I’m happy. Even when I get these raging, random cravings that probably seem crazy, you move heaven and earth to give me whatever I need. Most people would never ...”

“Neither of us is most people,” Max interrupts fiercely. He presses a searing kiss to your lips, then the swell of your abdomen. “You and our little one are my entire world. I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you both, how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Hormones raging, you pull his mouth back to yours, savoring the taste and feel of him surrounding you. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his.

“In that case, you better rest up for tonight,” you tease. “I have a feeling that someone’s going to get a craving for sardines and waffles right around midnight.”

***

At nine months pregnant, you feel like a blissfully beached whale.

Your belly protrudes so massively that you can barely see your feet anymore. Simple tasks like tying your shoes or rolling over in bed have become awkward geometric obstacles. Max has to help you up from every chair or couch, his strong arms levering your frame into a vertical position.

Lingering in the paddock is no longer an option either. You’ve been gently but firmly ordered back home to Monaco to prepare for the baby’s arrival.

Thank goodness your nesting instincts are going full tilt — otherwise you might go stir crazy waiting for this little one to make their grand debut. You’ve rearranged and re-organized the nursery a dozen times, washed and rewashed all the tiny onesies and miniature accessories, and baked enough lactation cookies to feed an army of nursing mothers.

Really, there’s only one craving occupying your mind now …

The thump of shoes in the hall makes you look up eagerly. Max appears in the doorway of the sunlit nursery, loose waves of brown hair framing his face. The plain white tee stretches enticingly across his chest and shoulders, making your mouth water for an entirely different reason than food.

“Hey schatje,” he greets, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes in your flushed cheeks. A knowing smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Were you just ... thinking about me?”

You shake your head adamantly, wincing as the motion makes your whole body ache in protest. “Maybe just a little. This particular craving is getting out of control.”

Crossing to you in two strides, Max cups your jaw and brings your lips crashing together in a searing kiss. His tongue sweeps demanding and possessive into your mouth, making you whimper faintly. That intoxicating masculine scent of fresh sweat, motor oil, and sandalwood surrounds you in an alluring cloud.

After all these years, just the taste and smell of your husband is enough to drench you in molten wanting. Baby or no baby, Max Verstappen is still the sexiest goddamn thing on two legs.

“Mmm, I know exactly what you need,” he rumbles against your neck, nipping a tingling path along your sensitive skin. “Luckily for you, I’ve got a free schedule all afternoon to help take care of this craving ...”

He scoops you into his arms effortlessly, cradling your heavy weight against his chest to carry you to the bedroom. You twine your arms shamelessly around his neck, luxuriating in the hard strength of his body against yours.

“Aren’t you worried about ... squashing the baby?”

“Not at all,” he deposits you carefully on the bed. Those bright grey eyes darken with blazing lust. “I’m going to take such good care of you and our little one.”

His hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once — caressing, nibbling, and stroking every sensitive inch he can lavish adoring attention on. You keen softly when he dips his tongue into your navel, rubbing reverent circles over the tight swell of your belly.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Max murmurs, lips brushing the crease where your torso and bump meet. “So ripe and round and radiant with our child. My beautiful, strong girl ...”

All you can do is lie there gasping, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He strips you methodically, leaving a trail of scorching, openmouthed kisses over every newly exposed inch.

“My sexy little pregnant wife,” he husks, tongue dragging up the slick crease at the apex of your thighs. “Can’t resist this craving can you, liefje?”

His fingers plunge inside you, curling expertly as his mouth closes over your throbbing bud. You throw your head back shamelessly, mindless with pleasure as Max devours you.

So good, so unbearably good …

He ravishes you thoroughly, sending gushing waves of release crashing through your body over and over again until you’re gasping and quivering. Atoms of blissful satisfaction hum in your bloodstream as you float back into sweet oblivion.

An insistent nudge against your belly slowly rouses you. Max looms over you, hair deliciously rumpled and eyes glittering wickedly. “Did I satisfy that craving sufficiently? Or should I keep going?”

Your mouth curves in a greedy smile, hands gliding over his flexing shoulders and chest. “Again, please ...”

It had long since become a running gag around the paddock and team — before you were advised to stop flying. When you couldn’t be located, someone would joke that you must be off ravaging your utterly besotten husband yet again.

Max took the ribbing with surprising grace, grinning unrepentantly whenever his shirt collar revealed another blossom of lovebites discoloring the skin of his throat.

You really didn’t care about the teasing. You’re indulging an entirely healthy and normal craving — just a wife thoroughly appreciating her man.

“Can you believe people used to call this a punishment?” You giggle breathlessly one afternoon.

Max nips a stinging path along the soft skin of your inner thighs, tracing tantalizingly close to your heated center. He laves his tongue soothingly over the reddened marks, leering up at you from between your parted legs.

“Let them call it whatever they want. I’m just taking advantage of your hormones making you insatiable for me.”

“Mmm, well I can’t seem to resist your obscenely perfect body either,” you admit with a lazy stretch. “Maybe we really are being punished.”

One dark brow wings up eloquently as Max drags his eyes over you in a deliberately insolent perusal. Taking your leg in hand, he licks an achingly slow, filthy stripe up the crease where thigh meets hip.

You choke on a whimper, whole body jolting as he sucks a blossom of wet kisses into the satiny expanse of your inner thigh. Those bright grey eyes hold yours in wicked challenge as his clever tongue massages and swirls over your sensitized flesh.

“This certainly doesn’t seem like punishment to me,” he husks darkly. “Does it feel like punishment when I do this ...” His mouth moves higher. “Or this ...”

By the time he finishes torturing you into a quivering, needy wreck, you’re more than ready to beg.

“Please, Max!” You sob, bucking helplessly against the maddening sensations. “I need you, oh god I need you so bad ...”

He settles heavily over you, nuzzling your hair aside to trail searing kisses along your damp throat. “Then you shall have me. My needy wife can have whatever she craves ...”

It’s midway through one such shattering round of lovemaking that Max’s phone begins to ring shrilly. You try to disentangle, burning embarrassment tinting your cheeks, but he simply growls and clutches you tighter.

“Leave it!” He bites out, surging forward to recapture your mouth in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue between thrusts. “I’m busy ... satisfying … my wife ...”

After, as you lie tangled in a sweaty heap of satiation, you can’t resist asking with a wry smile, “Was that another craving I just demanded you satisfy?”

Max props himself up on one elbow, thumb stroking idly along your abdomen as his piercing gaze roams over your flushed, disheveled form.

“Whatever my wife needs,” he responds huskily. Those burning eyes promise infinite carnal delights to come as they caress your body. “I’ll always crave giving her everything she desires.”

He stretches beside you, a blissful smile curving his lips as you snuggle up against his side to exchange lazy kisses.

You’ve got a sneaking suspicion this is one craving that might outlast the pregnancy ...

[miabebe]

Camp Seventeen: Chapter 3

Pairing - Afab!reader x ot13

Word count - 16K

Genre - Greek Demigod AU! We’ve got crack, smut, fluff , angst, hurt, comfort, all of it in this series, buckle up!

Previous chapter

Chapter summary - As the days in camp seventeen unfold the many burdens you had tucked away in your heart, you dive into the sorrows you had presumably left behind. Thankfully (or not) a musical moment and a menacing monster serve as unforeseen distractions.

A/n - I do have a taglist so comment on this post to be added! As usual, the member and warnings will be added in a weeks time to keep suspense :) This chapter is a bit heavy, the plot is thickening so please do take your time with it - I promise things will make sense eventually!

Special thanks to @monamipencil! Your comments made my day Lola <3

“Chief.” Soonyoung took a worried step forward, hand slipping out from yours. “Is everything okay?” 

“If you’re here it's either not serious enough or it's too serious.” Minghao frowned at Seungcheol, crossing his arms. “My guess is the former.” 

“The camp is under attack.” Seungcheol sighed, running his hands through his hair like he was embarrassed. “Of….” 

“Of what?” 

“O-of geese.” 

“Geese??” Soonyoung looked at him stupidly. “Like plural of goose, geese?” 

“What other kind of geese do you know, you dumbass.” Seungcheol rolled his eyes. 

“I don't know. The kind of geese I know don’t attack human establishments??” 

“It’s obviously some elaborate prank by the children of Nemesis, considering it's their companion.” Muttering, Seungcheol stuffed his hand in his pockets. “Those winged brats are just wreaking havoc everywhere - they’ve broken all of the farm's tools, they’ve made a mess of the dining hall, they’ve shat all over the houses-” Both boys groaned. “-it's a catastrophe.”

“Are we sure it’s not Jeonghan?” Soonyoung narrowed his eyes. “We all know how much he enjoys stuff like this….” 

“Jeonghan also loves to watch the consequences of his very well planned antics.” Seungcheol scoffed. “And he’s not at camp - he said he was going to the city for….. something, I don’t know but no, it’s not him.” 

“If it's not him then how did these birds enter camp at night?” Minghao raised his eyebrows confused. “They shouldn’t have been able to pass Wonwoo’s nighttime defenses.” 

“He says they might have sneaked in during the shift handover. Apparently Hansol and the hounds were the only ones patrolling when he was settling up because Jihoon was busy elsewhere.” Seungcheol looked straight at you, almost accusatorily. 

What the hell, how was this your fault?

“There’s no need to look at her like that.” Minghao took a step forward, half covering you behind his frame. “You should talk to Jihoon about being more responsible with his time.” 

“That’s not the point now.” Watching both men glaring at each other, Soonyoung tried to ease the tension. “We should be discussing how we can get rid of those menaces.”

“We've been trying.” Seungcheol groaned. “But neither Jun nor Hansol are able to communicate with them for some reason. It seems like they are some weird mix of domestic and wild.”

“That's strange.” Minghao frowned, lost in thought. 

“Something does seem off.” Soonyoung agreed. “Not only have they breached Wonwoo's protection but they're also some sort of unheard half breeds? Two anomalies cannot be a coincidence.” 

“Moreover, it's not like the children of Nemesis to prank.” Minghao frowned, staring at the ground. “Pettiness isn't their nature.”

“What other reason could they have to do this?” Seungcheol crossed his arms, muscles tense. “Revenge?” 

“Maybe, or it might not even be them.” Sooonyoung looked lost in thought. “Seungkwan and I will speak around with our contacts. I’m sure we can find out something.”

Seungcheol nodded, “In the meantime we need to clear them from camp premises before they cause more destruction.”

“Then why aren't you at camp doing that chief?” Minghao narrowed his eyes at the leader. “Why is it that you're here, like there's more important things to worry about?” 

You didn’t have to look to tell that Minghao was glancing at you over his shoulder. 

Soonyoung didn't seem to think his presence was suspicious. “He's the Son of Zeus, Hao. Geese and him don't really go well together.” 

You vaguely recalled Jihoon telling you something in the Iliad about Zeus, geese and the Helen of Troy.

“Is that it?” Minghao raised his eyebrow amused. “Big ol’ chief afraid of some feathered friends?” 

“I’m here for Soonyoung.” Seungcheol gritted between his teeth. “And I asked for the message of the attack to be passed to him alone.” 

Your eyes followed Soonyoung’s which focused on the group huddled in the corner - a bunch of the most beautiful people you had ever seen, snickering away.

“Fucking Aphrodite’s children.” He muttered knowing all three of you were purposely misled here in the interest of creating a scene.“How can I help, chief?” 

“We were wondering if your ability to induce intoxication can calm them down so they can be captured?” He looked unsure. “Hansol and Jihoon were ready to shoot down the birds but if this really is a prank, we don’t want to harm their animals and seek trouble with the other camps.” 

“Even though this might be their fault?” 

“We have enough on our plate this season, Soonyoung.” It was very apparent that Seungcheol was trying his best not to meet your eye. “The last thing we need is more camps to be against us.” 

Soonyoung nodded like he understood. “We should leave then but Chan is too drunk to drive-” 

“I got here on Wonwoo’s bike.” Seungcheol waved his hand, dismissing the younger one’s concern. “You and I can head back first and the rest of the team…...Minghao, are you sober?” 

The man in question nodded. 

“Good, gather everyone immediately and make sure they reach camp safely, especially….” 

Seungcheol glanced at you, his expression a lot softer but the anger you felt for him had not changed. 

“I’m not leaving yet.” You spoke up for the first time, earning the leader’s confused look. “I don't want to.”

“Are you drunk?” 

“And what if I am?” 

“It’s a Thursday night Y/n, we have training tomorrow morning-” 

“Ugh I don’t care.” You grabbed a canned cocktail from the nearby table and popped it open, ignoring Soonyoung’s widened eyes. “Your camp, your rules, whatever the hell you’ve got going on, I don’t care for it Cheol- oh sorry, Seungcheol.” You corrected yourself. “I will leave this party whenever I feel like I want to leave this party.” 

“Stop being a child.” Seungcheol was clearly holding back his anger. “There’s enough going on back at camp now for you to-” 

“Exactly, go deal with it chief. I’m sure you’ll all fare better without the “weak link” around.” 

“Y/n I…” He sighed, watching you drink in big gulps. “First of all, you shouldn’t be drinking that-” 

“Can someone please explain to this man that I’m not going to listen to him.” 

“Cheol.” Minghao looked pointedly at his leader who was on the verge of snapping. “I’ll bring everyone back to camp safely…. everyone.” He emphasized again. “You and Kwon should get going now.” 

“Yeah.” Soonyoung nodded before turning to you and grabbing the bottom ends of Minghao’s jacket, aligning them as his voice fell to a whisper. “Y/n, that’s a sex potion too.” 

Eyes popping out, you nearly spat out your drink. “I thought it was just the beer??” He nodded. “Yeah, so did everyone, hence the improvisation.” He pulled the zip up, adjusting the jacket on your shoulders. “Take care sweetie.” 

You nodded, eyes briefly meeting Seungcheol over Soonyoung’s shoulder. He looked…..indifferent as he stared back. 

“Come on Kwon.” He muttered, turning away as the Soonyoung dropped a kiss on your forehead before taking a step back and jogging away to catch up with his leader. You only let out a breath as their figures disappeared in the rain that only got heavier. 

Before you knew it, a familiar feeling began licking up your spine, warmth spreading all over your being just like it had earlier. As you slowly turned to Minghao, embarrassed to meet his eye, he straight up shook his head, looking amused.

“Nah uh. Ignorance I can understand but stupidity?” He scoffed. “That's your problem.” 

“Minghao-” 

“Fight it Y/n.” He grabbed a macaroon, stuffing it in his mouth as he began to walk away from you. “Fight it.” 

Unlike Seungcheol’s house, the room you woke up in did not have sunlight streaming in. 

Stretching on the large king size bed, you glanced at the now empty space beside you - the man who had given you company last night was no longer there and rightfully so considering it was way past training hours. 

Ignoring the pain in your head, you swung your feet off the mattress, glancing out the window. The view is much nicer than Seungcheol’s house - there all you could see were endless trees and hills but here you could see much more of the camp, particularly the common cabin, where everyone was slowly walking towards after hitting the showers. Slightly annoyed and very bothered that yesterday’s events were about to repeat, you sighed, heading down the stairs, making your way to the dining hall. Unlike yesterday though, no one spared a glance at you as you walked in. 

You could tell they were all tired - you saw much of the aftermath of the geese ambush as you returned to camp late last night. Considering everything looked normal today, you figured the boys must have spent all night cleaning up before reporting to train in the wee hours of the morning. 

“Y/n,” Mingyu’s voice called out to you from behind as you turned to him. “You left this in my workshop last night….” 

As you glanced at the jacket in his outstretched hand, the eyes of the other boys flickered between the two of you. 

“That's mine.’ Minghao walked up, swooping his garment in his hands as the attention of the room shifted to him. You gulped as he walked away from the hall wordlessly. 

You figured you should say something considering the silence was only getting worse, maybe apologise for missing training yet again but before you could say it, Seungcheol got up and walked right past you without saying a word. 

Lips parted, you watched him leave once more, refusing to say anything, refusing to listen to you, simply being stubborn like he always was. 

Fine, if he was going to be a bitch, so were you. Following his suit, you walked out of the hall in the opposite direction, leaving everyone inside baffled. 

The heat of the water just wasn’t comforting. 

You knew it was hot, there was steam all around, the tiles of the shower were covered in condensation and designs you had mindlessly traced with your finger. But rather than scalding your skin off, the boiling hot water just felt like a tickle. Annoyed, you turned off the pouring water and grabbed the towel, wrapping it around your body, tucking it in front of your chest. As you ran your hand through your wet hair, you looked at yourself in the mirror. 

Water was dripping from the wet strands, running down the many darkening, reddish purple marks on your neck and shoulder. You knew they would get darker as days passed but you didn’t expect them to look so bruised up already. Running your finger across them you sighed - last night was a horrible mistake. Sure you were under the influence of some messed up concoction but sleeping with more than one member of the camp was ridiculous to say the least. 

What was more burdensome was the idea that maybe there was more than the concoction involved…. Soonyoung had broken up with his girlfriend because of you but neither he nor you were sure about what exactly he felt for you and Minghao? You had noticed he was generally protective of you since you had joined camp and thought it was just because he was nice, but the way he pulled you away from Soonyoung every time the two of you were a little more intimate? That did not seem very ‘general’. 

Shutting your eyes, you tried to push the details of last night out of your mind. Thank god you listened to your trainer when he told you to fight it. Otherwise when you asked Mingyu if you could crash at his place in order to avoid Seungcheol and found yourself sharing his king size bed, maybe you would have allowed yourself to make another mistake. You couldn't make another one so soon. 

Tightening the grip of your towel, you turned towards the changing rooms, slightly startled by the figure that just walked in.

Wonwoo - also in his towel, hanging low at his waist, moving as silent as a shadow as he walked towards the showers. You should have felt exposed, more conscious, given you were barely dressed, and covered in innumerable hickies but you didn't feel a thing. Because Wonwoo hadn't spared you a glance. He walked past you like he couldn't care less, like you weren't there. 

“What is your problem?”

After days of watching this man behave so unnecessarily indifferent to you, you finally spoke up, mind already disturbed by a hundred and one things. 

“Why do you always behave like I don't exist?” You crossed your arms, staring him down. “If you're an introvert, I can understand, Hansol doesn't interact with me much either but at least he doesn't behave like I'm invisible, like he can see right through me-”

“Because I can.” His voice left him deep and cold as he turned to you. “Because I can see right through you.”

You scoffed. “What-”

“Because regardless of what you pretend to be in front of others, I can see the real you. I know things about you that you won't even admit to yourself.” 

 “What-” You emphasised again. “-can you possibly know?.”

“What can I know?” He raised an eyebrow. “I know you're a loner Y/n. You've been one your whole life. Your biological parents never cared enough about you, you don't have any siblings, you've never bothered to make friends, you've always been alone.” He took a step forward. “Even though it was circumstances that drove you to loneliness, you always told yourself that it was your choice, that you wanted to be alone because it’s easier that way. It’s easier to tell yourself that you chose to distance yourself from everyone rather than admit that you were rejected. You knew you would never be accepted. You knew no matter where you were and what you did, you would never fit in. You knew you were a freak.” 

Eyes widening, you stared at his nearing figure. 

“But now? Now you're finally in a place where you belong. You are finally with your kind but you're still terrified - you're scared that maybe, this isn’t where you’re meant to be either. You're scared that if you accept these people and they find out what you really are, they'll leave you too. They'll break the heart you've been safeguarding for all these years.”

Your heart was quite literally in your mouth. 

“That's why you rebel. That's why you call this place 'camp' and never ‘home’. You say things are hard and you're having trouble adjusting but what you're really trying to do is establish that you always are and always will be an outsider - you’re trying to escape the pain that will come when you're finally abandoned. That is why you'll always look for reasons to leave this camp. You'll never let yourself belong, you'll never let yourself become one of those here. So tell me, why do I have to try and bother with your existence when you’re just looking for the first chance to run?”

And somehow, now you could feel the heat all over. It was uncomfortably coursing through your whole body, burning you inside out in a way that made you want to rip out your skin but you already felt so bare, so naked in front of this man. 

But before any words could leave you at all, Wonwoo took a step back and then another till he retreated out of sight and into the showers. It was only when he disappeared that you finally let out the breath you were holding.

Maybe the more logical thing to do was to dive into the lake before you hit the showers but here you were, stripping into just your inner wear and jumping into the ice cold waters, desperate to cool yourself off. As you submerged yourself further in the waters, you shut your eyes, submerging into the darkness as well. 

The fire burning inside you because of Wonwoo's words was just not dying. For the first time ever, it felt like you had truly looked into a mirror because every single word that came out of that man's mouth was true. So, so true. 

And he was right when he said you've never admitted these things even to yourself because you were never really one for introspection. It wasn't like you to explore your thoughts, understand your nature, figure out the intentions of your actions. No, none of that. 

You were impulsive. You dived head first into things. You made decisions, then considered the consequences. You were reckless, you lived fearlessly, you lived like no one and nothing else mattered. 

Because nothing else did matter. 

Ever since you were young, you were on your own. You were not even sure when your mother left you, you had no memories of her and your father? The man who was barely ever present, abandoned you 3 days before your 12th birthday. From then your life had been just yours alone. You worked odd jobs to feed yourself, you worked hard to study, you studied harder to work better and life just went on like that. You didn't have many friends to compensate for the solitude either. Making friends was somehow not very easy for you - how were you supposed to explain the shambles of your life to people? How were you supposed to establish any kind of relationship with anyone when the only ones you ever had, walked out on you? 

You were better off alone. You were always better off alone.

That was until one incident turned your entire life upside down.

The days leading up to your arrival at camp are still a blur to you. The flames, the masked men, the court, the meeting of dozens of people - it all still felt like a fever dream. But one moment was still very clear in your memory - the moment when you were standing at the shrine of your mother, in front of her statue. 

Goddess of the hearth, home and hospitality they said. The old man beside you was going on and on about her. About her powers, about what a wonderful woman she was, about how delighted you'd be to meet her. 

You, though, felt like you were stabbed in the heart you had so carefully locked away. 

When the masked men revealed the truth of your parentage, when you learnt about your mother, you let that hope in you grow again. You thought maybe with this big secret finally out you’ll finally get to meet her. That she would finally be a part of your life. 

That’s why when they gave you a choice at the swearing in ceremony to join camp seventeen or go back to your mortal life, you chose the former. It was for her, it was to be with your mother, it was to finally feel home. 

But as you stared at her statue, offering your respects after the ceremony, it was like someone was drowning you in cold water. Nothing about the expression on her face felt remotely homely, nothing about her felt warm and loving to you - she did not feel like a mother. Rather she felt cold, distant and unwelcoming, just like you imagined the woman who abandoned you would look like. 

And with time, you realised your fear was right. 

Ever since you arrived at camp, all you did was wait. Wait for just one conversation, maybe an explanation, or even just a glimpse. But there was no indication of her. She didn’t drop by the camp, she didn’t respond to your invocation at the temple, she didn't care at all, just like she hadn’t in the last twenty five years. 

The pain of being re-abandoned was so strong that, with each passing day, it began to gnaw on your insides. The breaking point was perhaps realising that you were her only progeny yet you didn't matter to her. It was a blow you had refused to accept but one that had most definitely broken you internally. You had uprooted your whole life for her, you made this new world yours but at what cost - daily incessant instructions to train, classes after classes teaching you how to fit in, members continually trying to make you feel at home. You didn’t want this home, you didn’t want these people, you only wanted her. 

Wonwoo was right, you were never here to be a part of this camp, it was merely a stepping stone to your final goal. You were indeed looking to run. 

But before you could wonder about how Wonwoo knew all these things about you, a hand wrapped around your waist. In a flash it pulled you out and tossed you onto the bank as you launched into a coughing fit, throwing up water. 

“What the hell Y/n?” A worried voice patted your back. “What were you thinking?” 

In between your fit, you raised your head to meet the sight of a set of extremely well chiseled abs, rivets of water dripping down them. Gulping you cleared your throat and scooted back, suddenly aware that you were very very minimally dressed. 

Your saviour Seokmin, looked away from you realising the same as he grabbed the shirt he had tossed into the grass before jumping into the water and handed it to you. Taking it from him, you slipped it on. 

“What is wrong with you?” 

“What?” You frowned. “I'm fine.” 

“You were underwater for so long, I thought you drowned…” Seokmin muttered, pushing his wet hair off his face. “Are you okay?” 

“I'm okay.” You mumbled. You weren't but you knew he wasn't referring to your broken heart. 

“You looked distressed.” Or maybe he was. 

“I just… had some thinking to do.” 

“Well underwater isn't the best place for that if I'm being honest.” He chuckled. “Unless you're Poseidon's child.” 

“What, only you have a claim on water?” 

“No, only we can breathe underwater.”  He somehow looked embarrassed. “Though I was well into my teens before I discovered that.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I was terrified of water as a child, wouldn't go near it.” He laughed. “Ironic for the Son of the Sea right?” 

You scoffed. “A little.” 

“When my aura got stronger, my father found me and helped me get habituated to the waters, that's how I-” 

“Your father?” You gulped, knowing the answer even as you asked him. “Your father as in Poseidon? Poseidon helped you?” 

Seokmin nodded like it was obvious. “I was so scared of any kind of water body, he would lure me in with my favourite snacks. As I got older, I stopped falling for such tricks so he took me to Olympus and made sure I was personally trained in those olympic size pools-”

“Fucking hell.” You got to your feet, much to Seokmin's confusion, tripping as you did. 

“Y/n careful!” He quickly got up, catching you before you hit the ground again. “Are you okay-” 

“No.” You shook your head.“I am not.” 

And with that you walked away from there, body alight with a different kind of fire now. You needed to find someone immediately. 

“Jihoon, we need to talk.”

As you slammed the door of Jihoon’s house open, you were met with silence. 

This was the first time you were in his residence and somehow if you had to picture how his home looked, it was nowhere close to this. You assumed the son of the Sun would prefer whites or lighter colours but most of the minimal furniture in his house was a dark black, standing out starkly in the small room. But right now wasn't the time for you to ponder about his interiors, there were more important things you needed to talk to him about. 

Turning on your heel, you shut the door behind you, wandering into this backyard instead. You knew Jihoon had his own personal gym somewhere there and if Soonyoung was right about his tendency to work out, it was highly likely you would find him there. 

“Hi Cow.” You waved at the half asleep animal under the tree, lazily blinking at you. As though it read your mind, it pointed its head towards the small path on the side before tucking its head between its legs and dozing off. You followed its directions, reaching a large tinted greenhouse and when you opened the door you were greeted by two dozen gym equipment. In the middle of it all was the man you were looking for, his bare back facing you as he hung off a bar, pulling himself up with way too much ease. 

“Y/n.” Well it was no surprise he recognised you without even a glance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Why has everyone on camp decided to be shirtless today?” You mumbled, walking in, looking around. 

Chuckling, Jihoon jumped off, turning to you as he landed. Eyes running down your body, he cocked his head. “Is that why you chose to go bottomless instead?” 

And it was only then that you realized you didn't fully dress yourself before storming away from the lake in just Seokmin's shirt. 

“I was hot.” You shrugged, pulling down the shirt.

“Hot you are.” He mumbled, sitting down on the bench, grabbing a pair of dumbells. “There's way too much heat in your body, which means you're either mad or ovulating and I'm not sure how I can help with either.” 

“The former.” You rolled your eyes. “And only you can help with it.”

“Go on.” He sighed, curling the weights, his biceps bulging with every move. Tearing your eyes away, you cleared your throat. 

“I want to meet my mother.”

“Which one?”

“Hestia.” You crossed your arms. “I have something to ask her.”

“I'm still missing the part where I can help.” 

“You said you'll teach me how to reach out to her.” 

“I did.” He grunted, focusing on his workout. “And I will, every Thursday at 4-” 

You grabbed the dumbbell with surprising ease and put them down before leaning over the man before you, expression threatening. 

“Lee Jihoon, I swear to god, if you don't help me right now…”

Your words trailed away as his eyes shifted down to your neck, the shirt no longer hiding the bruises that were littered all over it. You glanced down before straightening yourself, taking a step back. Jihoon got up, pushing his hair back, eyes fixed on you. 

“I just…” You sighed. “I just want to meet her once.” 

“Then go to the camp temple and invoke her presence.” 

“I have, everyday. She doesn’t respond.” 

“Then there’s no way I can help you Y/n.” He grabbed his towel, wiping the sweat off his arms. “One can only meet Gods if they wish to meet you and I think your mother has made her wishes very clear.”

“I don’t care what she wishes.” You spoke between gritted teeth. “And you said if I played my cards right, my mother would come looking for me.” 

“I also said it would take years of training to become worthy of that.” 

“I don't have years, Jihoon. I want to meet her as soon as I can.” 

“And why the newfound urgency?” He frowned. “What changed overnight?” 

Wonwoo. 

“Seokmin said his father taught him to swim, that as a child he took him to Olympus.” 

“So?”

“So how come my mother never cared, Jihoon? Why is it that she still doesn't?” 

“I already told you-”

“I don't buy that.” You shook your head. “How can a mother be ashamed of having a child? Of her only child?” 

“You'd be surprised.” Jihoon looked at you pitably. “Gods aren't like humans.” 

“Then let her say that to me.” You took a deep breath. “Let her give me that closure so I can stop losing my mind over this. I just want one meeting with her please, is there really no way?” 

“There is one.” He hummed, crossing his arms, his pecs bulging behind them. 

“And what is that?” 

“By doing a sacrifice.”  

“Sac-sacrifice?” You looked at him shocked. “Like those cult stuff?” 

Jihoon rolled his eyes, forgetting just how little you knew about this world. “Sacrifice is an age-old tradition made by our ancestors to please the gods, to gain their favours.” He leaned against the treadmill, slipping into his professor role, just like he had yesterday. “At times of droughts, they used to call on Zeus for rains. When crops were ravaged by pests, Demeter was the one to turn to. When they were at war, Ares was their savior. But,” He sighed. “calling upon a god was not so easy - it required time and perseverance and procedure-” 

“What kind of procedure?” 

“It was insanely complex.” Reaching for his bottle, Jihoon began walking out of the greenhouse, you following closely behind. “First, men would have to climb to the top of mount Olympus to get holy fire, then they would gather items for sacrifice. Every god has a set of items that they just cannot refuse. Dionysus loves his gemstones, Poseidon will do anything for seasalt. Artemis is harder to please, she likes a very specific kind of wildflower. If one offered enough of these to please the gods, then they would appear and were obliged to extend one favour in exchange. But ‘enough’ was where the problem lied.” As he bent down to pet Cow, you stared far off at the horizon, lost in thought.  ”The Gods were incredibly difficult to satisfy, it took large amounts for anything to be ‘enough’ for them. There were demigods who had spent ages trying to invoke them, even losing their minds in the attempts.” 

“That’s degenerate.” You frowned, as he stopped again, this time to grab a bunch of herbs from the wall of his house.

“It was.” He began plucking the leaves, grabbing handfuls. “Eventually, when the Oracle of Delphi was made in charge of the Demigods, things changed. Any demigod who wished to do a sacrifice had to obtain a scroll from her - the Scroll of Sacrifice. A piece of paper that would explicitly state just one thing that the gods wanted in exchange for a favour.” 

Pushing the nearby door open, he stepped in. 

“So you’re saying,” You followed him into his house. “-the only way for me is to go to the oracle, get a scroll, sacrifice whatever is needed and then in exchange I can earn her favour and make her answer my questions?” 

“Theoretically yes, but in reality,” He shook his head, opening yet another door and walking in. “it won’t be that easy.” 

“Why not?” 

“Delphi only hands scrolls to very few demigods, ones she deems worthy and even if she does, they're incredibly difficult - the sacrifice demanded in exchange is almost always impossible to let go.” 

“How hard can it be?” You frowned. “What kind of sacrifices do they ask for?” 

Jihoon sighed, the incessant questions finally getting to him. “You do know your weekly classes are for exactly such information right?” 

“But I want to know right now.” 

“Can I at least tell you without having you stare at me getting dressed?” 

Oh.

Apparently you had walked behind him straight into his dressing room. 

Muttering an apology, you stepped out as he shut the door behind you. 

“So,” You half spun on the balls of your foot. “You were saying?” 

Another one of Jihoon’s sighs reached you before his voice. “The Gods are not fond of being obliged to hand out favours - that's why they make sacrifices nearly impossible. I heard Apollo asked for a demigod’s sight and the boy fell to his death before he could even ask for what he wanted. Aphrodite made one of her own children give up her ability to love…..  it drove her to insanity. And one of those who prayed to Zeus has been chained to a rock on an abandoned island for nearly twelve years and he still has five more years to go. There are endless stories like this Y/n and each of them will only tell you not to opt for such madness.” He opened the door, now fully dressed, a pair of shorts in his hand. “Here.” 

You took it from him, looking a little stumped. “Please wear them Y/n. I can barely look at you…” He muttered walking away again and you quickly slipped on the pair that was just a little too big for you. Following him past a room full of what seemed like musical instruments, you walked into a small pantry. 

“What about Hestia?” You gulped, images of her cold face flashing before you. “What has she asked in exchange?” 

“Honestly, I don’t know.” He threw the herbs he had gathered earlier into a motor. “I’ve never heard of anyone who’s really seeked her favour.” 

You scoffed. “Of course not, what would they ask her help for? Light up their fireplace?” 

Jihoon looked up from the paste he was crushing, slightly miffed. “Your mother is no minor goddess Y/n. She's the caretaker, the protector. Hestia is worshiped in every place called home.” 

“How ironic.” You smiled sadly. “Her own daughter has never had a home.” 

“Unfortunately, no god considers it their responsibility to take care of their bastard children.” He looked pointedly at the counter. “Sit.” 

“Why?” 

“Just sit Y/n.” 

“But why?” 

Sighing, Jihoon rolled his eyes and grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you onto the counter effortlessly as you bit back a scream. As though nothing happened, he continued to do whatever it was he was doing while you tried to calm your uncharacteristically racing heart. 

“It's also unfair to blame Hestia for not having a home when your mortal parents were the one who were supposed to care for you.”

“I know.” You muttered looking down at your fiddling fingers. “This may sound insane but finding Hestia might be easier than finding my mortal parents…. I don't know a thing about them.” 

“I know someone on camp who can help-” 

“But I don't want to find them….yet. I don't know what to ask them.” You looked up as Jihoon pulled out a ladder from the side and began climbing it, reaching for something on the higher shelves. “I’m not prepared to find out if they know the kind of monster I am.” 

“Why would you say that?” He looked at you over his shoulder, frowning. “You don’t even know what your powers are, right?” 

You gulped, staring at the floor, mind racing back to a conversation last night........

“Try not to touch anything.” Mingyu warned as you strolled along his workshop in the faint light of the moonlight. “I’m not really sure if any of these are still hot. I don’t really…. feel heat.” 

As if you did. 

Hanging out with Mingyu wasn’t really on your cards today. After Minghao had left you to deal with your little problem on your own, you had silently made your way out of the house and down the street, searching for a pharmacy. It must’ve been a good twenty minute unsuccessful walk before Mingyu, who was driving around on his bike looking for you, spotted you. You told him you were looking to buy some pills for a headache so he offered to drive you to the nearest store. He didn’t need to know what you really needed was some plan B. After you had procured what you wanted and he started heading back to camp, you told him to take the longest route possible. While he obliged, you wrapped your arms around his waist and drifted off, not wanting to think about all that was plaguing your mind. Not wanting to think about Seungcheol. 

But he’s the first thought on your mind the moment the bike halted at the camp gate. You didn’t want to see him, not now. Mingyu was generous enough to agree when you muttered wanting to take up his offer to crash in his residence. He didn’t question the change of heart, instead he carefully walked you through his workshop, bringing you to the stairs on the other side, leading you up to his house. You though are far too enthralled to follow him.

“You’ve got quite the space here.” You pursed your lips impressed, stripping out of the jacket as he smiled proudly. “Must never be boring.” 

“It isn’t.” He admitted. “Making weapons doesn’t take me too long, leaves a lot of time on my hands for other experiments and endeavors.” 

“Such as?” 

“I like creating little automations.” He shrugged. “Machinery that allows me to be creative and makes life easier. Like the one that's currently out there chopping up wood, for your house.”

“Oh.” You raised your eyebrows looking around. “What else have you made?”

“Too many to remember.” He laughed. “But my best creation is probably my bike. It took months of trial and error. Couldn't have done it without my best buddy.”

“Wonwoo?” You had noticed the two were significantly closer than the rest. There was definitely some story there. 

Mingyu laughed. “Yes Wonwoo is the best but no, I'm talking about that little guy.” 

He pointed behind you and you turned, finding yourself about 500 meters away from a not so little three headed dog, snarling at you with all three of its mouths, drooling leaking from the edges. You took a careful step back and another, crashing into the chest of Mingyu who had sneaked up to you. 

“What is that?” You whispered, voice shaking just a bit. 

“That’s Cerberus, my pet.” 

“That’s a pet?!” 

“It’s Wonwoo’s actually….. But yes, he’s a pet and he’s really friendly, don’t worry.” 

“Huh.” You breathed, not believing his words but only relieved cause you noticed he was chained. “And he helps you with your experiments?”

Mingyu nodded, steering you away from there, walking you toward his house once more. “Cerberus is a very powerful creature - he’s immensely strong, uncharacteristically intelligent and most importantly, he’s my fire source.” 

“Fire source?” 

“The most important tool for a blacksmith like me is the flame - you see those.” He pointed at big cave shaped structures lined neatly on the edge. “Forging presses like that require fires that cannot be ignited by tiny matchsticks. It takes a powerful source to work them, like Cerberus.” 

You tensed, just a little. “So Cerberus can create fire?” 

“He breathes fire.” Mingyu clarified. “Cerberus is from the Underworld, like most mysteries in our world. So yeah, he is one of the few creatures that can create fire.” 

“C-can’t you?” You scratched the back of your head, trying to seem casual. “You said you don’t feel heat so can’t you… make fire too?” 

“Don’t be silly Y/n.” Mingyu scoffed. “Fire is one of the five natural elements. Even the gods, your mother included, can only control fire, not create it.” 

You were right. Even here you were a freak, even here you didn’t fit in. 

None of Mingyu’s excited explanations about the various projects he was working on went into your head. There was only one thing you could think about - You didn’t belong here and you needed to leave before everyone realised that. 

“...and that’s why I don’t have a guest bedroom but don’t worry, my bed is king sized.” Mingyu leaned against the stairs with a small smirk dancing on his face. “Though I can’t promise I can keep my hands to myself.” 

You rolled your eyes, pushing him to lead the way up. The only thing that gave you comfort as he laughed was the knowledge that if you burned, Mingyu was perhaps the only one who couldn’t hurt with your fire......

“Y/n.” Jihoon hopped off the ladder looking at you quizzically. “Where are you lost?” 

“I….” You cleared your throat. “I just meant, I don’t know, what if my mortal parents are aware of any kind of powers I might have? What if… that’s what kept them away from me?” 

“Then that’s all the more reason you have to find them.” Jihoon shrugged. “It would help us-”

“No.” You firmly shook your head. “Just…let me just talk to Hestia first, everything else can wait.” 

“As you wish.” He held up the bowl of whatever concoction he was mixing, a green paste staring at you. “In the meantime…”

“What is that?”

“It's my special ointment for bruises. Makes any and all scars and wounds disappear.” 

“I’m not hurt….” Your voice faded away as Jihoon’s eyes landed on the red, purple and blue trail of hickies on your neck. 

“Are you sure you want to go around parading the evidence of your threesome last night?” 

“I’m not trying to…how do you even know it was a threesome?”

“Those are clearly marked by two different men.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Is this another one of your body reading tricks?” 

“Yes but anyone who knows you were at your first Aphrodite rager last night will be able to guess that much.” Jihoon shrugged, standing right before you. “In fact, three is a rather small number there, most scenes tend to involve a minimum of five people.” 

You felt your jaw hang as Jihoon looked amused. 

“So do you want it gone or not?” 

“Why?” You cleared your throat. “You think I should hide all this in case the other boys make assumptions like yours? That I ought to have some shame?” 

“Not shame, I thought you might appreciate some privacy.” He shrugged. “Given there’s someone who you have been particularly wary of these days.” 

Seungcheol. 

How did this man know everything? 

Sighing, you gripped the edges of Seokmin's shirt and pulled it over your head, baring your neck to the man before you. Trying not to smile, Jihoon slotted himself between your dangling legs, pushed the hair off your shoulder, gently tending to your bruises. 

“It might sting.” He warned right on time as you grabbed his bicep with your free hand, feeling pain shooting up your nerves as the cold ointment touched your skin.

“Breathe.” He instructed, softly running his fingers along your collarbone. “It’ll pass.” 

You figured listening to the expert might be better so you did, trying your best to ignore the intimate proximity between the two of you. 

“While we are at it,” You looked away as he blew on your wounds, cold wind caressing it. “Do you also have something for potential STDs or…. You know, ensuring our kind doesn’t replicate?” 

Jihoon chuckled. “Again, demigods don’t get sick Y/n, STDs don’t mean anything to us and we don’t ‘replicate’ either so there’s really nothing to worry about.” 

Suddenly, every cell in your body stopped functioning. “What do you mean?” 

Jihoon blinked at you like he was only just realising what he said. “Uh…. Demigods are barren Y/n, we…. cannot have children.” 

Though you were sitting it felt like the ground had been pulled from under your feet. Like everything around you had stopped. Like everything had ended.

“Y/n are you okay?” 

How could you be? You just learnt that you could never have children, that you could never be a mother. All your life you didn’t have a family but now? Being a demigod had robbed you of your chance to ever have one in the future. You wanted to peel that part away, rip it and throw it somewhere far away, get rid of this side of you that had done nothing but make everything worse. 

Jihoon seemed to have understood the storm inside you. Or felt it. He was quiet as he grabbed a washcloth and slowly wiped away the ointment, the bruises beneath it starting to look a lot lighter already. As the sting ebbed away, the pain in your heart felt more apparent, coursing through you, hurting everywhere. 

At that moment your eyes trailed over the soft and sharp features of his face burrowed in concentration, your admiration for it overpowering every other thought. 

That’s it. That’s what you needed again. A distraction. 

Now that his job was done, Jihoon tried to move away but your grip on his arm was like a vice. He glanced at it then at you with a raised eyebrow. 

“So you're telling me-” You cocked your head at him. “-even though I let two men cum inside me yesterday and if my prediction is right, another will get his turn today - I'm not at the potential risk of anything?” 

Jihoon raised his eyebrow. “No you're not but pray tell, since when did the daughter of Hestia dabble in predictions? I thought that was in the hands of Apollo's prodigy.” 

“It is.” You ran your hand down his arm, feeling every ridge of muscle under your touch, voice leaving you in a whisper. “The possibility of my prediction coming true or not is in your hands really.” 

Jihoon’s eyes darkened as your tongue darted out to lick your lower lip slowly. Before you knew it, his hands gripped the thickness of your thighs and with a quick jerk he pulled you closer to him, your legs wrapping around his waist. Jihoon looked up at you and you down at him, breaths mingling in anticipation. 

“I know what you're doing Y/n and I know why you're doing this.” He spoke ever so softly. “But I'm not a distraction kind of guy so if there's ever a time you really want me, then you'll have me.”

With that he pulled you off the counter and let you lower your legs on to the floor, looking away. Given the kind of tension and the comfort you had grown to have with him and most importantly how unbelievably hard he was, his length right below your ass, you didn't think he'd say no. It was fair, he was allowed to. It wasn't his fault you were looking to jump any given person just to take your mind off things. 

Nodding, and mumbling a soft thanks for the ointment, you grabbed your shirt and walked past him, only stopping by the corridor to return what was his. 

“Sorry.” Muttering you slid off his shorts and placed it on the shelf beside you. 

Jihoon surprisingly let out a soft groan. You thought it was because you were suddenly minimally dressed but you noticed his eyes were gazing between your legs, on the wet spot of your underwear. You tried to press your legs closer, suddenly feeling very exposed but all it does is darken the spot, making things worse. 

“Fucking hell.” Jihoon muttered and in a flash you were pushed up against the wall, trapped between it and him, caged by his arms on either side. “I'm only just a man Y/n.”

Your eyes flickered down to his pants, the outline of his hard on starkly visible. “Uh huh.” 

“Do you still want this?” 

You cocked your head, hand running down his chest and over the tent in his pants as you smirked. “I predicted it.” 

“Allow me to make a pre-” His words faltered as you squeezed his length. “-prediction as well.” 

“By all means.” 

“You're gonna cum three times before I do.” 

“Oh really?” You raised your eyebrows and spat into your hand, slipping it past the waistband of his pants, wrapping your hand around his length. “I don't think so.” 

“That's….” He half panted, watching your hand do its job, his own hands still against the wall like they were taped to it. “Getting a headstart is cheating.” 

“You're slow.” 

“I'm savouring.” He smiled, leaning closer. “I'm in good hands and I know you're soaked. It's only a matter of time before you're begging.” 

You chuckled softly as though you were amused by his assumption but true to his words, your walls were already fluttering, clenching around nothing as your legs squeezed together. Jihoon, like the master of reading your body that he was, put his hand right in between, cupping you over your underwear, the pressure of his palm on your clit ever so light. From the soft sigh that left your mouth you both knew you were faring far worse than he was - truly, it was brave on your part to challenge him.

“Jihoon….” 

He hums in response as the pace of your hand falters.

“Touch me.” 

“I am sweetheart.” 

“More.” You wrapped your free hand around his wrist, breath shaking and Jihoon allowed you to lead him exactly where you wanted him - past the hem of your panties, right where the wetness was pooling between your legs. 

“Good fucking god…” He swore like he didn't expect you to be this drenched. What a funny guy. What did he think was gonna happen when he was this undeniably hot? 

You on the other hand expected him to be a tease, to draw this out, to make you beg. But to your complete surprise, he wasted no time in sliding two thick digits in, making you squeeze his length at the sheer stretch of the intrusion. 

“Sweetheart, you're gonna kill me.” He muttered, shutting his eyes tight. 

You wanted to apologise, you really did but whatever words were leaving your mouth didn't seem to be making any sense. Not when Jihoon was picking up the pace, taking turns pumping, curling and scissoring his fingers inside you. You felt your back arch on its own, head thrown back as an unholy moan left your being. Fuck he was right, you cannot possibly think of anything else now - this man was capable of turning you into a complete wreck before you could even get a moan out of him. 

“Your bruises have nearly disappeared.” He noticed with your neck bared to him once again. “It was prettier marked.”

“Mark it then.” You panted, composing yourself, getting back to stroking him again. “Do whatever you want.” 

And that's enough to break his resolve, as you felt his fingers slowing down while his teeth ran across the skin of your shoulder. Taking advantage of his momentary fixation, you ran your thumb across his slit, feeling the precum spill onto your fingers. Jihoon groaned, his mouth getting more aggressive on your neck as you gripped his bicep again, sinking your nails into it. 

Fuck, there it was. 

That tightening in the pits of your being, there it was, slowly climbing as you felt your legs starting to shake and Jihoon smirking against your skin, reading all the signs like he knew your body inside out. Thank god he could because just when you needed it, he slid in another finger and curled them up, reaching that sweet spot that had you instantly snapping, falling apart.  

He stilled his movements as you convulsed around his fingers, holding onto him tight but before you could even come down from your high, he started moving again.

“Ji… Jihoon.” You whimpered, chest heaving. “Fuck fuck fuck.” 

And before you know it your barely ebbed orgasm blended into a second one and you were practically gushing out into his hand.

“Damn sweetheart.” He smiled at you like he was a little too pleased with himself. “You're an easy one.” 

Excuse me? 

You could barely get a hold of yourself but that wasn't the most pressing matter - how dare he dismiss you so easily? 

Given your mouth was dry you swallowed on nothing, and shoved him back with just a small  push. Jihoon looked at you confused initially, then his eyes widened as you dropped to your knees and he realised what you were up to. But just as your hand reached the waistband of his bottoms and he pushed the hair off your face, more than ready to fuck your mouth, a loud sound rang through the silence of the afternoon. 

“Shit.” Jihoon muttered pulling you up. “That's code purple.”

You groaned. “Why are there so many fucking colours?” 

Frowning, he threw you your clothes before leading you to a small basin to wash your hands and his. “We need to go. It’s an emergency team meeting.” 

As he scurried around grabbing his things, his bow and arrows to be specific, you dressed yourself once again, watching him. Guess neither of your predictions were coming true after all. 

Noticing you were still lost in your thoughts, Jihoon sighed and grabbed you by the hand, leading you out of his house and to the dining hall of the common cabin where apparently all team meetings were held.

When the two of you had reached, thankfully only Soonyoung and Seungkwan were there and though their expressions were full of questions, they asked none. Before you knew it, everyone had gathered and whispers going around as they settled in their seats but the moment Seungcheol raised his hand, they died down.

“What's the matter?” 

Seungkwan nodded at Soonyoung who stood up, looking around. 

“Kwan and I sent some messages out today asking about the geese attack last night.” He shook his head slowly. “It seems no camp is responsible for it.” 

Minghao spun the blade in his hand with a frown. “So it wasn't a prank or an act of retribution?” 

Seungkwan shook his head. “Considering how we all thought their nature was odd, Hansol connected us to some Hunters of Artemis.” He laid out a map with four red crosses. “They gave us four locations where birds like this were sighted.” 

“So this was just like any other animal attack?” Seokmin leaned back, looking relieved. 

“I'm afraid not. It may or may not be a coincidence but the Hunters also claim that all four locations have been frequently exhibiting very high energy signals, signals that might belong to…” Seungkwan gulped. “The Chimaera.”

A strange silence descended upon the room as glances were exchanged. You looked at Jihoon questioningly but he looked troubled. 

“The fire breather.” Chan let out a low whistle. “It hasn't been heard of in centuries.”

“It seems to be on the move off late.” Hansol tucked the arrows he was polishing into his quiver. “It's hunting.” 

“And I think the geese are its agents.” Soonyoung pointed out. “Geese have always been symbols of vigilance and surveillance. Whatever the Chimaera is hunting, I think it's using the birds to trace it. That's why neither Jun nor Hansol could understand them, because they aren't wild or domestic - they're monsters.” 

“Chan,.” Seungcheol straightened himself. “Alert Olympus, tell them we need troops-” 

“It seems Olympus assigned the hunt to Artemis, ” Seungkwan added. “And you know how the Hunters function. Their goal is to capture the beast, not kill it so they have been taking their time to strategize.” 

“Well we can't wait for them to figure things out.” Jeonghan stared at the map on the table, a hundred things running in his mind. “We're going to have to hunt the monster on our own.” 

“Us?” Minghao looked around. “Do you even understand how powerful the creature is-” 

“Should we just sit back and wait for it to attack the camp then?” Jeonghan raised his eyebrows. “Because whatever it's looking for is here and monsters aren't patient creatures.”

“I know, but-” 

“Minghao.” Seungcheol interrupted, warning. “Jeonghan is our strategist, we'll let him decide what's best.” 

Minghao nodded begrudgingly as Jeonghan pulled the paper towards himself, Soonyoung handing him a pen. 

“We'll split according to our assigned partners.” He began drawing out lines and scribbling names. “Seungkwan and Soonyoung, you two head to the demigod union in the city and alert them, in case we need back up. Minghao and Jun, I want you both here for camp protection, Mingyu and Wonwoo as well…” He looked thoughtful. “If the Chimaera decides to attack the camp in our absence, Cerberus is the only chance we have against it.” 

As all four boys nodded, Jeonghan turned to the rest. 

“The remaining of us will go to the four locations. Everyone will use an energy reader and find the location of the Chimaera. Once you’ve narrowed down its location, alert the team to gather for a hunt. Any foolishness such as going after the monster on your own will not lead to punishment because you'll already be dead.” He glanced around. “Is that understood?”

Mummers of agreement echoed in the room. 

“Jihoon and Hansol, you two head to the one in the south, that's the biggest area but your hounds should help cover it. Joshua and I will head east, Chan and Seokmin will head west and Seungcheol…..” His eyes landed on the leader who was very evidently shaking his head. “Seungcheol and Y/n, you two will head north.” 

You looked at Jeonghan in disbelief. 

“Han,” Seungcheol spoke before you could say anything. “I don't need a partner, I've always been a lone hunter-” 

“That was because we were an odd number of members. But now there's 14 of us so Y/n will go with you-” 

“It's a dangerous mission and she's untrained.” Seungcheol spoke between gritted teeth. “She will be better off in camp-”

“She will be safer with our strongest warrior.” Jeonghan argued back. “You cannot always be team leader Cheol, learn to be a team player. Y/n will accompany you.”

“No I won’t.” You shook your head. “I have no interest in being where I am not wanted.” 

“Y/n, it's not a choice.” Jeonghan sounded tired. “I'm the strategist and this is an order-” 

“I don't care.” You got up, firm about your decision. “I'm not going anywhere with this man.” 

And with that you stormed away from there, ignoring the faint voice of Jeonghan who sighed and continued giving instructions. 

“We leave tomorrow at daybreak.” 

You stared at the schedule in your hand wondering why on Earth you hadn't looked at it before you stepped into the classroom. Admittedly all your time went in washing up, changing your clothes, grabbing lunch and rushing for your afternoon lesson, but you should have noticed what was in store for today. 

Friday - Quest Strategy (Choi Seungcheol, Yoon Jeonghan)

And you didn't want to see either of them right now. 

But before you could grab your things and leave the room to make it seem like you were never here in the first place, Jeonghan arrived, standing against the door, watching you pack up. 

“You need to stop running away from everything.” 

As he walked in, you looked up, rolling your eyes. “And you need to stop interfering in my life.” 

“My decisions as strategist aren't personal Y/n, I do what's beneficial for the camp and its members.” He leaned against the board. "Accommodating your individual preference is not a part of my job profile.”

“Okay, that's great, then be prepared for only one of us to come back alive tomorrow.” 

Jeonghan rolled his eyes at your dramatic statement. “What happened between the two of you?” 

You scoffed at him. As if you were going to tell him. 

“Seungcheol has been my comrade since we were teenagers, I know him better than anyone and I know for a fact that he's not the villain you're making him to be.”

“Oh he's not?” You crossed your arms. “Okay then explain why when I was throwing myself onto him for days, he kept avoiding me but the moment I walked away from him, he came chasing? And did the man at least go through with that? No, he decided to leave me hanging yet again and then he behaved like everything that's happening is my fault?” You threw your hands in the air. “No apology, no explanation, he just continued to avoid me and when I finally got him out of my mind, then he decided he wanted to talk to me? I didn't want to, but he couldn't even respect my space and ended up coming to the party and….” 

“And?” Jeonghan looked curiously. 

“And I think he knows that I slept with Soonyoung….” You didn't meet Jeonghan’s eyes. “and Minghao.” 

Jeonghan hummed, nodding his head, taking in all the information, as you added quickly. 

“But it was only because all of us were under the influence of aphrodisiacs-” 

“That's irrelevant.” Jeonghan waved his hand. “Who you choose to be with and what you choose to do is entirely your choice. But you think Seungcheol is mad about that?” 

“I'm not sure. I have a feeling he is.”

“That's not right.” 

“Now you see my point?”

“I didn’t say he wasn't stupid.” Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “But I still stand by the fact that he's not a bad person.” 

“Okay mate, you need to get your head out of your bestie's ass.” 

Jeonghan laughed, shaking his head. You expected him to say something snarky but his expression slowly turned serious. 

“Do you know why you're in Camp Seventeen Y/n?”

“Because I'm a demigod?” That was perhaps the first time you had said that out loud. 

“Yes but why this camp?”

“The Oracle assigned me.”

“Partly.” Jeonghan nodded. “The Oracle of Delphi only assigns demigods to camps that are willing to take them. Seungcheol was the only leader willing to take you.” 

Your lips parted in surprise as Jeonghan continued. 

“Do you know what was supposed to happen the night you were kidnapped and brought to the court?” 

You shook your head. 

“You were going to be attacked.” Jeonghan let out a deep breath. “The sudden activation of your aura after years of dormancy seemed to have drawn in a lot of attention. Days after your little incident, Olympus sent out a report that the levels of monster activity in the city were unprecedentedly high. They said there was a large influx of monsters and we had to be alert but I don't think so. Especially not after what we learnt today.” 

“What do you mean?”

“It's not monsters but one monster that came to the city.” Jeonghan looked at you keenly. “I think it was the Chimaera and I think you are what it's hunting.”

The things in your hand slipped and hit the floor with a thud. You? 

“You mean… I'm the threat in this camp?”

“You're the one in danger.” He corrected. “But yes you are the threat and more importantly, Cheol knows that. He always knew that. It was evident from the start that you were a monster magnet, that you are some kind of anomaly and that making you a part of our camp would only mean more danger but he said it didn't matter. He said as long as someone needed to be saved, he would do it. He said he would be your protector and that's why you're here Y/n - because Cheol made the choice to safeguard you.”

You blinked at a loss of words. 

“Even yesterday, when the geese attacked and we didn't know what was happening at the party, his first instinct was to check if you were okay. That's why he came to the rager. That’s also why he's been so frustrated, why he doesn't want you to accompany him tomorrow. Your safety is his first priority.” 

Letting out a deep breath, you ran your hand through your hair, internally beating yourself up. You had no idea. 

“Will Seungcheol be coming for the lesson today?”

Jeonghan shook his head. “I don't think so, he's busy at Mingyu’s workshop, preparing for tomorrow, like you should be doing too.” 

“I can't possibly learn anything by tonight that'll help me tomorrow.” 

“Yes you can.” Jeonghan walked up to you. “We can try and understand why the Chimaera is after you. We can discuss your lawsuit considering it was the root cause of everything and see if it gives us any answers. Let me just call Wonwoo and-”

“Absolutely not.” You quickly grabbed all your things again. Wonwoo was still on the list of people you didn't want to meet. “I need to find Cheol first.”

And with that you swung your bag over your shoulder, rushing out of the classroom, leaving a sighing Jeonghan behind. 

When you reached Mingyu’s residence, Seungcheol was indeed in the workshop along with a couple of camp members, inspecting the weapons for tomorrow. Immersed in their discussion they didn't notice your presence until you stepped in and Cerberus let out a low growl, his eyes following you. 

“Y/n.” Mingyu jogged up to you, looking concerned. “What are you doing here?” 

“I…” You gulped looking at Seungcheol’s back. “I was hoping to talk to Cheol real quick.” 

“We're in the middle of a meeting, I'm not sure…” 

“Please Mingyu, it'll be quick.” 

“I can ask him but-”

“Gyu.” Seungcheol looked over his shoulder. “What's the matter?”

“Y/n is here,” Mingyu raised his voice. “She wants to talk to you.”

As lightning ripped across the sky, Seungcheol let out a deep breath “Send her away.” 

And for the nth time you could hear your heart breaking because of Seungcheol.

 “Seungcheol I just want to apolo-”

“I don't want to hear it.” He turned to you, voice hard and gaze unforgiving. “Please leave.” 

Mingyu looked at you apologetically as did the other members, Jihoon included. Taking a step back and then another you walked out, the low grumbles of the thunder not louder than the thumping of your heart. 

Sometimes you really had to remind yourself that Natalie was in fact a pig and not a dog. 

You tended to forget given how much she liked to be taken on walks and sniff everything around. Today she took you from Seungcheol’s house to Mingyu’s to Seungkwan’s to the common cabin and finally to the temple where she found a spot of wet mud and decided to roll in it. That was until she spotted Wonwoo walking by, perhaps heading to secure the camp's borders for the night, given it was nearly dusk. You looked away from him but your pet decided to jump up and follow him like she always loved to do.

Sighing, you walked over to the area designated for campfire and sat on one of the logs, picking on the chips of wood nonchalantly. When the cold wind of the evening caressed your skin, sending shivers down your spine, you looked around, making sure no one was watching you. Realising you were all alone you waved your hand, watching the flames dance on your palm before they floated over to the wood in the middle, lighting the campfire. You stared at the orange flames, Jeonghan's words ringing in your head again - I think you're what it's hunting. 

It couldn't be a coincidence. A powerful monster, a fire breather that had been quiet for centuries, wanting to find you of all people. That couldn't be a coincidence. Was it possible the Chimaera knew something about you? Did it know why you were such a freak? 

And why did Seungcheol choose to protect someone like you? Why won't the man just let you hate him peacefully? He just had to be so righteous and brave and good…. But if he cared about you so much, why did he always pull away? Why did he never reciprocate?

It seemed like life only liked to throw questions at you, never any answers. You were too tired for all this. You just wanted to stop thinking. You just wanted this day to end and let yourself be taken away by sleep so you could forget all this. You just wanted some peace. 

As though the universe hated you, at that exact time, Jihoon walked out of the temple, hands shoved in his pockets, mind clearly elsewhere. You were thankful he hadn't noticed your presence and had almost left the premises busy in his own world until he suddenly stopped at the edge of the trees, turning back to see you. 

As your eyes locked his, he sighed walking back to you, sitting just over a foot away. He didn't say anything and you didn’t know what to say. 

“You're nervous.” He pointed out. “Your heart is racing.” 

You shook your head exasperated. “Do people tell you how annoying it is to be around you?”

“Not quite.” He chuckled. “I don't like being around people.”

“Why am I the exception?” 

“You came looking for me.” 

“You literally just came and sat next to me.”

“I meant earlier.” 

“I'm talking about now.” 

“I just…” He sighed, turning to you. “I just wanted to say, don’t take whatever Seungcheol says to heart. He has too many pressures on him as leader, especially in situations like this-” 

“You know, that excuse is getting very overused. Is his consistent dismissal of me justified just because he's a busy, important man?” 

“It's not.” Jihoon shook his head. “But I thought you should know - his heart was racing just as fast when you came to talk to him. It always is around you.”

You scoffed, tired of people telling you the same thing. 

“All that tachycardia could be pathological. He should get himself checked-” 

“There's clearly something he's unable to tell you, some reason for why he is the way he is.” Jihoon justified. “Give him a chance to explain himself.” 

“I have to give him a chance?” You looked at him incredulously. “Did you not see how he sent me away?”

“Yes I did, it was the same way you ran away to a party when he wanted to talk.” Jihoon rolled his eyes. “If you both just keep being idiots like this, things are never going to get better.” 

“Honestly things don’t have to.” You tugged on the sleeves of your shirt. “It's not like we are star crossed lovers or something. This infatuation or crush or whatever it is, it will eventually die down. All I hope is for us to at least be courteous with each other but he can't even seem to do that.” 

Jihoon stared at the ground. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” 

That was a question you didn't have an answer to. So you ignored it. 

“I just want us to be pleasant over tomorrow's hunt, that's all. But something tells me things might just get a whole lot worse.” 

“Are you making predictions again?” Jihoon chuckled. “Have you still not learnt that you're horrible at it?”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You laughed along. “Besides, the day is not over yet.” 

“Oh you still think you stand a chance with me?” 

You narrowed your eyes at his laughing self. “I didn't say it had to be you. But you said you could make me cum thrice - I only came once.”

“Twice.” 

“Once.” 

“You're forgetting that I can read your body.” He cocked his head at you. “Twice.” 

“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes. “Still less than three.” 

“You and I both know if I wasn't interrupted I could've done it.” 

“Not true.” You shook your head. “If I blew you, you didn't stand a chance.” 

“How ever will we know which of us is right?” 

He looked at you, something darker swirling behind his eyes and it made your insides twist. There was a way to find out and given how empty you had been feeling since earlier, maybe you would have, if only Seungwkan didn't walk over, settling down on the log across yours. Although Jihoon and you were already sitting apart, the two of you moved further away. 

“Natalie is sleeping in Jun's barn apparently.” Seungkwan informed. “Wonwoo has too much to do today - There won't be a shift handover tomorrow since Hansol and Jihoon will be heading for the hunt.” 

You nodded, not really understanding because you didn't really bother to actually. Your mind was entirely elsewhere, wondering about other possibilities. 

“We uh should probably sleep early since, you know,-” You got up swinging your arms. “-big day tomorrow.” 

“Yeah.” Jihoon followed your suit, slowly standing. “Better get good rest.” 

Seungwkan nodded, glancing at Hansol who was walking over, “You two go ahead, the two of us need to have a little chat.” 

You nodded as the man in question sat beside Seungwkan, poking the fire with a stick, avoiding your eyes as usual. Unbothered, you turned to Jihoon, catching him already looking at you.

“Jihoon can I-” 

“Y/n do you-”

Both of you looked at each other, gulping. 

“I uh…” You tried yet again to feign casualness. “I wanted to ask for the ointment you gave me earlier, for bruises. I… have many mosquito bites.” 

“Right.” He scratched his head. “I was going to offer you the same.” 

“Oh good.” 

“Yeah good.” 

Seungkwan’s eyes flickered between the two of you but it was only when Hansol looked up that you realised just how suspicious this must seem. Waving an uncharacteristic bye, you quickly left, Jihoon following at a considerable distance as you made your way to his residence. 

The events of earlier today repeated in a similar fashion - Jihoon plucked a few herbs and walked into his house. You followed him, straight into his pantry this time considering neither of you needed a change of clothes. He proceeded to grind up the greens in a paste as you leaned against the door, watching the strong muscles of his back. Fuck you’d love to run your nails down that. 

“What are we doing Y/n?” Finally stopping whatever he was doing, Jihoon gripped the edges of the counter, his expression unseen. 

“I don’t know what you are doing.” You shrugged. “I am just here to prove I was right.” 

Chuckling, Jihoon turned to you. When he saw you slowly unbuttoning the shirt you had donned, his eyes darkened. “Straight down then left.” He turned back to whatever he was doing. “Wait in my room.” 

Pulling your shirt off your shoulders you threw it at him, letting out a giggle and walking away. 

“I don’t like to wait!” You announced, following his instructions. Almost. 

On the way your eyes fell on the music room you had seen earlier, legs instinctively taking a detour. There were all kinds of instruments in there - banjos on the wall, guitars lined up beside the drum set. There was a large grand piano too and a huge computer with all kinds of equipment around. It was impressive to say the least. 

“I said left, not right.” Jihoon walked in, one hand shoved in his pocket, another holding on to a strange, black drink.

“You have a recording studio here.” 

“I would say you're observative but it's pretty obvious so that would be an overstatement.” 

“How do you power these?” You turned to him. “Without electricity?”

“Well you’re analytical, I’ll give you that.” He let out a small laugh before he explained. “I’m the Sun’s progeny - a little solar energy goes a long way.” 

“So all of these work?” You looked around surprised. “Can I listen to something you’ve made?” 

“I don’t think we’re close enough for that.” 

You rolled your eyes. “But we’re close enough for you to have your fingers in me?” 

“You asked for it.” He shrugged. “And I’m a giver.” 

Laughing, you ran your fingers across the piano. “Can you at least play something for me?” 

Jihoon looked at you for a solid minute before he let out a resigned breath. Setting the drink down on the counter, he grabbed a saxophone from the wall and aligned it with his mouth. You leaned against the piano, urging him to continue with the tilt of the head. 

As the sultry sound of his melody rang through the room, you found yourself swaying to it - it was a good piece, a sexy one that definitely worked to set the mood. But you had ways you could do that on your own too. 

Nearing him, each step matching the rhythm of the music, you ran your hand along his groin, feeling his erection already waiting for you. Smirking to yourself you got on your knees before him, hands working on his waistband and surprisingly, you heard him mess up a note. 

“Uh oh.” You tutted, looking up at him. “No mistakes, no fumbling or I’ll stop.” 

Jihoon tensed under your touch, continuing to play his piece, facing turning red but the melody not stopping. Unzipping his pants, you just about leaned in to give the bulge in his underwear a butterfly of a kiss when you felt a chill run down your body. Something was wrong. 

As though you’d lost all sense of autonomy, you could feel yourself moving back, sitting on your heels, your hands proceeding to unclasp your bra instead. Sliding it down your arms and throwing it away, you got up and shimmied out of your shorts and underwear in one go. You gulped as Jihoon watched you sit on the black couch across him, breaths shallow and fast, chest heaving because this wasn’t you - you somehow had no control over your body. You didn’t mean to pull your legs up and spread them open or run your fingers along your slit, or slide them into your wet hole as though you were putting on a show for him. Yes you felt good but none of this was you. 

Jihoon watched with hooded eyes as you pumped your fingers in and out, free hand moving up to squeeze a boob. Everything moved to its own accord, working you up with a vigor you would have never used on yourself, the sound of the wetness and your moans almost drowning out the song. Your back arched as you felt everything tense, but your eyes did not leave Jihoon’s who finally could not take it anymore, setting the sax aside, leaning over you. 

His own fingers found your clit, rubbing onto it in a way that unmistakably tightened the coil in you. Whimpers left your mouth and though it felt like you were in control of yourself again, you couldn’t stop. Not now, not when you were feeling so good, not when you were so close…. Not until Jihoon whispered. 

“Come on sweetheart, cum for me.”

And you did, around your own fingers, eyes seeing white as he continued to tease your clit, a groan rumbling across his chest. 

“Wha…” You panted, slowly coming down from your high, arousal leaking out of you. “What the hell just happened?” 

“That-” Jihoon smirked, straightening himself. “-was my prediction coming true.” 

“But why could I… why could I not…” 

“Control yourself?” 

You nodded.

“Because the song you just heard is what we call Apollo’s Anthem.” He cocked his head at you victoriously. “If mastered, the one who plays it can make anyone dance to their tunes, like you just did.” 

“That….” Your eyes widen with realization. “That was you? Making me do all that?”

He nodded. 

“Now that's cheating.” You huffed, pulling your legs together, pressing them. “I demand a rematch. We're gonna have to redo-” 

“Next time.” He fisted the material at the back of his neck and pulled his shirt over this head. “Right now there's another prediction we need to work on.”

You furrowed your eyebrows as Jihoon stripped out of his pants, baring himself completely given he had gone commando underneath. 

“For fucks sake, I've been hard since the afternoon and there's nothing I can think other than cumming inside you.”

A triumphant smirk danced across your lips as you leaned back, watching his callously stroke his length. 

“You know, I had my fill with three orgasms today and I'm quite exhausted. I see no reason I have to indulge.” 

Jihoon blinked at you. “Didn't you want to be proven right?” 

“Nope.” You shook your head. “My math teacher always used to say, the truth never needs to be proven, it always reveals itself. He was a hot man, now that I'm thinking about him, very irresistible.” 

“Can we please not talk about your hot math teacher while I'm jerking off?” Jihoon groaned. “Now I'm thinking of my math teacher and he was a gnome of a man.” 

You laughed, watching as he picked up the pace, desperate to finish himself. 

“Is your right hand satisfying enough?” 

“No but I'll have to settle for imagining it's you.” He whimpered. “Albeit it's not even close to how tight you were.” 

You hummed, suddenly feeling both pity for him and curiosity as to just how much a dick as thick as that could stretch you out. “Do you still want to fuck me?” 

“Why is that still a question?” 

“I'll allow it.” Spreading your legs again, you ran your fingers along the folds again, this time wantonly, smearing the remnants of your previous orgasm all over. “But only because you've to hunt tomorrow and I don't want you to be distracted, thinking about dicking me down-.” 

“Stop talking and move over.” He muttered and finally you listened, shifting to the side as he sat beside you. Wasting no time, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into his lap, his dick grazing against your clit, sending a jolt down your body. As you held his shoulders, he pumped himself a few times before aligning the tip right at your hole, dragging it along the wetness agonisingly slowly. 

“Jihoon for god's sake, just put it in.” 

“Say you want me to fuck you.” 

“You want me to fuck you.” 

Your bratty-ness was met with a painful spank on the ass. 

“Say it.” He rubbed the area softly, before spreading the cheeks, the head of his dick ever so slightly entering you. “Say you want this as much as me.” 

You tried to chase that feeling, sink further down his length, but his grip was strong and unnerving. 

“Fuck Jihoon please.” You whined as his mouth wrapped around your nipple, sucking it. “Let's just do this already.”

“Can’t hear you.” 

“Jihoon…” You begged as he pulled out, leaving you clenching around nothing. 

“Walls are soundproof sweetheart.” He reached up, nuzzling your neck. “Let me hear you.” 

“For fucks sake, fuck me already Jihoon!” You babbled, desperate to not lose the feeling of him sliding into you again. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me-” 

“Ride me.” He whispered, pushing you down on his cock, the sheer thickness of it nearly splitting you open. “God you're so tight.” 

“And you're so big.” You moaned, as you bottomed out on him, feeling every inch of his thickness against your fluttering walls. 

Jihoon allowed you to adjust to his length, mouth working on marking your breasts instead but when you began involuntary squeezing him he pulled away, biting his lip like he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Y/n....” He mumbled, fingers gripping your waist tighter. “Move.” 

And you did, like your life depended on it, knees digging into the couch taking support. With his hands sliding down to your ass again, he helped too, bouncing you on him with a pace you could not have managed on your own. You threaded your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck, head thrown back, guttural moans leaving you. Jihoon seemed to enjoy all of it, the way you sounded, the way you felt around him, the way you gripped his hair as your core began to tighten threateningly. You could tell from the way he chose to hold you in place instead, thrusting himself up into you and your arousal dripping down his length filthily that you were close but he was far from ready for this to be over. 

Oh this was going to be a long night. 

“Y/n wake up.” It was the soft shaking that drew you out of your sleep. “It’s nearly dawn.”

Jihoon’s face hovered over yours, looking tense. You stretched awake, blinking your eyes open, looking around - you were still in his music room, lying on his couch. You must’ve slept here last night, you didn’t even realise when you went into a deep slumber. From all the bedding on the floor you figured Jihoon crashed in here with you despite having a room of his own in his own house. Slightly thankful that he was gracious enough to not leave you alone, you sat up, pulling your hair into a bun. 

“The boys are done washing up if you wish to hit the showers.” He gathered the remaining of your clothes on the floor, which was really just your bra and handed it to you. “You should also eat something. We skipped dinner last night.” 

Of course you did. 

You’d never had sex this intense before last night. You vaguely remembered cumming nearly three more times - once while you were riding him, right before he emptied his load right into you and two more before he pulled you off him and had you on your knees on the couch, your ass and his cum dripping out of you on display for him as he fucked you and filled you one more time. After that, right before you faded into a deep sleep, you also recalled him cleaning you, handing you that black drink from earlier and helping you get dressed - eating was not even on your agenda before you passed out. 

But now admittedly, you were hungry and also in desperate need for a shower so you swung your legs off the couch and got to your feet. Taking a step was particularly difficult though, given how sore you were. 

“Here.” Jihoon handed you a glass of the same potion. “It’ll help with the pain.” 

Muttering a small thanks, you downed the bitter juice in one gulp. As you returned the glass he handed you a small box of a very familiar green ointment, looking pointedly at your neck. Apparently he had given you his own set of the very bruises he had healed yesterday. Scoffing, you took it from him, walking away, towards the main door. 

“Are you okay?” He asked from behind as you nodded, looking over your shoulder.

“Thank you Jihoon, for everything.” and with that you shut the door, stepping out into the darkness before dawn, taking a deep breath. 

Something about Jihoon’s expression told you he was expecting you to say something more but you didn’t have anything else to say. He was a distraction, you were successfully distracted and now you were back to your reality and the real world. Now it was time to face Seungcheol again. 

Realising the sun would be out in a while, you quickly headed for a shower keeping your head down not to meet the eyes of the boys busy loading the cars at the edge of the camp. As you walked into the bathhouse you wondered if you would meet your regular bypasser at this time of the day too and brushed off the possibility but to your complete surprise, Wonwoo, fully dressed for a change, was right there, leaning against the lockers as though he was waiting for you. 

“You're on time.”

“And I don't have the time for you.” You rolled your eyes, grabbing your towel, heading towards the showers.

“Careful Y/n.” Wonwoo called out from behind you, his voice a lot less nonchalant than it normally was. “The Chimaera is no small monster. It's dangerous, manipulative and feeds on chaos.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder as he continued.

“If things take a turn and you're forced to face it, do whatever it takes to fight it. Don't think, don't analyse, just do it.” 

Frowning, you turned to him, wondering why he was suddenly saying all this but without explaining himself any further, Wonwoo straightened himself and simply left from there. 

By the time you had arrived at the dining hall, right around the time the sun had begun to peak from behind the mountains, all the boys had gathered around the table, dressed in armours and gear. Jeonghan was leading the meeting again, walking around handing something that looked a lot like a golden medallion. 

“Keep your energy readers close to you at all times - the Chimaera is a very intelligent monster but it's not very fast, so in a critical situation, early detection may be what saves your lives.” Noticing your presence, he walked up to you, holding the medallion out. “This is an energy reader. The way demigods have auras, monsters do too and this little handy thing can pick up on it. The closer you are to a creature, the warmer it gets so pay attention. If the medallion manages to pick the right frequency, it will morph into an image of the monster so you'll know exactly what it is. Understood?”

You nodded. 

“Turn.” 

And you did, as he pushed your hair onto a shoulder and secured the chain at the nape of your neck. You ran your fingers across the golden indentation of the surface curiously - it was kind of heavy. 

“Your armour is in Cheol's car.” Mingyu piqued from his seat. “So are the flares and your looking glass.”

You turned to Jeonghan who understood the confusion etched on your face. 

“You are, at no point, allowed to abandon your partner but on the off chance that you are separated, send a flare and it will help him identify your location and a looking glass-” He pulled out a small pane of glass from his pocket. “-is how you can communicate with the members. Just say the name of whoever you want to talk to and they'll appear on it.” 

Finally understanding you nodded, as Jeonghan handed you one last thing - a folded paper. 

“This is a copy of the map. Seungcheol will be driving so be sure to guide him properly.” 

You looked over his shoulder at the leader who seemed tense. 

“Whatever is going on between you two, please just keep aside for one day.” Jeonghan looked at you pointedly and sighing, you nodded. You would be courteous with him, you could do that much. 

As the boys began shuffling around, getting to their feet and leaving the hall, a hand on your arm stopped you from following. 

“Breakfast.” Jun held out with a small box that looked like it was filled to the brim. “Eat on the way. You'll need your energy.” 

Muttering a grateful thanks, you took it from him, glancing at Minghao who was standing beside him, arms crossed. 

“I know you're not fully trained but every demigod should have a weapon on them when they're out in the real world.” Your trainer put a pair of daggers in your hand. “Twin blades. I think they'll suit you.” 

You turned the sheathed weapons in your hand, liking how light they felt. Minghao seemed proud of how comfortable you were. 

“Stay safe doll.” 

He called out as you left, a new unknown fear coursing through you as everything got more and more real. 

By the time you reached the gates, everyone else had already taken off, leaving only Seungcheol leaning against his G wagon, waiting for you. The things Mingyu mentioned were in the passenger seat, neatly folded when you opened the door. As you tried to quickly slip them all on, Seungcheol waited, not offering to help, not even looking, just staring out at the woods. When you finally clambered in, he got in too, turning on the engine and taking off swiftly. You stared at the map on your lap - fuck, it was a long ride. 

In the 2 hours that the two of you had been driving, the sun had fully risen, you had finished your breakfast and not one word that was irrelevant to the route had been exchanged. You stared out of the window, watching the trees whizz by - you had crossed much of the town houses in the outskirts and the road was getting narrower and lonelier now. It made sense why a monster would hide out here. 

“How much further?” Seungcheol asked, fingers drumming the wheel. 

“Until we reach the big olive tree.” You peered at the map trying to understand the images instead given you couldn't read Greek. “There we turn left.” 

Seungcheol hummed, then silence descended once again. 

It was a miracle you went through so much time without saying anything to the man beside you. Considering it was just the two of you and neither of you could run, it was the perfect time to talk about everything going on but you found yourself complying with Jeonghan’s instructions and keeping quiet. Perhaps because you had too much on your mind. 

As nonchalant as you tried to seem, the Chimaera terrified you. It wasn't because it was apparently a big scary monster but because it was seeking you. You were no idiot - you knew that if a creature that powerful wanted to kill you, it could have at many instances when you were being particularly reckless. This one definitely wanted something else from you and the thought of that was more terrifying. What could a monster possibly need from you? 

You didn't know. And maybe like most things in your life you wouldn't get to know. Like you didn't get to meet Hestia, or didn't understand why your powers were so different, or didn't know how to cope with the fact that you could never be a mother. It was perhaps just another thing to add to this never ending list. 

“Y/n.” Seungcheol's hand on your arm pulled you out of your thoughts. “How many times do I have to ask? Is that the tree?” 

You glanced at it and then back at the map and nodded. “Yeah, sorry, that's the one.” 

Shifting gears Seungcheol slowed down, turning left like you told him to but to both of your surprise, the road ahead led straight into a forest that was submerged in darkness despite it being so early in the day. Confused, Seungcheol turned on the headlights as he drove ahead but the moment the car moved ahead, the lights turned off. 

Frowning, he tried again, only to receive the same result - the lights kept turning off. 

Annoyed, he stopped the vehicle, grabbing a rather large lighter from the dashboard and stepped out, opening up the hood. Unbuckling your belt, you followed him. 

“Sit inside Y/n.”

“How are you supposed to hold the lighter and fix this thing?” You grabbed the light from him and held it over the engine. “Is there a problem?”

Seungcheol peered at the machinery, frowning. “I don't think so. I don't know why…..” He trailed off like a realisation hit him. “Did you say the tree we crossed was an olive tree?”

“I think it was?” You held out the map for Seungcheol to see. “I can't read Greek.”

“That’s not an olive tree and this isn't any ordinary forest….” He turned to you, both your faces illuminated by the faint light of the fire. “This is the Forest of Nyx, the Goddess of the Night.” 

“Is that why the lights won't work?” You whispered, feeling a chill run down your body. “Is that why it's so dark?” 

“It's always night at her realm. No light, no Gods, no eyes are allowed here.” He gulped as though he suddenly realised the proximity between the two of you. “No one can see us here.” 

You frowned not understanding what he meant when he shut the hood, the headlights surprisingly flaring up again. Before you could even process what was going on, he pulled you up against him, the lighter dropping from your hands due to the sheer force as your body pressed against his. 

“Cheol-”

“No one can see us Y/n.” He whispered, eyes drifting to your lips. “No one.” 

And in a flash, his mouth was on yours - hot, wanting and desperate. 

You gripped his arms, taken aback by the suddenness but when he pulled you closer like he didn't even want air between the two of you, you ran your hands up his chest and neck, threading them into his thick hair. Taking that as a sign of approval, he moved his hands down, briefly squeezing your ass before catching hold of your thighs and lifting you with unsurprising ease, wrapping your legs around his waist. You moaned when you felt his tongue slip into your mouth, his hands annoyed by all the armour as though they wanted to rip it out. 

It was only when you felt breathless and pulled back that he finally let you go. Looking up at you equally breathless, eyes almost pleading, the words that you'd been dying to hear left his mouth at last. 

“Fuck I've wanted this for so long.” He groaned. “I wanted you for so long Y/n, please….” 

You gulped, stiffening when you understood what he was begging for.

Choi Seungcheol wanted to sleep with you.

A/n - aaaaand scene hehe

If you've managed to make it till the end, congratulations, this was a long one, I'm sorry buttttt Cheol enthusiasts (aka everyone) y'all are in for a ride next chapter hehe, stay tuned!

And if you enjoyed reading, please don't forget to leave feedback in the comments or tags - we've got lots of chapters to go and hearing thoughts really helps <3

[jasmines-library]

batfam with the youngest robin (prob 12-13) who gets kidnapped by the joker during a mission and a year or so later the joker reveals the kid who is now brainwashed to be the joker jr

i was thinking like maybe how they’d react and maybe that they can rescue y/n and un-brainwash them and like comfort them and stuff

if not that’s fine i don’t mind!!! i can also like explain better if needed lol

The Stranger In The Mirror.

Note: You guys literally send in the best requests, I took inspo from Batman Beyond where this happens to Tim but I also added my own little twists as always.

Warnings: Torture (graphic), brainwashing, manipulation, drugging, breakdown basically hurt not comfort (poor reader is going through it all in this one.)

Word count: 2.5k

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

“Help! Somebody please!”

You heard the cry before you saw what was happening. A female voice begging desperately for help, pleading for mercy as the two men backed her against the wall of the alley. They stalked towards her menacingly and you could see the way her face contorted with a fear that gripped her so tight as she moved feebly in an attempt to get past the two men. But they were large and between them took up most of the alley so that it was nearly impossible for her to slip past, and even if she did they would be on her in a second. 

Using your grappling hook to secure a line on a nearby railing, you propelled yourself down from the rooftop. Before your feet hit the floor, you took the crooks out with a well placed blow that sent them crumpling to the ground like a sack of flour. Resheathing your hook, you turned to the woman. 

“Are you alright, Miss?”

She smiled, looking at you from under the brim of her hat with an all too familiar smile “Much better now you’re here.”

A brief flash of recognition crossed over your face, obscured by your mask as you realised who those brown eyes belonged to but you had no time to act on it before she hit you on the back of the head. Hard. With a manic laugh. 

“Night night, Birdy.”

~

When you awoke, you were laying on something cold. A piece of metal that you had been bound to by ropes that burned against your wrists and feet as you struggled to free yourself. The table was tilted at an angle that allowed you to squint against your throbbing head to take in your surroundings. The room you were in was well lit and seemed surprisingly sterile given the situation. Strange concoctions of colours that made you grimace hung on the walls and bubbled away in tubes on one of the many workbenches across the room. The tools made your stomach churn. But then you saw him. 

Perched all high and mighty in a chair opposite you the Joker had sprawled himself out across a chair, flashing you one of his sickening, signature grins. 

“Hiya, Birdy!” He stood with glee, making his way over to you with a spring in his step-almost like he was skipping. 

“Why the hell am I here, Joker?” You spat at him, baring your teeth. 

“Can’t a guy just hang out with his favourite vigilante?” He mused, turning away from you as he began organising things on the desk that you couldn’t see, you tugged in the restraints to try and catch a glimpse of them.

“Cut the crap.”

“You all really are no fun.” He rolled his eyes “Not to worry that’ll all change soon when I morph you into the perfect weapon. Me.”

“What?” 

“Well, what’s better than one of me? Two of me. And you little bird, know all the ways to destroy your pesky family.”

“I’m not going to tell you shit.”

He shrugged, turning back to you with a pair of jump leads in hand. “We’ll see.”

Walking towards you with a grin he attached them to the table before reaching towards the dial. You thrashed desperate to break free but the ropes securing you in place allowed no leeway for you to move. When his fingers brushed the dial and the voltage came flooding through the wires, you let out a blood curdling scream. The pain was everywhere as your body arched, twitched and writhed against the rope. It burned at your skin, drawing blood and forming blisters against your wrists and your ankles. When the current finally stopped and you fell slack against the restraints your diaphragm jerked and spluttered against each pain filled gasp. 

“Are you ready to talk now?”

~

They realised very quickly that you were missing. You hadn’t returned home after your patrol. They tried not to let the worry get the best of them, but this was Gotham. They waited, watching the seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours, but there was no sign of you. You were gone. 

Everyone was on high alert. For three, agonising weeks they searched every inch of Gotham, using every possible connection they had but no one found any leads. Tim was growing frustrated, hacking into every database he could find as Bruce and the other boys scoured the city. But you were gone without a trace. That was until one tedious Wednesday morning, the batcave received an urgent call. 

~

Your head was fuzzy. Whatever the Joker had dozed you with this time was really taking a toll on you. 

Your head hung low resting against your chest as you breathed slowly, trying to push away the fuzziness in your brain. Your entire body had grown numb; now too used to the pain it had been put through, too weak to hold yourself up as you lay slack against the table and although all dosed up now you may not be able to feel anything, you would never be able to forget the endless torment he had put you through; that would forever be etched into your mind. 

The screams still seemed to ricochet off of the walls, burying themselves into each crack just to resurface once it went quiet. The feeling of your skin being torn apart still lingered, the pinch followed by the burn as the Joker slashed you with his weapons, screaming at you to tell him all that you knew about Batman. Of course, you refused at first. Oh how you were so brave trying to hold your tongue. But you couldn’t help the screams that ripped from your mouth and left your throat raw and soon when they layers of your mind had been peeled away by the cruel hallucinations he put you through with his serums and his words, you soon began to crack; your fragile body unable to take anymore of this torture. 

Your wrists had been burnt red raw; the trails of blood tracked down your arms and mixed with dirt and blood, showing where it had beaded down your forearms as you struggled. Burned with tears your anguish was clear amongst your struggle and you were pretty sure that you had at least three broken ribs and four missing fingernails. Maybe more. 

But you were growing to like the pain somewhat. Because it meant that you were still alive. It meant that your family was on your way…or… had they stopped looking for you. 

The Joker's cruel words rang through your hazy mind. He had told you about the video he had sent to them. How there was no response. They didn’t care. None of them did or you would have been home right now. He had injected you with something as he said it, but you swatted off the prick of the needle as though it were a pesky mosquito bite. 

“Soon,” He told you as the drug settled into the numbness of your body. “You will realise that I am helping you. That I am the only one that cares for you. Not Batman. Not any of those pesky Birds. Me.” he hovered in the doorway just before he left. “I’ll be back, Junior.” Junior.  He had stopped calling you by your name recently. 

And as much as you didn’t want to agree with the man who had put you and your family through so much…you were beginning to believe it. The Joker had dragged you away from a life cycle of patrol and ending crimes. He was giving you a place to stay when your family had so clearly given up on you. The Joker had confided so much in you in your time together that you felt like you almost knew him personally. And it had made you think that… he was misunderstood. Lonely. Much more similar to you than- 

No.

No. No. No. You shook the thoughts from your head. ‘They’re coming.’ you told yourself. ‘But…’

Your mind was fighting itself now, conflicted between what you knew and what you were being told. Fighting between your family and the man who stood constantly before you.  It fought until one side finally inched free and you realised something. 

The Joker. 

The Joker was right. He was helping you. 

When he returned to you that night, you greeted him with a dumb smile. He was  glad to see that his plan had worked. That he had broken you down enough to mould you into exactly what he wants. 

He grinned manically. He could now move onto phase two: training you to kill The Bat. This stage would be considerably easier. You already knew Batman’s weaknesses; you had admitted that during one of the electroshock sessions. He just had to convince you that Batman was the real enemy. The only thing left to do besides that was lure him over to you. Which should’ve been easy enough.

~

Tim shot up from his seat the moment your face flashed up on the screen. Somehow, someone had overridden the computer’s controls and he was now staring at your bloodied and beaten face lolling against a metal table. 

“Bruce!” Tim cried, scrambling to grab the attention of his father. 

Bruce had never moved faster across the cave than he did to reach Tim, his stomach dropping when he saw the screen, with him came the rest of his sons who too were alerted by the shout. 

Tim didn’t have to say anything else as they all gathered around to look queasily at the screen. You weren’t moving as the live stream played and this only worried your family more, but then an all too familiar green hair came into frame walking towards you menacingly. 

Bruce felt sick when he saw you flinch and try to squirm away from the Joker’s touch. 

“Smile for the camera.” He said, gripping your hair so that they could see your face. You blinked slowly permanent tears scarring your face amongst the blood and dirt. 

“I hope you’re watching Batsy. You’re about to see the end of your little bird.”

Dick, who bit his lip anxiously as he observed instinctively gripped Damians shoulders and tried to push him away as the Joker reached for the dial again. They saw your body react despite its weakened state; legs kicking and trying as you tried to scramble away. But Damian refused to leave, especially when his little sibling was in this state. It was horrific, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the screen so he watched shell shocked. That was until your first scream cut through all of them and he turned away. Dick pulled him close as he screwed his eyes shut and Jason clenched his fists. 

“Tim.” Bruce ordered “Turn it off. Find a signal.”

“I’m trying.” He said “But…there is no signal and something is overriding the controls.”

Bruce ran his hands through his hair until after an agonising few minutes, your screams stopped. 

The Joker moved swiftly for a syringe which you didn’t even react to as he injected it into your system. Not good. 

“They’re not coming for you, birdy. They don’t care.” The Joker taunted before turning back towards the camera. With one manic laugh he gave a final bow and the signal fizzled out. 

The five of them stood there in complete silence. All silent. Most angry. Most heartbroken. 

“Suit up. We don’t stop until we find them.”

~

By the time the vigilantes arrived, you were ready. Poised on the top floor of Arkham’s abandoned asylum cafeteria. 

You had seen Batman arrive, sauntering furiously into the open room to where Joker had positioned himself. You had seen the other four sneak in too, wrapping themselves around the room and slinking throughout the asylum in search of you. 

Once Joker had riled up the Bat enough to send him on a chase to him around a loop of the asylum, you jumped down from the bannister with a conniving grin. 

“I know you’re all in here.” You laughed. And soon, one after the other your brothers appeared from the shadows gawping at the stark contrast of your appearance. You were skinnier and clearly injured from head to toe, but what struck them the most was the purple and green that the Joker had donned you in. 

“R…” Red hood warned as he stepped toward you. “We don’t wanna hurt you. We just want to take you home.”’

You raised your weapon. “Liar!”

“No kid. We wouldn’t do that to you. I promise.” Red Robin said.

“You left me. You didn’t come back for me and you left me here to rot!” You gritted your teeth.

“That’s not true. That’s the joker talking.” Damian.

“He is helping me! He is helping me reach my full potential- I am already so much more than I was before.”

You raised the pistol. It was loaded and you knew that it would do damage. That was the intention. And that's what you were going to do. You were going to take them out one by one until they get what they deserve-

“R…” Dick said as you raised the gun your finger inching towards the trigger. “You know us Little Wing. We’re your big brothers.”

You moved swiftly, dodging them as they moved closer in sync. One of them reached out to try and grab you, but you gripped his arm and threw him over your shoulder. The five of you tussled until everything paused when Batman burst back into the room. 

Your gun was pointed at him in an instant, locking in on him as you readied your stance and poised your finger on the trigger. no one said anything. No one even dared to breathe. Bruce just looked at you from behind his cowl as you grinned at him, sickeningly mirroring the villain who appeared behind him sending him keeling to the ground. You laughed. 

“Do it.” Joker urged. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Your hand trembled as you looked down at him pleading at you. He looked so…vulnerable. And your mind screamed at you. Wrongwrongwrong. You were torn again. This was Bruce…your father. Your family. Your enemy- 

“Do it, Junior.” He pressed. Your lip trembled. 

Do it. No. Do it-  You wanted to scream. 

“R.” Batman uttered one single letter.

You pulled the trigger. No one moved. A cry of pain rang out across the room. The Joker dropped to the floor.

You let out a sob and dropped to your knees realisation catching up on you. A pair of arms wrapped around you and pulled you to their chest as you completely broke down. 

“It’s okay Y/N. It’s okay. We’ve got you now.”

Everything hurt. Everything was so disgustingly wrong. You had tried to kill Bruce- you had given away your secrets… you let out an unholy sob.

“Shh.” Jason cooed. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it.”

“Everyone is okay, Little wing.” Damian promised, taking your bloodied hand gently and tracing circles across the back of it. “We can fix this…”

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[vidavalor]

Hello! 👋 Just dropping in for a visit to my favourite online pub: your blog *chews on all your posts and slurps down your analyses*

I love the way you spell out the Ineffable Husband SpeakTM for us, and I was wondering what you think about Crowley’s “You don’t dance.” in 2.06, when Aziraphale asked to dance with him?

Crowley is mumbling a bit here & I wasn’t sure at first if he said “you” or “we” or something else, so I checked the subtitles as well. That aside, we know by this point that Aziraphale has done at least 3 I-Was-Wrong dances, so I wonder if Crowley is referring to something else?

Hi, @procrastiel! How's it going, love? Wouldn't say I spell anything out-- I just give my opinion-- but I appreciate the compliment! 💕Crowley's line is definitely "you don't dance" and ohh, yeah, I can deep dive on my opinion on what it means to dance. Deepest of dives-- this went everywhere. 😂 Mother of all metas for the mother of all Good Omens questions... We're having sandwiches-the-food tonight in honor of where your question crosses into God's tongue-in-cheek monologue on how many angels can get down on the heads of those Mrs. Sandwich seamstressing tools-- pins.

This is going to take a route through some heavy analysis of the argument over Gabriel and The Apology Dance and a few other things to get the root of your question, so, grab a beverage of choice before diving in. TW: Brief mentions of Satan's attacks on Crowley.

*rubs hands together and cues up the disco music* 😂

What does it mean to dance?

When we talk about dancing, there are roughly four different meanings of the word to look at with relation to Good Omens' story.

One meaning is the first one that comes to mind for most people, which is a physical dance-- as in, moving your body, usually to music.

The music, if it exists, can be in your head, a song you're singing aloud, or one that is playing in the room-- it doesn't matter. If you're moving, any and all of it would qualify as dancing. By this measure? Crowley canonically had seen Aziraphale dance before Aziraphale asked him to dance during The Meeting Ball because, well...

...here is Aziraphale dancing in front of Crowley in the bookshop in 1941:

Crowley's shock in 2.06 cannot be coming from never having seen Aziraphale dance at all, right? They've known each other for thousands of years and if Aziraphale was doing this fucking adorable little shuffle of excitement in the bookshop in 1941 then it's not really a stretch to assume that these two-- who canonically listen to records together in the evenings sometimes-- have danced together before.

In 1941, we see that Aziraphale liking to dance is not something he's actually hiding from Crowley because he's doing this cute little dance in front of him without a second thought. This is also interesting because one theory was that Crowley has no idea about Aziraphale liking to dance at all because he didn't appear to know about Aziraphale learning the gavotte. S2 turns that on its head a bit by saying that Crowley might not yet know about the gavotte-- we don't really know yet either way-- but he definitely does know that Aziraphale likes to dance and he was unsurprised to see him doing so in 1941.

The key thing here is that when they have danced together or in front of one another before? It was likely only in the privacy of the bookshop or another place like it. It was just the two of them.

When Crowley says "you don't dance" to Aziraphale, he's not meaning that Aziraphale doesn't dance at all. He's meaning something more expansive, as we'll look at with the other meanings of dancing below.

The second meaning is a verbal dance. These are interactions between more than one person in which the back-and-forth of what is being spoken has the give-and-take quality of a dance.

There can be different types of verbal dancing. Crowley and Aziraphale's word-nerdy flirting is a kind of verbal dance. It's a birdsong mating dance, especially since they are so hot for words. Being able to verbally entice and keep up with a partner makes flirting-- especially their kind of it-- a kind of dance and it's one they've been doing for thousands of years and both enjoy.

Another type of verbal dance between long-time partners is one that could be dubbed, as Crowley and Aziraphale call it, an "I Was Wrong" dance. This is an apology between partners who had an argument but want to get beyond it. No matter what you think the nature of Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship is, they've known each other for thousands of years and are de facto partnership married at this point so they have An Apology Routine TM. People who have been together a long time and who have the occasional spat often tend to fall into a rhythm with their apologies, knowing what needs to be said to just get to the other side of it, which they'd like to do as soon as possible because they miss each other and don't like being in conflict with one another.

When Aziraphale says he wants "a proper apology... with the little dance" as Crowley tries to get away with not doing the verbal dance that he knows he's going to end up doing lol, what Aziraphale means is that he wants the back-and-forth verbal dance they do as an apology. He doesn't want to just ignore what happened because he was really pissed and he's telling Crowley that he'd appreciate an actual apology and a bit of groveling before he's willing to let it go and move on.

The "little dance" in question isn't a physical dance-- it's basically the same apology dance we saw Crowley do back in S1 here:

When Crowley claimed he doesn't "do the dance" in S2, they both knew that wasn't true and so did we, really, because *points to the above gif* there's Crowley doing the dance in the middle of the street in S1. Claiming he doesn't "do the dance" is sometimes part of the dance if Crowley is the one apologizing as, unless Hell is actively, in that moment, trying to kill him-- like they were in S1-- he gets squirmy about apologies, even if he always eventually says them.

The reason why Crowley does the physical dance that he does during The Apology Dance is actually off of Aziraphale being just as dryly self-deprecating about the two of them and their relationship as Crowley winds up showing he is with The Apology Dance. It's rooted in Aziraphale's use of the word proper.

That word falls into the category in their speak of words like wily, thwart, smitten, demon, fiend, etc.. that have wildly contrasting meanings where they can be said on one level to mean one thing that is acceptable to an audience of angels, demons, or humans, but that also, on another level and within Crowley and Aziraphale's speak, has a funnier, more sexualized meaning.

Proper has an understood meaning of being something that is correct, acceptable, and appropriate. It means decent and respectable. It has a connotation that suggests that something deemed proper falls within the generally-accepted social rules of a society.

Within that word, though? Is the word prop.

I probably do not need to further define that but one sense of the word prop is that it is a theatrical term to describe an object being used in a play. From this, it also come to mean an object being used in sexual play. The humor for Crowley and Aziraphale comes from the fact that proper is a word related to what is considered acceptable in society while bedroom activities involving props have historically been considered "deviant" by those same societies.

The word exists in the sexual meaning in several other scenes in Good Omens. Such as:

Aziraphale in 1941 flirting with Crowley in the magic shop by using the silver rings magic trick as an innuendo-laden stand-in for handcuffs and going on about having a "gift for prop"... and in 2019, when Crowley joked that Aziraphale did not need to do his literal magic act because: "You can do proper magic. You can make things disappear."

Words containing the word thin relate to Crowley and disappear/appear are words with a root meaning of to come into view-- heavy emphasis on the to come part. Crowley sounds like he's talking about Aziraphale's supernatural magic abilities (and he likely also is lol) but he's wording it in such a way as to be really referring to Aziraphale's other skills as a true magician in bed.

Aziraphale, hilariously, teasing Crowley back by joking that making him come is not as fun as pulling a coin out of his ear 😂:

This is also the joke around Aziraphale doing things like popping into view from around corners or doorways or, in my favorite, from the other side of The Bentley in S2, as well as things like Crowley apparating into a space to see Aziraphale. They're magical so they can apparate-- literally appear and disappear from view-- and would do so to meet up with one another at times, as we've seen. It's a visual joke on appear/disappear and the verb to come.

There is also the hilarious "only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley" from the deleted 1800 bookshop opening scene-- a sentence made up basically entirely of words with double meaning that make them sound like Aziraphale is saying to Gabriel and Sandalphon that he's the only one who can correctly stop Crowley's evil demonicness when he's also, with the same words, trying to alert Crowley, who has just arrived in the doorway, to the fact that the angels are here to recall him by saying a sentence that is like: but you can't take me back to Heaven! I'm the only one who has the first clue how to shag Crowley right.

So, in S2, Aziraphale is being a bit arch when he says he wants "a proper apology." They both know that he means it in terms of saying he wants a genuine, decent apology and nothing more than that. His dryness in choice and delivery of the word proper is Aziraphale being tongue-in-cheek with Crowley and aligning their history of well-balanced, healthy, sexual power dynamics with the fact that their argument was, at the core, a lot about aspects of trust and control that they *both* struggle with outside of their proper bedroom, where things are very different.

The argument was really a perfect storm of triggering both of their traumas and they both, technically, were right and wrong about things. Aziraphale's apology dance is, essentially, the whole 'our car/our bookshop' that becomes the rest of the season. The reason why it's Crowley doing The Apology Dance, though, is actually less about the subject matter of their argument and more about which one of them fucked up when it came to the stuff the argument shows us that they're working on together.

The argument over Gabriel actually shows us the extent to which they're a couple, in that they've clearly talked about working on things they do which trigger each other's trauma and are trying to be better at it. They're proactively working at trying to get better at arguing, which is the most married thing in creation. This is also indicative of both of them trying to manage different traumas and PTSD that they have and doing the best they can do while still not yet able to fully escape the root causes of those difficulties. That is something which any therapist will tell you is nearly impossible to do but they are both trying anyway and doing a pretty good job of it actually, all things considered. Where can we see this in the argument over Gabriel?

It is in that they each both do something when upset that is a trigger for the other's trauma and has, in the past, caused their discussions to implode, and how they both handle that with one another during this argument. When Aziraphale gets upset and anxious, his anger can take the form of saying words he doesn't mean-- words that are often completely and utterly absurd from an objective standpoint. Think of the bandstand argument, for instance, and Aziraphale's ludicrous attempt to say that he and Crowley aren't friends and-- the best one lol-- that he doesn't even like Crowley.

The audience and Crowley alike know this is bullshit and so does Aziraphale but it's the product of Heaven being a place of emotional repression and Aziraphale's perfectionism, which makes him feel like he's not supposed to ever actually feel the depression and anxiety and anger that he does. When upset, this bubbles up in him and explodes and the results are words he doesn't mean that make him feel terrible, further contribute to his pattern of negative self-thoughts, and hurt Crowley.

In S2, we might also notice, Aziraphale phrases his go-to of telling Crowley it's over as a defense mechanism as saying that Crowley is "at liberty to go", which has an implication that a certain amount of staying was occurring. While Crowley isn't living in the shop to the extent that he's there in the mornings because they're still trying not to get caught, this plus things like "we both get plenty of use out of it [the bookshop], don't we?" indicate that Aziraphale never really notices that Crowley no longer has his flat because Crowley just kind of lives in the bookshop now. He's there every day, to a point that Aziraphale defaulting to his usual anger response of breaking up with Crowley when upset is now phrased in such a way as to try to kick him out of the house. Crowley, though, knows better-- just like how Aziraphale knows better where Crowley's own issues are concerned.

Even though Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn't mean what he says when he's upset and is patient about it (the not even batting an eyelash "you doooo" in response to "I don't even like you" in the bandstand argument), it still hurts. So, that's what Aziraphale is trying to work on and we see that Crowley is working on it with him, an example of that being when Aziraphale is starting to lose it during the Gabriel argument and Crowley's response to it:

Crowley is basically saying honey, you're doing the thing-- and it works. This is what they've agreed upon as a way that Crowley can help Aziraphale when he's upset. He points out that Aziraphale is doing the thing he does, which seems to be something they've agreed on as a strategy for communicating better. He gives Aziraphale room to take a breath and say what he really means. Expressing how he really feels when the emotions are not positive ones is hard for Aziraphale because it involves admitting that he has these emotions in the first place.

So, Aziraphale does his part in their agreement and he rephrases what he was saying into what he actually means: that he would love for Crowley to help him with Gabriel but that if he won't, he won't. He is open about how he feels, which is Aziraphale doing what they agreed to do, and is a world of difference from how they were fighting before. He also expresses it in an especially positive way, as he uses words like 'love' and 'help' to say how he feels and what he needs.

This is why it's Crowley who winds up doing The Apology Dance.

What Crowley does in an argument that triggers Aziraphale is to leave. While, technically, sometimes leaving for a breath is not a terrible strategy in an argument, Crowley's tendency to leave is a flight-or-fight PTSD response that stems from a lack of trust in anyone but himself (and, honestly, often not even himself) to keep him safe. It's honestly not how he really feels about Aziraphale, whom he actually does trust with himself, but he sometimes lets fear and anxiety overwhelm him when triggered by situations in a way that relates to his past traumatic experiences.

Just as Aziraphale's struggle with his more volatile emotions is understandable considering what he's been through, so is Crowley's tendency to panic and bolt. The problem is that, just as Aziraphale's angry words can hurt Crowley, even if he understands where they come from and knows Aziraphale doesn't mean them, Crowley's tendency to leave hurts Aziraphale because it feels to him that Crowley doesn't trust him to make decisions that would keep Crowley safe.

They both are aware that their knee-jerk reactions of running away or sniping in anger are trauma responses and not terribly logical but they're both working on trying to heal enough to not have those responses with one another. In S2, they're stuck trying to manage all of that while still living in an environment that is dangerous for them and in which Armageddon could be around the corner again at any moment-- making it obviously harder to deal with things and also making the fact that they are both doing reasonably well with it all the more impressive and an indicator of how good they are for one another.

(It also makes the end of S2-- a series of miscommunications, some of which are not even their fault, that led to epic fucking disaster-- even more devastating because it doesn't actually reflect the healthy relationship that the beginning of the season emphasizes exists.)

Compounding these issues and part of why they're trying to work on them is that both of them trigger each other's PTSD when they react like this.

Aziraphale's words in anger and his tendency to push Crowley away leave Crowley feeling less secure around the one person who otherwise is the safest person he's ever met while Crowley's tendency to bolt in a panic, instead of staying and working through things, triggers Aziraphale's fear of abandonment (both in general and with Crowley) and, even more so, his terror over losing Crowley.

He's never sure when Crowley goes out the door if he's ever coming back because it's not really safe for him out there and S2 illustrates that Aziraphale has real trauma dating back to the time Crowley was taken in front of him in 1827, shown in him going to the spot in Edinburgh in the present where he lost Crowley and needing to call him from it to hear his voice. And, well, also to get a bonus praise kinky little boost from his partner for a job well done on working on his trauma stuff:

So, long story short, the argument they have over what to do about Gabriel's arrival really illustrates the extent to which they're both trying to manage a great deal of trauma together and, to help one another to do so, they have put some strategies into place for trying to do that more effectively. Aziraphale kept to his end of the bargain in this argument. He used more productive and open words to express how he was feeling. Crowley, though, did not hold up his end of the bargain here. He did when it came to helping Aziraphale with Aziraphale's part of it but he didn't when it came to managing his own trauma.

To be fair to Crowley? This situation was basically the exact perfect storm of a trigger for his PTSD and neither he nor Aziraphale are really going to be able to get much of anywhere significant with healing until all of this Heaven & Hell stuff is over in S3. So, that he fucked this up here is both sympathetic and not terribly surprising. It's also the root of him then spending the season reassuring Aziraphale that he's coming back and part of why he goes out the door in the end of 2.06 but he stays by the car. But, when it comes to just this argument over Gabriel in 2.01, it was Crowley who didn't try and that made Aziraphale upset.

This is where, though, that The Apology Dance shows that they're actually pretty healthy about arguing overall. Just the mention of this having existing for ages is establishing that trying to be better at disagreeing and having this little routine for getting back to a good place and starting to talk more after they've argued is not just something that has existed post-S1 but has been going on for, at minimum, hundreds of years, if not a whole lot longer. In essence, The Apology Dance exists as a bridge back to a place where they are less reactive and can talk through what's upsetting them-- which a lot of evidence suggests they are actually very good at doing with one another.

So, when Aziraphale tells Crowley that he wants "a proper apology", he's already injecting some humor into the moment, even if he is serious about not letting Crowley just skip over genuinely saying he is sorry. He is upset but he also loves Crowley and he's aware that the situation was pretty much the ultimate trigger for Crowley. It's just difficult for Aziraphale to watch because he wants Crowley to feel safe enough to heal more from a lot of this and feels like that he can't fully provide that, even if he is doing everything in his power to help Crowley with it. In a way, it's a foreshadowing how Aziraphale is going to fall in the end of S2 over the temptation of power that he thinks might help Crowley be safe.

The reason why Aziraphale chooses to use the word proper in saying he wants an apology-- and in that particularly dry tone-- is because he is very, very pissed that Crowley walked out the door rather than trusted him to have not put him into danger with Gabriel and to help him manage the situation. He's pointing out that Crowley trusts him implicitly in so many other ways, with the use of the wordplay there being a reference to the fact that he and Crowley have a healthy balance of power and an enormous amount of trust in their relationship overall, for which Aziraphale is using their positive sexual power dynamics as an example.

As different scenes have illustrated, when they mess around with those dynamics, they switch off allowing one another a sense of control over the other, even if the overall dynamics of such situations are never as cut-and-dry as that. The point is that Aziraphale's use of proper here is a direct reference to the fact that Crowley went out the door in a panic-stricken fit earlier but they both know that Crowley does trust Aziraphale to a great degree, and a great example of that to Aziraphale is the fact that Crowley-- as eleven hundred scenes in the show suggest lol-- is very into letting Aziraphale restrain him in bed. The reason why we even know this is because of how the show uses aspects of their sexuality to illustrate the level of trust and intimacy in their relationship.

Just as the wall slam scene in S1 exists to make it abundantly clear how much Aziraphale trusts Crowley and how he has nothing to fear from him by contrasting that with Aziraphale's response to being jumped by the angels in the street, the scenes that are referring to them using restraints, while illustrating that they both do, are centered around Crowley's thing for it, in particular, to help illustrate that he has the same kind of trust in and feeling of safety with Aziraphale that Aziraphale does with him.

The reason why Crowley liking to be tied up or handcuffed is given weight enough that it's a recurring thing mentioned in the story is because of how it's a different level of trust for him than it might be for someone else. While the wall slam scene contrasts Aziraphale's safety with Crowley versus the abuse of the angels, the handcuff thing is showing that Crowley, who is a survivor of attacks that render him unable to move or otherwise assert any control over himself and who has demonstrable PTSD from it, trusts Aziraphale enough and feels safe with him enough to explore with him the complexities of being a survivor of attacks involving a loss of control who also finds sometimes being restrained and giving up some control in bed arousing.

So, Aziraphale's "proper apology" is dryly mocking both of their control and trust issues by use of an example of a place in their relationship where they handle those issues without conflict, and that's in the great communication and ease of care for one another in bed. With use of proper, Aziraphale is subtly pointing out that Crowley is an assault survivor who trusts Aziraphale to him tie him up but he runs out of other situations in a panic, which is an example of the lack of logic that can occur in the face of trauma sometimes. It helps to prove how ridiculous they both are really being in general.

Which Crowley agrees with. Because he knows he was. Trauma isn't logical, it's knee-jerk emotional, and he felt bad about storming out and even worse when he found out from Beez what the repercussions of not helping might be so he's come back, heard the 'proper' comment, and is like fine, yes, you're right. We're ridiculous. I was ridiculous.

This is healthy as all fuck:

It matches the humor Aziraphale put in around his genuine anger with additional humor. It's self-deprecating and ego-free, just an admittance of having messed up and showing he's sorry by being a little ridiculous because how he reacted earlier, he knows, was also a little ridiculous. There's the hearing of proper and responding to that with a mock-submissive, self-deprecating, little dance and a bow and scrape. There's a dry, affectionate mocking of the two of them and their long history of apology conversations that all boil down to the lyrics of the little song Crowley makes up here: "You were right, you were right, I was wrong, and you were right."

The tongue-in-cheek vibe of Yes, you're correct. Are you satisfied now, my king? that pokes gentle fun at both of them and that actually winds up illustrating just how much trust and love there is between them as a result.

Aziraphale finding it hilarious to a point that he's working hard not to laugh long enough to respond with equal humor with the little soft dom-ish "very nice" and then miming a kiss at Crowley showing that they are actually good at this. They allow each other to be imperfect, know how to talk openly about how that makes them feel, and can recover from an argument with humor and affection.

This is also a good example of Crowley being supportive of Aziraphale expressing emotions and of Aziraphale trusting Crowley as someone safe to do that around. Aziraphale told Crowley exactly how he felt and what he needed here in a clear way that expressed his anger and frustration without descension into anything harmful and Crowley listened, acknowledged those emotions, and responded in a way that was supportive and positive.

The argument over Gabriel and The Apology Dance is what their relationship is really like when they can speak openly and directly to one another because they have the safety and privacy to do so. They actually do know how to talk to one another and they do it very well. Their present situation as of the end of S2 is more of a nightmare of unfortunate events and misunderstandings and it actually took a lot to get it to go that wrong because, normally, as we can see? It's relatively easy for them to get it right.

So, Crowley's Apology Dance was both verbal and a literal dance, yes, but Aziraphale's bemused response to it indicates he wasn't expecting the literal dance and the fact that Crowley made up and did the literal dance off of Aziraphale's use of proper, as we looked at, indicates that it was something he did for the first time in that moment, rather than how The Apology Dance usually goes.

The usual nature of Crowley and Aziraphale's "I Was Wrong" Dance is strictly verbal.

We can tell this by one of the years in which Aziraphale mentions that he did an "I Was Wrong" dance in the past: 1793.

When Aziraphale shows that he's really hurt by Crowley leaving and needs him to apologize, he lists three, prior times when it was Aziraphale who had fucked something up between them and was the one doing The Apology Dance as a result. The three years he uses as shorthand are 1650, 1793 and 1941. While we don't know anything about 1650 right now... and while we know about 1941 but not how it ends so maybe not yet quite enough to say we know why Aziraphale was doing an apology dance (though I would argue that maybe 1941 itself is a bit of a joint apology dance)... the one year here we do know enough about to use to inform our opinion about what their apology dances usually are is 1793.

What Aziraphale is apologizing for in 1793 is the rescue scenario winding up a bit of a disaster because of Aziraphale neglecting to take into account that if Jean-Claude The Executioner was having that much fun cutting people's heads off, he probably was disturbing in other ways as well. While Crowley covers up his reaction to apparating into the room just as Aziraphale is saying "no" and Jean-Claude is trying to get his clothes off, by the end of the scene, we see that Crowley is more bothered than he was letting on.

Jean-Claude becomes the only human in the entire series to date that we ever see Crowley intentionally push straight towards Hell and, in doing so, he renders Jean-Claude unable to form more than muted sounds of protest-- not at all projecting his own experiences of assault onto him or anything. Crowley makes the very dark joke that's in the above gif, savagely mocking a so-common-it's-cliche victim-blaming response to rape, making it clear in doing so what's been brought up for him as a result of what he saw when he first came into the room. Crowley is half out of it for the last moments of the scene and, at one point, sniffs like he's trying not to cry. Aziraphale had meant for it to be a fun, dashing-hero-to-the-rescue type of thing but the torture-happy prison cell atop the trauma trigger is what would make Aziraphale feel the need to apologize afterwards, even though Crowley knew he didn't intend any harm.

So, ask yourself this: did Aziraphale apologize for that by doing a silly dance?

I really don't think he did...

It wouldn't have been appropriate. The last thing Aziraphale would have done then is make light of how they both were feeling about something relating to this kind of trauma. It's not to say there wasn't any humor involved-- particularly, their form of really dark gallows humor-- but not in the midst of the genuine, actual apology. Aziraphale's "I Was Wrong" dance in 1793 was a back-and-forth of him verbally apologizing and Crowley insisting that it was fine and then Aziraphale, more or less, you were right and I was wrong-ing with other words until they both were okay to talk more and move forward.

Both of them were alright as a result and clearly had a memorable time in Paris afterwards, as Aziraphale is referencing it as a good example of the two of them working through things together in a positive way when he tells Crowley that Paris, 1793 is what he "wants for lunch" in 2008.

It's really why Aziraphale says he wants 1793 in the first place, when they have a zillion other times he could have referenced. The scene in 2008 is taking place after Crowley went missing the night before on assignment for Hell. Aziraphale doesn't need to be told by this point that Crowley was hurt but they've been in public the entire time since they've met up so there has not yet been a moment to try to really acknowledge it. By bringing up Paris 1793 in response to Crowley saying he wants to lunch, Aziraphale is using it as a shorthand to convey both that he's aware and that they'll handle it, like they always do, and it will all be alright. Paris 1793 seems like it is a particularly memorable example of them managing that to them, so it's the one that Aziraphale brings up.

This also accounts for the discrepancy in Aziraphale's expressions in 2008 when he talks about this particular time. When he first mentions Paris 1793, his response is layered. There's regret mixed in there. Pain. Complicated emotions. His smile to Crowley is kind of flat, like he's trying to remain more upbeat than he actually feels.

It's very different from the cheer of we had crepes! that emerges after Crowley's response to the suggestion is positive. It speaks to Paris 1793 being more complex than only the fun, memorable romp in France that it also was.

So, this would mean that The Apology Dance is usually a verbal thing, even though Crowley did a literal dance along with it in S2. This actually is not terribly surprising because Crowley and Aziraphale's language is an exercise in the literal and the figurative.

Everything in it physically exists as well as figuratively exists and that's part of the fun of it for them. It all has to work on the surface level as well as on other levels. There are literal crepes and figurative crepes, for example, while we're on the 1793 topic. Literal fish-- sushi, gravlax in dill sauce, etc..-- and figurative fish, like the two of them. When Aziraphale asked for "the little dance" of light grovel with the apology, Crowley did that by also giving him a literal dance to go along with their traditionally verbal dance. Why? Because Aziraphale called their apology routine a figurative "little dance", so Crowley gave him a literal one to go with it. Eventually, all the figurative has to be at least a little literal in some way. It's why God made sure that an actual nightingale-the-bird was actually singing in Berkeley Square at the end of S1 as her last language lesson to us. There were then now literal angels dining at The Ritz so a literal nightingale sang in literal Berkeley Square.

The S2 Apology Dance is likely then the first Apology Dance that involved a physical dance. I'm not sure that there were others in the past but I think there definitely will be more going forward and that's a good thing since a bit of silliness is very healthy. 😊

Ok, so, back to the "you don't dance" moment... remember ten years ago when I said there were roughly four meanings of dance?

We've defined two of them already: a literal, physical dance and a verbal dance. The other two are the dance of society and dance as sexual euphemism. Historically, these weren't always mutually exclusive things and Good Omens overlaps them in some ways a bit as well.

The dance of society is being an open, active participant in your society. Even though Aziraphale basically built the society around him through being the founder of the street, we've seen how he tends to keep himself one step removed from life on Whickber Street.

It's best summed up by his relationship to The Whickber Street Shopkeepers & Traders Association: he is a member of it but, until S2, he's never hosted the monthly meeting. He doesn't fully see himself as one of them because, as an angel, he's not supposed to want any of this human living stuff, even if he desperately does. He has imposter syndrome for days, feeling like he's always about to be exposed as not really one of them.

Aziraphale does enjoy himself at times. He does engage with the world around him. He just doesn't allow himself to belong to it and his reasons for doing so are not only about his angel feelings.

The human world hasn't always been a place where he fit, either.

It's only been very recently in history-- and Aziraphale has seen literally *all* of history-- when it has been comparatively safe enough for people like him and Crowley to live more openly. It's still not completely safe, obviously and unfortunately, but there is more general acceptance now, more acknowledged human rights and more laws to help secure those rights.

The things that Crowley was hoping were around the corner in 1967-- when England decriminalized homosexual sex between men over the age of 21 and he suggested that maybe he and Aziraphale could go for broke and try being less of a secret-- actually are here by the present of the story in both S1 and S2.

A lot of that is at the root of the humor in S2 as Gabriel's presence in the shop forces Crowley and Aziraphale out onto Whickber Street in the daylight for the first time and creates scenarios in which the shopkeepers-- chiefly, Nina-- are throwing them off by being more comfortable with having their relationship be acknowledged publicly than they are. Part of the joke is that they're still closeted in London Soho in the year 2023 and the humans cannot understand why because Crowley and Aziraphale can't tell them that it's their supernatural world causing them to remain a secret.

It is only relatively recently in human history that people at formal social gatherings like the ones in England that Aziraphale has been to for years danced with anybody they felt like, regardless of relationship or lack thereof to that person. For many years, while someone might stand up with the occasional maiden aunt out of politeness or whatever, most of the time, a request for a slot on a dance card was a declaration of romantic intent. It was done within the public eye and, while matchmaking was often economical more than romantic, it was at the heart of how society functioned.

To dance, in that sense, was to be a part of society.

Aziraphale was never a part of society in that way. Not just because he's an angel who is supposed to remain above the human fray but because he is queer and society, for a long time, was not built to openly accept him. He was on the fringes of it for both supernatural and human reasons. From what we've seen, literal, physical dancing has always been something of a metaphor for this struggle for Aziraphale.

When Crowley says that Aziraphale doesn't dance-- and it's really more, as we've seen, that Aziraphale doesn't dance in public-- what he means it that Aziraphale keeps himself back from being a fully engaged part of the group, out of a fear that it's not for him because both the supernatural and the human worlds have been teaching him for a long time that it is not.

To host a meeting of the local business association and have everyone to his house for a party... to have Gabriel and Maggie under the same roof... to have everyone knowing that Crowley is his partner... to be able to openly dance with Crowley in front of others like the couple that they are, in the same way that the Chengs and Mutt and his spouse are?

That is to dance.

That is Aziraphale trying for a life he's never had before.

It is this form of dancing-- the dance of society-- that Crowley has never seen Aziraphale do before and why he is so in shock when Aziraphale asks him to dance.

This is where we have to talk about what this has to do with the gavotte, the photo from 1941, Mrs. Sandwich, Duns Scotus, and disco... 🪩Yes, I know. Lots to chat about. 😊

Back in S1, as Crowley traps Hastur in his answering machine, we are treated to one of the best parts of God's narration: Her cheeky take on the human philosophical debate around the question:

"How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?"

The phrase comes from Protestant theologians in the 17th century who were mocking Catholic scholastics like Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus-- whose name is quite literally the origin of the word dunce, so overt was the mocking of these dudes' ideas. The show via Crowley also is referring to Duns Scotus in Demon's Guide to Angelic Beings when Crowley mocks the demons by spelling 'residence' as 'residunce' in Aziraphale's entry, joking with him about the fact that the demons will not be able to understand what the entries really contain. So, why the mocking of Duns Scotus and pals?

While it's not totally know if they ever did debate this question exactly, questions very much like it were debated in their circle and others in different parts of the world and these philosophers would get a bit in the weeds in the wrong direction with things. This isn't to say there is a right or a wrong way to think so much as to say the way they chose to approach questions like this was full of absurd focus on the least consequential things someone could look at and failing to really think about how considering these questions at all could impact their understanding of the world around them and contribute to making that world better.

They were not asking questions like: do angels exist in the first place? If they do, do they dance? If so, what makes them want to dance? What would it say about angels and living-- and us and living-- if angels did dance? Why the fuck would they want to dance on the head of a pin when they could dance anywhere? 😂 What does it say about us and our views on angels and ourselves that we're spending a great deal of time and resources debating questions about beings that we cannot even prove fucking exist in the first place?

Instead of considering anything like that, Duns Scotus and pals would spend time just working on the most arcane details of angelic and demonic existences-- on things like trying to figure out if angels could exist in more than one place at once or how small they could get and how they would get that small and how many of them could fit on the proverbial head of a pin and still dance on there?

You know... real, relevant, thought-provoking, big picture questions that we've all asked ourselves at one time or another. 😂

Those mocking questions like this made the question "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" a kind of catch-all for pointless debate and it has since become a shorthand phrase meaning basically a bullshit question of no relevance, the debate over which is a colossal fucking waste of time.

Some scholars went so far as to blame those engaging in this type of debate as being responsible for the fall of Constantinople, saying that basically these scholars were sitting around listening to themselves talk on absurd things of no importance to such an extent that it caused mass death and collapsed an empire.

It might be of note then that this question is so notoriously tied to the fall of Constantinople that Good Omens might be winking at the fact that angels dancing around a seamstress might be a prelude to Aziraphale's fall, which some of us think is what's happening at the end of S2.

So, when Hastur and Crowley go into Crowley's answering machine, God jumps in with a little wink to this question in an effort to prevent anyone from focusing on the single most non-important question in all of Good Omens:

How did they get into the answering machine?

The answer to that is that it doesn't matter. They're magical-- that's the answer.

It's not to say that there is not a ton of small detail in Good Omens worth exploring-- and other scenes encourage doing just that, like Shakespeare's "in your role as the audience, could you give us something more to work with?-- but the details worth looking at are ones that will underscore what the story is saying in a bigger picture, thematic sort of way.

God's point here is that if you're hung up on the Magical Technical Whateverness that is stuff like how the angels and demons travel, you're being a bit of a Duns Scotus and trying to solve a mystery that the show has zero intention of ever making be relevant to anything and doesn't really consider much of a mystery in the first place. You can sit there until you're blue in the face doing calculations and looking up scientific explanations and it just simply does not matter. You're barking up the wrong tree because the thing you're talking about has no significant relevance to the story.

"How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" is basically the olden days, scholarly equivalent of rolling your eyes at half the comments in an online discussion for any sci-fi show that has ever existed. My friend and I call this kind of debate 'Photon Torpedo Jerk-Off' and what I mean by that is this: if you watch an episode of, say, Star Trek, and you think the most important thing to talk about that happened in the episode you just watched is whether or not these writers were accurate about the range of the photon torpedoes when they had the Enterprise blow up that Klingon warship, then you have missed the point of the episode entirely. If you're sitting around arguing about the sci-fi magical Whatever Tech and not talking about the story you've watched, you don't understand the point of what you've watched.

In Good Omens, the reason why God's monologue about how many angels can dance on the head a pin begins when it does is because it is a very sly joke on Duns Scotus-like debate, using the fact that the questions that were absurd to consider in real life are actually-- hilariously-- among the most pertinent to consider where Good Omens is concerned.

God brings up the pin-dancing question as a way to answer the question of what's happening with Crowley and Hastur going through the answering machine. She amusingly doesn't really answer the question and, instead, starts going on about the parts of "how many angel can dance on the head of a pin?" that should have been the bits being debated-- like whether or not angels dance at all and what if means that they do. Basically, Good Omens' response to how the answering machine bit works is "something something electrons" and they're proud of it and they should be because it doesn't fucking matter, which is why God's monologue in the answering machine sequence is really all about the bigger questions of the show and not the Duns Scotus-y question of "but how are they traveling through the telephone system exactly?" God simply just says that they are and moves onto more relevant things.

Even though the original debate over questions like "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" was theological and philosophical, the thoughts behind the absurdity of it very much apply to interpreting works of art. Because of its ties to religion and to angels, it makes for a very humorous way of telling the Good Omens audience that they will not really be explaining much of anything regarding to the technical whatzits of how angels and demons travel through electricity and things like that because that could not be less relevant to understanding the story.

The question "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?", at one point, also had several variants. One was the same question but wondering how many demons could dance on the head of a pin, while others involved whether or not angels were "sexless"-- a question that was so confusing at the time that several sub-variants emerged as a result because people weren't entirely sure what that question meant...

Was the question asking if angels had a biological sex-- and, if so, was it asking if they had sex organs? Was it asking if the angels had a form of gender which, at the time and with these theologians, was mostly a question of whether or not angels could be what humans would have called male or female, with gender binary ideas of what that would mean intact? Many others thought a question of whether or not angels were sexless might be more directly about whether or not angels had sex.

(Amusingly, that question didn't really ever get asked about demons, as the sexuality around demonic lore has always been pretty notorious.)

The problem with these questions being asked by theologians is that they never took the opportunity to reflect on what it might say about humans and our societies that we thought these the most pertinent questions to answer about angels and demons. They never stopped and thought about the fact that to ask these questions meant they were not sure that this supernatural world that they believed in had the same sort of structure when it came to things like gender, sex and sexuality that humans do and how that is where the more interesting thoughts exist. Just by asking those questions, you could start to follow a path that maybe suggested that they were different from humans and it might be better if humans emulated some of those ideas, right?

But that's definitely not where these guys took this...

When scholastics would approach questions like this, they'd do so to make the concepts of angels and demons fit more securely into the worldview they were promoting. The very conservative would usually say that angels were genderless and also usually "above" sex and things like this reinforced their holiness. The demons could usually fuck because they were evil and nephilim and the like made for the usual brand of good, scary, weirdly sexual Bible stuff. The ones that did think that angels did gender thought angels thought about it in the same very rigidly binary and traditional ways of most societies.

In other words? Theologians took the mythical creatures of angels and demons and made their theories about them fit human societies to further their own, human goals, instead of using angels and demons to reflect upon those human societies and consider how different viewpoints might improve them.

Good Omens is completely sending up this mindset.

In Good Omens, the supernatural characters are a way of poking fun at these kind of humans who approach ideas about what angels and demons might be like with such rigidity and treat their fellow humans in the same way. The angels and demons are basically all queer in human terms by default because, in Heaven/Hell, gender is a constellation, biological sex is a 'do whatever you want with that, if anything at all', and, just like with the humans, asexuality and sexuality and everything along every possible spectrum related to it all exist. For the most part, human prejudice does not exist-- though prejudice itself does, in the form of the "other"-izing of the demons. Some of that human prejudice has slipped through-- see: Sandalphon-- but it's not as ubiquitous as it is on Earth.

The angels and demons in Good Omens come from a world where everyone is sort of assumed straight-out-of-the-box non-binary by default and queerness is more normalized because when your concept of gender begins without rigid ideas about what that is, damn near everyone winds up being what humans would refer to as queer because that umbrella is then basically anyone other than a cisgendered, heterosexual person... and what is a cisgendered, heterosexual person when gender is design-your-own-concept-of-this from the get-go? How would anyone be heterosexual, when the definition of that is rooted in binary views on gender that do not exist in the supernatural world of Good Omens?

The point of all of it is that if humans thought this way about one another more, the world would be a better place. Good Omens is a story about angels and demons that is using them to ask questions about humanity of a lot more value than "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" but, ironically? Some questions that come about as a result of considering that question in a different way-- as God helps us to do with her monologue-- like the question of whether or not angels dance and consideration of what that might mean-- are examples of some of best questions to ask to get to the heart of what Good Omens is saying and what it's story is all about.

In Good Omens, neither the supernatural world nor the human world are perfect. The supernatural characters seek to learn how to really live from the humans but the humans have a thing or two to learn about themselves that the supernatural beings-- with their choose-your-own-adventure ideas relating to gender, in particular-- could show them when it comes to true freedom.

If we made like the supernatural world of Good Omens and placed less focus on defining and labeling gender and sexuality in such strict terms and just looked at everyone else as fellow people and let people present themselves as they like and identify as they like and be attracted to who they're attracted to and love who they love, we'd just be seeing each other all as people-- which is what we all are.

It's also the point of the intentional vagueness of Gabriel's whole situation during his naked arrival in 2.01.

There is a fuckton happening in this scene but one of the biggest is the decision to make it unclear as to what was behind the box-- and that's the point. Are there a couple of hints here and there? Sure. You can make arguments in different directions and, for sure, the decision to make it vague, instead of including a suggestion that Gabriel's for sure Don Drapering it in that moment is a whole decision in and of itself. The point, though, is not to fixate on determining what, if any, situation Gabriel was rocking during his rather challenging Monday morning in S2 but to just ask yourself why it would matter to know?

There's nothing wrong with some idle curiosity, I don't think, but the ambiguity is the point. What would it matter if Gabriel was running in angelic neutral or sporting, as I think the scene is suggesting, some lady parts for the morning? It doesn't change anything about Gabriel because only humans would look at Gabriel and assume that he has a penis and find it shocking if he didn't because many of us are that limited in thought. Only humans would box (bad, unintentional pun lol) him into pronouns as a result and try to tell him that he can't use he/him if he sometimes doesn't have that penis.

All these humans are looking at his body and judging it-- who gives them the right?

Whatever you feel about Gabriel, you do feel for him in that moment because no one deserves to have their body judged by a zillion critical strangers... and isn't that what many of us are doing online? Isn't that what a lot of humans do about everything from gender to sexuality to weight and looks? We categorize and label and put all of these parameters on meeting the standards of those categories when none of it matters and everyone is unique and beautiful in their own ways.

The genius of the supernatural characters in Good Omens is that, in so many ways, they are not free and a lot of their issues overlap with those of the humans but in real, fundamental ways, they have default mindsets that humanity could really benefit from adopting. The Gabriel arrival scene underlines it by turning the camera back around on us by showing us an example of a very masculine person by traditional human standards, implying that his genitalia might differ from what we've been conditioned to expect from a person with his looks, and then making us consider how we feel about that and if maybe the whole idea of these kind of expectations isn't bullshit in the first place.

So... while Good Omens is sending up the limited mindset of the Duns Scotuses of the world, the joke with God's monologue is that, in the context of Good Omens itself?

From the standpoint of this story?

The related questions about angels and dancing and gender and sex that arise from asking the question: "How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" are excellent questions.

They happen to be questions that, if you're asking them, you're getting into many of the themes of the story and you're looking at how the story is using angels and demons to talk about the experience of human living. What does matter in understanding the story of Good Omens is, ironically, the dumbass questions that these humans were asking back in the day about dancing angels and demons and their relationships to human ideas about gender, sex and sexuality at which Good Omens is poking more than a little fun.

To add to this, we also have the very funny way in which God presents the answers to these questions to us and that involves a wink towards the last type of dancing-- dancing as sexual euphemism.

In the original question of "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?", the reason why it's a pin is obviously that pins are very, very small but it was sometimes referred to as well as a question of how many angels could dance on the head of a needle? This was because the detractors of this school of thought were creating puns, so they could call the debate of the question things like a "needless point" in their writings-- very Good Omens-y humorous of them. 😊 We're also now bringing into to conversation via needles and pins language related to the make and repair of clothes-- seamstress work-- as being tied to questions of sex and dancing as sexually euphemistic.

The visuals shown to us during God's monologue include Crowley and Aziraphale dancing separately, in different eras, with other beings-- Aziraphale with some humans and Crowley with some demons-- but with an undertone of sex in both scenes that gets at dancing as sexual euphemism. In Crowley's scene in the 1970s/very early 1980s, he and Hastur and Ligur are in some trippy disco sequence in which they are dancing with a pin but the pin is being used as different kinds of sexual dance-related poles.

This is a visual parallel of the innuendo around seamstress-related language in the series, with a pin-- a tool used by those who make and mend clothes-- being used as a pole, highlighting a (hilariously-presented) aspect of sexuality in dance. Mrs. Sandwich runs a bordello but the coded 19th century-era speech of Aziraphale's magic during The Meeting Ball results in her attempting to describe the sex work menu of her girls as being coded in the language of those who make and mend clothes. This comes from sex workers writing on government forms the 19th century that they were seamstresses to evade authorities (why Mrs. Sandwich says her girls stand on their own two feet "like the government said") and a use of seamstress language as euphemistic for sex that overlapped into coded slang of, in particular, homosexual men.

In one part of the disco sequence, Hastur, Ligur and Crowley are going around the pin like it's a maypole, which were involved in courtship rituals and fertility dances. In another moment, the three of them then turn the pin into a stripper pole and bust out some exotic dancing moves, all less using the pin/pole as prop in a seduction of someone else but more seemingly in place of that someone else, with exactly zero awareness of one another.

What the living fuck is this scene, really? 😂 Is the pin really large? Are they very small? Why can I still not stop laughing at the fact that they aren't dancing on the *head* of a pin but with it? Is Hastur trying to make out with the pole? Did Ligur really invent part of The Macarena decades ahead of its time? What perspective is this scene supposed to be shot from? lol Are we all just assumed high at this point from the disco lights and general trippiness of the sequence? Are any of these the most important questions of this sequence? Not by a long shot lol...

*tilts head* hiiiii Crowley...

What's that? Oh, sorry, right, finishing up the epic journey that is this meta... Yes, yes, sorry. Got distracted by the dancing snake... Which reminds me!

We can't talk about dancing as sexual euphemism without mentioning that the little glimpse into Crowley's bedroom in S1 that we see shows us that he has a wooden figurine of a dancing snake on a table in the corner, which seems like a wink towards Crowley and Aziraphale joking about being like the magician or musician who would play music to "charm" snakes into dancing for them. Crowley kept the dancing snake figurine in his bedroom so that is probably the ultimate in dancing as a sexual euphemism possible and it's another indicator that it's hardly the idea of dancing together being a form of sexual overture that has Crowley so confused when he says "you don't dance" in S2. Dancing, in that sense, is not new to them.

So, God's monologue is winking pretty heavily at dance-as-sexual-euphemism. In showing the dancing this way, God is using dancing to mean both literal dancing (as in, when she describes that Aziraphale is the only angel who dances-as-in-moves-to-music because he learned the gavotte) and also as an answer to the question of whether or not some of the angels and demons have sex. While not all of them do or have interest in doing so-- just like with the humans-- having Crowley and Aziraphale both exhibit a sense of sexuality in the dancing scenes here is more than a little suggestive of the fact that they both do.

So, how does that fit into our whole idea of dancing as it relates to a being a part of society?

Both Crowley and Aziraphale are shown dancing in different situations in different eras in which queer people existing on the fringes of society found a place in which they could express themselves-- but they are very different ways of expression.

Aziraphale learns to dance in a private club for wealthy, gay gentlemen and that is the only place in which he dances because he can do so freely there without too much concern that it will have repercussions for him in both his supernatural and his human worlds. Everyone there in the club is someone who also has a sense of secrecy and a need for discretion in common and they're all well-connected enough to ensure that their privacy remains intact. It's through basically finding a safe space in this club that Aziraphale can have a microcosm of what it would be like to exist more openly in the larger society as a whole.

Crowley, on the other hand?

While Crowley also lived through all of these eras alongside Aziraphale and had the same types of social limitations, we see him dancing openly in the liberation of the disco era. Disco changed everything. It was full of people who had never fit into society and gave voice to, in particular, more female, Black and queer people than ever before. The eventual backlash to disco had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the changing attitudes about race, gender, sexual orientation, and sex itself at the heart of it.

The difference here is that disco was free to a point that you could dance with anybody. You and your friends could dance, you could dance with someone you wanted to hook up with, you could dance around to it in your house with your family. It didn't matter. While people had long since abandoned the formal rules of dance in mainstream society that existed in the eras of Jane Austen, by the time disco turned up, popular dance had freed itself to being just about self-expression and having fun. It was still sexy but it was no longer playing a formal role in the matchmaking process of people in society. It's about having fun and doing so in the open and much more free.

This is where we're going to look at what your question has to do with the gavotte and Aziraphale's cotillion ball in S2...

The gavotte scene in S1 is one of the most fascinating scenes in the series because nothing else like it exists in terms of how it is filmed. The scene of Aziraphale dancing the gavotte is filmed in such a way as to suggest we are actually watching a video of him doing so. Part of this comes from the lighting, the slightly jumpy 'old time movie' feel of the scene. But, it also comes from the fact that Aziraphale looks directly into the camera at several moments during the scene, in such a way that it makes it feel like he's not looking at *us* in a fourth-wall-breaking sort of way but that he's looking at a camera that exists within The Hundred Guineas Club and is filming them dancing.

This was likely possible at the time, especially in a club patronized by wealthy men. The Lumiere brothers patented the first movie-making cameras in 1895 so it could be argued that Aziraphale and friends are being filmed using a prototype of that technology. (A bit of film-related technology being a bit too early for the time by our human history standards is also shown on Good Omens in S2, when Furfur has a Polaroid camera just under a decade or so too soon, though some prototypes were in development not long after the time Furfur was shown with one.)

The point is that Aziraphale looks like he's letting himself be recorded dancing. Actually, the point is that Aziraphale looks like he is loving letting himself be recorded dancing and that's an enormous thing...

Think back to 1941 for a moment. Crowley and Aziraphale were nearly killed over the picture Furfur took of the two of them together. No audio/visual evidence of the two of them together exists. If they kept the picture, they've hidden it really, really well because they've been terrified of anyone finding them out. Does this recording of Aziraphale still exist, though? Does he have it? Was he going to show Crowley, maybe after everyone left The Meeting Ball?

Living-- existing-- can mean having a record of that existence. That's actually at the heart of the meta I wrote recently about Aziraphale's excitement over getting the Shostakovich record being about having a recording of a performance with history to him and Crowley.

Being a part of the world can mean letting yourself be a documented part of it.

We are shown that, in the late 1880s, Aziraphale let himself be recorded on video dancing with some human friends... which is to say that Aziraphale let himself live.

He let himself find some kindred spirits, learn something new, be an active participant in a group, and enjoy himself. He let all of that be documented and his kind of manic, unbridled joy over all of it is the mark of how rare a thing this level of engagement is for him.

So, why did he?

Why this dance? What does this have to do with The Meeting Ball?

Notice the backdrop of this scene. Other than Aziraphale and the other gentleman and the walls, there is really only one thing of note in the scene and it is in focus for much of the scene: the chandelier.

The gavotte is both a specific kind of dance and a kind of umbrella term for French folk dances from the 16th-18th centuries and a separate, different dance in the 19th century. It was apparently popular in the court of King Louis XIV, whose reign is referred to several times in Good Omens. (Crowley's gauche imitation Louis XIV furniture in his flat in S1; he was king in the time mentioned by Aziraphale in the French scene in S2; his mistress being Madame du Pompadour, historically credited with originating the hairstyle worn by Crowley since prior to Earth's existence, etc....)

Gavotte comes from gavoto, which meant mountaineer's dance or the dance of the mountain people and which, in turn, came from gavot, which meant a boor and a glutton. A boor is a country person or a farmer but it comes from the Latin bovis, meaning a cow or an ox. Etymologically-speaking? Of course this is the dance Aziraphale learned because the gavotte is a French dance of the ox glutton who enjoys a good "mountain" climb.

(The theory that they wrote The Sound of Music lives on. 😂)

Aziraphale learned the gavotte, of all dances, because he knew that Crowley would find the two of them dancing together to this dance in particular very amusing. He learned this dance in the late 1880s, likely with the intent of maybe, someday, being able to dance it with Crowley, which is likely why he was he was annoyed when it went out of style.

Still, we could theorize that one of the reasons why he allowed himself to be filmed dancing it is to have a record of his efforts to learn it-- not just for Crowley but in general-- and that maybe the chandelier in the bookshop is the one from his long-since-closed gentleman's club. It all shows that Aziraphale has wanted to dance, openly and publicly, both in general and with Crowley, for a very long time.

One of the reasons why he likely miracled everyone into 19th century speak during The Meeting Ball and brought down the chandelier and old style dancing was so that he could finally do just that. It isn't so much that Aziraphale needs to stick to old-fashioned dancing in general as it is that he just wanted to have an experience like those of other humans during that time that he wasn't allowed then to have-- by the rules of the human world, not just because of the dangers from his supernatural world.

But it's 2023 in S2 now. Queer people have been able to get married in England for a decade and partnership rights have been around for even longer. Mutt and his spouse's relationship would have been illegal in nine different ways barely a breath ago but they can live openly now. Gabriel has left Heaven and moved into the guest room. Things feel like there's a chance of change everywhere and Aziraphale has just had it and can't take one more night of Crowley slipping out before dawn so this whole "Maggie and Nina" party?

Do you remember how Aziraphale phrased the idea to Crowley?

Cotillion balls aren't just any ball. While cotillion was a style of country dance kind of like the gavotte, a cotillion ball was a coming out ball for young ladies in society. In parts of the world, they still exist, sometimes called now debutante balls.

What's so endearing about Aziraphale fixating on this idea is that a) Maggie and Nina are both women, which is not a match that would have been sanctioned by a cotillion ball in Jane Austen's day, which makes it sweet that Aziraphale is, in a way, trying to give this traditionally romantic idea of love at a dance to a pair of women who would not have had it be an option for them, historically, which is something to which he can relate but also b) Aziraphale is just really semi-consciously using the idea of a party styled after a coming out ball for women in society as his thinly-veiled excuse to have a coming out party of a different kind, of sorts, for himself and Crowley.

Aziraphale isn't closeted in the sense that he's not actively trying to convince anyone that he's straight (good Frances, what a waste of effort that would be lol) but he'd like to be just like everyone else and not have to hide his partner. In the scene where Mrs. Cheng tells him that she and her husband will be at the party, for example, Aziraphale has this kind of wistful look for a moment. He wants that. He'd like to just be chatting with the neighbors and tell them that yes, definitely, he and his husband will be by later on. It's a season of things like Muriel literally opening the door to them hiding in a closet to talk privately and Crowley insisting in the street to Nina that Aziraphale is not his partner but then saying nothing to correct her when she refers to Aziraphale that way when they're in the bookshop. It's Mrs. Sandwich knowing Crowley in part because she sees him slip out the bookshop side door every night but Nina not knowing him in 2.01 because they're hiding the fact that they're a couple so morning coffee is never a thing until it is in S2. The Meeting Ball is Aziraphale taking steps towards them no longer hiding it by having people over when Crowley is there and letting everyone know or assume that Crowley is his partner.

The party is really for Crowley. Having everyone speak outside of time, the theatre curtains, Gabriel circling with trays of food (which was honestly so funny-- The Supreme Archangel walking around all "try an ox rib" to everyone), the vol-au-vents (etymologically linked to nightingales and some of them seemed like they might have been oyster vol-au-vents), etc.. He did it all to dance with Crowley and ask him to stay.

These two are fucking adorable. Look at this angel, I mean, seriously:

Aziraphale has been hitting that since ancient Rome and he's over here, nervous and giddy like he's at his first middle school dance, so fucking excited to ask that dashing ginger currently having an anxiety attack to dance. They have been basically married for millennia and Aziraphale is standing there like I'm going to ask him, I'm going to really do it, I'm going to hold his hand and dance with him in front of everybody and they're all going to know he's mine. We're going to be like everybody else-- just people on Earth.

It's so damn cute.

So, lastly, there's one thing we have to talk about when it comes to dancing and that's the fact that it is a form of self-expression. This is where Aziraphale and his perfectionism come into play a little.

God, in S1, said that not dancing is one of "the distinguishing" features of angels and that Aziraphale, through learning the gavotte, is the only angel who dances (at least, in terms of literally dancing.) This contrasts with the demons, who all dance, though many of them are not particularly good at it. This is the fundamental difference between angels and demons.

The demons are all demons because they were all willing to express themselves as individuals, which is what dancing fundamentally is. The reason why Aziraphale is the only angel who dances in S1 is because the other angels who know how to dance are all now demons.

Dancing means putting yourself out there a bit. You have to be willing to make some mistakes. You have to be willing to look potentially silly in front of other people and learn to not care as much about it. You have to take some chances. You have to engage with others if you want to dance with other people-- so, you have to participate in the world around you a bit. You have to try new things, like hearing new music and learning new ways to move. You have to be your own person, in the sense that you have to have music you like to move to and decide what you'll look like doing that. You have to let yourself take up some space and work hard at shutting off your damn brain enough to enjoy it.

In the 1941, Part 2 scene that we started this meta out with, we saw Aziraphale openly dancing a bit in front of Crowley, a sign of how comfortable he was and is with him. He doesn't have to be perfect around Crowley. Just as Crowley doesn't have to be perfect around him and is willing to look ridiculous to around him, as in the case of The Apology Dance. Being able to be silly and vulnerable is a sign of trust. When you can lean on people you trust and have that kind of intimacy with them, it can make you feel braver to take some risks in the world as a whole. If you let one person in enough and learn how to dance in one or more ways with just them, you'll eventually feel like you can dance free, no matter who is watching.

In the same scene, Aziraphale admits to his conflicts over going to Goldstone's and how he worries that maybe the things in life that he enjoys are "for professional conjurers only"-- for humans only-- with Crowley helping to quiet that imposter syndrome noise in Aziraphale's mind. Crowley's gentleness and the care in his response are examples of why he is who Aziraphale chooses as a partner and why it's with him that he's long-dreamed of having be his dancing partner when he finally is able to publicly dance alongside others at a ball.

Aziraphale is equally considerate in how he treats Crowley and is not put off by spending their first dance in public together essentially trying to calm what he thinks at first is just Crowley's usual level of anxiety talking, knowing Crowley well enough to know that, for all his talk about wanting to live a more open life together, he's as afraid as Aziraphale is. Crowley is dancing anyway. Aziraphale wants to so that's enough for Crowley to do so.

Aziraphale doesn't need some perfectly smooth first dance out together-- though they dance easily and very well together. It doesn't matter how long he's waited. He cares more about trying to reassure Crowley and ease his stress. They actually aren't as safe as Aziraphale believes them to be at this moment but it's the intent that's sweet. He knows this dance is as scary as it is lovely and, as always, it's important to him that Crowley feel safe.

You have to admit that you're a person to dance.

That's what the dancing is all about.

You have to admit that you have a life and to start to accept that you are allowed one. You have to accept yourself as part of a community to publicly dance with a group. You have to feel ready to host the monthly meeting of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association because to do so is to be a participating member in a community and to be a participating member in a community is to be a person living a life on Earth.

It's not surprising, then, that when Aziraphale gets to a point-- a very delicate point but a point, nonetheless-- of feeling like it might be time for him to claim that life for himself, doing so begins with the first night that he's ever been able to be at a party and, just like a zillion other people before him, ask his partner to dance.

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Why?

Requested: No

Warnings: Light angst, Robot!Reader

A/N: Wow, two preferences in one day? What the hell was in my chocolate this morning?

You couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t….couldn’t understand it. Comprehend it. Accept it. That this person, this living breathing human being, was really treating you like this. That they seemed to….value you in some way. At first you had thought of it as a joke, a cruel one that they shared amongst themselves. Tease the bot, remind them of their place. It was a game you were all too familiar with, and always ended up with a pain in your chest, right where a beating heart would be for a human being. But this person….they were so nice. So genuine in their actions, so unlike all the others you had met over the years. And they had taken care of you, patched you up and repaired you, given you a purpose in this life after you had been tossed aside like common trash, left to rust and deteriorate in a scrap pile, barely clinging to that last bit of battery life, to consciousness. You remembered exactly what you thought of before the lights inside you dimmed.

I don’t want to die.

And you hadn’t. Something that had been quite a shock to you when you woke up in a dark room. The rust scrubbed from your plates, your gears and joints oiled, your battery in the middle of a long recharge. By a cable no less! You couldn’t remember the last time you had been charged by one of those instead of the wireless charging that had become common over the years.

You were alive. You had been given a second chance. And you were determined not to waste it. But that doubt lingered in you, festered like infection in an open wound. And one day, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking the question that plagued you since the day you woke up in their home.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Treating me like a person.”

Price

Price hummed softly, the question not entirely unexpected. It’s likely that he was already questioning that himself for some time now. Ever since he brought you into his home, started fixing you up, growing so attached to you so quickly. Sitting by your bed as he waited for your servers to turn on, replacing your batteries so many times he lost count. So gentle whenever he had to open you up to fix something. Even giving you your own room, and a bed to lay on. And complete and utter freedom to do…whatever you wanted. Sure he’d always been a bit kinder to bots everywhere, some part of him unable to separate their human faces from their mechanical insides, but with you it was like it was dialed up to a thousand. He looked at you, and he couldn’t see anything but a living breathing person.

“....Dunno, Love.” He’d say, tilting his head as he met your eyes. The clear crystal blue soft and shimmering under the moonlight that shone in through the kitchen window. “You want me to stop?” He asked, seeming pleased when you shook your head. “Good. That’s all that matters then.”

Gaz

“You get bonked on the head again, Love?” Gaz would ask in return, arching his brow at you before bending over to pick up a box left at the front door. A new cooling fan for you, since yours was starting to malfunction. “That’s about the dumbest question I've ever heard. You’re a person. Course i treat you like people.” He says, cutting open the box before pulling out the small fan. “Don’t matter that you need things like this. That your insides are different then mine. You’re a person all the same. And I'd bet my last pound that, if such a thing as souls exist, you got one just like me. One much shinier and brighter, all good and perfect. I just know it.” He tells you, a bright sunshine-like smile crossing his face, and you could feel your broken whirring to life as your circuits malfunctioned and started to burn molten hot, heating up your whole body until your systems had to do a mandatory shut down just to avoid melting anything. Leaving Gaz to panic and damn near tear the house to pieces looking for the tools to open you up and replace that damn fan.

Ghost

A slow blink, a tilt of the head. Cold eyes raking over you in thought. Thinking through every word meticulously, making sure nothing left his mouth until he knew exactly what he wanted to say to you. It took a few minutes, anxiety inducing silence that would have you sweating if you were capable of such a thing. Until finally, blessed finally, he graced you with a soft response.

“You are a person.” He whispered, so soft that you almost didn't hear him. He repeated it, a bit louder when you tilted your head in confusion. “You are a person. To me at least. Maybe not to all those bellends outside, but to me. I’ve seen you laugh, get upset, excited, curious. I’ve never met someone who has so much personality to them before. And it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, because they don’t know you like I do. They haven’t seen every beautiful part of you that you try to hide behind a disguise of being just a bot. I know. And I’ll make sure that you know it soon enough to, so you don’t ever ask any daft questions like that ever again.”

Soap

“Watcha mean, Love?” Soap will ask, head tilted in utter confusion. Like you just asked him something in gibberish, brows scrunched together and mouth twisted in a little pout. “Tha’s a dumb question. You are a person. Course I treat you like one.” He says, shrugging his shoulders before turning back to your dismantled arm piece, adjusting some of the little screws and oiling the gears. It was almost funny how he could say that so casually, as if he wasn’t fixing your mechanics right this instant, his fingers tenderly stroking over metal and silicon, like he was scared he might hurt you if he pressed too hard. You didn’t even get the chance to protest his statement before he was opening his mouth again, effectively cutting you off. “I dinnae wanna hear anymore ah that talk, Lovey. You’re a person, my person. Simple as that.” He says, turning to give you a soft smile, hand reaching out to touch your cheek. His hands calloused and rough, but oh so warm. You could feel your motors backfiring, sensors heating up beneath his touch. And that grin on his face took a mischievous turn when he noticed, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “Glad we had that chat then, Love.”

[ultralightpoe]

Midnight Rain - Jamie Tartt

Authors Note: I have been trying to find any sort of energy to post and get out of bed. Got so close to giving up on life itself and I'm barely back, please bare with me as I try to find my way out of my depression hole I have dug for myself everyone. I know it's been a minute but life has been kicking my ass. Be patient with me - Ultralight

Word Count: 4274

Warnings: slight angst

Apart of my MIDNIGHTS EVENT. (Next Event is Sour by Olivia Rodrigo. Requests closed. Event following yet to be decided)

SOUR EVENT

MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy!

Rain, he wanted it comfortable

I wanted that pain

He wanted a bride

I was making my own name

Chasing that fame

He stayed the same

All of me changed like midnight

It was an odd thing, falling for a famous person with everyone watching you both, it felt like every private moment had been laid bare to the world for them to mock and laugh at. There was nothing normal about it. 

But then again there was nothing normal about the way you and Jamie Tartt had met. 

You thought of this as you left the Richmond Stadium, glasses covering your eyes as you did your best to hide your face from the flashes, your bodyguard holding the small of your back as he pushed you forward. 

“Just a few more steps until we are in the car.” He informs, blocking a poster from being shoved into your face. 

By the time you are shoved into the air conditioned car you risk a look back at him, and this is the moment all the paparazzi catch a picture of your tear stained face. 

You wish this had never happened.

“I just don’t understand.” You whine, eyes cast up to the ceiling of the building, swirling in the chair as your manager tapped her pen on the desk in front of you with an unamused expression. “I didn’t do anyth-”

“YOU WERE CAUGHT MAKING OUT WITH YOUR COSTAR!”

“......And?”

“HE WAS MARRIED!” In your defense he had never mentioned his wife and how the hell were you supposed to know? He never wore a ring, he was always in costume and character so it wasn’t like you had talked about his family at all. 

That being said, you felt horrible when you found out, and then your surprised face had been printed onto every magazine and gossip site known to man, which made you look like the homewrecker and him like the lost puppy husband.  What a scuffing tool. 

“So what on earth does this have to do with Jamie Tartt?” You had never heard of him before, not that you were a football fan in general, but you did kind of recognize him from some cheap reality show. 

“He is looking for a change in image, a happy healthy family image.” Your manager explains. 

“So you want me to be his pretty little wife?” You snark, lifting your voice until you're whispering like a 50’s pinup girl and batting your eyelashes at her. “Should I make him dinner every night and kiss him sweetly-”

“How many job offers have you gotten lately?” She snaps, slamming your gossip mags on the desk in front of her. 

She had you there, since he had played victim you had close to no job offers, your image had been destroyed by that pompous man.  

So it seemed Jamie Tartt was your only option. You would play the role of your sweet girl. 

My town was a wasteland

Full of cages, full of fences

Pageant queens and big pretenders

But for some, it was paradise

Your face was printed everywhere by the next morning and Jamie Tartt couldn’t help but try and throw as many of the magazines and papers away during his early morning jog with Roy. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Kent snaps, crossing his arms, his back straight and his eyebrows pinched. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know mate!” Jamie snaps, face bunched up as he panics, the stack of papers in his hands heavier than he thought when he makes eye contact with your photo. You looked so sad he felt his heart shatter. “I jus’ don’ want any of these fucks seein her like this, ya know?”

“Everyone has phones.” His running partner points out and Jamie sighs of disbelief. “Come on, you massive twat.”

With that Roy starts running again and Jamie is forced to drop the magazines in the trash, picking up his speed to catch up with his coach, heart racing against his ribs. 

After this he would call you, maybe try to clear the air. After everything you both went through he was sure you would at least want to talk to him……right?

“So…..I just go to the restaurant…..for the date you set up for me?” Jamie asks, confusion laced in his tone as he stares at his ex girlfriend and now his social media manager. “I just don’t get it Keeley.”

“It’s not something you get, ya?” She smiles, rubbing his shoulders. “Just trust me Jamie, I think she will be good for ya.”

“And she’s interested in me?” There was a small excitement in his chest now, the feeling of being adored always enough to boost his ego. “Then I think I can give this a chance, ya?”

So he did give you a chance, he showed up (late) wearing simple workout gear and asking the host about your reservation. She gives him a disgusted up and down look before side-eying him as she points to a table in the far back. 

You were there, your nose in a book, and not caring about anyone else in the restaurant. And he instantly knows he should have dressed up more, he figured you would be some fangirl and would like him as he is. But now he sees that he looks like a massive twat who showed up late and not dressed up at all. 

“Y/n?” He asks slowly, reaching a hand up to fix his hair subconsciously. Nerves were getting the best of him and when you finally looked up he could not think straight, let alone breathe. It’s like life stopped short. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah? Jamie Tartt I presume?” You ask and he can do nothing but nod. “Why don’t you sit, the paps are going to be here in no time.”

“Paps?” He asks, lunging to sit in front of you, fixing his hair once more. 

“They follow everywhere. I haven’t ordered yet, even though you were late.” 

“Right. Yeah. Thank you for waitin’.”

My boy was a montage

A slow-motion, love potion

Jumping off things in the ocean

I broke his heart 'cause he was nice

He had been one of the sweetest fake dates you’d ever had in your career, and for a couple minutes you wondered if it was a real date, only to laugh it off as a camera flash caught him in the middle of a dramatic retelling. You had to remind yourself that night that it was fake. It was all fake. 

But the kiss you gave him outside the restaurant felt more real than anything else you had felt before, and when you had pulled away your hands were shaking. But he simply smiled and kissed your cheek before disappearing. 

You had exchanged numbers that night, so you wouldn’t have to go through your managers everytime you needed to meet. And that had worked well for the first 2 weeks. 

He had gone from making you laugh at coffee to texting you at 3 am. And though you had a red flag in your mind about the professional boundary you ignored it because why not? If you were forced to fake date someone then why not have fun?

But now you sat in your empty apartment, legs pulled into your chest as you sobbed, wondering why on earth you had crossed the professional boundary. 

Your phone rang somewhere behind you and a part of you wanted to dive to answer it, already knowing it would be him. But you drew the line in the sand, why run to the water to drown yourself now?

So instead you pulled your throw blanket over yourself and let the world wash away. 

“Is there a reason you called me this early?” You laugh, pulling your coat closer around you as you meet him at the side entrance of the Richmond field. “And when will the paps get here?”

“They won’t be.” He looks proud to say that, excitement crossing his face as he reaches for your hand. “I figured you had enough of them so I’ll sneak ya in.”

His hand finds your own and you are filled with the same warmth of the night you kissed him so you follow him without questions. And he seems ten times happier to lead you to the main field. 

“Okay so there are sooo many rules about being on the field, it’s a bit of bad luck yeah? So don’t tell anyone you were here.” He rambles as you look around before pulling out a ball from his backpack. 

“Oh, what on earth is that?”

“It’s a football?” He laughs, throwing it at you which makes you scream and hit it. It bounces off his forehead with a thud that has you gasping. 

“Oh my goodness I am so sorry about th-” But he merely laughs. 

“I said a football not a handball!”

“You mean a volleyball.”

“A what?”

“Why am I here?” You interrupt, leaning to touch his forehead where the ball hit. 

“I was hoping I can teach ya to play.” He blushes when he says it and for a second you are not Y/n L/n international actress, you are Y/n L/n, dumbass in a soccer field. 

So you spend the night running around the field with Jamie as he teaches you tips and tricks of the game, you are sweating and laughing. 

Then he slips and falls harshly and you are a goner, holding your stomach as you fall over him, cackling. 

“You’re a traitor!” He laughs, catching you before you hit the grass and leaning to tickle you. This ends up being a small wrestling match and by the time it’s over you are both laying in the grass, your head on his chest and staring up at the sky. 

“This was fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I am really thankful I picked the call up.” You giggle, looking up to him and before you know it you are leaning up to kiss him. And just as the first time you are left breathless and shaking. Then he smiles at you and there is a red flag once more. But you don’t listen. 

“You wanna come back to my place?”

He was sunshine, I was midnight rain

He wanted it comfortable

I wanted that pain

He wanted a bride

I was making my own name

Chasing that fame

He stayed the same

All of me changed like midnight

“I just don’t understand, yeah?” He rants, walking back and forth in the coaches office as all five of the men stare at him with odd expressions. “Like I woulda understood if she just told me it was a public stunt-”

  “Ah, I see your dilemma here young pup-” Ted starts, only to be interrupted by Beard and Higgins howling while Roy and Trent both stay silent. “It seems to me like you had some deep feelings for this girl….like, oo oh come on fellas help me out here-”

“Love is dead.” Roy supplies. 

“Beats me.” Trent shrugs. 

“I’m blanking-” Beard panics. 

“LUKE AND LEIA!” Higgins rushes only for beard and Ted to turn on him slowly. 

“You ever seen those movies, Higgins?” Ted asks slowly, and everyone in the room stops. 

“No….No sir.But I know they kiss.” He smiles and Ted nods. “Watch em and then get back to me.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Will you blokes help me?!” Jamie snaps and they all turn back to him. “She won’t even pick up her fucking phone.”

“Well……” Roy grunts and everyone sits up. 

“Oh boy, Roy is about to open up. Buckle in.” Ted giggles. 

“I think if you truly love the lass then you should be Jamie about it and go do what Jamie does.”

“And what does Jamie do?!”

Weeks and weeks of this, dates at restaurants and secret dates away from the paps that relentlessly followed you, and then he would spend the night with you in your apartment. Which was never a requirement but gee what a bonus because you managed to take his breath away with every kiss. 

One tug and his soul is gone, one bite and he is swearing himself to you. 

But his favorite moments between the two of you were when he was laying in your bed, the sunlight streaming through your curtains as you kissed your way up his back to wake him up. In this room you never had that actress pretense you swore by, in this room you were just Y/n. Queen of his heart. 

“I think it’s time to wake up.” You whisper, nipping at his ear as he smiles. 

“Or we can just sleep in…..” He offers. 

“You have a huge game today, and I have my first session on my new film.” 

“A new film?”

“Yeah! I’m playing the love interest, a bit weird when I have to kiss someone dressed as an alien but who am-”

“So you’ll be kissing someone then?” 

“Well acting…. Just like the sex scene is acting and this relationship is-” You are cut off by the sound of his phone ringing but something in his ears screeches. 

It came like a postcard

Picture perfect, shiny family

Holiday, peppermint candy

But for him it's every day

You were right back where you started, swirling in your manager's chair as she glared at you, only this time you felt like there was a gaping hole in your chest that you couldn’t seem to fill. This entire idea had been a mistake. 

“You are right back where you started, but with ANOTHER SCANDAL!” Your manager shouts, slamming the pen onto the table and reaching to grab the tabloids laid to the side. You didn’t bother to look since you already knew what would be plastered all over them. 

You were now not only known as the woman who cheated on Jamie fucking Tartt but you were the reason the team lost their game. You were bad luck. 

A whore. A homewrecker. A lame actress. A waste of space……. But those were just the things that Jamie had said. The public had many many more things to say about it all. 

Your heart stung at the thought of him, trying your best to erase the image of him as tears sprung in your eyes, picking up your stuff as fast as you can before you storm out. 

You didn’t need to be told what a fuck up this was, you already knew it. 

“So… the other day, when we were lying in bed?” Jamie starts, leaning against the wall of the coffee shop as he stares into your eyes, letting you play with the zipper of his jacket. Your back was pressed to the wall as he covered you from the paps, all that could be seen was your legs and at this moment you couldn’t be more happy. 

You, as much as you hate to admit it, loved hanging out with Jamie when it wasn’t a performance. 

“You mean when you forgot your underwear in a rush to leave?” You tease, enjoying the nervous look that crosses his face. 

“Well, you said something that just…. It made me nervous, yeah?”

“What made you nerv-” 

“JAMIE!” A voice calls, breaking you both out of the small trance that had built up between you, both of you taking a step back from each other. You keep a hand on his chest, his own flies up to keep it there as he smiles at the man who interrupted you both.  “DANNY ROJAS!”

“Oy, keep it down, Mate!” Jamie laughs, pulling you to the man dancing. “Danny this is Y/n, Y/n this is Danny.” 

“Wonderful to meet you-”

“You coming to the game?” Danny asks, face filled with excitement. For a moment you want to say no, there was no need for a public appearance at his game, but then you look to see the hopeful expression on Jamie’s face and you feel yourself smiling. 

“If handsome is okay with me going?” You ask, eyes not leaving Jamie. He gets excited, rushing forward to kiss your cheek. 

“I’ll save you a seat!” 

So I peered through a window

A deep portal, time travel

All the love we unravel

And the life I gave away

Jamie found himself running the next morning, thinking about what fucking Kent had said. “Jamie Tartt would fuck it all up of course.” 

Fuck it up? Roy Kent is saying he would fuck it up? That wanker didn’t know anything at all, and Jamie would never fuck it up. 

But then he finds himself at your doorway, sweaty and nervous as he tries to figure out how the hell he got here. Fuck fuck fuck. 

Just as he goes to dash off the door swings open, revealing your tear streaked face staring right at him. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I have no fucking clue.” He blurts, hands flying up like you are about to swing at him. But you don’t, you merely stare at him as he stares back with a heavy heart. “But I am here…..and I’d love to talk.”

You were thrilled, looking around the stadium with wide eyes as everyone cheered for Jamie. You had seen this man in his element many times, you knew he loved the game but you had never seen him in his element surrounded by his fans. 

This was one heck of a thrill. 

He was cheering with them, and yelling, and honestly just owning the field (or Pitch as the coach had explained). You could do nothing but watch in amazement as the two females beside you cheered them on as well. 

But that’s when things started to go sideways. 

You had just been cheering Jamie on, jumping up in your seat when he made the goal, when you saw your old co-star from the corner of your eye. The pompous asshole that forgot to mention he was married. Within a second of making eye contact he was nodding his head, moving closer to you, mumbling out excuse me’s to book it to you. 

For an instant you think of telling him to piss off, but for some reason you didn’t want the group of people you were sat with to realize that you were a homewrecker, whether you meant to or not that's embarrassing. So you let the panic get the better of you and dash to meet him halfway, tugging on his jacket to drag him up the stairs. 

“What the fuck are you doing-” You start to ask, anger coursing through your veins but when you whirl to glare at him his hands are on your jaw pulling you in for a swift kiss as cameras click in the background. 

In a moment of panic you gasp out, only to swing your hand quickly so slap his face harshly. The sound rings out in the hallway followed by multiple ‘oohs’ as you twist to walk away quickly. 

But the damage had been done already, and twitter was on the jump already. 

'Cause he was sunshine

I was midnight rain

He wanted it comfortable

I wanted that pain

He wanted a bride

I was making my own name

Chasing that fame

He stayed the same

All of me changed

Like midnight

You watch him in amazement for a moment, eyebrows raised while you tried to process the words he just said. He stares back for a moment, tilting his head while he waits for your response, but you can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“I think we already said enough,” You start, wrapping your arms around yourself while he shuffles uncomfortably. 

“No, Y/n let’s just-”

“Jamie, just drop it. We both already said what we had to.” You mumble, attempting to close the door before his foot catches in it and he huffs in pain. 

“Just….. Five minutes, that’s all I need.”

“.......Fine,” You sigh, opening the door and letting him in. 

“Um- what the actual fuck?!” Jamie snaps, coming around the corner his phone glued in his hand as he glared at you. “You mind tellin me why the fuck you were lockin’ lips with that wanker?!”

“Wait, it’s not what it looks like-” You start, but he is too mad, sneering at you when you try to reach for him. 

“So you weren’t actin’ like a whore with a man while I was playing my game?!”

“Excuse me?” The feeling of panic vanishes, replaced by another wave of anger as his words settle in. “Coming from the dumbass that was in Love Island?”

“It was Love Conquers All, I’ll have ya know!” He scoffs.

“Not to mention I don’t owe you anything! THIS IS A PR STUNT!” You shout, not caring at the amount of paps that were beginning to swarm. 

“A pr stunt?” He asks, face falling as he looks at you. “You mean to tell me that you have been dating me for-”

“Pr. Yes. This entire thing has been PR. Did you not know that?” That laugh that slips from your lips is bitter,  eyes welling up with tears. Dear god, did no one tell him?

“Right, so this entire time I have been used by a lame ass actress? You been using my fame to get roles? Is that it?”

“More like I have been using you to clean up my image after….”

“RIGHT! Sleeping with a married man-”

“He didn’t tell me he was married!”

“YOU COULD HAVE SEARCHED IT UP! BUT YOU HAD TO BE A HOMEWRECKER!”

“YOU ARE A NATIONAL SOCCER SLUT!”

“IT’S FOOTBALL!”

Rain, he wanted it comfortable

I wanted that pain

He wanted a bride

I was making my own name

Chasing that fame

He stayed the same

All of me changed

Like midnight

You watch him shuffle across your living room, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet as he tried to talk himself up,  breathing out slowly as he turns to face you. 

“I have never been good with this whole….feelin’ thing. But then I met you and for a moment I thought I had it, you know? I thought I was gonna get the life with the girl that loved me because everytime I was near ya my heart started cracking through my fuckin’ ribcage.” He begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then you are tellin’ me that it was all fake-”

“It wasn’t all fake.” You whisper and he sucks in a breath. 

“It wasn’t?”

“No, I wouldn’t have slept with you if it was.” You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Me too.”

“I….. I want it to be real.” He admits, taking a step closer. “I know it was all fake……now I do. But I want this.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re the wind beneath my fucking wings!” He smiles, moving until his hands are on your shoulders. “You make my heart race and you are the only one on this earth that doesn’t seem to mind my massive fuck ups. I fall in front of ya so many times a day, and you’ve seen me flex in a circus mirror and get frustrated and you have seen me-”

“I get it.” You smile. 

“Please, Y/n, just give me a chance back. Let’s make this real.”

“But it might not-”

“We can make it work! If you can learn football then we can make this work.”

You stare at him, and he stares back. For a moment he thinks you are going to say no, and he begins backing up until you nod. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Okay.”

I guess sometimes we all get

Just what we wanted, just what we wanted

And he never thinks of me

Except when I'm on TV

  From that point on there was a stark difference between the actress you and the real you. Actress you kissed handsome men on screen and ended up in a tabloid once a week, accusing you of vile things. 

Real you, well real you ate gummy worms in bed with your charming husband that loved hearing all the rumors, reading through them and acting them out like a fake fight. You went to all his games, he showed up to all of your premieres. 

Sunshine and rain mixed into a storm of chaos that both of you loved. 

I guess sometimes we all get

Some kind of haunted, some kind of haunted

And I never think of him

Except on midnights like this (midnights like this)

“Are ye ready yet?” He calls, laying on the couch as he watched the screen before him, laughing a bit when he sees Nate the Great slip on camera. 

“No, I am not!” You snap, rushing into the living room in a panic, searching around. He picks his head up to watch you, laughing a little when you trip over the rug. “What are you lookin’ for?”

“My heels!”

“You are wearin heels to a concert you’ll be jumpin around at?”

“They complete the outfit.” You sigh, watching a smile break across his face. 

“No, lovey, your gorgeous tits complete the outfit!”

“OH YOU PIG-” He laughs as you move to throw something at him, dashing to chase you back. You scream out, dashing up the steps to avoid his clutch as he chases you around the house. 

The next morning you both wake up to the headlines “Football star and movie star late for T Swift concert!”

“Is this all they have time for?” He asks, yawning a bit as you laugh. 

“Apparently.”

[lifblogs]

Blackmail Material (Potentially)

Week 7 Alt. Prompt: Getting a Haircut @summer-of-bad-batch Rating: General Audiences (unless Hunter's flirting with an OC is too much, lmk) Word Count: 2435 Summary: Crosshair forcibly takes Hunter to get a haircut. Hunter actually has a good time. A/N: Did not mean for all the flirting to happen in this story, I swear. There are a lot of great brotherly moments in here too.

Are you sure this is a good idea?” Hunter asked, eyeing his surroundings warily.

He did not like this place. It wasn’t often that he went to the lower levels in Coruscant, but the black walls with art strewn across them and the intense lighting did not make him feel comforted. And there were mirrors everywhere. The only cover would be the section behind the counter and a glass display wall of various products. At least the floor was clean, he supposed. Music played—a genre he’d never heard before, and didn’t want to hear again.

Other patrons sat in chairs before the mirrors, and Crosshair grabbed his shoulders, and shoved him down into his.

“It’s fine,” Crosshair said.

“Then if it’s fine, why aren’t the others here?”

“They don’t need to be.”

Crosshair crossed his arms, a toothpick in his mouth, just daring Hunter to get up and walk out.

He was about to, hands on the metal arms of the seat, when a Togruta with long striped lekku, and pink and white skin came over to them. She did have a lovely smile. But then Hunter wondered what a Togruta was doing working in a place like this. It wasn’t like she had hair. Was she any good?

“Hello, I’m Einantha. Will it be just a trim and a wash today?”

Hunter’s gut plummeted, and he tried getting up from the chair. Crosshair casually pushed him back down.

“How short can you make his hair?” Crosshair asked.

Hunter grabbed him by the arm. “Crosshair, don’t.”

Crosshair gave a thin laugh, and said, “Ignore him. He’s just a bit nervous.”

Einantha put her hands on Hunter’s shoulders, and he did like that a bit (he could tell her fingers were strong), but still. Did he have to get his hair cut? Sure, it was at his shoulders now, but he was trying it out, seeing if he liked it.

Hunter only half-paid attention as Einantha ran her hands over his head and through his hair, explaining different styles, and how short it could go.

“Can I have it shorter in the front, longer in the back?” Hunter chimed in.

“So do you want me to cut in the back?”

Einantha swirled the chair a bit, letting Hunter see.

“Hmm…”

“Yes,” Crosshair said. “But seriously, Hunter, what kind of hairstyle is that?”

Einantha wagged a finger at him. “Oh no, no, we don’t criticize anyone’s hair here.”

“Good,” Hunter said. “That’s all he was doing on the way over.”

Einantha and Hunter laughed, and she started getting her tools ready, which gave Crosshair ample time to shoot him a very rude gesture.

Hunter grinned, and wiggled his eyebrows.

Crosshair just waved him off, crossed his arms, and went back to leaning against the counter, chewing on his toothpick, jaw working hard.

“Just know,” Crosshair hissed, “one day you’ll wake up without any hair.”

“Is that a threat?” Hunter asked, voice hard, leaning forward.

“No. Just a warning.”

“Sure.”

Einantha came back over, and gently pulled Hunter back into his seat. Then there was a fluttering sound, and he turned, looking for the source. A black cape filled his vision, and he reached for one of his blasters… which he’d left aboard the Marauder since Crosshair had so cryptically told him to leave them behind.

He still had his vibroblade though.

But then it was on him, and getting fastened behind his neck.

“Relax,” Einantha told him. She patted his shoulder. “Now up, time for a wash.”

Einantha led him over to a recliner by a sink, and he laid down, resting his head back, neck fitting in the groove of the sink.

“Usually in the barracks we just use a knife,” he said. “Nothing as fancy as this.”

“This is hardly fancy.”

Einantha turned the water on, and started running it over Hunter’s head and through his hair. It mostly felt nice, though it did tickle in some spots, and he worried he’d get water in his eyes.

He did enjoy the next part. Einantha was expertly shampooing his hair, hands knowing exactly what they were doing. He closed his eyes, leaning back more, and resisted letting out a contented hum.

“Oh, please,” Crosshair said, quietly enough that only Hunter would hear him. He wanted Hunter to hear him.

Hunter grinned.

“So are you both clones?” Einantha asked.

“Yes,” Hunter answered, “though not like your average clones.”

“Oh, are you better than them?”

Hunter couldn’t tell if she was trying to flirt or not, so to be safe he assumed she wasn’t, and responded, “In a way. We have certain enhancements—everyone in our elite squad does. We don’t usually get called to the front lines, but we do get very tricky missions.”

“So what are your enhancements?” she asked.

“Enhanced senses,” Hunter answered. “Crosshair here is our sniper. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of shots he can make. I once saw him take down a corridor full of droids with one shot. And those are one of the easy ones for him.”

When he glanced at Crosshair he could tell his mood had improved somewhat. Hunter really didn’t want to have some sort of competition over Einantha’s attention. Besides, he admired him, and it was nice to brag about his brothers, including Crosshair.

“How’d you do it?” Einantha asked him.

“Easy. Placed reflector pucks throughout the hall.”

“I assume figuring out the right angles takes a lot, no?”

“Not really. It’s like it’s kind of built into me. Plus we’ve done hundreds of hours of training.”

Einantha shook her head, and started rinsing the shampoo out of Hunter’s hair.

“I could never do that.”

“It’s all we know, I guess,” Hunter said.

“It sounds hard.”

“No, we have each other.”

“Are you like brothers then?”

“Of course,” Crosshair responded.

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Einantha admitted. “If someone’s your clone, but you have no parent, does that make that clone family? Is the Republic just using one big family to fight this war? And does that mean they’re all watching their brothers die?”

“I suppose it does,” Hunter said, missing the fun, (maybe) flirty tone from earlier. But he figured people would like to ask clones questions. They’d want to know what their lives were like. So he expected it when he went out, though his squad got less questions than usual since they didn’t exactly look like the other clones. Sometimes it made Hunter feel lonely, that he didn’t have the same face as thousands of others. But those clones had rejected them, anyway. He cleared his throat, the water currently tickling him near his ear. “We don’t talk to the other clones much.”

“How many of you are in your squad?”

“Well it’s me, Crosshair, and then we have two others.”

“Sometimes I want to see the stars,” Einantha suddenly admitted.

Of course, Hunter’s flirty brain was turned back on, and he imagined taking her back to the Marauder after this, showing her space for the first time, wondering if she’d kiss him.

“You get used to them,” Crosshair said.

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, turning the water off, and squeezing out Hunter’s hair before wrapping it tightly in a towel. “After all, I’m used to this place, whereas you two seemed ready to jump out of your skin when you first got here.

“Excuse me,” Crosshair said, “that was all him. I’m the one who dragged him here. His hair has gotten so out of control. If he doesn’t put it up during a mission, we’re all screwed because he can’t see.”

“Those were the most words I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth at once,” Hunter laughed out. “You must really hate my hair.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t set it on fire.”

Einantha laughed the hardest out of all of them as she led Hunter back to his seat in front of the mirror.

She realized that, and paused, “Wait, are you not joking?”

“He’s joking,” Hunter assured her.

“You wish.”

Einantha took the towel from Hunter’s hair and started combing it. He wished he could come here all the time. His shoulders had lowered, chest opening up a bit—all the signs that he was relaxing.

“You’re not going to cut all my hair off?” he clarified.

“Not unless your friend here decides to pay me more,” she joked.

Crosshair started going through his pockets, and Hunter seized up.

He simply took out another toothpick, looking all-too pleased with himself at his little joke. Hunter resisted the urge to give him a rude gesture, not wanting to seem crass in front of Einantha.

He watched her in the mirror as she grabbed scissors and got to work on his hair.

During the process, she often pulled his hair straight, showing him how short it was and asking if that was okay. She also would show him where she was going to cut before she did so most of the time. Hunter was surprised how much he trusted her with his hair. He didn’t know why, but his hair was very important to him, more important than it was for the others with their own hair. Well, Wrecker shaved his head at this point due to his scars making it so some of his hair never grew back. Tech just wanted his hair to be practical, and Crosshair felt the same. To Hunter it was a form of expression, he supposed, just like his tattoo.

Hunter and Einantha laughed easily as they talked with each other, and he listened to her about her sister, and how they were living together for the moment, and were the best of friends. He was a little sullen that Einantha never specifically mentioned if she was seeing anyone, but it wasn’t as if Hunter had time for a relationship. Mostly he just had time for stolen kisses here and there. But this woman was beautiful, sweet, easy-going. Her personality was infectious. Even Crosshair was opening up a little (though mostly because he was trying to flirt with her too).

“Okay, close your eyes,” Einantha instructed, almost done with drying his hair.

He did so, feeling excitement, rather than the worry he had expected. She dried his hair for a bit longer, and then was combing it.

He took in the last feel of her hands he’d probably have, and then she said, “Open.”

Hunter warily cracked an eye open, and then the other, facing what was in the mirror.

Warmth seemed to strike his chest.

Was that him?

It was the exact hairstyle he’d described, and he loved it. All it needed was a bandana.

“I had no idea you could get more hideous,” Crosshair joked.

Einantha shoved him with a hand at his chest, saying, “Stop—the rule we have here, remember?”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, but Hunter could tell from his relaxed posture that he was feeling pretty good.

Hunter couldn’t stop admiring Einantha’s work, turning his head from side to side.

“Besides, he looks more handsome this way.”

At this point Hunter was so lost on who Einantha was flirting with. Maybe both of them?

“How do you do such a good job when you don’t have hair?” Hunter blurted out (though he was still blushing from her previous comment).

She grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a little shake. “Not you too.”

“What?”

“I always get asked this question.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She waved him off. “No, it’s fine. I just needed to go to school for it, it’s not too hard. I wanted to do this work because hair on other beings fascinates me. I always wondered about it biologically, and how it feels, and what is needed for upkeep. And now I’m here.”

“Now you’re making me wonder why humans bother being hairstylists,” Hunter said. “Sounds like you have more reason than most.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. We’re all here to make someone’s day better, to make someone feel more like themselves.” She leaned on him a bit. “How do you feel? Do you like it?”

Hunter took his gaze from the mirror, and smiled up at her. “I love it.”

Their eyes met for a few tantalizing seconds, and perhaps she was blushing (it was sometimes hard to tell with togruta).

She definitely must have been because Crosshair grabbed his arm. “Come on, we’re gonna be late for dinner.”

Einantha took the cape off of him, and they followed her to the counter at the front to pay.

She slipped Hunter her card, and then Crosshair (just in case Hunter lost his, supposedly).

“Please come again,” she said to both of them.

Hunter smiled. “We’ll try.”

Crosshair gave her a gesture with his toothpick, and the fact that he’d even taken it out of his mouth was a big deal.

As they walked the dark, busy streets of lower Coruscant, their way lit by an array of neon signs, Crosshair said, “Your flirting game is off.”

“Well, thanks for the help, wingman,” Hunter said, elbowing him, drawing attention to the fact that Crosshair had been flirting too.

“I—”

“Thought she was pretty too?”

“Of course,” he argued. “Who wouldn’t?”

“So,” Hunter asked, “are we going back at some point?”

He glared at Hunter’s new hairstyle, as if it had greatly offended him, and said, “That thing is going to need trimming eventually.”

Hunter clapped him on the back, fingers reaching up and latching onto his shoulder as they walked.

“Don’t worry, then. We’ll see her again.”

“I can’t wait for everyone’s reactions at dinner.”

“I have to make a stop at the Marauder first.”

“Dare I ask why?”

Hunter beamed. “I’m grabbing a bandana.”

Crosshair twisted out of his grip, and turned, getting right in front of him. Hunter almost bumped into him.

“Don’t you dare,” he said.

“Or what?”

“Remember my warning?”

Hunter grabbed him, putting an arm around him as he was next to him again, and kept walking.

“Oh, you wish you had hair like mine.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No—” Crosshair cut himself off and sighed. “At least let me take holopics to use as blackmail later.”

Hunter shrugged. “Fine, but I’m always going to love this.”

“Uh huh.”

Crosshair walked beside him in silence. Well, for anyone else it would be silence. From Crosshair it was like he was radiating his teasing thoughts directly to Hunter. And they were rude, even if he was joking about his hair.

Eventually, having had enough of it, Hunter said, “Oh, shut up.”

Crosshair didn’t deny a thing.

[wolven91]

Drifting - Part 11

“I am not one for politics. They make my scales itch.” Bemoaned Zeet as he walked ahead of Qik and Casper. His mobile platform moved and wandered without input from him as he stood upon it, grimacing at the two larger creatures. They had just left the boardroom where Casper had potentially just signed his body away if this went wrong. 

“I would have thought we would have got more usable data from you by informing you and letting you just *work* with us.” The blue geckin continued, musing out aloud. Casper couldn’t help but grin widely, pleased by the geckin’s seemingly honest distaste for the situation. 

Zeet was an engineer. A nerd. A geek, through and through. He cared about the machines he designed and made. The plots and schemes of others mattered little to him as long as they didn’t cross his wants and desires to improve on his designs. The geckin made an odd croaking throat noise. Casper spoke up.

“Let them work themselves into an early shed then, me and you are going to make a mech that’ll go down in history.” The young man offered, hoping to caress the geckin’s ego.

Qik grinned as well as he did when he blatantly hit his mark perfectly. 

“You think?! Oh! Oh ho ho ho! Just think! First ‘no drift’ pilot in one of *my* machines making headlines. But we need you to succeed. Fame goes both ways, ah?” Zeet pointed out, before adopting a focused look, crossing his arms and touching a finger to his mouth. The two far larger creatures shared a glance as both of them felt themselves disappear to the geckin’s perspective. 

“You’ll need survivability…” Zeet mumbled to him. “Heavy is always best for survivability, but it means taking the hits. Your agility shouldn’t be slept on. Light is just as good, if you don’t get hit.” The geckin snapped his head around to Casper.

“You stopped getting hit all the time?” The tiny creature demanded.

“What do you mean ‘all the time’? She got me *once*!” Casper shot back, thrusting a thumb sideways at Qik who remained silent, although her strut became more pronounced as they discussed her ‘perfect’ kill shot.

Zeet merely grinned at Casper and he was reminded that a grin from a geckin was *not* the same as a human grinning. Zeet was admonishing the human, not sharing in a joke.

“Once was enough. If we capitalise on your speed, you will be light, but weak; you will not survive errant hits! Anything above superficial damage could disable your points or even your whole rig if it’s a bad hit!” The geckin hissed. 

“I was showboating.” Admitted Casper. “I let my guard down. My fault. I won’t jeopardise your work again.” The human spoke seriously and with respect at the older engineer who squinted at him as the walking platform approached a door that slid aside without hesitation. The geckin waved a hand, dismissing the thought, seemingly satisfied with Casper’s devoted tone.

The group entered a room that was quite obviously Zeet’s workshop. Ignoring that it looked down on a hanger bay with a skeleton of a rig hanging in the centre, as Casper looked around the room, he learnt of Zeet’s personality. Messy, but devoted.

Mech and rig designs covered an entire wall which was dominated as a workboard. Pens, stylises and measuring tools were scattered everywhere. A large 3D printer squatted in one corner and was covered in tiny, intricate models of various shapes and sizes. Some were of arms and legs of disembodied mechs, and others were tiny replicas of the whole thing.

“Huh… I think you’d get along with some of us humans.” Casper mentioned, crouching to observe the intricate details of one particular model. It was beautifully designed all the way down to sleek lines showing where the various bolts would connect armour plates together.

“After yourself, I would very much like to meet more humans. I suspect if I could get my claws into one that had a history in mech design, fictional or not, we might share ideas…” Zeet offered before clapping his hands and holding them out in front of him, pointing his claws at Casper, drawing attention to himself.

“*But!* We need to design you a machine that will put us both in the history books and… *Not* leave you at the hands of the XixTech corpo-nation.” Declared Zeet, Casper nodding along until his brain caught up to the sentence.

“Wait… ‘Corpo-Nation’?” He asked, standing up again.

“Mm, they represent the eastern continental landmass on Bok. Our homeworld. They are their government representatives.” Explained Zeet matter-of-factly. Casper merely blinked, once again reminded this was not kansas. 

“Jesus… Yeah, let's not get dropped into that mess.” The young man agreed, already feeling his head spin. Qik settled herself, leaning against a wall, arms crossed as was her usual stance. Casper sat against the window frame with his back to the hanger below.

“So!” Zeet began. “Torso, Head, Arms, Legs and a Spinal mount. These are your rig’s modifiable options.” Zeet explained, turning to open a large cabinet where he produced three glasses. One tiny, the other two perfectly sized for Casper and Qik. The human glanced at the bottle of dark liquid, then to Qik who touched a long finger against her lips. She didn’t want him to ruin this. 

Zeet poured three healthy portions before taking a sip and giving a satisfied sigh, then continuing. 

“I already know what I’m doing for your chest, you don’t get a vote there.” He explained, swiping his hand through the air. Qik cleared her throat as she leaned in to pick up a spare glass.

“What’s your idea?” She asked calmly, seemingly trusting his good sense. 

“Maximum output. Heavier as an option, more so than an ultralight, but I think the way he modifies his output, it’ll be worth it.” Zeet explained, swirling the glass.

“I modify my output? What do you mean?” Casper asked, frowning somewhat. This apparently was an odd question. 

“Wha- My boy… You… It’s not a conscious decision? To pulse your power generation?” Zeet asked, seemingly very confused. Casper pulled a face and shrugged before reaching over and picking up the third and final glass. Taking a sip, it was like paint stripper with a smokey burn afterwards.

“Your power generation is not efficient, or it shouldn’t be! Your reactors ‘pulse’ instead of giving out a steady or constant amount. We thought it was a fault at first until the second and third time it happened. Every rig you hop in, it pulses.” Zeet explained shrugging his arms in defeated confusion, nearly, but not quite spilling his drink.

“Is it dangerous?” Qik asked, narrowing her eyes, but sipping at her own glass, it looked comically small in her hands. Zeet shook his head, sipping at his drink, a tiny red tongue dabbing at the murky liquid. 

“I don’t think so, although it was far, far faster when you took that hit.” The geckin conceded, pointing a finger over the rim of his glass. 

“Was it like a heartbeat?” Asked Casper, following a hunch. Zeet shook his head again, the corners of his mouth pulling up as if Casper had asked the same question as him.

“No. We thought so too, but it was too slow.” The geckin dismissed, looking into his glass with a contemplative frown. Unconvinced, Casper waited a second, considering what it could have been before getting an idea. Without speaking, Casper knocked his knuckles against the wall he was leaning on. Thump thump. Pause. Thump thump. Pause. The reaction was immediate, the engineer's feet jumping up in unison and briefly leaving the walking platform he stood upon as he pointed and did briefly spill his drink this time. . 

“Yes! That! That’s it! Two pulses and a pause. We racked our brains trying to figure that out!”

Casper merely smiled knowingly, closing his eyes and opening them again before speaking, pleased to have an answer for the older geckin.

“That’s *my* heartbeat Zeet.” Tapping his chest with his glass. ”Bigger heart, slower rhythm.” The young man explained. The tiny geckin stood there, motionless for a time. Before closing his eyes and placing his own drink down on the table.

“Your heartbeat. *Your*! Heartbeat. Argh! Rocks in my brain! Terminal rocks!” Zeet exclaimed, causing both Casper and Qik to grin as an apparent mystery was solved for him. The poor geek looked genuinely annoyed as he glared at the ceiling.

“So it’s not an issue?” Asked Qik.

“Huh! Hardly. It means he doesn’t run hot, but has access to power when he needs it. Works well with the rest of my plans.”

“Go on, you’ve ideas, I’m listening.” Casper said, grimacing as he slugged another mouthful of the drink down. It seemed to burn less with the third gulp. 

“Chest we go for power. Your spine mount, I suggest an advanced booster. It does mean you’re more vulnerable. One hit to your back and you’ve lost your main defence; not being where they fired at.” The geckin suggested, shrugging with the admission. 

“I mean if we’re engaging at range, I can move out of the way of the rounds, right?” Casper offered, looking to Qik for confirmation. She pulled a face and shook her head, her ears flopping with the movement. 

“Two problems with that; unreliable reactions and no one uses slug rounds anymore.” She explained. Casper frowned, specifically remembering a fairly solid round tearing through his chest not less than 24 hours ago. 

“What do you mean? The geckins do?” He pointed out, rudely pointing at Zeet who could care less as he tilted his head back, finishing off his own glass. He spoke next, pulling Casper’s attention. 

“We’re an exception, not a rule. The ursidains also use solid projectiles, but only when they’re firing a heavy hitter. Energy weapons are the name of the game these days. Most see solid projectiles as ‘old’, in the sense of ‘museum piece’ old.” Zeet offered honestly. 

Casper thought that was strange, solid projectiles were reliable, but this wasn’t his world. This was a galaxy in a vastly different period of their history than Earth was. He shook his head to clear his mind. 

“Okay fine, keep mobile. What about arms and legs? What about weapons?” He pressed, almost looking forward to hearing what toys Zeet was offering. 

“Legs wise, again, I’d go for speed. Extra vents for additional jet exhausts. Rather than running, you’ll end up ‘skating’ around the enemy. Good luck keeping up with you. You’ll need it too.” Zeet offered.

“Are the enemies quick?” Casper asked. 

“Fairly. Spider-Technicals.” Qik responded. 

“What are they?”

“Heavy armour, focused laser beam for their main cannon. Prolonged targeting will thermal shock the armour that gets hit, burrowing through whatever it's shooting at. The tanks are mobile, capable of keeping line of sight on their target and climbing up and around buildings to do so. The intention is to have a small army of them and they just overwhelm any target that approaches.” The lopel explained, polishing off her own glass and gesturing with her hands, as if she were spreading a model army out in front of her.

“So keep circling them?” Casper suggested.

“And they’ll have to track you. We keep you light and mobile, they focus on you…” Qik went on, trailing off to allow Casper to finish the thought. 

“...And you take them out while their back is turned.” The young man concluded, nodding at the idea. He could be bait, he didn’t even have to fight. Just wave his arms in the air and keep their attention. 

“He’s a fast learner.” Zeet pointed out, nodding to Casper but looking to Qik. She merely grinned and returned to her ‘arms crossed’ posture, smugness radiating off her.

“Thanks to his teacher.” 

Zeet was less than sure. 

“Mm. Sure.” He blinked slowly and turned his head back to the huma before opening them again. “Arms wise, we have options.“

“I did consider a plasma thrower, but it's heavy and drains a lot of power during charge up. Good against another mech, less so for tanks. We have similar options like sniper beams, but same thing. Line of sight and you’d need to be still.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“If we are going with this plan, we should actually keep you lightly armed. How do you feel about a solid sword?”

“Solid? But what about my lightsaber!”

“No, too draining. If we’re keeping you as fast as we intend, we need you using 100% of your reactor’s output. A solid sword, atomised edge, you’ll still be dangerous. Lightweight metal, no drain on your resources, there's no downsides besides no range. But that's not an issue this time.”

“Atomised edge?” Casper asked, just checking for clarification. Zeet nodded and hastened to explain before moving on. 

“An edge a few atoms thick. Blunts faster, but realistically, this is a blitz, you’re not going to be out there long enough to need to worry about that.”

“What could I cut through?”

“Anything with enough force behind your swing. Do *not* touch the edge with any part of yourself.” The geckin demanded with a serious tone and an accusing finger. Casper held his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Yes sir.”

Zeet merely nodded. Qik remained quietly thinking as she scratched her own chin.

“So, speed, speed, speed?” Casper summarised.

“Quite so. Qik, I trust you will just select your weapons as normal?” Zeet asked, turning to the lopel as he sat himself in a chair. The merc merely nodded and lay her palm up as if presenting her idea.

“I’m going for a swarm missile rig. If it’s just technicals, I don’t need anything else.” She explained with a carless shrug. 

“Swarm missile?” Casper prodded. 

“Line of sight lock on, you fire the swarm and they fire up into the air before raining down on the tanks. Doesn’t matter if they’re crawling on or around buildings. They’ll punch through their armour. The downside is I need to see them to lock on, which sucks when LOS works both ways.” Qik went on, but then leaned forward to emphasize her words. . 

“Buuut…” She drawled. 

“But if they’re looking at me, that doesn’t matter.” Casper replied, grinning back at the lopel. She held his gaze a moment longer than needed before straightening and giving him her approval. 

“Attaboy.”

Casper considered his options, and turned back to Zeet. 

“So a sword? Nothing else?” He asked. 

Zeet, his hands on his head, turned the chair to face the larger human. 

“Did you have something else in mind?”

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[cerastes]

Some small insights on things I commonly saw in Japan - nerd edition:

Not one day passed that I didn’t see at least one person with some sort of Kirby charm or keychain or sticker or somesuch on their person or backpacks. Not even in “nerdy” places, this extends to Everywhere.

You’ve likely heard this already, but Akihabara as “weeb mecca” is pretty old news and not the case anymore. You can definitely find some kickass stores there (my favorites were Mandarake and Super Potato!), but otherwise it’s pretty Just Below Surface Level mainstream nerd culture shops now, that is to say, everything is Spy x Family (dear god Anya is fucking everywhere), Kimetsu no Yaiba, One Piece, Quintuplets, Genshin, FGO, Uma Musume, Vtubers, some Bocchi, and Kaguya-sama. Mind you, I don’t dislike most of these things, but it’s literally all that is there, alongside gunpla stuff.

Den Den Town and Nakano Broadway were way fucking better for nerdy stuff. Props to Rinka for the heads up.

Sunshine City was also pretty good for nerdy stuff but with a way more focused scope: You have a Pokemon Center + Cafe there, One Piece store, Bandai Cross Store, the works.

Holy fuck they were not exaggerating, gachapon is absolutely everywhere. The Cross Store even had “Luxury Gacha” or “Premium Gacha”, can’t remember what the exact word was, that were in some cases 1500 yen a pop (for a pretty cool fucking figure though, not gonna lie).

There is gachapon of absolutely fucking anything in the world that you can think of. No, even more than what you’re currently thinking of. Stray musical notes, tools like hammers, bozosoku jackets, Nintama Rantaro, that one meme construction cat, miniature nail clippers, literally such a massive amount of sundry variety. I was humbled.

I’m kind of fucking sick of Anya Spy x Family. Literally everywhere.

I didn’t know there were stores where people can rent a little cube and sell their figures and other nerdy stuff like that. That’s such a cool concept, a little nerd-to-nerd market. Imagine you’re trading in TF2 except instead of giving someone keys for their hat, you give someone a big titty One Piece character, I don’t know the name of any, sorry, as a trade for a big titty Vtuber.

Among the stuff you could see occasionally in stores? Sakamoto Days. That made me so fucking happy.

I met 4 honest to god monks in the wild and I really wish I was fluent in Japanese, I wanted to talk to them so so so bad.

Even older nerds do NOT know VOTOMS. Every old school nerd I met in nerd bars and other such places knew Dunbine and Kinnikuman but I met literally no one that knew VOTOMS. They pulled out their phone, every time, looked it up, looked at me with that certified Japanese polite but obviously flabbergasted expression with a tinge of lemon and horror, and asked me, “how do YOU know of this?? it’s SO OLD” and I did not have the heart to tell them a 4chan dude mailed me VHS tapes with the show subbed back in 1937.

[fangirlwriting-stories]

Confrontation

Summary: No One Knows AU Part 27, Danny wants some answers.

Author's Note: Hey, sorry to leave you on the last one for so long, I honestly was planning on posting this one in like, two days, and then I got COVID. So uh, better late than never? Hope you enjoy!

...

Danny remembers where the training grounds are well enough to make it back there, which is good.  He doesn’t want to bother Tucker or Sam for directions, and he has a feeling Valerie and Jazz wouldn’t want to let him go alone.  But he needs one more answer than he currently has, and he doesn’t want to put anyone else at risk to get it.

He didn’t really get a good look at everything last time, since they’d all been such a desperate hurry, but Vlad really put a lot in the place.  The heavy duty ghost training set up is everywhere across the large space, from training bags to some kind of ceiling obstacle course to those dummies that do in fact look just like him.  (He really hadn’t noticed the human ones before.  He’s gonna try not to think about that.)

There’s also the fact that Vlad is sitting off to the side in ghost form, in one of two large plush chairs, sipping something from a mug and looking like he’s been waiting for him.  He smiles at Danny as he notices him.  “Daniel.”

Danny clenches his hands into fists.  “Vlad.”

Vlad gestures at the chair across from him with a smile.  Danny walks over and sits down, making sure his anger and determination both come across on his face.

“I was wondering when you’d stop by,” Vlad says.  “We have a lot to talk about.”

“No shit,” Danny snaps, crossing his arms.

“I think I’ll start,” Vlad says, and Danny grits his teeth.  “So, you held up remarkably well.  Much better than I’d have expected you to.  What didn’t I take into account?”

“My sister,” Danny spits.  “And I’m not here to answer all your questions.  You’re going to tell me something.”

Vlad gives a ‘go ahead’ gesture.  “Sure, Daniel.  A question for a question is fair enough.”

“Why Sam and Tucker?” Danny asks.  “Why them?  If you were just trying to get information, you could have just kept using the spy cameras in Valerie’s suit.  Why did it have to be them?”

Vlad gives him an almost disappointed look, like he expected more from him.  “Daniel, don’t be ridiculous,” Vlad says.  “It didn’t.”

Danny digs his nails into his hands.  “Then why—”

“They were simply the most effective tools to get the job done,” Vlad says with a shrug.

Danny feels an ectoblast start to build up around his hands, but Vlad keeps going.

“I was trying to break you down to a point where you’d accept my offer for a mentorship and we could start building our father-son bond,” he says.  “They were in a place to be easily manipulated as a means to that end.  If you wanted to avoid it, all you had to do was tell them sooner.”

Danny tries to take a breath in and mostly succeeds, but it comes out sharp and jagged.  He thinks of Sam’s desperate tears and panic when she told him what happened, of the lost guilt in Tucker’s face after they saved him.

“You,” he growls out, standing.  “You sick, callous, son of a bItCH—”

A scream comes out along with the last word, but along with it a huge burst of ectoplasmic energy that shoves Vlad suddenly across the room.  And, well.  He actually didn’t know he could do that.  But it works well enough for his end goal of ‘break every goddamn bone in Vlad’s body,’ so he keeps going.  Along with Vlad, he can see the equipment all throughout the room getting knocked over, torn to pieces, or disintegrated, which is also a nice bonus.  Vlad, after a couple seconds, is forced back into human form, which is helpful.

As tends to be the case with new powers, eventually Danny can’t quite keep going, but unlike what tends to be the case with new powers, this time the adrenaline gets him easily across the room and yanking Vlad up by the collar of his suit.

“Sam and Tucker are PEOPLE,” he screams right in his face.  “They’re not PLAYTHINGS for you to use just to get to me!”

Vlad stares at him for a moment, likely surprised at the power output he just witnessed, but seems to get over it quickly.  He chuckles, seeming wholly unbothered by Danny’s statement.  “On the contrary, Daniel, they served that function rather perfectly,” he says.

Danny’s certain his eyes are glowing bright green in rage.  He lets go of Vlad with one hand and summons a ball of ectoplasm, then fires it into the side of Vlad’s head, knocking him to the ground.  For good measure, he slams his foot onto his head to hold him in place.

“If you ever,” he growls, “EVER come near them again, I will shove you into a thermos and let you ROT IN IT.”

Vlad’s face has twisted up slightly in pain.  “And I’m sure your parents will wonder where their old college friend has gone,” he says.

“LOOK ME IN THE EYES,” Danny screams, leaning down into his face, “And see that I do not give a SINGLE SOLITARY FUCK.”

Vlad does, his eyes widen, seeming to finally understand that Danny’s being serious.

“Daniel, for heaven’s sake,” he says.  “You won the chess match.  Why are you so angry?”

Danny bends down and yanks Vlad up by his ponytail.  “I wasn’t PLAYING!  Believe it or not, I do not see what passes for our relationship as an all important chess match!”  Danny drops Vlad to the ground again, buries his head in his hands, and screams for a good couple seconds.  He pulls his head up finally, tries to calm down just a little.  “I was thinking about high school,” he says.  “And how to deal with my new powers.  And figuring out how to tell my friends that I died a couple months ago, and it really fucking sucked, and I wish they’d have been there.”  His voice cracks on the last word.  He shakes it off and turns his hate filled gaze back to Vlad.  “Newsflash, fruitloop, unless you show up to make yourself a nuisance, I don’t think about you.”

Vlad stares at him, clearly confused.  “But,” he says slowly, sitting up.  “I’m… I’m the only other being in existence that’s like you.  I’m the only one who could possibly understand.”

Danny laughs, because that’s hilarious, and what else is he supposed to do with this massively fucked up situation?

He glares at Vlad one last time, putting into his eyes all of his rage and hatred and a little bit of the grief he’s suffered at this fucker’s hands.

“If you ever come near Sam and Tucker again, I will make you regret it,” he says.  Then he turns and leaves Vlad in the ruined remains of his training grounds.  He slams the door on his way out.

[linnoya-writes]

Zutara v. Kataang “what should’ve occurred post-Sozin’s Comet” canon divergent AU.

After the AgniKai, and Azula’s arrest by the FireSages, Zuko finally lets Katara thoroughly address the wound.  

“I’m alright— errgh!” 

A hand covers the center of his bare chest as they walk, but one thing Zuko’s quickly learned about Katara is to not question her concerned eyes or her tenacious stamina.  

“Let me see...” she stops them both in that grand echoing corridor on their way to meet the high-Sage.  She shoves Zuko’s hand reluctantly aside to see the lightning mark still bruising raw just below the area to his heart.  

The wound is a deep purple -- branching out like tiny veins --  and the girl’s eyes widen.

Katara had been holding so tightly to this relief that her very brief and impromptu healing session had gotten Zuko out of the worst possible outcome... but the truth was it had barely healed the wound.  His chest rises and falls uncomfortably as she studies the mark further with her ear, and hearing Zuko’s ragged breaths underneath all of that piled-up strength almost brings her to tears.  

How in the world can you be walking right now? she thinks, unable to imagine the young prince’s tolerance for pain.  

Katara looks up at him, the stern golden eyes returning her gaze and trying to convince her that he’s fine.  He was not.  She had used that excuse one too many times herself to know enough.

She summons a handful of water to soothe his wound while she speaks. 

“Azula mentioned a ‘family physician’— back when she was—“ Katara looks away, searching for the right words, but then decides against it and with a more determined face. “Where would the healing quarters be?” 

“It’s a medical wing,” he rasps. “It’s not far.” 

His head turns forward, to the right direction, and while Zuko can manage walking on his own... Katara quietly insists on having him lean on her. He doesn’t protest.  

Their walk involves very few words, and Katara finds comfort in Zuko’s breathing next to her.  

The medical wing is grand, pristine and decorative with regal drapery of gold and red everywhere. To Katara, it feels too clean and sterile to think that anyone injured would’ve ever set foot there.  Zuko, however, seems to know the place well enough, as he makes his way around the cabinets and drawers to find bottles of liquids, washcloths, rolls of bandages and a cutting knife.  He sits himself down with a grunt on the nearest bed— not a cot, but an actual bed— and seems to forget Katara is there while he proceeds to clean the wound himself with his hyper-focused eyes.  

Katara watches, mesmerized.  This place, these tools… they all feel so sophisticated to her, but it’s listening to Zuko’s ragged breaths that finally gets her to approach him.  

“Let me try my hand at it again, please.”  

“It’s not that serious, Katara— she just grazed it.” 

“’Just grazed it’!? Zuko… this is your heart!  If we don’t take a look at every possible area of damage now, you might get seriously hurt.”  

“I’ve dealt with injuries before— I know when it’s bad.” 

“Oh, so that makes you the expert on how to treat lighting injuries?” 

Zuko winces up at her, then, seeing her arms crossed and her blue eyes glistening angrily.  They hold him in place.  

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.  

She drops her hands and gives a deep sigh.  

“Can you just… please just let me help you?”  

He nods, not looking away.  

“Lay down,” she commands, and brings in the closest footstool to use as a makeshift seat while Zuko clears away the bandages and ointments from the bed.   Zuko lays his head carefully on the pillow, grunting under his breath, and. Katara makes note of where that came from. 

“Sounds like she may have grazed some abdominal muscles, too.”  

Zuko looks away from her, annoyed, but he lets out a small chuckle.  

It catches her off-guard, but Katara proceeds to hold her hair back and leans an ear to his chest.  His heartbeat is normal, thank the spirits, but his breathing is still muffled, and when she places two fingertips over the bruising mark, Zuko lets out his very first real bellow of pain.  It echoes the walls of the wing.  Katara flinches back in her seat, watching his body shiver in response, his eyes shut tightly, his chest heaving.   

“Whatever that was…” he rasps as his head hits the pillow, “…don’t do it again.”  

“Zuko— I think the lightning hit one of your ribs,” Katara brings herself closer.

“There’s a brace…” Zuko points with his nose, “in that cabinet over there.” 

Katara glances over at where he’s gesturing, and then looks to him— to the scar on his face, and to the many unseen injuries that must’ve dressed this body once upon a time.  Her eyes fight a glimmer. 

Quietly, Katara goes over to the cabinet and pulls out a mint-condition rhino-elephant boned chest brace.  The weight of it is surprising in her arms.  When she returns to her stool, she sees a bit of dampness in Zuko’s forehead.  His lips are parched.  

For a moment, she forgets how to breathe.

“Zuko... how bad does it hurt?” She approaches his face, worried. “Tell me.”  

His eyes are shut, as if he were trying to concentrate on deep breaths and nothing else. 

“I can’t.” His weak, broken rasps almost break her.  

“Yes, you can!  Zuko, you can tell me. I… I’m not going to hurt you, okay?  I never meant to hurt you, and I’m sorry I made you think I’d ever do something so horrible to you…  but I’m going to make you better.  I promise!”  Her voice is quivering and she’s wiping tears from her eyes.  She has no idea when her other hand decided to find Zuko’s closest wrist, but there it is, and there it stays.  “But we have to work together—do you understand?  I can’t… I can’t do this all by myself.  I need you to trust me.” 

“I trust you.“ 

“What?” She was too preoccupied with her tears, she didn’t hear him clearly.

“I trust you, Katara.” 

His eyes are glistening, moving in a gold that is curiosity and faithful assurance. 

All at once, Katara feels at ease, shy, lost for words... unsure where else to look if not for his eyes.  

Zuko shifts his eyes towards the wound:  “I just meant that... I can’t let anyone see me like this. Especially the Head Sage. They might contest my ability to rule.” 

“Why?” She says this almost too loudly. “You already won that stupid duel. What else do you have to prove to them?”

“It doesn’t matter— I was a banished prince. Most of the court doesn’t believe I deserve to be here, much less with a crown.” 

Katara stares at Zuko, appalled, moving her eyes to the small FireNation sigil that’s clipped on the draping canopy of this bed.  

“No offense, Zuko,” she returns to address the wound, summoning more water from her pouch, “but right  now your country is ruled by a bunch of sour old idiots.”  

“I know,” he says with a hint of teenage sarcasm only Katara could catch. She wonders how much of Sokka’s personality had rubbed off on him. “Hopefully we’ll change that.” 

“We?” She glances to him, oddly. 

“Yeah.” He glances back to her, just as oddly. “I meant… you, me, Aang— the avatar— everyone?” 

“Oh. Right.” 

Katara feels too ashamed to admit that she hadn’t even thought about Aang since before the Agni Kai.  She focuses sternly on the wound. 

“Wait—”  Zuko edges his face to her from the pillow.  “What did you think I meant?” 

“Nothing!  It’s fine.” 

“Are-- are you serious!? You just asked me to trust you and now, you’re refusing to be open and honest with me?” 

Katara throws a glare at him, meeting Zuko’s very practiced glare and immediately knowing he’s right.  Still, she says nothing, and it’s a staring contest that Zuko does not have the energy to play. He scoffs.

“Forget it. Girls are crazy...” He quips, his head hitting the pillow again, his eyes looking at ceiling.  

“Fine! I’ll tell you—but it’s going to sound really really stupid so you can’t laugh.” Zuko turns to meet her pointed finger, both amused and disgusted. “You have to promise me you won’t laugh.” 

“Okay.”

“Promise!” She urges, sounding more and more bossy by the second.  

“Okay! Ugh—“ Zuko grunts under Katara’s healing water.  “I promise, alright?”  

“Good,” Katara takes a small breath, feeling her cheeks go warm.  “I— um, I thought you were talking about me… and you.”  

She’s too embarrassed to look Zuko in the eyes, particularly because she feels that warmth in her cheeks flood through her entire body.  

“...That’s what you imagined?” his raspy voice comes out shyly, and when Katara meets his eyes, she realizes he’s blushing too.  

She isn’t afraid to nod to him.  His eyes made her feel so at ease, so curious… and yet so vulnerable.   She wasn’t used to this.  

Katara breaks the eye contact to look at the water she’s bending for the healing session.  “Yeah. Like I said… stupid, right?”  

“I wouldn’t call it that, exactly...” Zuko returns to look at the ceiling, his voice coming in a thoughtful husk. “I just don’t know how it would work.”  

Katara laughs musically, avoiding his eyes.  “Yeah.  I don’t think I’m what anyone would consider Fire-Lady material... and I’m pretty sure we’d be at each others’ throats most of the time.  How would anything ever get done?”  

“We’d probably fight all the time.”  

“I mean, we were just fighting two seconds ago!”

“Right. We’re better off as allies.”  

Katara can feel the blush fading from her cheeks then, turning her gaze to him. 

“I think we’re a little more than that, though— I mean, with what happened back there.”  

Zuko meets her gaze again, curious.  “What would you call us, then?”  

Katara takes a moment.  

“We’re friends, Zuko.” She smiles, hopefully, returning to concentrate on the wound. “Friends who almost died trying to save one another.”  

“Friends.”  Zuko muses toward the ceiling. “It feels nice to say that.” 

“It does.” 

There’s a blush that passes over the two of them, but neither of them acknowledge it.  Instead, they talk about other things, letting the hours pass late into the night and early morning.  

***

By the time Sokka and Suki and Toph land over the Agni Kai arena on a commandeered Fire Nation airship, Katara knows that could only mean good news.  One look at Sokka’s limping leg in place of his missing sword and boomerang tells her enough, that her brother had given everything of himself to make sure mission to stop Ozai’s invasion had been successful...  and she quickly springs to action to get him and the girls to the medical wing.  

“Sparky!  You won!”  Toph runs immediately over to where she can hear Zuko’s breathing and laughter, throwing herself to her with an awkward side hug.  Sokka is too busy limping towards the opposite bed and close his eyes to say anything other than ‘We did good, buddy.’  It’s Suki who notices the brace and bandages over Zuko’s chest, the ointments and two cups of tea on his nightstand, the extra blankets and resting pillow at the foot of his bed... the warm, shy smile on his face as he’s listens to Toph talk about her ironclad suit on the airship.  It’s a kind of sweet, nurturing wholesomeness Suki had no idea existed in this usually-stern young man.  

When Katara’s voice pops up behind her, Suki flinches back to reality. 

“He took a pretty hard hit from Azula near the end...” Katara says quietly to her, holding some blankets intended for Sokka.  “...but he’s gonna be okay.”

Suki, like any girl her age, can sense from Katara’s voice that she’s choosing to leave out a major detail of what had happened during the Agni Kai... but the girl doesn’t pry.  

Only because she has something else to tell Katara.

“Aang’s on his way over.”

Katara stumbles in her words and almost drops her blankets.  Her eyes widen.  “....Aang?”

“Yeah.  He had to meet with the White Lotus and arrest Ozai.  But he should be on his glider heading this way.”

“He came back.  He actually came back.”  Katara muses, clutching the blankets tightly to her frame.  She’s so happy, so relieved by this news; she can’t wait to see Aang again.  But when she glances over at Zuko’s tender smile, talking about the Agni Kai with Toph... Katara doesn’t know why there’s suddenly a heaviness in the pit of her stomach at the thought about seeing Aang’s face. They hadn’t exactly left things in the best terms before the battle… or rather… even before that. She thinks about their moment on the balcony of Ember Island, and shuts her eyes tightly. And breathes.

***

She sees him gracefully landing on on his glider outside the arena.

“Aang!”

His name is effortless and joyful when she says it, running to him and hugging him without waiting for any approval.  Katara can feel the extra inches of height on him, the young muscles of his arms hugging her back just as tightly.  You saved the world, she thinks, just as I knew you would.

“Are you okay?” is the second thing she says to him.

“I got the Avatar State back.”

“You did!?”

They’re still hugging.  Their answers come in muffled voices against their shoulders.  

“Yeah. It helped me defeat the FireLord.” 

“That’s wonderful!”  Katara lifts her head and kisses Aang on the cheek while they hug.  “I knew you could do it.”  

When Katara tries to part from him, then, Aang remains holding onto her close.  Her smile is still dressed on her face.

“And, well… that means the war is finally over!”  

Aang announces this so proudly, with such an indiscreet coat of anticipation and giddiness… it makes Katara want to crawl under her own skin as her smile feels all of a sudden fraudulent.  It’s only when Aang moves his face closer to hers that she finally, finally snaps out of it, and pushes herself fully out of his hug.  Her arms fold over her frame, and she still manages to look at him. 

“Katara?”

His voice quickly goes quiet and confused — and sad — and it takes every ounce of strength for Katara to not comfort him as she usually does, but also not look away in shame.

“Aang, I… I think we need to talk— no!  Please don’t run away.  Please.” 

She sees Aang stepping back and she hears her voice turning firm, and it kills her.  She knows it’s Aang’s turn to feel completely out of his own skin, feeling unexpectedly cornered, ready to take off on his glider the moment this person he trusted more than anyone is about to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.  

“It’s — it’s okay,” Aang attempts, and she can hear the effort; how much he’s trying to sound like a man.  “We don’t have to talk about it now.  There’s still a lot we have to do. It can wait.”  

And Katara puts a hand over her eyes and groans.  Of course he would pull that, and she doesn’t blame him.  

“Aang— I’m trying to talk to you,” she coaxes. “Could you please listen to me?”

Aang carefully chooses his words, his innocent, childish lilt returning. 

“What do you want to talk about?” 

“About... this!”  Katara gestures wildly between herself and Aang multiple times. “About us… not sharing our feelings, and not being able to be open and honest with each other.”  

“What are you talking about? I’ve always been honest with you!” He freezes and then cowers sadly, rubbing his neck. “Actually— no. That’s not true. I never told about what happened when I met the Guru at the Eastern Air Temple.”  

“What do you mean?”

“Well— promise me you won’t get mad?” 

“Aang,” Katara’s voice lowers, concerned. “What happened?”  

He takes a breath, looking at the ground.

“I was about to open the last chakra and gain full control of the Avatar State, and then the Guru told me I had to let go of all my earthly attachments.  And that meant letting go of you. I couldn’t do it.  I almost did but then I had a vision of you in trouble.  So I ran away.” 

“You what?”  Katara gathers her words. “Wait— so you refused to gain control of the Avatar State…. because you thought I was in danger?”  

His eyes begin glisten nervously, but his stance turns defensive at her.  

“Yes. Yes Katara, I did!  I wasn’t gonna just stand by and not do anything if I saw you were in trouble.“  

“So, you were willing...” Katara could feel the rage rising in her throat, her words quivering, “to put the entire world as risk, and lose this war… ... all because of me?” 

“I— I didn’t see it that way.”  

“Aang, that’s exactly what you did!”  Her eyes are a deep, exasperated blue and her hair moves wildly with every flail of her arms.  “You refused to control that power!  Thank the spirits I still had that water from the spirit oasis, to save you when Azula shot you, right? And thank the spirits that I can still get you out of that state whenever you get too emotional.  Thank your lucky stars that I’m still here... to get you out of any mess you can’t handle on your own.”

It hurts to almost look at him in that instant.  She feels herself speaking both to him and to herself.  

“Katara… no.”  Aang tries to ease her nerves, like a zookeeper trying to tame a wild moose-lion. “That’s not how I see us!  What I mean is… I was willing to put you first before anything that comes with being the Avatar. That’s the truth!”

She shakes her head. She wasn’t expecting the ‘us,’ but she can’t blame him for trying.

“That might be the truth for you, Aang, but you’re still the Avatar.  It’s your destiny, and kind of power is so… delicate… you have to put that first.”  

The few feet between them suddenly feels like miles and miles.  Aang brings a hand to his neck again, looking at the ground.

“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to get you upset.” 

Katara sighs.  “I know Aang.  But... why would you choose me over your destiny like that?  That was so irresponsible.”

Deep down, she already knows the answer he’s going to give.  She needs to hear it anyway. 

“I did it because… “ Aang scrunches his face, his jaw shaking in nerves.  He didn’t want it to be like this, but she is asking it from him.  “... because I love you, and I thought…” 

“You thought what?” 

Her voice is firm, and quiet.  She already knows what he’s going to say, and she takes a deep breath to prepare for it. Her eyes are glistening. Deep down, she knows she’s responsible for the sad, desperate look in his eyes.

Aang can feel the moment slipping by, and he tries to not sound like a kid.

“I thought you loved me back--- I was so sure of it!  Ever since you found me, I had this feeling we were always meant to be together.”  

There’s am uncomfortable weight holding down her shoulders, and Katara closes her eyes. How can she not feel like this was her fault?  Katara shakes her head, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Aang... we never even talked about it.  And, even if we did... you can’t run from your destiny.  Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re the Avatar.”  

He couldn’t find anything else to say.  The moment was now completely gone.

“I-- I’m sorry.”  

“It’s okay. I haven’t really been that honest with you either.  The truth is… I… for a while now, I wanted to believe I could feel exactly what you felt.  And I thought I did.” 

“Katara...” 

“I want you to know I tried, okay?  You’re my friend…”  

“No.” Aang shakes his head, looking elsewhere, anywhere besides her.

“…and I did everything I could to see you as more than that, because you really are an amazing person, and you make me laugh, and you’re so sweet.”  

Small, childish sniffles come from his nose, and Aang holds a wrist over his eyes to grab the tears.  He hears everything, and yet they sound like they’re coming from someone other than Katara.  It cannot be real.  But when he looks at the girl in front of her, Aang notices she’s wiping tears as well.  And it’s real.

“Then... what’s the problem?” 

He can’t help but sound upset in that hopelessness, but Katara knows he doesn’t mean it.

She instead looks elsewhere for a moment, and shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders.

“I’m not sure if there even is a problem, Aang,” she gathers. “I mean… I’m not exactly an expert… but those kinds of feelings, they just—happen— you know?  You can’t force them into someone.” 

“So, why did you--” but Aang stops, and reconsiders his words.  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” 

Katara sighs, exasperated, upset at herself that she hadn’t come up with these revelations sooner, but doing her absolute best to explain herself.

“I don’t know, Aang.  Maybe I was scared— that you’d get angry, and disappear again… and the world would be hopeless?” 

As crazy as it sounds, the possibility and accuracy of that makes Aang chuckle.

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” he says, wiping his tears again.

“And the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, you know?” she adds. “You were my friend.”  

Aang rubs one of his elbow with a hand, awkardly, suddenly feeling so cold.

“Can I…um… can we still be friends?”  

Katara blinks.  “Of course! You’ll always be my friend, Aang. That won’t change.”  

“Okay. I can try and live with that.” 

“Good.”

It’s quiet again for a few moments.  They can hear the birds chirping around the ruined Agni Kai arena.  Aang looks around, trying to build the courage to look at Katara again, but feeling like it will hurt more.

“I should, um, see what Momo is up to.”  He turns on his heel to leave.

“Aang?” 

“Yeah?” 

“There’s still time,” she assures him, carefully, with a smile. “Focus on the important things. I know it doesn’t feel hopeful right now, but I promise… someday, you’ll find someone who’s going to change your world more than I ever could.”

A brave smile passes him.  “Thanks, Katara.”  

And he takes off on his glider.  

Katara smiles at that, just as bravely.  There is a knot of disappointment forming in her gut, at the fact that Aang leaves without saying “same to you.” But she doesn’t let it get to her.  Aang is still a kid... with his own innocent, twisted agenda... and she couldn’t blame him.  Letting go was a process.  She knew.  She could feel it happening with her, too.  

[inkirasity]

𝔅𝔢𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔰 ℌ𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔷𝔬𝔫𝔰

Chapter 1: A Troubled Pilot the Anarchist Tinkerer and the Cold Inventor

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

synopsis: in which you, a skilled pilot, met the brilliant but arrogant/snarky/cold inventor/ explorer—Miguel O’Hara

steampunk au, pilot! reader, inventor and explorer! miguel, no superpowers but miguel's inventions resembles his spidey powers. words: 3.9k c.w. misogyny (reader can't get a proper piloting job)

this is cross posted in AO3 you can find it here

hi, after i am free from academics got some juices out of my head. Just gotta make this a series cause it seems ya'll want more after The Other Variant of Her LMAO (also do ya'll want a taglist for my miguel fics? just wondering!) anyways enjoy!!

“A little moreee…”

Click.

Click.

Then silence.

“And there you have it, it won’t be noisy when you take your book reading sessions anymore.” you smiled. Wiping the beads of sweat accumulating on your forehead. You wiped your oil-covered hands on your dirty apron as you stood up from crouching for at least two hours.

“Thank you very much dear, here.”

The old lady reaches you out a small pouch, you assume inside are bolts, nuts, or if you’re lucky there might be cogs. Though you did not set your expectations too high, afterall you are working in the lower classes in Nueva York right now.

You gladly accepted the pouch and placed it in your pocket, leaving the small gloomy apartment. You carefully stepped on the creaking wooden floors of the tenement. The building itself feels like it would collapse soon enough because of the moldy walls and broken floorings.

“Jeez, how can people live in a place like this?”

In a swift, you left the tenement. A gust of smoke greeting your face.

“Urk—” you coughed, fanning the lingering dark smoke on your face, “what a way to greet.”

Sighing, you placed both of your hands inside the pockets of your jumper and walked at the side road. It was dark, but somehow the sky looks murky despite the darkness enveloping, indicating that it is night time. You looked at the side, dark red brick walls met your gaze— and a familiar vandal etched on them. A smile on your face formed, this guy will be dead when his boss finds out.

When you arrived at the shop you saw Hobie lounging, his feet on the counter not caring. When the bell rang, Hobie looked up and saw you, you gave him a knowing smile in exchange for his smirk.

“Saw a vandal across the road,” you took the pouch and placed it on the counter beside Hobie’s legs, “do you know who did it?”

“We know who dun it, mate.”

He took the pouch and poured them out, only a few bolts fell—maybe three or seven. You shrugged.

“Fixed the noisy clock of an old lady, that’s generous enough.”

“Trade?” Hobie asked, you knew that he despises things that needed payment, how ironic he is in a shop right now.

“Most likely, never asked for a payment.”

You found yourself a place to sit while Hobie took the currency back to its pouch and walked out of the counter and entered another room. 

You take a look at the shop, the air is thick with the smell of oil and metal, mingling with the faint scent of burnt wires. Everywhere you look, failed inventions and half-completed projects are strewn. Workbenches are cluttered with tools of all shapes and sizes, gears and gadgets scattered in a haphazard symphony. The shelves are a maze of salvaged parts, organized chaos that Hobie alone can navigate with no troubles.

It seems that this shop alone is Hobie’s and not his boss’.

“Oi, 'ave ya found any agency where y'can work as a pilot, mate?” Hobie called you out, he threw you a larger pouch at your way. You looked inside and saw food that can last for a week. 

“Huh—oh, yeah no. They said they ain’t accepting women.” you rolled your eyes, “I don’t get it, I get the same education from piloting school and I get the treatment of this? Gosh what a world to live in.”

“Fancy givin' 'em agency a bit o' bombin', do ya? Need a test subject for me new invention, I reckon.”

Casting a concerned glance his way, you couldn't help but entertain the idea of wreaking havoc on agencies that rejected you, because fuck them. However, with the dire circumstances you both found yourselves in, residing in the impoverished corners of the lower class, you knew all too well that his boss wouldn't take kindly to such reckless actions.

“I'm guessin' ya wanna, but worried 'bout me safety,” Hobie said, his eyes arched in amusement. “Ya shouldn't, mate. I do this for a livin’.”

“As much as your idea seems cool, I’m not risking it, it might just ruin my profile even more.” you groaned, “Anyways, I’ll go now. A middle class man needed some of his machinery fixed. I need to be there tomorrow.”

You stood from your sitting position, the pouch that Hobie gave you now hung on the belt of your jumper. You gave him a nod, “Thanks for the food.”

“No problem, mate,” Hobie nodded back, his arms crossed on his chest. “Oh yeah, since you're gonna be up at the topside tomorrow, 'eard there's an event goin' on, all about inventions and such. Might spark an idea to build ya own airship and pilot it someday.”

You playfully scoffed, you were never the creative type, only a pilot and fixer, “Never did that stuff.”

“I can lend ya a 'and, mate.” he gave you a charming smile, “And bomb everything.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you exchanged a wave of goodbye with Hobie. Stepping out into the cool night, you found yourself surrounded by the familiar symphony of clanking machinery and the acrid scent of scattered smoke that permeated the air. The dimly lit pebble streets were alive with the steady flow of people, their shadows dancing in the flickering lamplight.

As you made your way through the bustling streets, an idea began to take shape in your mind. Hobie's mention of the upcoming event piqued your curiosity. It promised a gathering centered around inventions and technological marvels, an opportunity to witness the latest innovations firsthand. 

But before indulging in the allure of the event, you needed to fix a mechanical issue for a man. The event might not be bad, you think.

As the early morning sun graced the horizon, you made the decision to take the scenic route on your way to the topside. After bidding farewell to Hobie, you ventured back to his place to freshen up. Your own humble abode lacked any sense of style, its contents consisting of plain brown jumpers and simple white dress shirts. Fortunately, Hobie possessed a keen eye for fashion, offering you the opportunity to spruce up your appearance.

But of course your style won’t disappear from you. You wore the goggles that held a sentimental value for you, it hung on your neck like a necklace. The trinkets you have from your old clothes were hung around your waist and leather belts on your corset that wrapped around your waist. You wanted to remove the corset but it was made by Hobie himself, frills designed at the seams of the belts.

“Gotta say, even though these things are proper stylish, I ain't gonna lie, they ain't worth wastin' your freedom on, tryna fit into those rubbish fashion standards. Regret havin' to unload 'em on ya, but I need this bloody shite outta my place.”

“Why is it here in the first place?”

“Dunno, mate. Just nicked it.”

“What?”

“Need a new one soon,” you slightly sucked your stomach in, “‘cause this isn’t my size at all.”

You gazed up from the midst of the tenement, feeling the gentle touch of the sun's rays on your face. If it weren't for the congested houses stacked atop one another and the crisscrossing lines of laundry hanging in the air, the people of the slums might have been able to truly appreciate the beauty of the sky above.

You found yourself climbing each stacked house, trying to reach your destination in a longer way. Gripping onto rusted iron bars and worn-out ledges, you pulled yourself up, the rough texture of the walls scraping against your palms. The sounds of the slums grew distant as you climbed higher, the air becoming crisp. 

Finally, after what felt like an interminable journey, you reached the zenith of your climb. Standing atop the highest stacked house, you surveyed the topside with awe, the essence of steampunk permeating the landscape. Majestic buildings, adorned with ornate facades and intricate brass embellishments, reached towards the heavens, displaying the opulence of the higher class. The airships, resplendent in their polished metallic sheen, gracefully cut through the clouds, propelled by the power of steam and gears.

As you took in the scene, factories with towering smokestacks filled the air with billowing plumes of smoke, their relentless activity a testament to the industrious nature of this world. It was a sight that mesmerized, a stark contrast to the gritty reality you had left behind in the slums.

Breathing in deeply, you took a moment to savor the accomplishment before stepping off the last stacked house and onto the solid ground of the topside, making your way to the address the man gave you.

The streets of the middle-class district buzzed with activity as people moved about freely, unburdened by the struggles of the lower class. Cars traversed the well-maintained, cemented roads, their engines purring with a sense of efficiency. The residents donned clothing that exuded an air of cleanliness and modesty, their attire distinct from the worn and patched garments you were accustomed to. Your eyes wandered, taking in the sight of buildings occupied by tenants who enjoyed a more comfortable existence. Laughter filled the air as children played and ran with carefree abandon. 

You were familiar with the streets since you lived here, once.

As you arrived at the block, you rapped on the door, the echoes of your knocks resonating through the hallway. It took a few moments, three to five rhythmic knocks, before the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged man on the other side. His face bore the marks of a life well-lived, etched with the wisdom of age, and his beard and hair had turned a distinguished shade of white. A monocle adorned his left eye, adding an air of eccentricity to his appearance. Initially, annoyance flickered across his features upon opening the door, but as his gaze fell upon you, a spark ignited in his eyes, transforming his expression into one of intrigue and curiosity.

“Ah! Yes, yes you. Come in come in.”

You thanked him after stepping aside to give you passage inside his house.

In stark contrast to Hobie's cluttered and chaotic abode, the man's living space was meticulously organized and tidy. As you stepped into the room, you couldn't help but notice the cleanliness that pervaded the air. The living room appeared recently cleaned, with everything in its rightful place, giving off an aura of order and precision.

The furniture was arranged with care, and not a single item seemed out of place. Moving towards the kitchen, you found it to be equally immaculate, with gleaming countertops and neatly arranged utensils. It was evident that the man valued a sense of cleanliness and efficiency in his living environment, reflecting his disciplined and focused nature.

"Please follow me," the man said, his tone firm and direct. The exchange of names seemed unnecessary at this moment, and you silently agreed. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you, a shared purpose that transcended formalities.

As you followed him, he led you into a room that could easily be mistaken for a sunroom, bathed in natural light streaming through the windows. The space was adorned with an abundance of plants, their vibrant foliage filling every corner, while delicate vines cascaded gracefully from the window frames. Shelves lined the walls, filled with an array of work-in-progress inventions, each one a testament to his creative pursuits.

On his cluttered work desk, amidst the scattered tools and gears, you caught sight of a meticulously crafted golden fairy figurine. Beside it lay the blueprint, a detailed depiction of the fairy with intricate sketches and precise measurements. It was evident that this was more than just a hobby for him; it was a labor of passion and dedication.

The man noticed your curiosity directed towards the golden fairy figurine and a warm smile graced his face. "Ah, that," he said, his voice filled with affection. “It's for my daughter. She has a fondness for the enchanting creatures she reads about in fairy tale books.”

You shot your head, removing your gaze from the figurine and its blueprint, “Sorry, can’t help it.”

“No no! It’s alright.” he laughed, the tone in his voice seemed that he was glad a person liked it.

Looking back at the work desk, you said, “It’s beautiful.”

After swiftly resolving a minor issue with his engine, you took off your gloves and tucked them into your pockets. "The problem was simply a malfunctioning steam pressure valve," you explained. "It became clogged due to the buildup of debris from the steam, which can potentially cause damage to the entire steam system if left unattended."

As you untied your hair, the man stood beside you, his eyes fixed on you, eager to hear your advice. "To prevent similar issues in the future," you continued, "I highly recommend implementing a regular maintenance and cleaning routine specifically for the steam pressure valve. This will help keep it clear of any debris and ensure its proper functioning. Regular inspections and proactive cleaning will go a long way in maintaining the efficiency and longevity of your steam-powered equipment."

With your recommendation delivered, the man nodded appreciatively, understanding the importance of proactive maintenance in avoiding future complications.

“Do you work for anyone? Like an agency or something?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

You were taken aback by his sudden question, momentarily caught off guard. “Um, no,” you replied, slightly flustered. “I'm just seeking people who need assistance. That's about it.”

The man's eyes sparkled with a glimmer of interest. “I've been searching for an apprentice to help with my work, particularly in the field of machinery,” he revealed.

You nervously chuckled, not expecting such an offer. “Oh, thank you for considering me,” you responded, a hint of uncertainty in your voice. “But I'm not actively looking for an apprenticeship or anything like that.”

Curiosity tinged his voice as he questioned your decision, “Why not? You clearly possess a talent for working with machinery.”

Your laughter fades into a soft sigh. “I appreciate your kind words, but the truth is, I just do this thing for my survival, nothing else—not my passion no.”

The man's expression softened, a hit of disappointment but still understanding the pragmatism in your response. He nodded thoughtfully, respecting your honesty. “I see,” he replied, his tone sympathetic. “Well, if circumstances ever change or you find yourself inclined towards pursuing your passion, keep in mind that there might be opportunities waiting for you.”

You offered a grateful smile, appreciating his understanding. "Thank you," you said sincerely. 

With a swift stride, you left the block behind. Thoughts swirled in your mind as you navigated the bustling streets. Fixing clocks and tinkering with inventions was not your true calling. You were meant to be a pilot, soaring through the skies, witnessing the beauty of the world from above, not getting your hands dirty with someone else's worn-out contraptions.

The distant hum of airships passing overhead only served as a painful reminder of the path you yearned to tread. You had dreamed of the freedom of flight, the thrill of navigating the vast expanse of the sky, not the mundane tasks of a makeshift mechanic. But circumstances had led you to this point, and survival had become your priority.

Then you remembered what Hobie said;

“Oh yeah, since you're gonna be up at the topside tomorrow, 'eard there's an event goin' on, all about inventions and such.”

“Might spark an idea to build ya own airship and pilot it someday.”

Fuck. You don’t know what the event’s name is, Hobie never told you. A gust of wind flew past you—and a flyer smacked onto your face. You took a better look of the flyer; 

Clockwork Convergence

This might be the event Hobie’s telling you, maybe.

It says in the flyer that the event is where various clockwork mechanisms and devices come together, symbolizing the convergence of intricate gears, cogs, and other mechanical components. Itrepresentsacelebrationoftheartistryand— you don’t care about those, seeing an airship close up is enough for you.

You looked at the flyer where the event will happen and coincidentally the time is today and the city center was just a few blocks away from where you are. While you were going your way to the city center, children ran past you seemingly going to where you are headed. You looked up, the city center just in front of you.

As you strolled through the event, you marveled at the diverse array of stalls showcasing the inventive creations of talented individuals. Each stall presented a unique collection of steampunk-inspired gadgets, contraptions, and marvels. You admired the intricately designed clockwork mechanisms, the mesmerizing displays of steam-powered engines, and the elegant fusion of brass, gears, and glass.

However, what truly captivated your attention were the majestic airships moored at the building docks above. Their sleek hulls and billowing sails stood as testaments to the ingenuity and ambition of their creators. The floating marvels were the epitome of steampunk engineering, combining the power of steam, the grace of aerodynamics, and the spirit of adventure. You couldn't help but imagine yourself piloting one of those magnificent vessels, gliding through the clouds with the wind in your hair.

“Excuse me.”

Apologies filled the air as you were jostled and pushed aside by the bustling workers, their attention solely focused on their tasks of carrying crates and setting up the stalls for the inventors. Amidst the chaos, you felt like a mere speck, insignificant and easily overlooked. The workers moved with a sense of urgency as they navigated through the crowd, their sights fixed on their objectives.

You found yourself weaving through the sea of workers, attempting to find a path amidst the commotion. The constant movement and hurried footsteps created a symphony of clatters and shuffles, drowning out any attempt at conversation or personal connection.

Although you felt momentarily invisible amidst the whirlwind of activity, you pressed on. Despite the occasional bumps and brushes with the workers, you remained undeterred, eager to explore the stalls, interact with inventors, and immerse yourself in the captivating world of steampunk creations.

You were focused on one goal, see the airships up close. And you need to get into the city hall to get in one of the docks.

Sneaky, you were not to be seen by the people who do rounds in the city hall. It was easy to get into the building for some reason—they should tighten the security. It took a while to find the door where the docks were, right turn left turn go straight ahead. Until your stupid ass did not notice that there was a label on top of the door saying “DOCKS”, for crying out loud, you walked past that door at least four times.

Slowly, you opened the door. Your face is now mesmerized by the beauty behold in front of you.

The airship resembles a mechanical arachnid suspended in mid-air. Its sleek, elongated body boasted a framework of intricate metalwork, reminiscent of a spider's delicate yet resilient exoskeleton. The gleaming brass exterior glimmered under the sunlight, accentuating the meticulously crafted details that adorned its surface.

The airship's enormous gas-filled compartments formed the main body, resembling the rounded abdomen of a spider, while multiple slender, articulated legs extended from its underside, providing stability and maneuverability in the air. Each leg was a marvel of engineering, a symphony of gears, pistons, and joints working in harmony to mimic the fluid movement of a spider's limbs.

At the forefront of the airship, a bridge emerged, resembling the cephalothorax of a spider, housing the captain's quarters and navigational control room. A panoramic glass dome provided an unobstructed view of the surroundings, allowing the pilot to observe the ever-changing landscape as they steered the vessel through the skies.

The airship's propulsion system consisted of powerful steam-driven engines hidden within the body, propelling it forward with controlled bursts of steam and gears. Large propellers, designed to resemble the spinning motion of spider's spinnerets, were strategically positioned at the rear, providing both forward propulsion and agile maneuvering capabilities.

“Holy mother of—”

“Excuse me?” a voice called out, just behind you. You turned around to see an old man, dressed in blue and white robes, no in particular people would wear those unless they are a keeper. And he is the keeper here in the city hall.

His eyes narrowed at you, suspicious of your appearance without a chaperone—especially what atrocity you are wearing right now that stings his eyes.

“What are you doing here? This is a private place, young lady.”

Before you could make an excuse, you felt a looming presence at your back. You turned your head to see a man in his mid-twenties, slick brown hair swept to his back, he is definitely tall—taller than you and the keeper combined.

Clad in a tailored coat of rich brown leather, embellished with brass buttons and accents, he cuts a striking figure. His stature is accentuated by the impeccable fit of his ensemble, from the finely patterned waistcoat featuring gears and cogs, to the crisp white shirt peeking out beneath. His broad shoulders proudly bear the weight of a unique projector, its brass frame intricately adorned with gears and filigree. The projector casts a soft, ethereal glow, adding an element of mystique to his presence.

Completing his look is a polished silver cane, adorned with elaborate metalwork, serving both as a stylish accessory and a hidden arsenal of miniature tools. Together, his attire and accessories speak volumes about his ingenuity, while his commanding presence leaves a lasting impression on all who encounter him.

His sharp yet cold gaze pierced through you.

“Ah! Mr. O’Hara, do not fret this woman—”

Miguel O’Hara, or O’Hara or whatever the keeper called him, raised his hand, silencing the talking man, his gaze never left you.

“What's your business here?” His voice resonated with a deep, velvety tone, each word carrying a weight that demanded attention. There was a distinct authority in his voice, a commanding presence that made it clear he was used to being listened to.

“I pilot.”

Silence.

Well that response was stupid.

Miguel's gaze intensified, his dark eyes locking onto you with a mix of confusion and amusement. His eyebrows shot up in a display of surprise, creating a distinctive arch that accentuated his intrigue. It was as if he had stumbled upon an unexpected discovery, finding amusement in the peculiar situation before him. The keeper lets out a loud gasp.

“What?! Don’t lie to the inventor, women don—”

“I never remembered telling you to speak.”

The keeper's mouth snapped shut, his initial gasp quickly stifled by a wave of apprehension. It was evident that he was wary of provoking the inventor's anger, choosing silence as the safer option. Meanwhile, Miguel's presence remained towering and commanding, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

His dark eyes bore into yours, seemingly delving into the depths of your being. There was a flicker of amusement in his gaze, fleeting yet unmistakable. The corners of his lips hinted at a subtle upward curve, as if on the verge of a smile. But just as quickly, the expression vanished, replaced by a stoic line that etched across his face, masking his true emotions.

“You pilot?”

[sams-sass]

Date Night

Hi there!! This is just a fun little fic about the boys taking you on a first date. You get double trouble on this one!! I hope you enjoy!!!!

Pairings: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader

Warning: Kissing, implied smut, date night, flirting, swoon worthy Winchesters. 

Sam

Your hands fell to your sides, letting your hair tumble to its normal state, and an exasperated grunt left your mouth. You bit your lip and ran your fingers through your hair again. 

"I don't know!" You whispered to yourself. "I guess I could, like, pin the sides..." You mumbled, confusion and frustration evident in your voice.

"Hey, Y/N-" Dean said, opening your door and entering your room. 

"Dean! What the hell, man?!" You shouted, your hands flying to your body. 

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, ignoring your outburst. He looked you over, his face wrinkling in confusion. You stood in your socks, underwear, and tank top. Several dresses, still on their hangers, were piled on your neck. Makeup, hair tools, and nail polish were scattered across your desk. More clothes were thrown onto your bed. Shoes were everywhere. 

"Knock much?! Damn!" You shouted at him again, disregarding his question. You placed your hands on your hips and leaned to the side. The motion made the hangers rattle comically together on your neck. 

"Going somewhere?" Dean asked. A cocky grin crossed his face as he leaned against the door frame, his arms folding on one another. 

"Shove off, Dean. I am trying to get ready." You explained, instantly regretting your words. 

"Ready? Ready for what?" He asked, and you internally groaned. You let out a large breath and let your shoulders drop dramatically. 

"If you must know...I have a date." You said, trying to keep all emotion out of your voice. 

"A date?!" Dean's eyebrows shot up, his eyes growing wide. "A date with who?" 

"Sam." You mumble whispered, your lips barely parting. 

"What?" Dean asked, his head leaning forward as his brow furrowed. 

"Sam." You said slightly louder but not any more clear. 

"Y/N." You watched as Dean's face moved from confusion to "I'm done with this." 

"Oh my god, alright! Sam! Ok! Sam! Your brother and I are going on a date."  You exclaimed, your hands flying around. 

"Wha-" Dean started, his face dropping in disbelief. A small laugh left his mouth. 

"You and Sam? Sam and you? You two? Together?" He rambled, his index finger pointing between you and the air beside you. 

"Get out! I have to decide what to wear." You returned to the pile of clothes on your bed and began rummaging through everything again. 

"Can I help?" Dean practically jumped in excitement. He quickly walked over to you, looking at the clothes next to you. 

"What? Ew! No! Go away!" You shoved him playfully, a giggle falling from your lips despite your best effort. Dean leaned back, swatting your hands away. You landed another punch to his arm, and Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. 

"Aw, come on, Y/N/N!!" He groaned, using your nickname against you. 

"Fine." You snapped. You picked out your two favorite outfits and lay them next to each other. You turned to face him, tilting your head to the side. 

"Which one will make your baby brother want to make me scream his name in pleasure until the early morning hours?" You asked, a confident smirk settling on your lips. Dean's smile dropped, his face going pale. His nostrils flared, and his features pulled into those of disgust. 

"Oh, what the hell? I thought we were having fun. And then you gotta go and ruin my whole year like that? I don't think I will ever recover from this. I am grossed out." He closed his eyes and shook his head. 

"So...the red one?" You asked, trying to control your laughter. Dean looked at you, his face stern and impassive. His eyes held yours for a beat. 

"Yeah. The red one." He mumbled before turning to leave your room. 

"Thank you!" You called—an arrogant cheer in your voice. 

"I need a drink," Dean said before closing your door behind him. 

You pulled the stack of hangers off your neck and turned to grab the red silk top and black jeans. It was simple, but it gave you confidence which you desperately needed right now. The silk fell over your body, landing at the waistband of your jeans. The shirt wasn't tight-fitting, but it wasn't loose, either. It hugged your body in all the right places and allowed for some wiggle room when needed. Spaghetti straps led to an open back that stopped right at the curve of your spine. You smoothed your hands over the fabric and bit your lip. Nerves wrecked your entire body. You could play it cocky with Dean, but the truth was- you were absolutely terrified. 

You couldn't believe this was happening. A date. With Sam. You closed your eyes and thought of all the missed moments. All the stolen glances that seemed to go on for hours. All the almost touches. All the yearning and aching in the dark hours, hands fisting the cold sheets next to you. You were finally living the night you had planned in your head so many times. Tonight was the first time you could allow yourself to fall into all things Sam. 

A smile grew on your lips just thinking about that fateful conversation. 

Last night

You sat curled over a book in the library. You were so focused on reading that you didn't hear Sam's footsteps in the room. 

"Hey." He greeted you softly so as not to startle you. You lifted your head, your eyes finding his. 

"Hey." You replied back. 

"What are you reading?" He asked, sitting down across from you. 

"Myths about the sky, constellations, and stars." You read from the front cover. 

"Oh! I recently read that. Very interesting." He said, crossing his arms on the table. 

"It is! I didn't know there were so many myths and stories about the stars from all over the world." You closed the book to give Sam your undivided attention. 

"Yeah, I didn't either." Sam suddenly looked nervous. He scratched the back of his neck, looking over his shoulder for something. 

"Hey, um. How far are you in the book?" He asked, turning back to look at you. 

"Not far at all, I just started. Why?" You tilted your head in question. 

"I thought...Since I have already read it, I could teach you. I could teach you what I know." Sam stumbled over his words. 

"Teach me?" You asked. Your eyebrows came together on your forehead. 

"Yeah... there's a telescope, and I could show you the stars and tell you their myths." Sam tried to explain himself. 

"Oh. That might be fun, yeah." You said, feeling your face relax in understanding. 

"Ok, so tomorrow night. You, me, and the stars. It's a date." Sam said, standing up. Your eyes grew wide. 

"Ok!" You agreed, not allowing yourself to get hopeful and expecting. Sam smiled at you before walking away. He made it about five steps before he turned around. 

"I don't think I made myself clear," Sam said. His voice sounded authoritative and raw. His pointer finger came up to emphasize his words. 

"Oh." You said, feeling your heart drop into your stomach. He returned to you, placing one hand on the table and the other on your cheek. Your body froze, and your mind stopped. 

"Y/N," Sam said, his voice making you look him in the eye. "Will you go on a date with me?" He asked. He was so close. Hazel eyes stared into yours. His dimples were in full effect. How does one breathe again?

"I would love to." You whispered. 

Now

You couldn't stop the feelings parading through you as you did your makeup and hair how you liked. This was heavy. In a hunter's life, it wasn't just knowing that the other person felt the same. It was the all-encompassing and cumbersome knowledge that, at any moment, the world around you may crumble. Death and pain searched for you. Icy and cold shadows constantly filled your soul with dread. What if they were ripped away from you? What if you let yourself go there? Feel those feelings that you had gotten too good at repressing. What would happen if you lost them? What would become of you if the one person you did all this for was no longer there? 

You paused. Closing your eyes and letting yourself have one more "what if?" What if it all worked out? What if you could have both? A hunter's life and the warm and safe arms of a lover? What would happen if you actually got what you wanted?

You stood and made your way into the library, knowing that's where you would find him. You inhaled and exhaled one full breath before rounding the corner. He stood with his back to you. He wore a red and black flannel with black jeans. His hair looked freshly combed, and you could already smell his aftershave. 

"Hey, Sam." You said softly. 

Sam turned and saw you waiting for him. A red silk top lay across your torso. Black jeans accentuated the curves of your body. You stood with one arm crossed over your middle, your hand wrapped around the opposite forearm. You pinned some of your hair back and graced your face with makeup. But Sam noticed something else. He couldn't look away from the nervous yet excited glow in your eyes. His lips parted, everything he had ever known leaving his mind for a fleeting second of blissful oblivion. 

"Y/N." Your name was the only thing his mind brought to conscious thought. 

At the sound of his husky and weighted voice romanticizing your name, a lovestruck grin blessed your lips. He crossed the room, stopping a few inches in front of you. He took your chin between his index finger and thumb, lifting your face to his. 

"You look beautiful." He whispered for only you to hear. You beamed at him, his thumb moving to run along your jaw. 

"Thank you." You said, swallowing thickly. You lowered your eyes to look at him. A small giggle left your mouth. 

"We match." You said with a breathy laugh. Sam's brow furrowed, his head lowering to look both of you over. His face then fell into an amused chuckle. 

"Red and black. I guess we think alike." He smiled at you. 

"No higher compliment than to think like you, Sam." You said back. Sam smiled, looking away sheepishly. 

"Ready to look at some stars?" He asked. 

"Yeah." You answered with an excited nod. 

Sam took your hand within his and led you outside. The air was soft and calm against your exposed arms. The evening breeze still held onto the last of the day's heat. Its melody played off your and Sam's bodies. Sam's skin warmed you. His large and powerful hand encased yours with tender and gentle care.

"Where are we going?" You asked, leaning against his shoulder. 

"I have a little place set up," Sam said, pointing down the path. "It isn't much farther." 

You walked a little more, listening to the crickets and the sounds of the night. Finally, you arrived at your destination. The path opened to a small field. The wild and swaying grass was framed with trees and bushes. The moon was brilliant. Full and glowing. Its iridescent and ivory splendor bathed everything in its milky radiance. There was no cloud to be seen, the sky an endless black cloak. The stars looked like glitter, hand tossed into the atmosphere by the gods. A creek tumbled playfully over stones and sticks. The water reflected the moonlight back to itself. The world seemed to have created this just for you and Sam. 

"Oh my god, Sam." You said. Your voice was breathy and light as you turned to look at him. "This is amazing." 

"I thought of you as soon as I saw it." He looked into your eyes as he spoke. "I want to share this with you, Y/N. You are the only person I want to be here with." 

"I want to share this with you too, Sam." You agreed, feeling your heart flutter. 

He took your hand again and walked you over to the middle of the field. A blanket lay in the grass, a telescope propped directly in the middle. The book you had been reading sat with colored Post-it notes sticking out from its pages. A few candles decorated one corner of the blanket; their flames danced in the light wind. Settled on the other side of the telescope was your favorite snack and drink, which you didn't think you had ever explicitly told him. 

"Sam..." You started, looking at the attention to detail he minded for your date together. "You did all this for me?" 

"I told you." He said, looking over at you. "There is no one I would rather be here with." Your eyes found his. You watched as his eyes dropped to your lips, a soft breath leaving him. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you. But then, ever in control, Sam smiled at you and turned to pick up the book. 

"Shall we?" He asked, his long fingers turning the pages. 

"We shall." You nodded, walking to stand next to him. Sam stood before the telescope, bending down to peer into it before signaling for you to look. 

"Ok." Sam started. "You are looking at what we call 'the big dipper.' This cluster of stars has different stories all over the world. Almost every culture has lore created about these stars. My personal favorite is from Greek Mythology. Like some of the other cultures, the Greeks saw a bear with a smaller bear beside it. Well, legend has it that the King of Arcadia had a beautiful daughter name Callisto. Zeus spotted her mingling with Artemis and knew he simply had to have her. So, he seduced her and made her one of his many lovers. He tried to keep the affair secret from his wife, Hera, but after Callisto gave birth to Zeuse's son, Hera learned their secret. As punishment, Hera turned Callisto into a bear and banished her to wander the wild woods alone and frightened forever. As time passed, Zeus and Callisto's son, Arcas, grew into a strong and wise hunter. One day he was wandering the woods when he stumbled upon a bear. This bear did not look like the rest; Arcas was confused and scared. His mother, in bear form, recognized her son and began to try to speak to him. Arcas saw the bear grunting and coming toward him. So he raised his spear in self-defense. Zeus intervened, not wanting his son to kill his mother. He changed Arcas into a bear as well so they could live together forever. As a kind of "screw you" to Hera and to protect them from harm, he placed them together among the stars. However, Hera got the last word. She forbade them from ever resting below the earth. And that is why you can never see them set below the horizon like the other constellations." Sam explained the story, his voice even and calm. You straightened your back and turned to face him. You thought he would be reading from the book, but his face was turned toward the sky. He had memorized this. 

"I like that story." You said, giving him a soft smile. 

"Me too." Sam agreed, his kind eyes settling on you. 

"Here, this is one of my favorites," Sam said. His eyes turned to the book as his long index finger flipped to a page with a pink Post-it note. He then grabbed the telescope and pointed it where it needed to go. You peered through at a massive collection of stars. Lines and connections could be drawn within them to make several shapes. A soft breath left your mouth at its beauty. 

"Ok, this one is kind of long." Sam started, clearing his throat. "This is a cluster of constellations depicting one story. The love story of Perseus and Andromeda. Andromeda was the child of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia. The Queen was very vein and often boasted that her daughter was more beautiful than the sea nymphs. This angered Posiden, so he retaliated by sending a sea beast to their shores. Many tried to conquer the beast, but all failed. Desperate for answers, the King consulted an oracle who suggested he sacrifice his daughter. King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia accepted this fate and sadly put Andromeda in shackles and left her for the beast. Luckily, Perseus was flying by on Pegasus, fresh from killing Medusa. He instantly fell in love with the beautiful and kind Andromeda. He struck a deal with the King and Queen; he would kill the beast if they would allow him their daughter's hand in marriage. They agreed, and Perseus confronted the beast. There is some speculation in the lore, but I prefer the legend that he used the head of Medusa to turn the beast into stone. The remains of which can still be seen off the coast today. The King and Queen kept their word and allowed Perseus to marry their daughter. They married and ventured out to explore Greece together. Perseus is thought to be the ancestor of the Persians. He founded Mycenae, where he made Andromeda his Queen. Perseus and Andromeda had nine children: seven sons and two daughters. Athena promised Andromeda to place her in the sky after her death. And she did. She is placed next to the constellation of Perseus. Making their love truly immortal. Their story is forever written in the stars." Sam was once again looking toward the sky. His face was pensive and soft as he stared into the vast sky before him. 

"I like listening to you." You said, your body melting. 

"I could keep going," Sam said, facing you. 

"How many more you got?" You asked, looking down at the book between his hands. 

"However many more you want. Whatever you ask." He said.

"Tell me a story, Sam." You said, your words were breathy. 

Sam smiled and told you all the epics and myths of the sky. Your mind swirled from the fables and Sam's poetic and lyrical voice illustrating the stories of gods. Of monsters. Of good and evil. Of everlasting love forever illuminated in the sky. Every question you pondered, Sam riddled with you. His knowledge and memory of the legends he guided you through gave you a glimpse of his brilliant mind. His words were profound, with intricacies and endless analysis. You listened to him wax and wane the prophecies set forth by those before you. Heroic battles with swords, shields, and bloodshed. Tears forever imprinted into the stars to heed the warning of history repeating itself. Sam told you tales of chariots and fire burning the milky way into the sky. And of weeping women forced to rotate the earth, watching their mortal lovers below. The stars of Obrian and the seven sisters he loved. 

The tension built between you as Sam grabbed your hand to point directly at a specific star. His body standing behind yours. The buttons on his flannel tickled your bare back, causing a tingle to trace down your spine. You turned and placed your hands on his chest. Silently asking him to not let go. His hands ran down your arms, wrapping around your waist and pulling you close. You took his face between your palms, allowing your fingers to twist into his hair. Swallowing, you tried to calm your heart. 

"I'm scared." You confessed, looking down at the ground. Sam took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling your face to look at his. 

"I am, too," Sam whispered; the raw fragility in his words sent a shiver down your spine. "But I realized that I may be scared of the unknowns, but I am utterly terrified of living the rest of my life without you." 

"Sam..." You breathed. 

"Y/N..." He said back, his voice sounded thick and deep. Your heart sank into your stomach, and if Sam wasn't holding you up, you thought you might fall over. You took in a shuttering breath and bit down on your lip. Could it be? Finding everything you ever wanted under the starry sky? He placed his forehead against yours and bent slightly at the knees. Your mouth opened to his before his lips made contact. He kissed you with the familiarity of a loved blanket and still all the excitement of a newly blossoming flower in springtime. He listened to every breath and gasp that fell from your lungs. His mind committed them to memory as his body followed your every wordless instruction. You fell into him. Finally, closing the door to all your anxieties and fears and letting yourself be consumed by Sam. Just Sam. 

You knew then that your fates were sealed. Under the endless sky of lovers' tales, your burning and aching souls finally wed. 

You didn't realize how long you were with Sam until the sky blushed gold and the stars settled into their slumber. The sun rose over the trees, warming the lands in its gleaming light. As dawn fell over the earth, your heart also basked in the promise of a new day. 

Dean

You held your gun up to your chest, controlling your breathing as best as possible. There was a painful burn in your legs from crouching for so long. Dean was kneeling beside you; his hot breath fanned your neck in the small space. He smelt like whiskey and leather, not helping the sweat already coating your skin.

"I'll go left. You go right." You said, turning your face slightly towards his. He was so close. His angular nose practically touching yours. You swallowed and looked away, waiting for him to answer.

"Ok." He agreed. You went to stand when you felt his hand wrap around your bicep, pulling you toward him.

"Wait!" He said almost too loudly. "If we make it out of here...do you want to, like...do something?" He asked suddenly.

"...what?" You narrowed your eyes at him.

"Ya know...like...i-i-if were good. Do you want to, like...hang?" He tried to clarify himself.

"Hang?" You repeated him. "Dean, we hang out all the time." You furrowed your brow.

"Yes. But I mean just you and me. Together. Do you want to do something together?" He asked. The wheels in your brain stopped turning as you put the pieces together. Oh...

"Dean. Are you seriously asking me out in the middle of a vamp nest?" You were both stunned and annoyed. Dean looked at you, his face neutral and nervous at the same time.

"Yes." He said flatly. You stared at him with an open mouth for a moment.

"Ok...yeah...sure...can you please just kill the vampires?" You asked like a mom negotiating with a child.

"Yes," Dean said again, this time with his usual cocky tone. You held your tongue between your teeth and let out an annoyed breath.

"Good." You said before charging out of your hiding spot.

You don't think you had ever been that efficient. As you left the decaying barn, your machete dripped blood onto the wood floor beneath you. Your chest heaved with heavy breaths. You dramatically wiped the blood off your cheek with your forearm. Sam stood outside, fighting the vamps that had managed to escape. His jacket swung with him as he took on four at a time. You shuffled over and stood beside him, your mind fuzzy and distant.

"He asked me out." You said.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam asked through exhausting breaths. "Help me!"

"Dean asked me out." You said louder. Sam looked genuinely surprised momentarily before his eyes grew wide, and fear crossed his face.

"Duck!" He practically screamed. It was probably your hunter instincts kicking in, but you ducked down just in time for Sam to behead the vamp running right toward you.

"Y/N. I do not have time for this." Sam said, his voice annoyed and short. You turned towards him to tell him to make the time when a vamp lunged at him.

"Holy!" You screamed, your mind and body finally connecting. Your machete swung with precision, taking the head clean off.

"Thanks." He said with a smile.

"You too." You laughed.

"Ok. You have my full attention." Sam said, grabbing you by the shoulders.

"I'm going on a date with Dean." You said, your face breaking into an enamored grin as you slowly realized yourself. A lopsided smirk settled over Sam's lips.

"I'm happy for you." He said sincerely, and you let out a girlish giggle.

You turned left and right in the shitty mirror at the motel. Your face scrunching in apprehension and uncertainty. You had gone shopping, finally allowing yourself some clothes you liked, not just clothes that were easy for killing monsters and riding in a car for days. You smoothed your hands over the creamy corset top you had chosen. Blue flowers decorated the bodice while silk trim outlined your breasts. You spun around again, ensuring nothing was on your jeans, and breathed nervously. You slipped your feet into black combat boots with zippers and buckles that rattled when you walked.

As you styled your hair and makeup, you let your mind wander to Dean. When you first met the boys, there was an attraction to Dean instantly. He was gorgeous. Perfectly angeled and sharp features softened by a smattering of unpredictable freckles. Large eyes that were earthy in color, like moss or sage. How they always found you in the rearview mirror. His hardened expression relaxed at the sight of you. It was a constant burden to not stare back at him. To let your eyes drift from him down to his soft and plump lips. You would sometimes find yourself practically tasting the alcohol left between them as he took a swig from the bottle. Your mind strolled through daydreams about his mouth. Perfectly straight and white teeth, biting down on his bottom lip. His pink tongue tasting you. Letting himself feel all the things he pushed down for one moment of pure fervor and passion.

Yes, you were obviously physically attracted to Dean...and after many nights of Jack Daniels and beer, you might have even told him so once or twice. But it had grown into so much more. There was a softness to Dean that he often tried to deny. His presumptuous and confident outer shell made it easy for you to laugh and joke with him. But his affectionate and sensitive inner core is what caused your heart to stutter.

As you checked yourself one last time, there was a knock on the door. You took a big breath into your lungs and relaxed your shoulders. Now or never. You opened the door and immediately made eye contact with him. Dean's face fell into that of a love-struck teenager. His eyes were wide and alert as his lips parted. His sharp features eased, his entire body open and vulnerable to you.

"Y/N...I..." His husky voice breathed your name. He took a step toward you, cupping your cheek with his palm. "You look beautiful." He said slightly louder.  

"You clean up good, Winchester." You flirted. You weren't lying. Dean looked utterly delicious in his black button-down and the light jeans.

"Come on," Dean said with a tilt of his head. He grabbed your hand into his and pulled you into the parking lot. The two of you entered the Impala, and Dean began driving into town.

"Where are we going?" You asked, turning your body to face his.

"I'm not telling," Dean said with bravado.

"Ok...I'm excited." You answered.

About ten minutes later, Dean pulled into a western-themed Mini Golf center. You turned and smiled at him.

"I'm gonna kick your ass." You said with an arrogant laugh.

"In your dreams. Prepare to be demolished." Dean shot back, already getting out of the car. You turned to grab your purse when the passenger door opened. Dean stood with his hand stretched out. You slid your fingers across his and let him pull you out of the car.

You got your clubs and balls and walked over to the first hole. Dean went first, his ball barely making it over the slight hump in the grass. You laughed and set your ball down on the marker. You wiggled your hips slightly, getting your feet right.

"Don't do that to me," Dean said from behind you. You looked at him over your shoulder, giving him your most innocent face.

"I couldn't possibly know what you mean." You said, batting your eyelashes and running the tip of your tongue over your teeth. Dean pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, letting his teeth run over it before it bounced back into place.

"Just hit the ball." He said low and heavy.

"With pleasure." You responded.

You played more holes, and with each passing one, you felt more and more relaxed. You were so comfortable around Dean. You could say anything to him, joking or not. He was your best friend and your partner. The two of you laughed loud. You almost cried when Dean shot all his balls into the small creek on the fourth hole. He couldn't stop the laugh that erupted out of him when your ball hit the windmill blade, sending it straight back to you. Dean got playfully angry when you made three consecutive shots, and he made none. And after it had taken you about six tries to get one ball in, you jumped into his arms, laughing when you finally got it.

You laid down the weight of the world for a moment and enjoyed each other. The evening air kissed your lingering stares and playful touches. You and Dean found an easy rhythm as the sun descended below the horizon. The picturesque sky burned with intense oranges and soft pinks. The shadows of the low light cast Dean in an even more dramatic and contoured hue. The breeze was delicate and silken as it danced over your uncovered skin. You shivered slightly as you placed your ball onto the mark and lined up your club.

"What kind of stance is that?" Dean asked.

"Same one I have had this entire time." You said.

"No wonder you are losing. That looks wrong." He assessed, tilting his head and body to look you over.

"I'm sorry, Tiger Woods. Please forgive me." You joked. Before you could take a breath, Dean stood behind you. He slid his hands down your arms, covering your hands with his. His body pressed into you, so close that his chin touched your shoulder when he began to talk.

"Relax." He whispered. You breathed and let go of the tension keeping you stiff. You felt your body melt into his. He stood firm as you leaned against him. Dean took a breath into his lungs, his exhale tickling your back.

"Does that feel better?" He asked, leaning even more forward to look at your face. You raised your eyes to his, holding them before you spoke.

"It's perfect." You whispered.

"I agree," Dean answered, his gaze flicking between your mouth and eyes. A calm wind blew past you, your body shaking from the cool air.

"Are you cold?" Dean asked. You simply nodded your head.

"They have an indoor thing, I think; let's go." He released you from his tight grip. He took your club into his hand and wrapped his opposite arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the building. You snuggled into him, taking in his musky and manly scent.

Inside was a saloon-style bar for adults and some stuff for kids in the back. You and Dean sat at the bar, looking at all the decor, trying to inspire an old-west vibe. You each ordered a drink and turned to face one another on your stools. Over Dean's shoulder, you saw a photography set up complete with costumes and backdrops.

"I have an idea." You said with a wicked grin. You grabbed his hand and practically yanked him off the stool and through the bar. Dean looked up and immediately shot you a bitch face.

"No." He said.

"Yes." Was all you replied.

Dean put the outfit over himself, wrinkling his nose at the scratchy fabric. He returned to the bar and gave the photographer a shrug before placing his beer on the counter. He rested his elbow on the bar and waited for you. About five minutes later, you came back into the room. You wore a black lace corset that hugged your frame perfectly. Billowing black and burgundy skirts flowed out from your hips. The right side was hiked up and tucked into your waist, showing off black tights and heels. Layers of pearls hung from your neck, swaying as you moved. Your hair had been pinned, a burgundy feather sticking out from behind your ear. The strap of your left shoulder fell as you walked over to Dean. His mind went blank. The world fell away until all that was left was you. He lost his balance, his elbow falling off the bar, sending him stumbling forward. His hands wrapped around your waist to steady himself. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, looking up at him with large eyes.

"You know this is like really hitting all my fantasies right now?" Dean said, his voice dense and syrupy.

"Oddly enough, it's stirring some up for me." You replied, giving Dean a not-so-subtle once over.

"Alright! Let's get these pictures taken!" The photographer sounded cheesy and overexcited. You chose the backdrop you wanted and stood in front of the screen. There were props you could choose from. You and Dean both decided on a gun. You suddenly felt uncomfortable and self-conscious. How were you supposed to pose? This all felt weird.

"Don't worry. We can work through some poses together." The photographer said as if on cue.

"Ok, let's start with you in the chair." He pointed to Dean. "And you behind him." He told you. You and Dean took your assigned spots.

"Good! Now place your hand on his shoulder and your other hand with the gun on your hip." You did as he instructed. "Perfect!" He took a few snaps.

"Ok, now, good sir. If you don't mind turning fully to the side. And let's have our beautiful lady stand in between your legs." You bit your lip as you positioned yourself between Dean's muscular thighs.

"Wrap your arm around her and hook your thumb into her garter there." He said. Dean's thick fingers wrapped around your thigh, his thumb sliding into the garter. You took in a shuttering breath, trying to hide your arousal. The photographer took a few more shots before coming out from behind the camera again.

"Ok, now sit on his lap." He said. You stepped out of the way and allowed Dean to move into position on the chair. He then motioned for you to sit, kindness and a hint of amusement in his eyes. You sat down on him, crossing your legs and leaning into his chest. Your skirt opened up, showing off most of your legs. Dean cleared his throat but remained still. He once again touched your leg, smoothing his palm down from your knee to grasp your ankle.

"You doing ok?" Dean whispered.

"Yeah, this is fun." You said with a slight giggle. Dean smiled at you, tilting his head back slightly.

"You guys look amazing together!" The photographer exclaimed as he took more pictures.

"Finally..." He said, raising his finger to his chin in thought. "Stand up." He decided. You stood first, letting your skirts fall back over your body. Dean moved the chair out of the way and waited for his next direction.

"Ok, stand facing each other. Now you turn slightly." He said to Dean, turning him by the shoulders so he was facing more forward than you.

"And you grab him by the jacket." You held Dean's jacket with both hands, the gun resting against him.

"Perfect! Now, lift your leg to his waist." You once again lifted your leg, feeling your skirt open to expose all the way to the curve of your ass.

"And grab her leg and hold her steady." The photographer instructed Dean. Dean looked at you and gave you a tight smile as if he was holding back laughter. He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you tighter against him. His other hand lay against the top of your thigh, the gun pressing into your skin.

"This is nice." You joked.

"Ya know. I was just thinking about how we should do this more often." Dean amused back.

"And look here!" The photographer called, taking the last of the photos.

Once you and Dean changed back into your regular clothes, you looked over the pictures. You had to admit, they looked pretty cool. The sepia tone hid imperfections well, highlighting your makeup and dark clothing. Dean looked ridiculously handsome, as always, his strong looks accentuated by the shadows and contrasts.

"I like these two," Dean said, pointing to the one of you on his lap and the one of him holding you against him.

"Of course you do." You laughed. "I like those too." You agreed. Dean paid for a large print of both of you standing and got a photo strip of your four poses. You were surprised he actually bought it. You thought he would want to forget you made him do this as soon as possible.

"I can't believe you bought it." You expressed your thoughts as you walked back to the car.

"Of course! I gotta have some reminder of the first date with my girl." Dean said in a joking tone. You stood in front of the car, not wanting to get in and end the night. You smiled and stepped toward him, looking up at him with your eyes.

"What do you want to do now?" You asked, your voice breathy and low. Dean cupped your cheeks, his thumbs pushing your jaw to tilt your face toward his.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," Dean said, almost as if he was telling himself and you.

"Finally." You breathed.

He kissed you like how the waves kiss the sand. Consistent and all-encompassing. His soft and full lips moved over yours with passion and adoration. His fingers twisted into your hair at the nape of your neck, melting you further into him. He backed you up against the Impala, your back leaning on the cold metal. One hand slid down your body, slipping under the hem of your shirt. His gentle fingers caressed your stomach and ribcage. His index finger sunk below the waistband of your jeans. You broke the kiss.

"I really want you to keep going, but there are kids here." You said, looking around at the selection of minivans in the parking lot. Dean leaned his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. He nodded, moving your head with the motion.

"Ok, yeah." He finally said. The beginning of the drive was quiet and slightly awkward. Neither of you knew what to say after that. You pulled your leg onto the seat, and Dean instantly slid his hand down your thigh. He grabbed a fistful of the jean-covered flesh of your inner thigh and yanked you toward him. You let out a surprised squeak but quickly settled next to him. You lay your head on his shoulder and relax into the silence.

Dean walked you to your motel room. You turned to face him, holding his eyes with yours.

"I had a really great time tonight, Dean. Thank you for everything." You said sincerely.

"Does our night have to end?" Dean asked, taking a step toward you.

"No." You could barely get the word out before Dean was on you again. His mouth overtaking and tasting every part of yours. Your back was pressed against the wood door. Dean lifted you to him, wrapping your legs around his waist. Somehow, you got into your motel room, Dean stumbling in with you in his arms.

The two of you connected in ways you never thought possible. The world was deep in slumber as you explored every inch of each other's bodies. The cocky and self-assured personality he used as a shield fell away, and all that was left was Dean. Raw and real. Achingly beautiful. You silently pledged yourselves to each other under the crescent moon. No one understood you better. No one loved you better. No one. It was Dean. It was always Dean.

Tagging:  @thinkinghardhardlythinking @watermelonlipstick @lacilou   @kingofthetwats @bellabean5591 @coldgothapricotalmond @briskywalker @gia-25 @reconsidering-my-life-choices @paryl @cutesymrsinuyashagamer @katrynec @arctusluna @samfreakingwinchester @idreamofplaid @zeppette @katherine-ann1 @maliburenee @nancymcl @babymxxse​ @winchestergirl2​

[booksdaydream]

The Lost and Found Epilogue

*SPOILERS OF THE GAME HOGWARTS LEGACY AHEAD*

Characters: Dark!Sebastian; use of MC; GN!MC; Ominis Gaunt; Ominis Gaunt x MC. Starring Professor Weasley. With special participation of Madam Blainey, Professor Sharp and Headmaster Black.

Summary: Based on this post by @avadakedavravravra​. MC’s and Ominis’ point of view of the Ending.

Warnings: little violence; mild abuse (talks of imprisonment, starvation); talks about death, impersonation, gaslighting; angst; fluff.

Word count: 4,8K+

A/N: I swear I try to do fluff, but it always comes out a bit of angsty. Sorry, sorry. I’ll try to do better. Couldn’t help but talk about politics because of Black and the Gaunts (those jerks). Once again the “Ominis” in bold is Sebastian in polyjuice.

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This chapter on AO3

The Lost and Found Masterlist

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Arriving to the Transfiguration classroom, it was not hard to find Professor Weasley in her office writing on some parchment. She had her head down, glasses hanging precariously on the bridge of her nose. MC didn’t have to say a word to bring her attention to them, although they entered without knocking. She looked mildly irritated, in a very motherly way, when she raised her eyes upon seeing them in her left peripheral vision. The disillusionment spell had already lifted. Her eyes widening in shock due to the horror of seeing Ominis’ condition was enough indication that she noticed something terrible had happened without them having to make a sound.

MC stood in front of the closed door, an arm around Ominis’ mid back bearing most of his weight – the walk there was not far but enough to burden him in his condition – and the other holding their wand tightly in their hand, ready to protect him if necessary. If they crossed paths with Sebastian. Unlikely, but terrifying. They had an exasperated expression, as if they were running out of time. Their eyebrows raised but touching, their lips pursed tight and their eyes pleading.

Ominis on the other hand remained calm. He would be the portrait of serenity if not for his heavy breathing – which he tried to conceal by standing tall. His face remained expressionless if not for the slight frown of attention, him observing quietly his surroundings and Professor Weasley’s silent reactions. Listening. He leaned heavily on MC, repressing self-inflicting curses for burdening them but also relieved he could rely on someone else. His body hurt everywhere, months exercising within four meters wide clearly taking a tool on him. His legs ached and the plant of his feet were likely bruised unused to the insides of his shoes.

“By Merlin! What happened to the two of you?” Professor Weasley stopped the screeching of her quill and stood up, her chair sliding aggressively against the stone floor. MC murmured a silencio to the door, just in case, to which the professor didn’t reprehend or question. But awaited an explanation.

“We don’t have much time, Professor.” Ominis started, his voice raspy likely due to all the crying he’d done earlier.

“You need to be looked at immediately, Mr. Gaunt. Your condition–”

“Must be deplorable, I imagine Professor.” He interrupted. MC saw Professor Weasley frown while stocked-still alarmed. “Forgive me for my rudeness, but I mean it when I say we don’t have much time. Sebastian Sallow has done this to me. Kept me in captivity and pretended to be me during months. Took classes as me, socialized as me, lived as me. Meanwhile, he starved me and taunted me. All so he could continue his search for a cure for his sister, Anne. A search that has driven him to kill his own uncle, Solomon, with an Unforgivable last spring.” Ominis explained in the most succinct and honest way he could.

MC observed Professor Weasley listening. She stood in between her table and her chair, barely moving from her position. Her face was painted in concern, severely frowned and heavy. There was disappointment and pity there as well. She waited in silence, frozen as a statue as Ominis continued.

“Today he planned to visit his sister and, together with MC, he was going to make them cure her. They arranged to meet at lunch time. Which should be around now if not soon. Hence why we don’t have time. If he suspects MC has been able to find me, he’ll flee and won’t face the consequences of his actions. It once pained me greatly to have resolved to submit him to the authorities, but he’s gone too far… Beyond we could have ever imagined.” Ominis’ voice faltered and Professor’s lips pressed tighter into a line so thin MC could barely see them. He stopped talking, untrusting of his own voice. MC tried to pick it up, continue their explanation but Professor Weasley simply nodded.

“I understand. You’ve been through a lot. Both of you.” She stared sternly at MC as well. “We’ll take it from here.” She fetched some parchment while MC felt Ominis’ relax, his weight becoming almost unbearably heavy. “Where were you meeting Mr. Sallow for this arrangement?”

“Hogwarts North Exit.”

She screeched in two pieces of parchment and, with her wand, turned the parchment into fireflies. Then she did it again with a third one.

“I have requested Professor Sharp’s and Headmaster Black’s assistance.” Professor Weasley announced and moved towards the door. She held it open for the two of them. “You two, go and rest on the hospital wing. Can you make it on your own? I have already let Madam Blainey know you’re coming.”

“We–”

“We can make it.” Ominis responded firmly, his weight becoming lighter again. His resolution returning. She nodded and gave them a small reassuring smile.

“You’ll likely be called into the Headmaster’s office later, after we have secured Mr. Sallow. We’ll talk about this in more detail again after... But first, hospital wing.” She insisted. MC agreed with a hum, but Ominis seemed a bit impatient.

“But Sebastian–”

“There’s been too much damage done, Mr. Gaunt. I won’t allow him to forgo the consequences. Rest assured.”

--

The walk to the hospital wing was a lengthy one. They were bound to cross paths with students and, fearing that one of them might be Sebastian, they remained under the cloak of disillusionment. But this time they went on their way at their own pace. His fate was out of their own hands. MC and Ominis did not speak. They listened to each other’s breath – Ominis’ still a bit more labored one – and felt each other’s touch, grounding themselves on the present and in reality.

Both had been living in weird dreams. Ominis in a nightmare where his bestfriend tortured him and MC in a delirious dream where the boy they liked reciprocated their feelings. Both twisted in their own way. Ominis’ hallucinating due to his solitude and MC’s boy being a fake. But they were going to be okay now. Whether Sebastian was caught by the Professors or not they had found each other and could distinguish fake from real. Together.

They crossed the large archway entrance of the hospital wing and undid their spell, quickly being greeted by Madam Blainey. The place was empty, thankfully, so no one asked questions nor looked suspiciously at Ominis’ appearance. Except Madam Blainey herself. Her expression was barely contained, a cordial smile but widened eyes. Her voice was a bit higher than normal, but she was indignant as always.

“Blimey! How could children be put in such bad shape! Here, here. This way, please.”

She guided both to the farthest beds on the right side of the room. The blue partition wall gave enough privacy from any other bed onto their right and the blue curtain on their left separated the two beds from the drawers at the end of the room. MC guided Ominis to seat on one of the beds and took the other per Madam Blainey’s insistence – they were in good shape, their wounds more of the psychological type. Ominis seemed uncomfortable. MC tried to prompt him to lay, but he gently pushed their hand away. That bed was too similar to the one he got familiar with these past few months.

Madam Blainey left and returned with three different tonics. First, she gave him a green potion that MC imagined to be the wiggenweld. He took it quietly and without complaint. Then she offered him a pinkish liquid that Ominis drank and winced at the taste. Then he smiled toothy, satisfied. It had a very sweet taste. Finally, she gave him the last one, a blue potion. Ominis held that one for a second before ingesting it. Frowning at the smell.

“C’mon.” Madam Blainey insisted. “This last one is for your bones, hair, and nails. You’ll be stronger in no time.” She promised. Ominis frowned and scrunched his nose – a very cute expression, MC thought – then downed the potion in two gulps. “Well done.” He controlled the urge to show off the contents of that potion to everyone in the hospital wing, exposing his tongue in disgust. Ugh. Tasted just as awful as it smelled. MC held in a giggle; Madam Blainey smiled in conspiration. “I’ll let you rest for now.”

MC and Ominis were finally left alone. They hoped down from the bed they had sat, knowing full well they didn’t need one and pulled the companion chair near Ominis’ bed, right in front of his sitting figure. They sat down, reaching for his hands resting on his lap. Their fingers interlaced with his and he smiled sweetly.

“That last potion seemed like a treat.” They provoked.

“A blast.” He smiled larger, then thought for a moment. “The second one was good. Sweet.”

“I suppose you don’t feel you need to hide your sweet tooth from me anymore.” MC pinched one of his fingers and he chuckled. An almost weightless sound. “I wonder what it’s for.”

“Doesn’t matter. Nothing they can give me will make me worse than I already am.” He stated candidly.

“Ominis…”

“I could hear it on your voice. On Professor Weasley’s too. But, clearly, Madam Blainey was the most appalled. I must look like a ghost. Sebastian didn’t really treat me like a person. Can you believe it? I cried because of the taste of a sandwich. Ham and cheese.” He mentioned, his voice still very leveled. Calm. With a hint of humor. He gave MC a small smile. “Apparently a celebrating meal.” MC heard him sternly, trying to control their anger.

“Celebrating?”

“I think he intended to end this today. After you cured Anne.” He said, his expression in thought. “Of course, I don’t actually know what end means.” MC couldn’t help a shiver crawl on their spine. Ominis felt them tremble and squeezed their hands, smiling softly. “MC, I think it’s fair we admit to ourselves we have absolutely no idea how far is too far for Sebastian anymore. If anything, we know he has abandoned us. He doesn’t believe in us anymore. Why should we believe in him? Should we believe that he is uncapable of killing me?” He asked quietly, a small frown accompanied by a small smile.

Ominis had clearly thought a lot about this. What could he had done if not think? Alone in that room, hoping. Trying to hold on to any last crumble of care Sebastian could have had in him. He had begged, pleaded. But Sebastian had already forsaken him. And very likely done the same to MC. So Ominis wouldn’t put it past him the ability to kill him. He’d rather not believe it, but Sebastian was not his friend with gentle almond eyes, hearty laugh, and annoying habit of stealing his secret sweet stash anymore. He was someone else new.

MC stood up and approached him, touching their foreheads together. Ominis waited, secretly anticipating a kiss, his eyes wide open. But MC didn’t close the bit left of proximity, their breaths mixing. Instead, they stayed there, eyes closed basking in the warmth of Ominis. Hoping that that little gesture brought as much comfort to him as it did to them. They gently rubbed his interlaced fingers with their thumbs, organizing their thoughts.

“I don’t know what we should believe. I want to believe Sebastian is still there somewhere, but… but I don’t think he is.” MC said, shaking their head, rubbing their foreheads together. Ominis smiled weakly at the sensation, imagining their foreheads were likely red from the rubbing. “I wouldn’t challenge his ability to k– kill one of us. I think the dark arts have corrupted him enough. Enough to act this extreme as well as far enough where we can no longer reach him.”

MC bit their lips in frustration, they moved away from Ominis and rolled their eyes in an exasperated sigh.

“I mean, I can only imagine what he’s done to you… what kind of pain you’ve been through, but the type of deception he’s done to me… the– the violation…” MC went quiet for a second, their eyes meeting the worried ones of Ominis’. He stared fixedly towards their direction listening attentively. MC opened their mouth to speak, and he flinched bracing for what they were going to ask. “Did he tell you anything about that?” Ominis closed his eyes slowly and pursed his lips tightly.

“Yes. He told me about your first kiss and confession, a thought I barely entertained. Then he brought me your tie to prove you were much closer than I was willing to believe.” Ominis sighed. “He spoke about you and him engaging in romantic affairs, but I tried not to rely on him knowing Sebastian was trying to taunt me–”

“Why?” MC interrupted and Ominis raised his eyebrows, responding candidly as if the answer was obvious.

“Because he wanted Anne’s location, and I was the only one that knew of it.”

“No.” MC said, with a weak chuckle. “Why would him seducing me provoke you into revealing Anne’s location?” They had an idea but needed a confirmation.

MC felt dishonest, pushing Ominis against a corner. But Ominis didn’t feel it was unfair. On the contrary he found it amusing. He smirked knowing exactly what they meant and squeezed their interlaced fingers. Perhaps this wasn’t the best place nor the best time. It certainly was not how he imagined his feelings would be professed. He once wished they would be known in a more opulent, dignified manner. It was actually the reason he took so long to say anything. Not his family – which was a concern, but a passing one – nor if his feelings were reciprocated. He was suspicious the stare accompanying him, stollen in secrecy sometimes, were MC’s. But it didn’t matter how he’d confess, he realized, as long as his feelings were known. And shared. Ominis chuckled lightly and raised one of their unified hands up to his lips, where he kissed their fingers.

“Sebastian realized our feelings were shared, MC. I care for you just as deeply I heard you care for me. Although hearing directly from you instead of Sebastian will be comforting.” He chuckled. MC smiled weakly. “And I did not want you to be involved on whatever he was planning, I begged him that. But clearly, he needed you more than just for Anne’s location.” Ominis frowned, subtly angry.

“He wasn’t lying. I couldn’t help but fall for you, Ominis…” MC went quiet for a moment, their eyes observing Ominis’ reaction.

His expression softened and he smiled weakly. Ominis waited for them to continue and, when they didn’t, he moved closer just enough to touch his nose to their forehead then his lips, placing a gentle chaste kiss on MC’s forehead. They sniffed in response and Omins hoped they weren’t crying.

“He wasn’t lying.” MC repeated, their voice trembling. “He not only instigated me into confessing my feelings but courted me. He flirted with me.” MC’s voice became heavy with the beginning of tears. “He’s done with me things I wanted to do with you. The furtive touches, the secretive whispers, the brushes past. Holding hands, exchanging kisses.” They stopped to muffle a hiccup. “We’d full-on snogged.” They admitted.

Ominis, alarmed, let go of one of their hands and reached out to their face, feeling tears on their cheek. He wiped them away, cupping their face softly. MC approached him again, forehead to forehead. Ominis simply held them, listening.

“Just because I thought it was you. Then sometimes he didn’t sound like you, obviously, because it wasn’t you.” They sniffed. “Because he wasn’t there. With me. At the Undercroft. Countless of times until late at night. Talking and talking. Just talking. Building that trust. And I realized something was off… I’m sorry, Ominis. I took so long.” MC started to apologize and Ominis cupped their face with both his hands, foreheads touching, he imagined he was looking into their eyes. MC’s hands rested on his knees.

“No. You were right on time.” He assured them, a small smile on his lips. “Perhaps if you were later, then I would have been in trouble. But you found me afterall. I knew you would. And that’s what kept me sane there.” He wiped some stray tears that insisted on falling from MC’s eyes. “Those talks also helped me. They gave me courage. They didn’t let me forget about our bond. About us. About my own feelings.”

“I like you, Ominis. So much. And I wish Sebastian hadn’t stolen my memory of a first kiss with you.” MC lamented still crying.

“I like you as well, MC. It doesn’t matter. We can simply rewrite it.” He suggested with a small smile. MC chuckled in response, finding it cute and nonsensical.

But Ominis meant it, because he leaned towards them, and their lips met. A very soft, feathery touch. A suggestion. MC left hand travelled to his face and cupped his cheek, leaning into the kiss. His lips were rough against theirs, chapped due to his condition. They kissed him gently, slowly melting into Ominis. However, he had waited for this for a long time. Ominis parted his lips slightly, his tongue gently tasting MC’s bottom lip. They opened their mouth, welcoming Ominis and deepening the kiss. MC’s hand travelled to Ominis’ hair and nestled within his blond locks, while Ominis pulled MC’s face closer to him. The kiss became urgent. A thirst both of them didn’t expect of each other but were enthralled. Until MC tasted blood. They broke the kiss immediately to notice Ominis’ chapped lips had started bleeding.

“Oh my.” He murmured, tasting the blood and licking his bottom lip slowly to confirm – a gesture that would be engraved in MC’s memory. He chuckled a bit more loudly than he had been doing so far, quite amused. “Not very smart of us.” MC giggled in response, giving him a small slap on his arm to which he chuckled childishly again.

“Excuse me.” Headmaster Black’s voice cleared his throat from behind the partition wall. Both students jumped on their spots, hoping he didn’t hear anything, blushing wildly. Ominis ears, nape, and cheeks a deep rouge while MC hid their own face redness with their hand. MC moved the companion chair out of the way and Ominis’ invited the Headmaster in. “Are both of you feeling better?” He asked uninterested looking them up and down, his eyes lingering on Ominis for a second longer.

“Yes, Headmaster.” Ominis’ responded. His posh tone returned to his voice; his posture impeccable as he felt Headmaster Black’s stare.

“Good. Then, come with me.” He motioned to both and Ominis stood from the bed. MC quickly approached him, touching his arm softly. He tilted his head towards them and smiled offering his arm, asking to be guided. He still did not have his wand back. MC took it wondering if he was going to be alright walking all the way to the office, but Ominis gave them no indication to want his body supported. Most likely wanting to keep appearances in front of Headmaster Black. They held in a sigh, but quickly kissed Ominis’ cheek without the adult seeing. A sort of encouragement. That only worked to make the boy red as a tomato again.

--

Headmaster Black did not make small talk on the way to his office, in fact he focused on talking with the passing students as he paraded the two. “I’ve received word from your parents, Mr. Fawley, your lacking attitude will leave you behind. Pick it up!” He said to a Hufflepuff boy that didn’t know where to hide his face. “How is Silvanus doing, Miss Selwyn?” He asked a small looking Slytherin that nodded a quickly “Good, thank you, Headmaster.” He continued on his merry way without giving either Ominis or MC his attention.

He only aimed his sight on his two student companions when they arrived at his office. Headmaster Black walked up the steps to his large sitting chair behind his table with piles of parchment and other magical artifacts upon it. He sat heavily on it with a grunt, dreading the conversation he was going to have but just so used to such. Ominis’ antics were already well-known to him, so conversing politics with the younger Gaunt wouldn’t be anything uncommon. Just slightly annoying. Afterall he was a child.

“I have heard from Professor Weasley the conundrum you had to face, Mr. Gaunt. It’s unfortunate a student with such a promising background as Mr. Sallow would act so rashly as this.” He said observing Ominis’ reaction with raised eyebrows, but an uninterested tone.

Ominis remained impassive, standing in front of Headmaster Black’s table quietly. His see-through distant sight puncturing a hole into his forehead. Headmaster Black shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly self-conscious of Ominis stare. He cleared his throat and looked around to gather some determination to continue.

“I am absolutely appalled such misgivings happened to a prestigious student such as yourself. But fear not. Mr. Sallow will face the consequences accordingly.” He said, raising his voice slightly upon noticing Ominis’ unimpressed look to his previous speech. Ominis smiled slightly, and Headmaster Black took that as a sign to continue. “Our families have strong ties, Mr. Gaunt, so rest assured you’ll be gracefully taken care of here in Hogwarts. Classes will be dismissed, assignments postponed, and the professors will accommodate you upon your healthy return.” He announced.

Headmaster Black smiled at Ominis waiting for a smile back but receive nothing. He broke into a half-smile, unsure if the exchange was being successful or not. MC looked carefully at Ominis to see him still quietly staring at the Headmaster, his small smile gone. They wondered if he was in pain, or tired. They squeezed his arm that they were still holding onto. Ominis smiled lightly. Headmaster Black’s smiled returned. MC realized Ominis humor was definitely not being affected by the Headmaster’s speech, but probably by his own thoughts.

“This whole ordeal is very much unprecedented and, I’m sure you’d understand, can be quite damaging for the reputation of our school. You see, we won’t be able to do much ourselves with Mr. Sallow considering he’s from a prestigious family, thus it would be in everyone’s interest that this case is handled discreetly. A way I’m sure Acacius will also be satisfied with.” Headmaster Black said in a levelled, very political tone.

MC couldn’t help turning their head sideways such as an owl, trying to understand but quite oblivious to the politics of purebloods. But Ominis understood it right away. There it was, he thought. A conflict between two purebloods was not as easily dealt with as one between halfs or muggleborns and purebloods, since in the later purebloods were simply always right. In Ominis and Sebastian’s case, this involved their families. And politics. Lots of politics.

Headmaster Black would try to solve this situation as quietly as possible, because he was not worried about the school’s reputation but his. It was no secret that he was not the most well-liked Headmaster in Hogwarts history. And the case of a kidnapping with torture and impersonation under his watchful eyes would only worsen his reputation.

Besides, these crimes were done to a Gaunt. Not exactly the most quiet and peaceful pureblood family. Much less going against a boy without a family. Ominis could’ve been their prodigal son, but he was still a Gaunt. Making a fool of him was still making a fool of them. The Gaunts would not sit quiet and let this whole ordeal go out unpunished. But they would also like to punish Ominis too. For being weak. For failing to fight back. And to keep up with their appearances, perhaps they would be willing to let it slide, if Headmaster Black had something better to offer. Which his many years of friendship and familial connections to Ominis’ father, Acacius, could aid him in having. Merlin, he even dared addressing him by his first name.

If not, perhaps his father would simply decide to forget the ordeal on his own out of amusement once he’d learnt it was Sebastian who caused Ominis this much pain. His found family. So precious. The one he substituted the Gaunts for. And yet he treated him just as bad. A lesson. A cruel joke. One the Gaunts would delight themselves with. Ominis bit his bottom lip, bothered by his own thoughts and MC noticed. They leaned towards him, their hair brushing against his face gently. Ominis woke from his daydreaming and tilted his head towards them, smiling gently.

Then there was a knock on the door, and it opened. Four adults came inside. Professor Weasley and Professor Sharp, accompanied by two other people that introduced themselves as Mrs. Stannis and Mr. Rondor, both aurors. Professor Weasley stared at MC and Ominis inquisitively and MC pulled Ominis away from the Headmaster’s table, giving space for the aurors to step in front to introduce themselves to him in a formal manner of handshakes. Professor Sharp stood in between the two students and the door. MC didn’t understand, wanting to get out of there hurriedly. The professor gave them an intense look and told them to wait with a wave of his hand.

In front of the door, behind the aurors, Ominis’ body appeared from a disillusionment spell. MC’s eyes fixed on the floating body. They couldn’t control their shock and must’ve squeezed Ominis’ arm hard because he wiped his face in their direction, tilting his line of sight to the floor. Ominis… rather, Sebastian was trying to fight the Full Body-Bind spell, he was thrashing his arms and legs but barely moved at all. His clothes were neat, constrained into the spell, except for his Slytherin tie that hanged in the air. He tried to voice anything, but only muffled sounds could be heard. The real Ominis lifted his free hand to touch theirs holding his arm, his fingers gently caressing theirs. He had his brows furrowed, attentive to the sounds. MC wanted to tell him it was Sebastian but had no idea if they should even make a sound in front of him.

There was something about seeing him detained that made everything that happened so much real. MC couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty upon seeing his desperation in moving around and trying to scream but being completely powerless under the spell. They continued observing quietly as the aurors started speaking.

“…We’ll be taking him immediately upon such grave accusations to be processed in the Ministry, but Azkaban is the more likely…”

They noticed Sebastian fought a little longer, his blind eyes frantically searching the room. Then he closed them for a second and went limp. Completely immobile. MC took a step in his direction, unsure if he was alright. Ominis held their hand on his firmly, keeping them in place. Sensing the tension in the air himself.

MC’s eyes flown back to him and then to Professor Sharp that remained between them and Sebastian, quietly observing MC. Their attention was caught by Professor Weasley’s footsteps, slowly approaching their side of the room. MC looked up at her, then at Sebastian’s face again. This time, they noticed he had his eyes open and wet. Tears streaming down his face that looked straight in their direction, almost as if he could see them. MC held in a gasp while she heard Professor Weasley stop next to Professor Sharp, directly in front of Ominis. She handed him his wand quietly. His actual wand. Ominis thanked her in a whisper and MC could see, in Sebastian’s eyes, recognition.

He continued looking down towards their direction, now knowing for sure Ominis and them were likely there. But now his wet eyes, still producing tears, had a rage so bright MC thought they were looking directly at the sun. They felt a shiver crawl up their spine, a cold breeze raising the hairs on the nape of their neck. But MC couldn't stay there admiring Sebastian’s hate, because Professor Weasley shooed the two students out of the office. Insisting they’d to return to the hospital wing. They left the room quietly, eyes staring at Sebastian while Professor Sharp continued working as a wall between them.

During their walk back in silence, knowing Sebastian had been caught - that there were aurors involved, that Professor Weasley would inform them of his future, that they had to focus on their own including how to tell Anne about all of this, that this was finally over - MC had the thought they would never forget what happened. And that Sebastian would most likely never forget too. They couldn’t take Sebastian’s angry eyes out of their mind, knowing deep in their heart that was not the last they’d seen of his anger. At least MC and Ominis had each other and their mutual feelings to rely on.

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*No reproduction of this text allowed without credit*

[eriquin]

The Prophetic D&D Game Part 3

part 1, part 2, compilation post

The unsatisfying conclusion of the first session.

Their characters made their way out of the city, and he had them fight a small pack of wild animals on their way through the woods just to get them used to their characters. 

“Isn’t it kind of weird that my paladin uses an axe instead of a sword?” asked Mike. “I mean, I guess it’s a step up from the spiked club that was on his fake character sheet, but it’s not very elegant.” 

“You know what he should use?” Dustin said. “Not a club, but a spiked mace. Still two-handed, though.” He mimicked swinging it like a baseball bat.

Mike snorted. “Yeah, you’re right! Hey, Eddie, any chance I can change my weapon out for a spiked mace instead of an axe?” 

“You can look for one back in the town center. Right now you’re out in the woods...” He rolled some dice and pretended to check the results. “... And you don’t see any. Did you want to head back to town to change out your weapon?” 

Mike rolled his eyes. “No, the axe is fine. Let’s keep going and see if we can find Quinn at that alchemist’s house Jeff told us about.”

They made their way to a hidden house near the lake. Eddie described it as looking a bit run down, possibly abandoned, and that the garden out front was overgrown. He had his players search the house, and they peppered him with questions about what they found in each room. It was dusty, but with some areas cleared away like someone had been there relatively recently. They found the cellar with the alchemist’s lab in it, but this was dirtier and even more abandoned than the rest of the house. 

“So we don’t find Quinn anywhere in the house?” Lucas asked. “Are we sure we’ve checked everywhere?” 

“Is he hiding in any of the bigger furniture?” Dustin asked. “Or under the bed, or behind the curtains?” 

Eddie snickered. “Yeah, you can go check behind the curtains. They’re not long enough to reach the ground, but you pull them aside anyway to make sure that Quinn’s not hiding there.” 

“I guess he’s not here,” Mike said. 

“Wait a second.” Gareth crossed his arms. “You said he had a garden? How big?” 

“Hm, did I?” Eddie picked up some dice and rolled them for fun. “Pretty big. Looks like it extends behind the house and towards the woods.”

“Okay so, are there tools for working the garden in the house somewhere?” Gareth asked. “Like, rakes and hoes and stuff?”

Jeff giggled. “Yeah, did we find any hoes?” The younger boys started laughing along with him.

“Christ, you’re all so juvenile,” Eddie said, burying his face in his hands and ducking his head behind the DM screen to keep them from seeing him laughing. His face was red when he picked his head back up. “So, you’re looking for tools, you say?” 

“Gardening tools,” said Gareth. “Don’t just say something like ‘you spot some in the mirror.’” 

“Damn it.” Eddie snickered. “No, you don’t find any gardening tools in the house.” 

“Okay, so...” Gareth looked around the table. “We should go looking for where this alchemist keeps his hoes.” 

The boys started laughing again, but soon they settled down and started exploring the woods around the building. Eddie let them discover a locked shed and spend some of their time picking the lock before finding no one in it. Then, when they felt even more frustrated, he rolled some dice and told them that Dustin’s character had noticed a path from the shed down to the lake. The die he rolled had been just to figure out which character saw it first. 

At the lake they found a worn out old boathouse, with lots of places to hide. They had their characters start poking around, and Eddie asked them to describe what each one was doing. When Mike and Dustin said they were investigating the boats, he schooled his face to try to hide his glee. 

“There’s one small boat, ready to be launched. How are you investigating it?” 

Mike and Dustin looked at each other. “What’s it look like?” Dustin asked.

Eddie shrugged. “Like a rowboat, covered up when not in use.”

“So, someone could be hiding underneath the cover?” Dustin asked.

Eddie raised his eyebrows and picked up a handful of dice to roll ominously in his hand. “Are you going to lift the cover to check?” he asked.

“You do it,” Dustin said to Mike.

“No, you do it,” Mike said back.

“You’re the paladin.”

“You’re the... You know what? Does the rowboat have oars?” 

Eddie bit his tongue to keep from grinning. “It does indeed have oars. One is lying on the floor in front of you.”

Mike nodded. “I pick up the oar and poke at the cover, checking if there’s anything under there.”

“And while you’re doing that,” Eddie said, turning to Lucas. “Sadie has been digging around behind some crates on the other side of the boathouse, and has found an area that’s clear of dust. There are some pieces of butcher’s paper there, like the kind you’d find wrapped around rations.”

Lucas took the bait. “Oh, cool! Hey guys, I found something! Someone was here.”

Eddie turned back to Mike, who had been looking over to Lucas. “Mike, call high or low.” 

“Oh, shit,” Mike said. “Uh, high.” 

Eddie rolled some dice. “Well, while you’re distracted by Sadie’s shouting, you’re still poking at the boat with your oar. Suddenly!” He jumped up and grabbed onto Mike, pinning him to his chair and making him shriek. “Someone flies out at you!” 

“Oh shit!” Mike and Dustin said in unison. 

“Mike, you are pinned to a wall with something sharp held to your throat. What do you do?” Eddie grinned down at Mike, who looked completely flustered.

“Uh, um, uh,” Mike said. He swallowed hard and glanced over at Dustin. “Help?”

Eddie let go of him. “You’re still pinned, though,” he said as he sat down. 

“Who is it?” Dustin asked. “Is it Quinn?”

“Well, he’s filthy and looks like a scared animal, but yes, it’s your friend Quinn.” Eddie said. “He looks like he’s about to slit Joe’s throat.” 

“Oh shit,” Dustin said. “I’ll try to talk him down.” 

“And if that doesn’t work, are we gonna fight him?” Gareth asked. 

Dustin shrugged. “I mean, it’s just Joe. He’s our meat-shield. He can probably take it.” 

“Hey!” Mike yelled. He looked indignant. 

Eddie was still grinning. “Is this all in character?” he asked. “If so, you should know that the knife to the throat will count as an instant-kill shot in this case. Joe is basically helpless.”

Mike’s eyes grew big and he turned to pout at Eddie. “I didn’t even get a chance to react! You can’t just kill me.”

“Better hope Gaten can talk Quinn down, then, Joe,” Eddie said with a face full of fake sympathy. 

Dustin rubbed his chin and appeared to think about it. “Okay, so Quinn knows me, right? He’s not completely feral, is he?”

They had a quick discussion about appealing to Quinn’s better nature, and Dustin rolled well enough to let him know that they were all on his side and didn’t believe that he had murdered someone. It was a short jump from there to convince him to not murder someone now, and drop the knife. 

While Mike complained about his character being at the mercy of the story, Dustin and Lucas encouraged Eddie to tell them what Quinn had seen. He went into character, standing back from the table and acting out the scene. The rest of the players got up as well, with Dustin coming close to play the part of his concerned halfling. 

“Her body just lifted into the air,” Eddie said. “And then she just hung there, in the air... and her bones started to snap. And her eyes...” He paused with a little gasp,and he got a haunted look on his face. His pupils constricted and he rocked back on his heels. He said, voice cracking. “It was like there was something inside her head, pulling...” He gasped again and opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come out.

Dustin reached out and touched Eddie’s arm, and the older boy yelped and fell back onto his ass. Everyone else jumped back as well, and the spell was broken. 

Gareth, who had hit his shin on a chair, said, “Jesus Christ, Munson. Why do you have to be such a freaky good actor? Scared the shit out of me.”

Eddie got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Yeah, yeah, hold on,” he said. “I got too into it. I started seeing her bones breaking and stuff.” He shuddered.

Lucas let out a nervous laugh, and glanced at Dustin and Mike. Jeff’s laugh was less nervous. “Stop dropping acid before planning D&D games, man,” he said.

“Good advice, my friend,” Eddie said. He took his seat back on his throne, and everyone else came back to the table. He took a minute to settle in, looking through his notes and fidgeting with his rings. 

“So...” Dustin said, looking around the table. “What happened next? What else did Quinn see?”

Eddie looked up. “Uh, yeah. Right. He says that after that, she fell to the floor. He panicked and ran away. He doesn’t remember seeing anything else.”

Mike leaned onto his elbows. “Did he see any weird dust? Or ash in the air?” 

“Nope,” said Eddie. “None of that.” 

“What about flashing lights?” Dustin asked. “I mean, like, did the torches go out and then come back on? Or was he using magical lights in his home?” 

“He did have magical lights in his house and they did go weird, but he was more distracted by the girl dying and he doesn’t remember exactly what happened to them.”

Dustin, Mike, and Lucas nodded at each other. Jeff spoke up next. “Why was Lady Grace even there?” he asked.

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “Why was she associating with a lowly bard, you mean? A fine question,” he said. He gave the group a tight smile. “She was there to purchase illegal substances.”

“Quinn’s a drug dealer?” Dustin asked, sounding scandalized, while Gareth coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like ‘Mary Sue’. 

Eddie tossed a pen at Gareth’s head and turned back to Dustin. “Yes, my little friend. He was peddling the wares of the very same alchemist who owns his hiding place. He even dabbles in alchemy a little himself. Does this change your opinion of him? Do you think he’s a murderer now? Are you going to turn him in, Gaten?” 

Dustin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” he said. “He never told me about this, right?” 

“It would have been in your notes if he had.” 

“It doesn’t matter though, right?” asked Jeff. “Do we believe him about the way Lady Grace died?” 

“I mean, he sure sounded truthful. And traumatized,” Lucas said. 

“Yeah, way to be emotionally scarring there, Eddie,” Mike snarked. 

“Thank you, Wheeler. I try.”

“How do we tell if he’s telling the truth?” Dustin asked. “I mean, he’s a bard. He’s good at spinning stories.” 

“Roll against your wisdom,” Eddie said. Dustin rolled well, so he said, “You get the feeling that he wishes he was not telling the truth.” 

“Great. So we’re dealing with someone who can kill without a trace,” Lucas said. 

“Well, it is a murder mystery,” said Gareth. He turned to Eddie and asked, “Was there any magic going on? I mean, Quinn’s a bard, right? Did he sense anything? Detect any spellwork?” 

Eddie rolled some dice and decided to cut them a break. He steepled his fingers and peered at his players over the top of his DM screen. “Quinn tries very hard to focus,” he said. “He didn’t cast any spells, but he knows magic when he sees it. He describes the way the lights in his home dimmed, even though they were enchanted by powerful wizards. He also remembers there being a strange aura to the place, though he couldn’t place it exactly. He says it felt like there was someone watching it all happen.” 

“Like it was some kind of sick game,” Mike said. “Or... Wait, can I see the history sheet again?” Dustin handed over the papers with the background information on them, and they all waited as Mike scanned them. “Here it is! Noah, the sorceress’s twin brother, used to say it felt like the demon was watching him. Maybe it’s him again!”

“But we banished the demon,” Lucas said. “He’s gone.”

“Yeah, but... This has to be a clue, right?” Mike looked at Dustin.

Dustin got a faraway look on his face. “The torches are reacting but there’s no ash in the air. It’s like he’s only halfway back. He’s reaching out from where he’s been banished and attacking people.”

“Interplanar magic is a psionic thing,” Gareth said. “We already knew the demon had psychic powers. Stands to reason that he’s expanded them after his showdowns with Millie.” 

Jeff grinned, his braces glinting in the light. “A psychic attack from beyond the veil,” he said, waving his fingers in the air. “That’s spooky as hell.”

“And the guards will never find it, because they’ve been kept in the dark about the demon even existing!” Dustin clapped his hands together.

“Okay, are you all saying this in character?” Eddie asked.

“Yes!” Dustin cheered, slamming his hand on the table. “We’re all in this together.” 

Eddie gave him a tight smile. “Because Quinn has no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, shit,” Mike said. “We have to explain everything.” 

“Should we?” Jeff asked. “Isn’t there a nasty penalty if we tell the wrong person?”

Lucas and Dustin shook their heads together. “Quinn already witnessed it. The demon is basically framing him for the crime,” Dustin said.

“Yeah, he deserves to know,” Lucas added.

Eddie held his hands out at them. “Then what is your goal? Are you trying to bring him into your merry band of brothers?”

“And sisters,” said Gareth. “Lucas and I are playing chicks, remember?”

“Yeah, Eddie, don’t be sexist,” said Lucas.

Eddie ignored them. “Or will you convince the poor fool to flee for his life while he still can?”

“I think we should give him the choice,” Jeff said. “Lay it all out for him and let him pick.”

Mike shook his head. “He’ll choose to run,” he said with a sideways glance at Dustin. “Bards are all cowards.”

“Oh screw you, Mike,” Dustin said, giving him a shove. “Don’t bring past game bullshit into this.”

Mike and Dustin bickered until Eddie threatened to treat their argument as if it was in character. The group agreed to tell Quinn the whole story and give him the choice of joining them or fleeing for his life. Eddie offered to let them role play describing their whole history, but the three freshmen looked over the notes one more time and said they’d rather skip past that. 

“All right, fine,” Eddie said. “I suppose it’s getting close to time to wrap this up. I’ll allow it.”

“What?” Gareth exclaimed. “What are you talking about? We haven’t even scratched at the mystery of this. What kind of a one-shot is this?”

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “I never said it was a one-shot, Gare-bear. I said it came to me in a dream.” 

“You said it’d take, like, one or two sessions,” Gareth countered. He pointed his finger accusingly at Eddie. “We haven’t even met Natalia yet and you’re just stopping?”

Eddie grimaced. “Well... I think we all know how good I am at estimating how long things take.” The rest of his players groaned and slumped back in their chairs. It was a nice kind of disappointment, because it meant that they were really engaged with his story. He waved his hands at them dismissively. “But whatever! You all describe what happened in your past adventures to poor, unlucky Quinn and he thinks it’s all batshit insane. But he also thinks that what happened to Lady Grace was insane, too, so he agrees to help you in order to clear his name. Meeting adjourned. We will pick this up next time.” He started gathering up their character sheets and all his notes.

“Wait, is this what we’re playing now?” Mike asked. “I thought we were going to start the Cult of Vecna.”

Eddie hesitated. “Ah, you’re correct. If Grant can make it next time, we’ll go back to the Cult of Vecna campaign. We can pick this one up again the next time that someone’s missing. Sound good?”

The other players agreed, and as they packed up their dice and books, they chatted about their theories for what was going on.

Tagging @weirdandabsurd42 by request.