#trying to answer these questions based on my incoherent scribbles was so. it was so..

[saikitsu]

i know i didn't respond to discord dms yet but expect me to patiently sit at your door like a pitiful minecraft dog waiting for its owner for any oc lore you have even if you don't like what you have 🤲 mutual oc brainrot my beloved

ok all i have abt him is insane ramblings in my journal and like random notes on my phone so i looked up a character sheet on deviant art to try and make it more coherent >< i hope this makes sense :p also he is not a self insert he’s like.. completely another guy. just to clarify -v-

Basics

Name (Nickname): juno (everyone calls him junie for some reason. asmo calls him junebug because he’s insect-like <- will explain that later)

Age: 26 

Gender: whatever. uses he/him.

List three to five most important things about your character.

autistic, prone to paranoia, appears detached (and sometimes is) but is usually very very invested in everything (more than he can handle). easily influenced by the people around him in terms of behavior. cigarette smoker (addicted and doesn’t care to quit).

Physical Details

Build/Body Type/Physical Frame: imagine if a mosquito was a guy.

Height: taller than most humans, shorter than the brothers/royals.

Skin: brown. lots of random discoloration for no particular reason.

Hair: dark brown. reaches his waist. 

Eyes: brown.

Other defining features/extra anatomy: crooked nose (broke it and never went to the doctor). long, thin fingers. not particularly nice to look at.

Habits: bites nails, tries not to talk/verbalize anything as much as he can manage, counts in his head when he is nervous. chainsmokes over a pack a day. 

Gestures/Mannerisms: none at all he’s quite still. will fidget with his hair if nervous but otherwise he’s kind of like a statue. 

Demeanor: bad posture, sort of a nervous/neurotic looking guy. his eyes are large and round so he always has an owlish expression.

Voice: monotone, his emotions aren’t easily expressed with his voice so a change in tone is practically non-existent barring any physical influence on his throat or something. 

Style/Clothing: owns three pairs of jeans and like seven t-shirts he got from a thrift store, the most average wardrobe ever because the thought of being perceived terrifies him. does stick to dark/neutral colors when he can because brighter colors are very overwhelming for him to look at. no real sense of style it means nothing to him/confuses him.

Personality

Part One: Basic Info

Loves/Favorites: menthol newports, MMORPGs and platformers, nonfiction media, slice of life media, extremely tight hugs, philosophy (kierkegaard-pilled), any foods with a soft/smooth texture like mashed potatoes or ice cream or something, others expressing joy around him.

Hates: depressing/existential media (he loves escapism), having his stomach/chest touched, rooms with too many doors/windows (can’t sit with his back facing a door or a window), talking about himself (makes him deeply uncomfortable). also pain (like, extremely low pain tolerance even paper cuts send him spiraling but he hides it well it’s just internally. he suffers.)

Hobbies: reads a lot but will re-read the same books and refuse to find new ones unless they are very specific to his niche tastes (drives satan insane but he will not budge), enjoys cooking but only for himself, likes to review media he consumes in his journal (will not show anybody ever and will get annoyed if someone insists on seeing), and driving (he’s not good at it).

Talents/Skills: hmm he is rather intelligent if that counts as a talent, in terms of skills he convinces himself that he is incapable of everything and talks himself out of practicing in fear that even if he devotes himself to it he will never be good. above average singer but he hates using his voice so it’s not really relevant. has a great memory. i don’t know that this is a talent but his paranoia means he has a map-like understanding of every building he’s ever been in, and a great sense of direction. oh and he’s a decent cook.

Hopes/Dreams: has very little ambition, is fairly content going through the motions (wake up, go to work/obligations, sleep, repeat). sometimes desires to be known and loved but he could live without it/in all honestly would not do well in a long-term relationship with someone who required a normal amount of devotion/attention. if he didn’t have to work he still would not do much i think he’d just sit in his room and read or drive around.

Fears/Nightmares: being perceived like literally being looked at and having a physical form bothers him a lot (especially being tall, he wishes he could be average height, one thing he likes abt the devildom is that he is shorter than everyone). having his back to any door or window (general paranoia). any tidbit of information he gives other people being used against him, even if it logically couldn’t be. 

Best Quality: despite being generally confused by other people and how they behave, he does try his best to make others happy in the ways he can manage. i also think he cares deeply abt others but it never comes across.

Greatest Flaw: too intimidated by the larger aspects of life (love, career, etc.) that he does not try for anything and chooses to be content with the bare minimum/nothing at all.

Character Strengths: doesn’t really budge on his convictions, cares a lot and tries to be careful with other people’s emotions (not always successful), despite the flat affect he loves joy in others. 

And the coinciding weaknesses: if he feels a relationship (platonic or otherwise) has faded/weakened he will cut it off completely and will not be convinced of its potential by the other person no matter what. avoids conflict to a point others would consider extreme (physically removes himself from any conflict situations, if he is cornered, shuts down and will not speak). generally is very private abt his existence and does not do well being around others for more than a few hours at a time.

Quirks: not particularly physically affectionate but subconsciously leans on people he is comfortable around, or places a hand on their shoulder. clicks his tongue often after speaking. prone to chronic nosebleeds.

One thing they are and one thing they are not.

kind, but not really nice.

Part Two: In-depth Analysis

How does the character picture themself?

physically he does not think abt himself at all, mentally he is so consumed by outer stimuli that any inward reflection is uncomfortable/exhausting so he does not think abt himself very much. if he is forced to be alone with his thoughts i do not think he would like himself very much but he would be resigned abt it. 

How do others see them?

unpleasant if you do not know him, if you are his friend/he thinks of you as such he will be quite inexpressive but you will get a gentleness that he doesn’t use with others. gives off an aura of discomfort/nervousness (i can’t find it but think of that video of a wet rat trembling).

Most valued possession: the notebook where he keeps his media reviews. 

Darkest secret and/or treasured memory: doesn’t really have secrets his life is quite small. treasured memory.. he doesn’t think abt memories like that really.

Are they motivated by possibility or necessity?

he’s not motivated by anything, necessity maybe in terms of avoiding breakdowns or triggers, but even physical necessities like eating/sleeping are difficult for him to be motivated to do. 

How do they view the future and/or the past?

does not think abt them, prefers to stay grounded in the present as there is already a lot going on in his head at any given moment.

What kind of energy level do they usually have?

low base level energy, rarely if he is worked up abt something/interested in something he will have a bit more energy. 

Do they have a temper?

yes. you can tell when he’s getting upset because he starts getting twitchy and eventually leaves the room.

How do they respond to the surrounding world, the ‘unfamiliar,’ and other people in general?

autistic so all stimuli is very overwhelming and anything unfamiliar takes a lot of work to get used to, and if he doesn’t want to he will not acclimate to it no matter what, even to his detriment. other people are confusing to him and he can’t handle a lot of interaction but he doesn’t dislike them, most of his conflict with other people stems from a lack of understanding on both sides. if it weren’t for that i think he would like to meet new people.

Polite or rude?

he’s not.. rude on purpose but people would think of him that way. that’s me projecting a little im often told i’m rude when i’m just being.. neutral i think.

What kind of ‘public’ face do they display?

none, or at least not intentional. he seems apathetic/detached because he struggles to emote/does not speak, but that rarely changes in public or in private. 

Leader or a follower?

neither/follower. a very solitary person but he can be influenced by the people around him to behave a certain way.

More happy by themselves or in a group?

by himself, but he does find enjoyment in being in a group sometimes. he’s content to sit back and watch other people interact like listening to a podcast which is how he grows a little fond of the brothers and their hijinks. 

Do they have any addictions/dependencies/fixations/ or other strange behavior?

addicted to cigarettes. he likes bugs a lot more than most, but i don’t know that i’d call it a fixation. i don’t know what classifies as strange behavior.

History/Background

Occupation: probably found some menial office job that pays enough and doesn’t require a lot of interaction/has a strict routine. 

Intelligence Level: what does this mean.. intelligence level 9000….

Family:

parents: doesn’t hate them but doesn’t care abt them and vice versa. they don’t talk and they’re both fine with it. older brother: doesn’t get along with him. they don’t talk. younger sister: civil, bordering on friendly relationship. but not close and only speak when they really have to/want to check in on the other.

Friends: before the devildom, none. after the devildom.. none. (that’s not quite true but i’ll elaborate later.)

Combat (<- lol)

Physical Strength: poor

Coordination/Reflexes: also poor

Fighting Style: if he had to fight/defend himself he’d just break down. this is relevant i suppose in the obey me universe. 

Unusual Abilities/Powers: absolutely none. average human being. cant cast a spell to save his life. not a magical bone in his body. (the whole lilith descendant thing is.. i just don’t think abt it but lets say it’s true he just didn’t inherit any powers.)

if u r curious i can elaborate on his relationships with the obey me characters but i think this is already too long :0 i’ll leave it here lmk if u want to know more abt him or have any questions.. i like to talk abt him but i didn’t think anybody would like to know.. hope u enjoy this little guy... thank u goodnight *bows*

[lovesick-panmess]

Reflection of Her

A good amount of hurt/comfort (which comes later 😭), all in all pretty wholesome (in my standard of things) and based on an idea that I thought of just the other day (though I'm sure it's not original)

---

Satan had a mission, more so a mystery that had been bugging him for the past few weeks when he noticed his brothers' odd behavior. Well odder than usual with the way they would often just stare at him and despite his self-assurance, he couldn't stop the insecurities that would bloom and linger in his thoughts. The newest one was his hair, taking him months of persistence and will to grow out up to his shoulders, an inspiration from the princes in his picture books that Mammy would read to him before bedtime. He liked it and had hoped his siblings would too, only to be proven wrong as it triggered them to whisper amongst themselves and struggle to hide visible tears in their eyes.

'Just like her.'

'Just like she used to.'

'He's just like Lilith.'

He pressed the crayon to his cheek, he had reached over picking up the toy kitten from the table (he dubbed 'Watson' for this mission and therefore making him the knowledgeable Sherlock Holmes) into his lap and looked over his lists of questions he would need answers to from his brothers. Messy in theory, young Satan was still satisfied as he was able to read the incoherent scribbling and walked over to Mammy who was sitting on the couch in front of him with a confused expression on his face. "Umm..whatcha writing over there, Satan?"

The child huffed, subtle frustration beginning to well but dissipates quickly when Mammy picks him up and settles him on his lap. "Mammy who's Lilith?" Satan asked, noting how his brother stiffens and hesitates as he always does with many of the questions he asks and clearly this wasn't an exception. He waits patiently for an answer, feeling the grip around him tighten as he turns to take a proper look at Mammon. Blue eyes looking around the room never settling and mouthing 'no' repeatedly, guilt pools in his gut as his question had brought his brother to a bad place and hating the horrified expression on his face. Satan tugs harshly on Mammon's shirt, "Nevermind! Come play with me, Mammy? Please?" He watches Mammon blink, returning to the present and nodding slowly, registering his request. "Sure, kiddo. What do ya wanna play?"

Satan hugs Watson close to his chest, hoping not to have a repeat of what happened to Mammon as he approached Asmo's room and knocked loudly. He hears a muffled 'go away and tries his best not to let it bother him, when he figures out who Lilith is, maybe he could get his brothers to start liking him again. He asked the question, having the same curiosity but now with some hesitation as he blanches from hearing the sound of glass breaking inside the room. "Go away!" There was a shrill to his voice, purely demonic as his footsteps now boomed like thunder with each step approaching the door, and this time Satan decides to listen, trembling as he runs down the hall, not wanting to find out what happens if he stays.

With Levi, he gets the same but less scary result. His knock is answered with a dull, "Password." and Satan despite trying every guess that he could remember, still couldn't get it. He rubs away frustrated tears with his fist, his guesses going unanswered as the volume of the game was raised to drown out his voice but still tried not to take offense to it. Though his anger welled, reaching level by level that was becoming harder to suppress, he would have to get an answer soon...right?

The twins were always different but never gave Satan a reason to stay away from them, when Mammy wasn't there Belphie helped him nap peacefully and Beel would sneak him sweets before dinner time. Using the ribbon tied around Watson's neck, he twists up his hair, a few blonde strands poking out but he just shrugged it off. If anything Belphie could braid his hair for him and Beel would be sure to have snacks on him, feeling better already he skips over to their room and knocks on the door.

"Beel? Belphie?" The room was dimly lit, hearing Belphie's soft snores as he tips toes inside. "Ah, Satan. Would you like a snack-" Beelzbub's voice gets stuck in his throat and before the youngest could respond he's scooped up and engulfed in a tight hug. "Lilith, oh Lilith I'm so sorry..I should have..I should have tried to save you too.." Beel is wailing apology after apology, his grief just adding more confusion and anger as Satan can only hear his ears ringing. Belphie now awake sensing his twin's pain as he places a hand on his shoulder, "Beel.." Just the sound of his name breaks him out of the spell, dropping Satan who stumbles back and strikes Belphie's hand away as he tries to reach for him.

"I'M NOT HER! I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO SHE IS!"

The truth is loud and the statement echoes deep into the halls, follow by hiccups and sobs as he rushes out of the twins' room and pushes past Mammon, leaving Watson behind. He stomps into his room, peaking at his face which was flushed from anger. His books are scattered around and all the built-up anger finally explodes, he rips and tears through all of his books even his favorites. Cutting the princes out from pictures so he can rip it himself, ashamed that he thought that he could be anything like the princes in the stories. The ones that were kind and brought peace to their kingdoms were not like him, he only brings his family pain and misery. He was a curse, a burden and it all started when he grew out his...hair.

Realization hit him, he was quick to rush out of his room, ignoring the loud whispers from the living room, and began to sneak into Lucifer's room. His vision was blurry from tears but his eyes finally landed on the cup on the desk, the scissors gleaming almost tempting him and Satan really needed no more convincing. He climbed the chair, reaching and grabbing them carefully as not to push anything else around and reveal his presence. He begins snipping and cutting any which way but the relief is there, his wrath replaced with sadness and embedded with the hope that things would return to normal.

"Satan"

He flinches, dropping the scissors and looking up to see Lucifer at the doorway, clearly shocked with what he had done. Shame overwhelming him and he finds himself unable to stop wailing, putting up a poor attempt at resistance as the eldest pulls him in and gently begins to rock him to calm him down. It works aided with the music, Lucifer put on to ease the silence, his sobbing ceasing as he catches his breath. He offers no explanation and Lucifer doesn't ask for one, instead of racking his fingers through the messy chopped strands, "Would you like me to cut it for you, Satan?" Wordlessly the child nods, his eyes betraying his true emotions as he wriggles out of the hug and settles into the chair in front of him.

"Short?"

"Short."

He expects to see some kind of disappointment, maybe even sadness but the eldest remains stoic as ever, humming along to the melody and it unintentionally lulls an exhausted Satan to sleep.

He is rocked awake, the record long gone as he looks up at Lucifer who smiles at him, "What do you think?" He's turned to the mirror, his first instinct telling him to shut his eyes but he does catch a glimpse. A gasp and a giggle follow as he hops out of the chair to take a closer look and runs his own fingers through the layers. He genuinely looked like him, a dim feeling of pride swelling in his chest. Satan is ready to rush out, excited to show his brothers but stops reaching up as Lucifer bends down to his height. "Thank you!" He beams, giving a tight but quick hug around his neck, and runs out, leaving a flustered Lucifer behind him.

It becomes a routine between the two of them, even a week afterward Satan walks into Lucifer's room asking for a haircut, and the older brother is so sure that Satan knows hair takes much longer than a week to grow but Lucifer could really use a break from his work anyway. He has a favorite record that makes him practically bounce in excitement when Lucifer puts it on, sometimes he falls asleep other times he asks questions and Lucifer gives him answers.

Soon Satan grows up and his rebellion against Lucifer begins, the routine ends and becomes nothing more than a memory. With Belphie by his side and the bridge between them more distant, he learns to cut his own hair, ignoring the visible irritation when it doesn't look or feel the same as it used to.

Lucifer is delighted to have a day off from RAD, having mostly caught up on any leftover assignments that Diavalo needed from him and pouring himself a glass of Demonus with a rare grin. His face falls at the sound of his D.D.D ringing, he tries to will the noise away but at the sound, he becomes anxious and eventually picks up. "Yes, Lord Diavolo? What is it?" His tone clipped and very clearly annoyed at Dia's booming laugh on the other end, "Luci! I know it's your day off and everything but could you come to RAD for a second and pick up Satan?" He blinks, confused and at his silence, Diavolo continues, "Well you see..."

The Avatar of Pride had been checking his watch for the past 10 minutes, ignoring the demons that glanced at him whispering, his day off now really going off the rails as Satan slinks toward him still in his demon form and covered in blood. Diavolo still smiling, "Well just keep him in sight for a few days, that's a nice enough punishment for landing three of his fellow classmates in hospital, don't you think." Lucifer sighs but nods, "thank you, lord Diavolo. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again. Don't roll your eyes Satan-" Both glaring at each other as they left the building, the rest of the walk tense and awkward.

Before he could properly think of a punishment befitting what an embarrassing scene that had been caused, Lucifer sees the pieces of gum sticking to the back of Satan's hair, "What happened?" Though he didn't expect an answer, he had Satan come inside his room, noting the stubble joy in his expression as he looked away. "I'm not child anymore, Lucifer.." He trailed off, his actions betraying him as he took a seat. The tips of his ears reddened in embarrassment, even more so as Lucifer coughed to hide his laughter. Though the music beginning to play worked to hold him in place, "I thought you didn't have this record anymore..you said it broke."

"I lied." Lucifer admitted plainly, picking up the scissors from the table, "I just enjoy playing it when you would come around.." Such an open admission of affection wasn't what he expected, looking down at his hands and nostalgia crept in.

"Lucifer?"

"What is it Satan?"

"Who's Lilith?"

Lucifer stills, taking in a deep breath before continuing to cut Satan's hair. "Lilith was our little sister, back in the Celestial Realm." The boy blinks satisfied but still curious. "Was?" The scissors don't stop this time but he can hear the other's voice waver, "She's gone. A causality of war." There was more to it, he knew but Satan didn't want to push too far and instead settled for something else. "Do I really remind everyone of her?"

That question does completely pull Lucifer to a halt, setting down the scissors and kneeling to eye level with Satan. "You do in some way, your hair for instance, and your eyes. She had a deep love for humans but animals as well partially fond of cats herself." He brings out Watson which makes the boy gasp with glee and grabs the stuffed kitten, "but you must remember..you are not her. You are Satan, the same tempered brat that we all look after." He sticks his tongue out at that, laughed as Lucifer mirrored his expression.

"You're our brother and we love you dearly. As you and you alone."

"Falling asleep again, Satan?" The teasing remark brought him back to the present with a scowl on his face, shooing the comments away and letting himself get taken away by the music. "I have always wondered though..why did you never ask Mammon to cut your hair? You liked him the best and find me 'unbearable'." Lucifer asked, eager to know the answer and Satan hesitating to give it to him. "Well..you were the only one who would actually answer my questions, told me about Lilith, and made me feel like..me instead of someone else." To admit such a confession was a huge leap, but in mending their distant relationship this could be what they needed to hear.

Though the sappy shit was becoming too overwhelming and Satan was practically submerged in Lucifer's pride, "You weren't 'unbearable' until you started kissing Lord Diavalo's ass so much. Guess it comes with dating the future king of the devildom, huh Lucifer?" He winces as he is hit with the handle of the scissors, cackling mischievously at the eldest's expression.

"Satan."

"Hmmm?"

"Shut up."

He does exactly that and lets Lucifer finish cutting his hair.

----

Jeez, that was a long one, I hope you all enjoyed it! this was based on a head-canon I have which is that Satan has a remarkable resemblance to Lilith and angst ensued. Satan serving to be a reflection of what they had lost unintentionally but also having to suffer still because of it, it's set in my mind possibly a few years after the war. (which is why Asmo and Levi are locked away in their room and dealing with their new selves) I have not proofread because it is 3 in the morning but if there is any mistake that you see let me know!🥲

[tobiosmilktea]

nom de plume — bokuto koutarou

1.6k words | genre/s: barista!au, fluff | warning/s: — | pairing: bokuto x gn!reader

↪︎ in which bokuto gives you a fake name every time he comes to the cafe you work at. you’ve been dying to know the handsome stranger’s real name, but here you are scribbling “captain america” onto his stupid caramel macchiato

a/n: here’s something short and sweet to quench my need to write a fic after writing boring essays all week for school. not the most original content either but i needed something simple :p

there were four types of regulars you would see walk through those doors of the cafe you worked at. either to spend as little as five minutes to the entire day inside the shop just to breathe in the serenity of light jazz music humming in the background. you’ve been working at this establishment long enough to relish how different every single person’s life was as they stood in front of you and ordered their special pick-me-up for the day.

you could easily tell what a person was like based on what they order—like that middle-aged office worker with a receding hairline that always entered the cafe in the midst of an angry phone call with a client, disrupting in the calm mornings with bickering. he usually orders an iced americano, bitter and dark enough to match the dark circles under his eyes and wrinkles adorning his forehead. not entirely your favorite, but he tipped well.

then there was the occasional university student, overworked trying to finish three different essays while cramming for an exam. they usually come in small study groups that end up messing around half of the time or they trickle in as individuals, eyes all red and glued to their laptop screens as they try to chug the remaining contents of their cappuccinos with three shots of espresso.

then there were the soccer moms with their obnoxiously specific drinks, ranging from the different flavors of frappuccinos with extra, extra caramel drizzle.

and then there were guys like him—the one with alabaster hair and darkened roots who just walked inside the cafe—your favorite. the door swinging opening and causing the bell right above the threshold to ding. the tall, hot, and beefy regular with a smile so intoxicating that he catches you off guard each time he walks in exactly at two-thirty in the afternoon.

you didn’t know his name, but you recognized his face, all chiseled and annoyingly handsome. this time he was accompanied by his friend again, akaashi with dark frames resting on the bridge of his nose.

unlike his companion, you actually knew his name as he would actually give it to you, unlike the latter who preferred giving out a new nickname each time he comes around to visit. hell, you knew a lot more about akaashi despite seeing him far less often.

to say you were a bit peeved of this fact was beyond question.

the only thing you truly knew about the man you were inexplicably interested in was that he always ordered an iced caramel macchiato with almond milk. he was very particular about the non-dairy part of that order.

“what can i get you two?” you ask the two towering figures before you. though, it wasn’t much of a question when you already knew what they would order.

“a flat white for me,” says akaashi.

the usual, you think. he says he likes the foam art designs you make.

“and an iced caramel macchiato for me,” says the other, giving you that infamous toothy grin.

god, he was so cute. if only i knew your name, stranger.

you input their orders into your screen quickly, the total popping up on the smaller screen in front of akaashi and his friend as he takes out his card. he inserts the chip in for a few seconds, waiting for the beep to emit from the machine before taking it out in a swift flick.

once the payment goes through, your fingers pull the black sharpie clipped onto your apron off as you grab a cup.

akaashi didn’t bother mentioning his name as you were already scribbling it down in cursive—swift, yet satisfyingly neat. on the other hand, you waited for the white-haired boy to mention what new moniker that piqued his interest today. your eyes met his with patient intent.

“captain america,” he mutters with the corners of his lips tugging up into an amused smile. as if he was proud of himself for saying such, you couldn’t help melt into his contagious grin. like a ray of sunshine that would immediately melt away your troubles, you swore your heart skipped a beat.

the brunet flicks his eyes back and forth from you and his friend, temporary intrigue setting in as he holds back a smirk. “sorry about him,” akaashi pats his friend’s shoulder, “we’ve been rewatching the entirety of the mcu and just finished captain america before coming here.”

“oh, no worries, i’m used to it.” you wave it off, “it isn’t the first time he used marvel superheroes as nicknames. just two days ago he used vision after i reminded him that he had already used thor twice in the past week.”

“i’m surprised you remembered them in the first place,” akaashi’s friend confesses.

“how could i forget? i always look forward to whatever name you give me next.”

you thought you saw a hint of red blush dusting his cheeks when you flick a look over to him, but you weren’t too sure.

perhaps it was just your imagination.

noticing that you were only holding them up by making useless conversation, you clear your throat, muttering almost incoherently, “i’ll have your drinks ready in a few minutes.”

you dipped back towards the coffee machine before they could even thank you. their cups were gripped tightly in your hands as you placed them down next to the machine. the ground up coffee beans cascaded down the dispenser and into the portafilter. carefully, you compressed it tightly into the container before brewing the espresso into a small shot glass.

“is that the guy you were talking about?” your coworker, mitsuko, pops up from behind you and asks. you jolt a bit, almost spilling the piping hot, steamed milk in your hands when you give her a look, “you weren’t wrong when you said he was a complete hunk!”

playfully rolling your eyes, you continue making their coffees, careful not to spill anything that could possibly garner more attention towards you as you could see his towering figure over the barrier.

mitsuko’s eyes cast down towards one of the cups, grabbing at one of them to read the name. “captain america, huh?” she reads before glancing at him, “he fits the name well, at least. you think he’s an athlete?”

you shrug, “not sure, but i heard he’s a big marvel fan. he used quicksilver, vision, and thor in the past week.”

“aren’t you ever curious about his real name?” mitsuko asks as you smile contently at the foam art before snapping the cover atop akaashi’s flat white.

“of course i am,” you say, setting the ready-made drink to the side to start the other. “i suppose the guy likes his privacy. who knows, maybe he’s famous or something.”

you say that partly as a joke, but something inside of you thinks that perhaps that this was that one in a million chance. how would something of such a high caliber as him not be inherently well-known, even if it was just a little bit?

mitsuko snorts at your vehemence, slapping the meat of her thigh as if that was the funniest thing she has heard all day. “as if any famous person would ever come into a random cafe in a small city, (y/n).”

you didn’t answer for a few beats as you completed the white-haired boy’s drink, capping it properly. you weren’t ignoring your coworker’s statement, yet rather simmering in the thought of how ridiculous it actually sounded.

maybe this guy just wanted to have some cheap amusement. nothing more nothing less. it was just a name after all.

you let out a sigh, “as much as i would love to know his real name, it’s none of my business. speaking of which, has he ever given anyone else random nicknames when he comes by?”

mitsuko shrugs, “he only ever comes by when you work.”

“seriously?” you’re quite surprised.

“yup, this is the first time i’ve ever seen the infamous regular who only gives out fake names.” she mused, “maybe he does it to get your attention.”

you roll your eyes, scoffing at the thought. how ridiculous. you never wanted to wipe that smirk off of your coworker’s face as you wave her off, approaching the open end of the counter as you readied yourself to hand them their drinks.

they had been patiently waiting at the other end of the counter for a few minutes now, grateful they didn’t complain at your discrete chatter with mitsuko as some patrons would. instead, they smiled at your approaching figure with their coffees in your hands.

“here’s your flat white,” you hand the cup over to akaashi.

he flicks you a charming look of appreciation before making his way towards the cafe’s entrance. you couldn’t exactly pinpoint if he was in a hurry or not as he left you and his friend alone.

you didn’t entirely mind, though, as you shook it off.

you handed the man his drink, “and to the dude whose name that i shall never know.”

he mutters a brief thank you as he takes it from your hand, fingers brushing against each other and causing your heart to rush.

“aren’t you curious?” he asks suddenly.

your brows furrow, “about what?” you replied as you feign innocence.

“my name,” he clarifies.

“well, unless your name is actually captain america, why wouldn't i be curious?” a smirk was slowly appearing on your lips, “besides, with the dozens of people i see almost everyday, i have to say that you’ve caught my attention, stranger.”

he grins, hand fishing through his pocket, “well, since you’re dying to know,” he hands you a tiny slip of paper, making sure the tips of his fingers linger feather-like touches on the palm of your hand. “come and find out for yourself.”

he sends you a wink before walking out of the cafe, leaving you absolutely dumbfounded. your shaky fingers unfold the creases of the paper, eyes scanning the contents of his messy handwriting.

000-000-0000

the name’s bokuto — call me! :)

general taglist: @yongboxerrr @crybabbicus @rosepetalhaven @tvwhoresblog @tanakaslastbraincell @kellesvt @kitsunetea @milktyama

[jesusology]

Haruka theory and thoughts under the read more! just me going through the MV and voicing aloud some thoughts, let me know what you guys think too! 

（*´▽｀*）also this is super long i

opening scene! the necklace is obviously important to him. also it’s very cute. nothing to say abt this in particular but i just think it’s really cute

love the background choice and how the room looks in general. gives me a big liminal space vibe. i promise i’m getting to actual theorizing in a second here just

love how the scenery from the window changes when it switches back and forth between him and his younger self (?). i’ve tried searching what the symbolism is of a red sky (if there is any) and i did see that it could mean “the end” or it could be symbolic of danger and what’s to come.

ugh i love the water thing going on. first off, i’m a huge sucker for water imagery and the like and so you KNOW i go gaga for this. it has to be because haruka feels like he’s constantly drowning, like he’s suffocating on his emotions. 

i’ve watched this MV at least fifty times and this still gets me upset. pretty obvious that what’s going on here is some form of emotional abuse as well as a co-dependence on Haruka’s part. Haruka clearly has a learning disability and it’s nothing he can control but the people in his life are blaming him for it and so he blames himself, too.

evidence of emotional abuse, being told things like how he’s pitiful or not smart, etc and of course Haruka is going to believe that hence why he’s always calling himself dumb and feeling like when he’s around others he’ll only make them sad because that’s exactly how it was for him at home. 

also like how the background is all gray and gloomy and there’s his childish scribbling of a monster (?) hovering over. could be symbolic of a threat to what’s his normal life, like it could end so suddenly

the world around Haruka is changing. his parents are changing (i’m assuming they’re divorced but i don’t think that’s ever made explicitly clear), he’s growing up, but he also feels exactly the same maturity wise. he may be increasing in age but he still is exactly the same and the change is unnerving to Haruka and it’s become noticeable to his parents that he’s not “growing up” and doing “normal” things. his learning disability is holding him back from becoming what’s so normal for society, what’s accepted in society. 

so he’s viewed as “weak”, it’s his ‘weakness’. and society eats the weak. 

i feel like Haruka’s parents (perhaps namely his mom)(or maybe it was both his mom and his dad but Haruka’s thinking more about his mom because he was closer to her) were becoming fed up with Haruka’s inability to learn what is supposed to be ~oh so natural~ and ~normal~ so they quickly began to get frustrated. also, that drawing behind Haruka appears later i think....

Haruka realizes and recognizes what’s going on and this, in turn, makes him have feelings of self-loathing. why can’t he do what anyone else can? why is everything around him so different but he’s the same? why is he getting taller, having more expectation placed upon him when it’s just too hard for him? Haruka is grappling with these thoughts constantly and it’s making him feel like he’s drowning and no one cares to pull him up out of the water.

i’m gonna be honest, i have no clue what to make of the girl with him at the fireworks but i DO know that the fireworks are really important to him because i recall him answering that it was his cherished memory and he goes on to say the most expensive thing he’s bought was cotton candy and i’ll venture to say that it was at this fireworks festival. 

i got nothing to add to this but i just love that line and it is important for you all to know this

are those yellow roses or marigolds? i’m thinking maybe they’re yellow roses which can mean either “jealousy” or “thinking of you” 

i could be going off a wrong assumption here, but hey this is all just guess-work anyway... did he accidentally push the girl? and it somehow led to her death or at the very least a severe injury? i’m willing to bet it was more of an injury than death, but even so. 

and if he DID push her, now it’s coming to light? like he did that, it was his fault (even if it was an accident, he would no doubt blame himself), and he’s a bad person who is only good for causing harm to others.

as someone who also sleeps with like five stuffed bunny animals, solidarity between me and Haruka. i want that rabbit it looks so cute

YAA there it is again! i don’t know what the heck it means but there it is!

the dog gives me pause because i’m not entirely sure what to make of it but i DO think this is where it’s important to remind people that the MV’s are based upon the prisoner’s own perception (i think. if i’m wrong, please correct me) and so we’re getting a lot of this from a biased standpoint. 

again, emotional abuse that might seem “”””Harmless””””” to others but it’s anything EXCEPT. 

did the dog run away? was he given the dog and Haruka now blames himself for letting the dog run off and perhaps the dog got hit by a car? (;﹏;) i feel like something that’s important is just how much self-hatred Haruka has and his tendency to blame himself for outside factors. i don’t think he LITERALLY killed the dog, but he feels as though he did so it’s become figurative. 

also as far as his dislikes being “children” and “animals”, i think he’s jealous of them, maybe? like that could tie into the yellow roses and their symbolism signifying jealousy and envy. he’s jealous of the inherent “innocence” associated with them. he’s getting older, so that “innocence” that’s accepted with THEM is no longer being used with HIM. Haruka has what’s deemed as “childish” interests and i get the feeling he’s made to feel badly about it. no doubt his disability is tied in with this.

there’s those flowers again. and Haruka tries to drown his wants/needs in order to try and “repent” for being the way he is. it’s HIS fault, so he has to think everything is fine even though he’s NOT fine and he’s going to break at some point under the pressure of society/his parents/everything. 

Haruka makes an effort to try to understand things in the beginning, but everytime he questions something that’s really ~obvious~ to everyone else he’s met with disappointed gazes and harsh critiques. so he stops trying to understand what he’s apparently ~lacking~ and he stops asking questions because that’s it! he’s dumb! he doesn’t get it so why bother!

i feel like by this point any praise to Haruka is better than nothing. rather than indifference or being ignored, he’d even rather be called “crazy”. i think Haruka just wants ANY attention be it good or bad - what he hates the most is feeling invisible or as if he could disappear and it wouldn’t matter to anyone.

i still feel like the blood on his hands is more figurative than literal and for reasons i’ve already explained so there’s no need to rehash it like i’m trying to meet an essay word count requirement

me too Haruka （；へ：）

his feelings of sadness and being unwanted turn to anger onto HIMSELF and it is what snaps the very thin thread he’s been living on 

choking himself ties into the water motif we’ve got going on here. the drowning, the suffocation - no longer being able to breathe because everything is broken and it’s unfixable. and he’s the reason why.

i feel like his crime is somehow suicide/attempted suicide but if it IS suicide then i really don’t know how he could be with the other prisoners? unless they’re all dead and this is some form of purgatory or something but otherwise? i don’t know. i just feel like it could be suicide

now i will also say this. the puddle of blue surrounding “him” has to be blood and that kind of makes me wonder if i’ve been barking up the wrong tree here but. idk any ideas anyone else has on this would be appreciated and also please talk to me about MILGRAM because i’ve got a badddd obsession 

what Haruka wants more than anything is attention and love. he wants love and yet it’s difficult for him to accept love because he doesn’t seem to have any “experience” with love. in the questions asked to him, he doesn’t even seem to really know what “love” actually is. he considers “liking” and “loving” to be the same thing, there’s no difference to him. if he’s getting attention it might not even matter to him because at this point something is better than nothing. 

so yes! this is messy. and it’s perhaps even incoherent. if you read this thanks for coming to my TED talk i love Haruka so much. it’s probably become obvious that i’m a little biased bc i relate to him a lot. let me know your own theories too or thoughts on this, i’d like to know hehe （*´▽｀*）

[kanene-yaaay]

Go to Sleep

Kanene’s note: Gosh, having a schedule is weird. I just wanna post everything I already wrote and ramble non stop about it asdfgtyujkigfdo. XD

Well, this was suppose to be a drabble, but it’s very long so sdftyujikgfred. I hope you like it!

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* This characters don’t belongs to me! They all belong to Thomas Sanders from the serie Sanders Sides.

* This is a SFW tickle fanfic. If you don’t appreciate this kind of content, please, look for another blog. There are a plenty of fabulous arts in this site!! ^w^)b

* This is Lee!Virgil with Ler!Roman. Around 1.500 words.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any and every advice is very very welcome! \(-w-)/

* Listen a bit to the birds today. Changing the way you think is not a bad thing. Drink water, sleep, eat and love!

[~*~]

Roman growled, missing by a few inches the button of his thunderous, infuriating alarm before finally hitting it. Staring and blinking lazily at the numbers his brain struggled to discern and recognize, only to confirm it was really time to wake up and start the day. He grabbed his pillow and squeezed it with all the strength he could muster, rolling from one side to other on the mattress, trying to wake up his body as quick as his mind and almost falling from the bed a reasonable number of times during the process.

 He got up, yawing, stretching and humming as the first lyrics of the day stuck on his head, hand rubbing at his eyes as he followed the kitchen’s direction with slow steps and tired sways on the beat of the song.

 Two dark, wide eyes stared right back at him, their owner completely frozen on the spot with his hand inside the cabinet, probably already holding some sort of a snack. Roman also stopped mid-step, gears running inside his mind, gaze locked on the other, his brow progressively furrowing.

“Virgil,” he began, voice slightly hoarse “What the heckty heck are you doing up? It’s barely seven in the morning!” Virgil only stared back, slowly closing the cabinet’s door, as if afraid the movement would startle the other. Roman proceeded to get some eggs and other cold ingredients from the refrigerator for the breakfast, his words growing more awake and vivid as they spilled with no filter or whatsoever from his lips. “You got an early shift again or something? Those are absolutely hellish. A bunch of people exhausted, tired and glaring at you as if you are the holder of all their problems and their solutions can only be achieved by being insufferable pieces of- Urg. I can’t believe they would give you one right after you got the night one. Damn, I didn’t even see you arriving here yesterday!”

 He turned his attention back at the other, looking for a kind of frustration in the place of the still startled, wide gaze which continued to be directed at him. Virgil nodded slowly, stepping away and putting some physical distance between him and the confusion on Roman’s features.

 Then, between the strings of sleepiness that clouded his brain, it clicked.

 Suddenly more details on the other’s behavior started to become clearer: the way Virgil’s hair was messier than his usual ““style”” (Roman scoffed mentally, thinking that if he rolled his eyes any harder they would never come back to his normal place again), his wary, yes, but way too much slow movements, the way he seemed to be unable to stop blinking at every millisecond and, above it all, the final piece of the puzzle.

 Virgil wasn’t wearing his pajamas.

 “YOU DIDN’T!” Roman gasped, as if Virgil’s life choices were a personal attack. “YOU DIDN’T GET ANY SLEEP LAST NIGHT!!” A turn of heels and he was again fixating his glare on the other, his free hand accusingly pointing in his direction, receiving an annoyed hiss as immediate answer.

 “Shut up!” Virgil snarled, practically growling back at him. “It’s fucking seven am don’t be so freaking loud.”

 “Don’t change the subject! Why didn’t you go to sleep?”

 The one being questioned just snorted, half amused. “Bold of you to assume I’d ever sleep in my whole life.”

 “That is it.” Virgil didn’t even have the time to wonder the meaning of his friend’s sentence before the aforementioned picked him up, resulting to a not very contained shriek escaping from his lips and his hands not much gracefully – or gently, although since they were keen on just jumping on each other out of nowhere to play fight Princey would be fine - meeting his friend’s face.

 “Roman! What the he-”

 “Did you just SLAP me? My beautiful face?! Before my own beautiful eyes??” Virgil Storm always got, even if he would never admit this out loud, surprised with Roman’s capacity of doing a series of offended incoherent noises which evolved to words before being carefully metamorphosed in weird noises all over again, and in the end still managing to form comprehensible sentences. His surprise did nothing to quell the grumpy snark immediately flying from lips, though.

 “And I’m going to do it again if you don’t let me go in this exact instant.”

 “You go and try to help and that is the acknowledgement you get,” The one wearing pajamas with little crows printed on it huffed, mumbling in a lower tone as he noticed the sharp gaze being thrown in his direction. “fucking unbelievable.”

 “I still can hear you, Princey. You’re literally carrying me.”

 “I sTiLL cAn HeAr yOu-OW! Ow! Ow!” The sentence was interrupted when the sleep deprived one punched Roman’s shoulder. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

 “Let me fucking gAAH!” In a way his wish was granted, one could say as they watched his protest being cut as Storm was impolitely tossed on his bed, Roman quickly following his friend on the mattress, arms hugging him from behind, and physically preventing him from escaping his current soft predicament. “Prince, you’re dead.”

 “Shhh, no talking. We’re sleeping.”

 “We are not. You are being a pain in ass and I am about to defenestrate you.” Despite his fervent protests, his sharp, flaming glare began to lose its heat, his body not doing any actual effort to free himself from the other’s – strong, good - grip, muscles starting to relax against the great warmth involving him in a comfortable and secure blanket.

 “Sure, sure, mister Grumpy Pants, you can do that when you wake up.” He tightened a bit his hold around Virgil, yet being the most careful as possible, actively ignoring the annoyed hiss his friend gave him. His hoodie was really fluffy at the touch, slightly remembering his stuffed animals he frequently hugged to sleep.

 For a moment, everything was pleasantly quiet. The one with smudged makeup, since he hadn’t time to get it off before being trapped by his roommate and best friend, felt the tiredness becoming sleepiness as the seconds went by.

 …That was until an electric sensation shot across his spine, leading him to almost jump in the same place 

 “S-stop nuzzling me!”

 “Hm? Oh sorry.” Virgil pressed his lips tightly closed, preventing the wobbly giggles to escape as Roman speaks, not realizing how close his mouth was from the base of his neck, every breath sending tickly shocks across every nerve. “You’re just too much sooooft.”

 Roman opened an eye when realized that no snark remark from the other followed his words, the figure in his arms shaking too much to be asleep. A frown painted his feature as he readjusted the position of his hands, trying to get a bit more of balance to look at Virgil’s face when suddenly a high-pitched yelp escaped, cutting the air and immediately catching their attention.

 “Did you just squeal?” He questioned as his glare assumed a playful shine seeing a blush spread on his now frozen friend.

 “It was NOT a squeal! It was a yelp.” Virgil’s words came so fast that they almost tripped on themselves. Roman snorted, a smile taking over his face. “Get off me!” and, in the moment the one wearing a hoodie tried to pry his hand from the spot on his right side where it was resting, the pieces finally clicked in the right place and his smile quickly submerged, giving space to a smirk.

 ‘No WAY Doctor Doom and Gloom is ticklish!’

 However, the red lover only blinked as the true personification of innocence and naiveness, his hand firm in its place, fingers starting to slowly move, light pokes being delivered on the sensitive skin. “But why that, Knight Mare? It’s cold and all I could ever want is just to hug my bestest friend!”

 “You already hugged me, now go aWAY!” His voice trembled in the last second, the exact moment his thumb experimentally scratched the spot right under the lowest ribs, leading a surprised squeak to leave Virgil’s mouth.

 They both stared at each other, gleaming, filling their wide eyes.

 “No.” Virgil said, trying to squirm away but finding himself stuck between Prince and the wall. Roman didn’t even attempt to hide his smug grin, anymore. This was going to be so much fun

 “Don’t you dare! Don’t you freaking dare!!” His friend only laid down again, now carefully, yet firmly, pulling him one more time against his chest, growling playfully. Years and years fighting for the Tickle Monster title on his family, battles and battles against Remus only sharpening his skills, which showed by the way his fingers seemed to find every single weak spot on Virgil’s skin, wiggles, scribbles, pokes and scratching exploring everywhere. “No! Nononono! You fucker, you moron, you bitch, you-” A few chuckles cut his curses as he one wearing pajamas squeezed his side a couple of times, the tip of his fingers also teasing his ticklish stomach. “Roman!!”

 “No, no, my so dear, so ticklish, friend. Roman is no longer here, this is…” He paused for a dramatic effect, basically beaming at the giggly giggles and wiggly wiggles from the other. He shoved his face on his neck, the next words vibrating almost as bad as the spidering on his ribs. “The Tickle Monster!!”

[sevenkittensinatrenchcoat]

Scribbled Screenshots: Bustopher Jones Part One

CW: There will be Misto/Bustopher jokes, as well as Many Cats/Bustopher jokes. Bustopher is everyone’s senpai. If you’re offended by these jokes but were fine with the Tugger ones...dude some of these are literally the same jokes.

Jelly: You’re all in time-out for being nice to Grizabella

Etcetera: But the boys got time-out for being mean to her!

Misto: *keysmash*

Jelly: And, unlike SOME PEOPLE, he doesn’t go to pubs

Jenny: that’s hot

Bomba: Did a pub kill your mother or something?

Skimble: notice me senpai

Jenny: I want him to take me...to one of his clubs

Jelly: same

Bomba: You judge me for being horny, but listen to yourselves!

Pouncival: im a tall boy

Skimble: uh-oh kitten antics!

Most Toms: *entire crowd of incoherent screaming*

Misto: Did I do good?

Munk: Yes, you’re a good boy

Etcetera: Mom i wanna play with the boys

Jelly: Not now, Cettie. I’m singing the chorus

Exotica: What am I supposed to do in this movie?

Jelly: Hey, Bustopher <3

Jenny: I <3 u

Bomba: I’m not actually flirting this time but I also think you’re cool!

George: :D my face froze

Pouncival: Being tall didn’t get Bustopher to notice me, so now what?

Alonzo: omfgbustopher

Coricopat: Can he see me?

George: don’t :D gentlemen don’t :D

Pouncival: Hello, sir!

Misto: Wait. I’m stuck behind everybody else

George: :D :D :D

Alonzo: Careful, George

Tumble: I’m a fanboy too!

Misto: I’m in the back and the other boys are all clowns. Shit!

Bomba: Uh...George?

George: My knee is a decent pillow

Bustopher: You guys gonna bow to me or something?

Plato: ???

Pouncival: Oh shit

Skimble: Oh god this is gonna be a disaster

Alonzo: *respectful nod*

Skimble: Most Gentlemanly Bow

Plato: *stress*

Pouncival: shitshitshit

Bustopher: Is that Mini Me from before the only youth who knows how to bow in this tribe?

Pouncival: Is this a bow?

Skimble: Did Plato just fall over?

George: :D

Bustopher: I don’t know what I was expecting...

Bustopher: I return your salute, good sir

Tumble: dude what

Bomba: omfg

Jenny: Munk/Bustopher/Me ot3

Bustopher: run along

Munk: okay...

Etcetera: I can salute better than stupid Pouncival

Alonzo: Leaving already? But what about second chorus?

Munk: Go right ahead

Bomba: You can’t just ditch your musical number less than a minute in!

Alonzo: The second chorus is the normal chorus that all productions use!

Jenny: I still love you!

Jelly: Misto, what are you doing?

Misto: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Etcetera: notice me

Jelly: Misto no

Misto: Don’t leave me daddy!!!

Munk: uh-oh

Bomba: Can you not hear the screaming?

Munk: Wait no

Jemima: I almost got stepped on

Misto: taiw puw

Misto: oof

Bustopher: r u okay?

Tumble: I wonder if another Misto would be more stable*

Munk: Pay no attention to taiw puw antics

*(I’ve noticed that Mistos in fully London-based productions tend to be less crazy around Bustopher than ones from Broadway-based productions, and the one, which adds a Broadway Misto to a mostly London cast. Tumble was played by a London Misto. That is the joke.)

Misto: I’m okay

Skimble: I found a chair

Munk: That’s a hat, but it’ll work

Etcetera: Bomba can I sit with u?

Misto: I’m so cute why won’t Bustopher notice me

Bustopher: To be fair, I don’t notice most people

Etcetera: please?

Bomba: idk

Cassandra: I shall remain in this dark corner, judging all of you

Etcetera: Cori your stupid butt is in my face

Bomba: I’m sitting with Jemima

Misto: I’ve spent all evening trying to prove myself as an adult, and now I’m kitten crawling wtf

Bustopher: No one’s answered the daddy question

Bomba: Whichever’s funnier!

Etcetera: ill bite u

Bustopher: This hat that you found in the garbage is dusty

Munk: Should’ve thought of that

Misto: How dare you offer Bustopher-senpai a dusty chair!

Skimble: I got this

Tantomile: Etcetera r u biting my brother’s ass?

Victoria: I like Bustopher

Jelly: You have taste

Jemima: Bomba!

Bomba: You look like my kid, so you get to sit with me

Etcetera: I just wanna be included!

Tumble: Why can’t I stand with the grown-ups?

Pouncival: I’m used to being baby tbh

Coricopat: Teach me your ways, wise one

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Whumpers Only

I wish I could explain how this got away from me but I have no words. Not quite a caretaker, so, sorry anon, but here you go.

CW: Brief drug and alcohol mention

The itemized call history that crossed Detective Vance’s desk is deceptively extensive and several pages thick, despite being only for a few months’ span of time. Forensics still have their hands all over the cell phone itself, and the detective has a few choice words they could say about the forensic team’s work ethic, but they’re not in the practice of layering their insults in honey. Their bread and butter is to to dig and root around for information, like some sort of truffle pig, and their tongue is regularly knotted. The detective finds themself quite defective when it comes to spinning the same pleasant, nuanced banter, certainly not enough to keep up with the man down in forensics with the sugar sweet smile.

So, itemized call list it is. It took the detective an obscene amount of time to cross reference the numbers against every possible database and to confirm the pattern to the suspect's behaviors and narrow down which numbers are legitimate. Most of all, which of these numbers matches the spurious rumor of a hotline.

A ‘whump’ hotline. There are many, many similar mentions in certain circles and apparently coded messages sent through various forms of advertising, and yet, this is the closest Jesse has come to interacting with that sphere. They’re not sure, but they think that might be why they still can’t bring themself to finish dialing.

The information has always been there, readily accessed in the same sort of way drugs and alcohol are accessible - a thinly veiled barrier, a little social based pressure to avoid or partake depending on the circles. For years, Jesse has been a teetotaler and avoided whump content in any respect, and kept that influence from their life.

It’s odd to abandon that part of their life, that internal badge of never having indulged.

It’s for a case, however, so they finally stop their waffling and dial.

Not long after, on the second ring, someone picks up. “Hello and thank you for calling 1-877-WHMP-NOW, the whump specialist hotline.” The person on the other end, an operator of some sort, offers a friendly greeting.

Off balanced by just how cordial the other person sounds, Jesse hesitates a moment to collect themself. They just have to pretend to want to be a whumper. That couldn't be too hard. “Um…” they mumble, then clear their throat. “Um, hi, I... want to learn to whump. My name is-”

“Oh. Excuse me, I’ll have to place you on hold while a representative finishes with another client.”

The cheery hold music is far more underwhelming than anything else and Jesse frowns at the phone, as if it’s the device’s fault, before sighing and settling on their couch, one leg tossed over the arm while they wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Eventually they start mirroring the words of the automated voice recording, interjecting with their own commentary in the brief pauses between statements.

“All our lines are busy at the moment.”

“And here at Whump Corp or whatever these moments last a lifetime,” Jesse snorts as they try yet again to find another position on the couch. Their curly hair serves little by way of cushioning from the carpet as they sit upside down. The phone sits a few inches away from their head, speakerphone enabled, and Jesse crosses their hands over their stomach and their ankles behind the back of the couch.

Undeterred, because of course, the message continues, “Please remain patient. Your time is very important to us. We will be with you momentarily.”

“Momentarily means for a short period,” Jesse corrects under their breath. It’s a small pet peeve, something that normally wouldn’t have drawn their attention either, but as they hear the same spiel for the dozenth time, it’s like getting the last final small pebble thrown in their face- just enough to burst the dam. "Not in a short period of time."

“We are currently experiencing greater than usual call volume. Continue to hold the line, and you will be connected as soon as possible.”

“How many people can there even be calling at 11am on a Tuesday?” Gravity draws Jesse’s blood into their head until the pressure and dizziness build uncomfortably. They roll off the couch and root around in their mini fridge for a drink. At this volume, they can hear the same three bar hold music repeat yet again, despite the distance. Cracking the seal on their iced tea, Jesse settles cross legged beside the cellphone. “Don’t whump on company time, guys, jeez.”

“Just a moment please, the next available team member will be there for you shortly.”

Letting out a drawn out groan, Jesse lies back and stares up at the ceiling. It’s been hours. “Starting to think I’m waiting for the next available team member to be born.”

Click. Jesse bolts upright, fumbling with the phone and nearly yeeting it across the room in their haste.

“All of our employees are currently busy assisting other clients,” the new voice announces. The faint static and electric tone warns Jesse that they’ve simply stumbled into another robot. “Your call and phone number has just been noted and a representative will call you back as soon as possible. We thank you for your understanding.”

“What?” That doesn’t make any sense. Jesse runs a hand through their curls, only to freeze as the line goes dead. “What?! No! I did not just sit through hours of happy fun time hold music just to get hung up on by a robot!”

Except that’s exactly what just happened.

They stare down at their screen in acute betrayal. What now? Try again? Their number is now in a whump call center database of some sort.

-

Half an hour after the call disconnected, Jesse still hasn’t moved from their position. Their mind is a blur as they try to figure out what it is they really ended up doing- if they would have to explain themself and the call to anyone- their family, friends, service provider, work. They don’t even know if anyone will know, let alone if they will care.

The house is absolutely silent, the muted television still playing in the background as they’d forgotten to turn it off or to return the volume.

Silent until the phone rings. Shock and no small amount of recklessness has Jesse answering the unknown number.

“Hello, and thank you for holding!” It’s the operator from before- Jesse recognizes the faint impediment or accent that sharpens the glottal sound of their h’s.

“I wouldn’t call that holding,” Jesse grumbles.

Either not hearing them, or not addressing their commentary, the operator continues, “At this time, I'd like to let you know that this call may be recorded for quality assurance and training purposes. Please answer the following survey questions.”

“I’ve been on hold for hours and you want me to perform a survey? About what? I haven’t even gotten helped!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, friend. Were you highly satisfied with your service experience?”

Bewildered, Jesse cries, “No!”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you receive the result you needed from your service interaction?”

“What interaction?!” Are they in the Twilight Zone? Are they still speaking English? Did they have a stroke and now they’re mumbling incoherently? What sort of madness was this, an elaborate prank?

“Thank you for your response. Did you receive friendly service?”

“I didn’t get any service! Rude would have been preferable!”

“Your feedback has been noted.”

Jesse groans again and scrubs their face.

“Was our service timely and convenient?”

“Not on your life!”

“Thank you for your responses. Now, would you recommend our service to others?”

They can feel their head pulsing and pounding, a twitch behind their temple and their eyebrow jumping, but as soon as they hang up, their blood pressure begins to lower with a rush of relief.

Their iced tea now room temperature and bitter, Jesse takes a few more sips and leans against the couch, resting their neck against the cushion. “What a disaster,” they sigh.

After a few seconds of blissful silence, their phone goes off again. Swiping the decline button with a vicious smirk, they return to enjoying what more of their day they can.

Said enjoyment ends with another call, and another.

“Fine! Hello?”

“I’m sorry, it seems we were disconnected. Please finish providing your feedback so we can improve our services.”

“My feedback is that this was an exercise is madness! You kept me on hold for over two hours, but you’ve repeatedly called me for a stupid survey when before you couldn’t give me the time of day!”

“I’ve very sorry you were not satisfied with the level of response and attentiveness. You are welcome to try calling again tomorrow-”

“Absolutely no-”

“As I was saying, Mx. Vance, you may call the hotline again tomorrow during regular business hours. Thank you for completing the survey and for calling 1-877-WHMP-NOW. Have a whumpderful day!”

“A pun?” Jesse tosses their phone to the couch and storms off to the bathroom to wash the rage and boiling heat from their face. “All that for a stupid pun?!”

-

Over at the call center, Gladys and Fran sit huddled around the phone, Gladys actually sitting on the desk and perched precariously on the edge. The speaker button still flashes from the abrupt disconnection.

“Did you hear them?” Gladys roars with laughter, holding her aching ribs. It took everything in her willpower and then some to keep quiet, both while listening to the detective while they were on hold, but especially while Fran spoke with them. Now free, she lets loose, uncaring of who else hears her. “Oh God, oh man, I’m gonna bust a rib. Babe, you’re the best.”

“I’m actually proud of that pun. Like, really proud.” Fran takes out their pen and quickly scribbles that one down.

“Uhhh, Fran, I’m pretty sure Craig in finance already-”

They raise up one finger imperiously and continue to write. “Let me have my moment, Glady-girl. Just this once.”

Smiling, she rolls her eyes and slides off the desk. “Since you gave me the best lunch break surprise ever, want to head down to the cafe?”

Fran takes a final quick look at their work space, how messy and disorganized it is now that it’s no longer Gladys’s chair, considers the amount of time left in their shift and how long this high of a well played prank might last, and wheels back from their desk. “Lead the way!”

“Oh, no, you’re my hero,” she insists, dramatically bowing to allow them to go ahead of her. The angle is perfect for a quick peck on the cheek before they make their way down the corridors.

[venusxxlangdon]

Of Mice and Snakes

Pairing: Michael Langdon x fem!reader x Tom Riddle

Word Count: 12.3k

Warnings: crossover (Hogwarts AU), smut, threesome, dirty talk, anal sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, oral (male on female and vice versa), fingering, humiliation, choking, mention of blood as a part of a ritual. All characters are 18+ (the reader is the seventh year student)    

Summary:  AU where the reader does not know that curiosity killed the cat and agrees to a midnight rendezvous with the Slytherin Heir and his best friend Michael Langdon.  

A/N: this epos (lmao the smut is endless, so epos is the right word to describe this madness) is based on my Slytherin!Michael headcanon & the ask I have received the other day: Slytherin Michael and Tom Riddle seeing who can get you to squirt first and they just keep making you cum over and over and you’re so sensitive but they’re mean and have big egos so they keep going even if you’re crying. Just imagine. (wow, nonny, your mind!!!)  Special thank you to my Slytherin binches @avesatanormalpeoplescareme & @ccodyfern who plotted the smut scene with me  

In addition, this is such a Michael-centric fic even though it’s a threesome that I’m crying at how much of Michael’s binch I am

“To caress the serpent that devours us, until it has eaten away our heart”

  – Voltaire

You knew you should not have kept a mysterious diary that you had found in your bag after Divination class. It appeared out of nowhere, and nobody seemed to know whom it belonged to. So eventually, you were sitting in the Slytherin common room, running your fingers along the hardcover of the notebook and contemplating if you could use it for your own purposes. It looked expensive. The cover was black, made of what it seemed like a snakeskin  – you wondered if it was faux  – encrusted with the copper fixtures on the edges.

O.W.L.s were approaching, so maybe having a spare notebook in your possession was not a bad idea, you thought to yourself, picking up a quill to put your name on the first page. When a thick drop of black ink fell on the sheet, you gasped in frustration, thinking that you must have ruined the blank surface. You wanted the very first note to be pretty, but instead, you had messed it up without even writing a single word! Suddenly your eyes widened at the sight of a fat smudge disappearing before your eyes as if the page was absorbing it like a sponge. You dipped the quill into an inkstand once again and wrote your first and last names.

The intricate handwriting faded away, and just a moment after, you saw some new words making their way on the yellow sheet.

 “Tom Marvolo Riddle and Michael Langdon are honored to meet you Y/F/N/Y/L/N”

 You were a reasonable witch and perfectly aware that the unknown artifacts were dangerous and should have been investigated before use; however, you licked your lips nervously and looked around in case any of the students or ghosts (Bloody Baron had a reputation of sticking his nose into everybody’s business) were watching you and wrote down:

 “Who are you?”

 The answer made you arch your brows in surprise.

 “Slytherin students.”

 There should have been a mistake because being a Slytherin prefect you knew everyone, or at least the majority of them. If there were someone who created such artifact, you would definitely know them. You frowned, and the thought of this whole thing being a prank crossed your mind.

 “Your names don’t seem familiar to me,” you scribbled, impatiently waiting for the reply.

 “We studied at Hogwarts long ago.”

 “I found this notebook in my bag. Is there any way I can mail it back to you? I don’t want anyone’s things in my possession.”

 It took a couple of minutes for them to reply. While you were waiting, you tore a small piece of a scroll off and wrote down “Michael Langdon and Tom Riddle” in order to check whom these people were later. When you glanced at the diary sprawled out in front of you, there was an answer:

 “This diary is the memory of ours. It chooses its next owner by itself. This time it’s you, so there’s no need to give it back. You can use it.”

 “But I technically I can’t use it for my notes. Whatever I write down disappears.”

 “You are right, but you can also enjoy our company. The fellow Slytherins will always get each other’s back. Besides, we know all the secrets of Hogwarts.”

 It was not a peaceful time for the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. After Mrs. Norris was petrified by the unknown creature and the threat of the Slytherin Heir being back written in blood was found on the wall, everybody lost their minds. Even though you really disliked Harry Potter who was believed to be in charge of consternation, you did not think it was his fault, neither you considered Malfoy being a part of it. Once you overheard him gossiping about it in the common room and trying to persuade Crabbe and Goyle that he was a self-proclaimed Heir. When he said that, you scoffed, hiding your grin behind the book you were reading and thought to yourself that the second years were absolutely insufferable. Draco’s bravado was the epitome of his youthful maximalism.

 Curious by nature, you could not stand the idea of being unaware of what was going on around you. The floor of the crime scene was prohibited for students to enter until the investigations were over, so you dedicated most of your time to doing the research in the library, picking the information about the Chamber of Secrets crumb by crumb, and trying to complete the puzzle. Unfortunately, you had not been able to find much, and it was driving you crazy. In one particular book, you read a legend about a beast which of many fearsome monsters was the most dangerous one. Basilisk, or the King of Serpents, was believed to reach a gigantic size and live many hundreds of years. Its killing methods were wondrous from biting with its venomous fangs to murdering its victims with a stare. The last part seemed especially intriguing to you, and it was the reason why you concentrated your attention on this paragraph. On the one hand, it looked similar to what had happened to the cat, but on the other, Madam Pomfrey said it had been petrified, not killed, which made your assumptions false. Moreover, you really did not think that Dumbledore would have allowed a monster in the castle. The mysterious Chamber of Secrets seemed like an old fairy tale students would tell each other late at night for fun, but when Tom and Michael mentioned that they knew all the secret things of Hogwarts, you decided to try your luck and ask them about your conspiracy theories. 

 They found your Achilles hill without much effort. Your curiosity was stronger than your common sense, and maybe it was the reason why you still did not close the diary and throw it away for good in the Room of Requirement.

 “Do you guys know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

 You bit your lower lip in anticipation and rested your chin on your hand, staring at the blank page.

 “What exactly do you want to know?”

 Well, shit, did the Chamber actually exist? It was the moment when you could ask them anything, but all the thoughts turned into incoherent flux you could not form into a proper sentence.

 Your handwriting became messier as you started writing, holding a quill tightly.

 “Is it really in Hogwarts? Who is the Slytherin Heir? Does Basilisk exist? I have done some research, but I’m not sure if my sources are reliable.”

 You put the quill aside and leaned back on your chair, placing your palms that involuntarily got all sweaty, on your uniform-clad thighs.

 “Well, well, what an eager girl we got here. You have too many questions for us, Y/N...”

 Crimson blush flushed across your cheeks at the pet name.

 “Could you, please, answer them?”

 You did not want to miss your only chance to find out the new information, even though it was obvious that you could not trust some random diary, which happened to be...only God knew what exactly it was. You figured that after you were done fishing for the new facts you would head to the library to check them out.

 “...too many questions, perhaps, we could answer. Since you’ve asked so nicely, we think we can show you what we know.”

 “Show me?”

 You did not know what to expect, maybe an essay on the Chamber of Secrets that would appear on the page, but certainly not the following lines:

 “As we have said, this diary is just a container of our memories. If you want us to answer your questions, tonight, at 1 a.m. you should go to the dungeon and bring it along with you. Open it on page twenty five and write “me videbunt*” in your blood.”

 Your heartbeat sped up. Sneaking late at night was not a problem for a prefect, but you doubted if you really needed to get involved in this suspicious venture.

 “Is it safe? I would rather prefer to find out who you two are before we could cooperate.”

 “Then it’s a good thing that you have plenty of time till 1 am.”

 You glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall with two snakes that represented hour and minutes hands. They showed 6:30 p.m. The reading room closed at 10.

 “Section 53. Raw 11. Shelf 9.” were the last words Tom and Michael left for you.

 xxx

 Sixth. Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Your fingers walked on the book spines looking for the one that could tell you about the mysterious Slytherin students. None of the books seemed suitable for your purpose. They were on magical creatures, charms, transfiguration, and...the Triwizard Tournament. As soon as your fingertips brushed against the hardcover of it, the copper ornament of the diary you were holding against your chest with the free hand, heated up and scorched your palm. You gasped and looked at the reddened skin in confusion. Having picked the book from the shelf you made your way to a long table occupied by some Gryffindor students who shot pretentious glares at you as soon as you approached them. Without paying any attention to them, you took a seat, placed your bag on a bench next to you, and opened the book.

 The Tournament never really interested you. It was renowned for being extremely dangerous: champions had died while competing, and it was discontinued at some point due to the high death toll. However, it was revived in 1945 when wizards just like Muggles had to face the terror of WWII and needed something that would bring the most powerful Wizarding schools together and create the spirit of unity. You opened the table of content and scanned through the titles.

 “Champions of 1294”

 “No, it’s too early,” you thought to yourself, moving your finger down the page.

 “Champions of 1494” Skip.

 “Champions of 1792”Maybe? No, nothing.

 “Champions of 1945” It was the last tournament so far. You flipped through the pages, looking for the familiar names, eyes scanning every line.

 “Tom Marvolo Riddle, Slytherin champion, page 1055” and then “Michael Langdon, Slytherin champion. Disqualified. Page 1056.”

 On the mentioned pages there was a column written by a journalist from the Daily Prophet with a huge headline “Hogwarts champions have not outsmart the Goblet of Fire.”

 “Two seventh year students Tom Marvolo Riddle and Michael Langdon were so anticipated for the Triwizard Tournament that they decided to compel the Goblet of Fire for it to select them as Hogwarts Champions on September 25, 1945. Despite the outstanding performance of Confundus, only Mr. Riddle has been presented an honor to compete in the Tournament....”

 You could not finish reading the article, being too fascinated with the picture of two young boys smiling and waving their hands at you. You glanced at the description to figure out who was who. They looked very much alike: both were tall, dressed in the perfectly ironed Slytherin uniforms, and looking way too happy for those whose plan had not worked out. Even though the picture was black & white you could tell that Tom had dark hair, and Michael was blond. A cheeky smile on Michael’s full lips made you blush, and you rolled your eyes at your own reaction. You traced your fingers across the page, contouring their silhouettes pensively. They were extremely good looking. Tom did not win the tournament that year, but he and Michael certainly got their dose of glory.

 Did THEY really communicate with you via the diary? They mentioned that it was just a container of their memories, but how could it adapt to your questions if they had not been a part of the diary’s data?

  “Hey, Y/N,” you lifted your head up from the book at Thomas Finnigan, a Ravenclaw Prefect.

 “Yes?”

 “We’ll start the evening checkup in 20 minutes, okay? You take the fifth and sixth floors.”

 You blinked at him in confusion.

 “Wait, what? What time is it?”

 “Half past nine,” he curiously looked at the book you were reading, and you hurried to close it and put in under the Transfiguration textbook.

 “I must have got carried away,” you mumbled, still surprised that time had passed so fast. It was weird, you swore that you had come to the library at least thirty minutes ago.

 “Twenty minutes,” Thomas reminded you and left you alone with your thoughts.

 As soon as he left, you opened the same page with a picture of Tom and Michael. Having made sure that nobody was watching you, you took your wand out and cleared your throat.

 “Gemino,” and just like that, with a flick of your wrist, the photograph multiplied. You took the copy and hid it into the inner pocket of your robe.

 Half past nine. You still had some time.

 xxx

The best time of the day was when all students were in their common rooms, and you only had to stroll through the empty hallways checking if everything was alright. Your steps echoed in the distance, drawing the attention of the portraits who scrunched up their noses complaining that you were too loud, but you could care less. Being too caught up in your thoughts, you made your way to the moving staircases. You only needed to find Peter, the head of the prefects, fill out the daily report, and you would be done for the night. It felt like, with every step, the photograph in your pocket was heating up, sending the radiant waves of warmth down your spine, as a reminder that you were running out of time. Anticipation coiled in the pit of your stomach making you sick; you hold onto the staircase when it started moving in the direction of the fourth floor.

 They said they were Slytherin students and you saw the uniforms with your own eyes, so theoretically, you could trust them because there was an unspoken rule of Slytherins unconditionally respecting their mates.

 “The only person you should ever trust is yourself,” you whispered under your breath the reminder you and every Slytherin student lived by.

It was unsafe to sneak out this late when there was an unidentified entity that was petrifying students. Who knew, maybe in the darkness of the dungeons, it would attack you?

 You went downstairs and stormed into Professor Snape’s office where every day from 9 to 11 p.m Peter Goldberg was of filling out the reports. He was sitting on a tall chair, scraping on a piece of parchment.

 “Hey, Peter,” you threw your beg aside but did not pay attention to where it landed. By the sound of some pots falling over the table, you knew it was not going to be a nice morning for Professor Snape on the following day.

 Peter tsked at you.

 “Could you, please, be more careful for fuck’s sake?”

 “Everything’s fine out there, where’s the report?” You ignored the question, hopping on a chair next to him. He nodded at a pile of parchment in front of him.

 “If you manage to find it in this mess,” he waved his hand at the numerous papers flooding his desk, “you are welcome to fill it in.”

 “Why don’t you make some freshmen do all the paperwork for you?” You asked, looking through the pile of endless notes, important documents, drafts and what not.

 Peter tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 “Because they are stupid and incompetent,” he said it as if it was the most obvious thing. “If you want something to be done right, you need to do it yourself.”

 You hummed in response and spotted the corner of the sheet you were looking for on the opposite side of the desk. You leaned forward and took it out of the pile trying not to ruin it.

 “Then don’t complain about it,” you noted as you put your signature next to your name. “Here, all done.”

 Peter took the paper out of your hands and threw it on top of the folders. You watched him do it with your arms crossed across your chest, thinking it was no wonder that his desk was a mess.

 “What are you up to tonight?” He wondered without taking his eyes off the parchment.

 The question brought the thoughts of Tom and Michael back on your mind. In fact, they were always there, tempting you to say “yes” to the little rendezvous past midnight. You nervously chewed your bottom lip while taking a few steps towards your bag which was tossed on the floor.

 “Most certainly, sleep. I’ve been studying for O.W.L.s all day, and…”

You turned your head at Peter who clearly looked uninterested, being completely absorbed in work. Before you walked out of the class, you took your wand out and whispered “Scourgify” placing the papers in order.

 “No, no, no!” Peter shouted, his eyes wide open in terror, “these documents are charmed, they have to be sorted out manually, Y/N! That’s why I have been fucking with them all this time!”

 A road to hell is paved with good intentions.

 You did not know that, so you quickly stormed out of the classroom, giggling at Peter’s grunts behind the closed door.

“Sorry!”

 xxx

Of course, sleep was the last thing on your mind when you were lying in bed fully dressed in your black skinny jeans and a turtleneck. You were thankful for the canopy hiding you from the eyes of your roommates because dealing with unnecessary questions was not on the bucket list. The diary was right next to your thigh, tossed negligently on the white linen sheets. Your fingers lingered against the fabric searching for the photograph. You brought it to your face, looking at Tom and Michael for the hundredth time. It was obvious that you had made your decision right after you came from your night patrol and instead of changing into your pajamas, you put on your casual clothes.

 You: 0

Michael and Tom: 1

 It was 00:45 a.m. when you sat up on the bed and carefully listened to the sounds behind the thick curtains. You pulled the canopy aside and whispered “Quietus”, aiming at the sleeping girls. You clapped your hands in order to make sure that the charm had worked, and after no one reacted to the sound, you jumped off the bed and headed out to the common room.

 Sneaking on your tiptoes, you crept your way up the set of the stone steps to the door that was on the right side of the Entrance Hall (if coming down the marble staircase facing the front doors of the castle.) You gently pushed it, trying not to disturb the snoring portrait of the entrance guard.

 The blood in your temples was drumming so fast, you thought it was so loud that it could wake the entire Hogwarts up. You crossed your fingers, hoping that Snape was asleep. Filch was not a problem at all. The old twat was scared to go to the Slytherin dungeon, especially after his bloody cat had been petrified.

 It was so dark, almost impossible to see anything. You looked around and, taking a tight grip on your wand, whispered:

 “Lumos minima”

 A faint ball of light scorched at the pointy tip of your wand, lighting up your path. It was bright enough to see where you were going, yet dim not to attract attention. Your feet noiselessly glided along the stone floor. You did not know how deep you should have gone into the dungeon, so after you made sure that Snape’s classroom was left far behind you, you stopped and kneeled on the cold concrete. You slid the bag off your shoulder and took the quill and the diary out.

 1 a.m.

 You took a deep breath, and with slightly trembling fingers counted twenty-five pages. There it was. You smoothed the crispy sheet with your palm. Your hand sneaked onto the back pocket of your jeans, and you carefully drew a small razor blade out. Fuck. Did you really have to do it?  You prepared the quill and closed your eyes.

One. Two. Three.

 “Ouch!” You winced at the stinging pain when you slid the blade across your palm and a dribble of blood ran down your hand. You dipped the sharp point of the quill into the liquid and wrote down:

 “Me videbunt”

 You realized that you were holding your breath all the time. You inhaled a fetid air of the dungeon and leaned back on your hills. Nothing happened.

 “Vulnera Sanentur,” You murmured, healing the stinging cut.

 You heard your heavy breathing in the deafening silence, the drops of water dripping from the ceiling, and your mad heartbeat. The scarlet red inscription refused to disappear. You should have known better. It must have been a prank.

 “Me videbunt,” you mocked yourself, growling the words out through your gritted teeth. What an idiot. Annoyed, you grabbed the quill and showed it back into your bag. Right when you were about to close the diary and leave for good, you noticed that the writing started fading away. You dropped your bag and leaned forward, your nose inches away from the page. You could feel the copper smell of it. Blood started eroding the yellow sheet, and soon a bright light filled up the cracks on the page. It kept growing, spreading out beyond the edges of the notebook, enveloping everything around it. Including you. Before you could even blink, you were falling into the radiance.

 Boom.

 Your back hit a firm surface of what felt like marble. A dull pain pierced through you, and you moaned, rolling onto your side. Your fingers brushed against the floor and you scrunched up your nose at the sight of a disgusting goo covering your digits. What the fuck was that? You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked around.

 Your mouth fell open in shock. An enormous room sprawled out before you. A statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous grey feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor.* You could recognize the man in seconds. You had seen the portraits of him everywhere from history books to the packaging of chocolate frogs. It was Salazar Slytherin.

 Suddenly the sound of somebody’s steps drew your attention. You turned your head and saw a silhouette of a tall figure approaching you. Instinctively, your fingers slid down to the waistband of your jeans where your wand was tugged securely.

 “There’s no need to take your wand out,” a clear voice rang through the Chamber.

 You narrowed your eyes, trying to understand who the man was. When he came closer, you gasped, realizing that he was the one you saw in the picture. His black hair was laid in short smooth waves in contrast with his pale, porcelain skin. Dark piercing eyes were drilling through you, and you could not help yourself but think that you had never seen such mesmerizing color before. Two pristine stones of onyx that looked soulless. You gulped heavily, tightening the grip on the handle of your wand.

 “You’re Tom Riddle,” your voice sounded foreign to you.

 He reached his hand out to help you stand up. His touch was cold as ice. Nearly stumbling, you got to your feet, without taking your eyes off of his chiseled face.

 “What an honor to have such guest as you are, Ms. Y/L/M,” his full lips curled in a smirk.

 You put your hands on your waste, massaging the bruised pelvis, and nervously asked:

 “Where are we?”

 “In the Chamber of Secrets.”

 He let you take a few steps forward and whirl around to have proper look at the room. The Chamber looked fearfully impressive.

 “I don’t understand,” you muttered. “Does the professors know about it?“

 You looked at Tom, who was going around you in slow circles, like a predator hunting its prey, his eyes examining your body.

 “Of course they do. Dumbledore is not a fool to buy the idea of it being a myth. Salazar Slytherin built this Chamber centuries ago. It was the legacy of our faculty, I thought you had already known it.”

 “I didn’t know if I could take this information seriously. Nobody had been here before...”

 You stopped talking when Tom let out a chuckle.

 “Well, that’s where they have done their work,” his eyes twinkled devilishly, “they made sure to erase all evidence that two Hogwarts most talented students who made it to the Triwizard Tournament had opened the notorious Chamber of Secrets and awoken the beast.”

 A shiver ran down your spine. You looked at the goo covering the floor here and there and assumed it was Basilisk’s traces. You should have left right at that moment.

 “M-Michael did not make it as a champion,” you stuttered. Your intuition was particularly screaming that it was time to leave. Something was wrong about Tom and the way he stared at you.

 “Please, don’t remind him about that. He’s still so pissed,” Riddle playfully rolled his eyes.

 “What happened to you? Why are you here?” You were too scared to ask if he was alive. The icy touch of his hand left a weird sensation on your palm.

 Tom put his hands behind his back and with an ostentatiously serious look on his face explained:

 “Once upon a time,” you wondered if he ever talked without making everything sound so dramatic, “I had led a peaceful life as an average freshman of Slytherin, you know...pranked Gryffindor rivals, been the best student in class, “he winked at you. “Until one day, I heard a voice calling my name. Apparently, I was the only who could hear it, and at first, I thought I was mental... Little did I know that I was meant to understand Parseltongue, and it was Basilisk, calling for me, its only owner.” Tom grinned, showing his perfect white teeth.

 You looked at him with wide eyes.

 “But only the Slytherin Heir...”

 “Can tame the beast,” Riddle was so excited he could not even let you finish the sentence. “Yes, Yes, Yes!”

 Your head started spinning. The next moment you were aiming your wand at Tom.

 “I want to get out,” you hissed.

 Tom did not even move an inch. He glanced at your trembling hand and smirked.

 “Where are going, love?” a fake pout touched his lips. “Don’t you want to meet Michael? You seemed so eager writing those silly questions in our diary.”

 And just when he pronounced the last word, a loud crash roared through the Chamber. The stone mouth of the stature opened up, and you saw a large head of a snake crawling out of it. You cried out and backed off, moving your wand in the direction of the monster. The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars.** Fear, crushing onto your in destructive tides, made you numb and pinned you to your spot. You found yourself unable to move as if every muscle of your body was paralyzed.

 You heard Tom scoff “What a showoff,” and saw that there was a guy sitting on top of the snake’s giant head. The beast was so big that it almost took half of the room. It whipped its tail across the floor and bowed its head, letting the blond man jump off and gracefully lend on his feet.

 “I honestly think that he loves you more than me,” Riddle said, taking a few steps forward to stroke Basilisk’s scaly skin.

 “Well, if you weren’t a dick and accompanied him for the hunt, he would not be so putty in my hands.” A deep velvety baritone infiltrated your body, making your insides shiver.

 Michael Langdon was even more handsome in flesh than he was in the photograph. He was taller than Tom indeed, his long legs and broad torso resembled young Adonis. His jawline was so sharp that he could use it to cut your heart out of your chest.

 “And here is our little pen friend,” he mused and approached you with long, elegant strides. When he reached out his hands, you doubted if it was safe to touch him. However, being raised as a well-mannered lady, you did not want to seem rude. You were going just to shake his hand, but he covered your small palms with his large ones, squeezing them. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N. We were afraid that you would not be able to bless us with your visit tonight.” The corners of his mouth twitched.

 “Frankly speaking, I doubted it, too,” you mumbled.

 “She had wanted to leave right before you came, Michael,” Tom scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest. Your eyes gleamed at him with annoyance. Riddle could have done better and kept his tongue behind his teeth, but he was a cheeky asshole who liked to exaggerate things.

 Michael folded his hands neatly behind his back.

 “Why is that? Has my friend treated you badly?” He tilted his head, amused by the way your cheeks turned pink.

 “No, no, I just...,” your eyes traveled from Riddle to Langdon back and forth. “Tom told me he was the Slytherin Heir, but I had been thinking that this whole thing with Salazar Slytherin was just another legend.”

 “We had always wanted to make it to the pages of the magical books,” he ran his fingers through his soft blond locks. “It was just the matter of time and our creativity how we would do it.”

 “How did you find the Chamber? Why are you still here? How fucking old are you?” Your voice betrayed you and you almost yelled the last question at the top of your lungs.

 “Basilisk showed me the entrance,” Tom explained. “I had to tell Michael after he had caught me sneaking out late at night.”

 Langdon nodded.

 “If you had not told me we would’ve never become immortal,” a self-satisfied smirk touched his lips when he noticed your reaction. “I was the one who came up with a plan to trap our souls here and create the diary as a messenger.”

“Why would you want to rot in the dungeons?” You asked confusedly.

“We are not rotting here if you haven’t noticed yet” his fingers danced across his smooth, porcelain cheeks. “It was for safety. If it had not been for Tom’s youthful soul in this Chamber, Harry Potter would have killed him on that night eleven years ago...”

Your heart galloped in your chest like a dozen of horses, eyes skimmed through the room, looking for the exit. Basilisk was too close, and Tom and Michael had wands, so it was difficult to escape.

“…now we can entice him just like you, end his pathetic life and come alive in our full glory.”

You had not even think your plan over when you shouted:

“Expelliarmus!”

 “Protego Maxima!” Tom pointed his hand skyward, conjuring up an impregnable magical protection barrier that knocked you over in the blink of an eye.

You heard an audible noise that resembled a loud crack, and suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around you and wrestled your wand out of your hand. It was prohibited to apparate within Hogwarts until the Headmaster decided otherwise. What sort of dark magic Tom and Michael possessed?

“Why don’t you want to play nicely?” Langdon whispered in your ear, wrapping his hand around your neck, nearly suffocating you; you desperately clang on his arm, trying to break free, but it only made him press his fingers tighter, leaving crescent marks on your tender skin.

“This is not the right way to treat your fellow Slytherins,” Tom hissed, removing the bright shield.

“I think we should teach her a lesson.”

Michael’s body was pushed against your back; the dark lapels of his robes enveloped your limbs like a midnight mist, and your mouth hanged open when he rolled his hips, giving you a hint on what he had meant by his suggestion to teach you manners.

 “Do you think they still have fun like we used to, Tom?” he asked cheekily, his hand sliding down your head, petting you almost lovingly, and then tangling his fingers in your hair. He brushed the strands into a loose ponytail and yanked your head back, bringing it close to his lustful mouth. Plush lips pressed soft, teasing kisses and then moved behind your ear, leaving burning kisses along the way, making your pussy throb and a burst of your juices soak through your panties. No fucking way. You gasped in shock, being embarrassed by the reaction of your body.

 Riddle smirked. He stood several inches away from you, admiring the way Michael pinned you to your place like a lepidopterist who collected the finest butterflies. You were their butterfly indeed. Young and beautiful. They would make sure to rip your wings off. He traced his pale, slender digits along the waistband of your jeans and hooked the wool hem of your turtleneck, untugging it from your pants. The muscles of your lower abdomen tensed involuntarily in a weak attempt to refuse him from the touch.

 “Oh, I don’t know, Mikey,” he slowly sunk to his knees, putting himself to the same level with your clothed crotch. He rolled your top up and slid his palms down your sides, countering every curve of your feminine body. From this angle his face looked sharper, the hollows of his cheeks were ethereally deep. “Let’s ask our lady, shall we?” He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to your belly, nuzzling into soft, warm skin. You gasped; bucking your hips forward, but Michael grounded you with his hands that he put on your pelvis.

 “Do you, little sluts, still sneak into the boys' dorms to play truth or dare, and then blow them when you get a dare, honey?” Riddle mewled and looked up at you with a carnivorous smile on his face. You did not even listen, being too caught up in a torturing discrepancy of muttering silent “no’s” to them and leaning into their arms at the same time. Michael trapped your earlobe between his teeth and cupped your face in his hands, petting your cheek with a thumb.

 “He asked you a question, doll,” he slightly bent his knee and you gasped in shock when he spread your legs with it and made you straddle his thigh. His kneecap was pressed several inches away from your aching center. You clothed your eyes and threw your head back, resting it in the crook of his neck and moaned as Michael started slightly rocking you back and forth.

 “I don’t know...oh,” your eyes fluttered open, when Tom cupped your sex with his left hand, applying just enough pressure to your clit, making you bolt up in Michael’s arms. He arched his brow at you, urging you to speak up. “W-we don’t do that,” you gasped and turned your head at Michael, nearly bumping noses with him, when his fingers unbuttoned your jeans and pulled the fly down. Looking at him pleadingly, you shook your head, but he only winked at you and maneuvered his hand under the waistband of your panties.

 “Oh my God,” he raised his voice a few octaves higher in a mocking manner, swiping his digits along your wet folds, collecting the wetness. From that moment you knew it was useless for you to try to say no. Your body betrayed you. The tip of his finger circled around your center, almost entering it and then pulling away teasingly to stroke your labia. His left arm was wrapped around your waist possessively, holding you in place. You bit your lower lip and hang your head low, letting your hair cover your flushed face that was burning with humiliation and embarrassment. “Look at it, Tom. She is practically soaked.” He removed his fingers with a sloppy, obscene sound, and you whimpered brokenly at the loss of contact, not being able to believe that you were THAT aroused. Michael showed Riddle his index and middle fingers, parting them to demonstrate the thin threads of your juices sticking to the tips of his digits.

 Tom tsked, tilting his head to the side. He raised from his knees and harshly grabbed you by your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Silvery tears blinked in your doe-like eyes making them look even bigger, even more innocent.

 “Don’t even try to persuade us that you aren’t enjoying this,” he hissed, and for a brief second he resembled a snake with his narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. The Slytherin Heir indeed. He held your chin so brutally, you were sure it would bruise afterwards. “Pretty little slut, it’s a shame you haven’t been gang banged before. Our legacy has been failed,” he pouted, gliding his thumb against your lower lip. As he started undoing his belt, Michael’s hand slid back into your panties.

 “We like destroying pretty things,” he whispered in your ear while massaging your clit in lazy circles, the back of his hand outstretching the thin lace. His luscious lips moved down to your neck, and you whimpered when he bared his teeth and playfully nibbled on your skin, velvet tongue immediately licking the bruised spot. “And you are very pretty.”

 He removed his slick-covered hand and traced it up to your breasts, rolling your turtleneck up higher to expose more of your skin. He tugged your bra down and brushed his thumb over your sensitive nipple. You moaned and bucked your hips forward to get some friction against his thighs, but as he ground his cock against your ass, you involuntarily motioned back to meet his thrust.

 “Just like that,” he cooed, teasingly slapping your right breast. “Good girl, keep rutting your hips, baby.”

 His hand fell down on your abdomen, and he pressed you against his stomach, making you feel every inch of his erection. It was the point of no return. You wriggled your hips and spread your legs a bit wider, so your pussy would get more contact with the fabric of Michael’s slacks.

 “See? She’s turning into an obedient little slut,” he chuckled and turned his head at Tom, who was watching you and Michael while stroking his cock that he pulled out from his pants a moment earlier. Chewing his bottom lip, he savored every movement of your hips, looking at you hungrily. There was always an unspoken competition between him and Michael, even though they were best friends. When Tom had become one of the Triwizard Champions it was not only his moment of glory but his time to outsmart Langdon who had always seemed to have the best girls, grades, and what not.

 “At least he’s not the Slytherin Heir,” he used to tell himself when another group of girls was whispering about Michael being “insanely good in bed” in the common room where Riddle was trying to study.

 “Enough of that,” he growled in annoyance, and with the snap of his fingers, a thick white mattress appeared on the floor before you. Tom stood on it with his polished shoes and nodded his head at Michael. “Put her on her knees. I want her to blow me.”

 Michael put his large hands on your shoulders and firmly guided you down. Your legs felt weak from the sensation Langdon had been causing to your clit, so you nearly stumbled when he forced you to your knees; the mattress dented under the press of your weight. You instinctively put your hands forward for leverage, placing yourself on all fourth. Tom’s long, hard cock with a bright pink head glistening with pearls of precum was inches away from your lips. He put two fingers under your chin, making you look up at him. His stare was so intense that you found yourself opening your mouth as if you were hypnotized, which he used to his advantage and ran the tip of his shaft along your parted lips.

 “If you bite me or don’t try your best to please me, I’ll feed you to Basilisk,” your eyes wandered to the side in the direction of the large snake curled up several feet away from you. “Understood?”

 You gulped heavily and nodded. Starting off slowly, you gave him the first kitten licks, tasting the salt of his foreskin on your taste buds. You wrapped your lips tightly around the head and gave it a gentle suck, hollowing your cheeks to create a vacuum. Riddle hissed at the warm enveloping sensation covering his cock with each bob of your head. You continued sliding down, trying to fit as much of him as possible, but you had to stop mid-way to help yourself with one hand, stroking the impressive length, and went back to his tip, swirling your tongue in the same rhythm you were jerking him off with. You pulled away to pay attention to his shiny slit and softly brushed it with your thumb, smearing his arousal.

 Meanwhile, Michael pulled your panties to the side and blew on your aching core, making both of your holes clench around nothing. He parted your folds, dipping his long fingers into your wetness, before he thrust two of them inside you, making you whine around Tom’s cock. It was so unexpected that you slightly brushed your teeth over his sensitive flesh, and the next moment you knew he slipped his dick out of your mouth and gave you a hard slap across your cheek.

 “Watch your fucking teeth!” He looked at you with so much rage and anger in his eyes that your insides flattered in fear. He slapped your lower lip with the tip of his cock and then traced it to your flushed, crimson cheek.

 A loud “smack” accompanied with a wet, obscene sound of the mix of your saliva and Tom’s precum made your head dizzy. Tears started streaming down your face, and you tried to blink them away, and what was more important, not to meet the heavy gaze of Riddle’s jet black eyes.

 Michael seemed to know what exactly he was doing. Tom and he had always been different with girls. His friend liked it hard and rough, while Michael could perfectly do both: edge a pretty girl from dusk till dawn until she was a whining mess under him or fuck the living shit out of her. It was all about his mood. That was why before you appeared in the Chamber, they had agreed that he would do all your preparation. Michael watched Riddle and you attentively, noticing the way your shoulders trembled as you took Tom back into your mouth, how you instinctively parted your legs and pushed your pussy out on a full display for him.

 He slid the panties down to your ankles, where your jeans were pooling and spread your ass cheeks. His soft, velvet tongue licked a wide stripe from your puffy clit to a clenched, puckering asshole, making you shift forward and choke on Riddle’s cock. It fell out from your mouth, and your head nearly banged against the mattress. You whined, shaking with every cell of your body, when Langdon’s tongue swirled around your clit as if he was licking off the tastiest weep cream, and then his lips closed around it, sucking gently. Your nails dug into the mattress, and you closed your eyes shut in a pathetic attempt to stay in this reality and not to drift off into the sea of pure, electric pleasure. You could not let yourself do that. Not when Riddle was still before you, waiting for you to recollect yourself and finish him. But Michael was so good. He was lapping up on your dripping pussy, drinking from it as if your juices were the sweetest nectar and your wet, puffy folds — the ripest peaches he was glad to savor.

 “Oh my God,” you cried out when he added two fingers at once while still sucking on your clit. He pumped them in and out a couple of times and then crooked them inwards, brushing right against the spongy spot inside you. It took Michael mere seconds to figure out how exactly you liked to be pleasured. He spread his fingers like scissors and used the heel of his palm to press it against your clit — each time he moved his digits, it stimulated your bundle of nerve. His flushed cock that was laying heavily in the crease of his pelvis, twitched at the sound of moans you were producing.

 The ticklish sensation in your stomach became almost unbearable. You tried to hold it back in order not to give Michael and Tom the pleasure of mocking you for cumming from there manipulations, but you knew you were destined to lose. Feeling the pressure unwinding deep inside you, you hurried to stuff your mouth with Riddle’s cock to silence your loud scream. Moaning around his length, you let go off your orgasm, letting it break through the dam and flood you with an earth-shattering pleasure. Your pussy quivered around Michael’s fingers, hips bucked in convulsions as you exploded into million pieces under him. Of course, it did not go unnoticed.

 “Such a good girl,” Langdon hummed approvingly and pulled his fingers out. Tom beckoned him and looked down at you, admiring the view of your flushed face and a fucked out look in your eyes. He took his cock out of your mouth, and let Michael bring his finger to your puffy, abused lips.

 “Suck,” he ordered, and the blond man shoved his digits into your mouth, your tongue instinctively wrapping around them. You looked at Tom with wide eyes, but you did not really see him. You felt like floating, euphoria fogged your mind and did not allow you to think straight. Riddle thought if he had slapped you at that moment you probably would not have reacted.

 Michael bent over, pressing his bare torso against your back to make sure he got a full view of your eager mouth tasting your cum off his fingers. He shoved them down your throat and outstretched your cheek with his thumb just for the sake of seeing how much of him you could take.

 “The wetter they get, the less it’s gonna hurt,” he whispered in your ear. You sucked harder, coating his pads with your saliva. The taste of your own juices, Tom’s cock, and Michael’s skin was extremely arousing. You felt the wetness pooling between your thighs again and mentally slapped yourself for being such a whore. Even the fear of anal did not stop you from secretly wanting it.

 When Langdon decided it was enough, he removed his fingers from your mouth and got back to his position behind you. He gently pushed on the small of your back, making you arch your spine a bit more. While you were still relaxed and pliant from your orgasm, he used this opportunity to bring his fingers to your tight asshole and slowly massaged it. You whined and covered your burning face with your hands, trying to hide the embarrassment.

 “Relax,” Michael playfully tapped your ass cheek and in circular motion penetrated your entrance to the first knuckle. Just a tip to start with. You involuntarily clenched around him, not being able to relax. Every muscle of your body was chained to anticipation and fear of the unknown. Was it going hurt? Tom and Michael were big, and you doubted that your tight little hole could handle them both.

 “I said, relax,” he used the rest of his fingers to reach to your clit and tease it. Your body reacted immediately, visibly relaxing from his touch.

 Tom who was stroking his cock in front of your face, chuckled amusingly.

 “Why don’t you occupy her? If you keep her distracted, she won’t clench that asshole.”

 You hated that they spoke about you in the third person as if you were not there, as if you were nothing but a fuck toy for them. Your head flew up when you felt the tip of Michael’s cock against your pussy. You looked over your shoulder to meet the stare of his icy blue eyes.

 “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” he mused, rubbing the head along your sensitive folds.

 Without taking his eyes off of you, he slipped inside your heat with his finger still buried in your asshole. He went past the first rim of your sphincter and froze for a second to let you adjust. You could swear there were stars before your eyes. Never had you ever felt so full in your entire life. His cock, judging by the feeling of it, was as big and Riddle’s one, deliciously stretching you out with every inch of its lengh.

 “That’s it,” Tom grinned and sank to his knees before you to cup your face in his hands, lifting it up from the mattress. “Relax, little slut. Let him fill you up nice and hard.” He dropped his one hand to get a grip of his cock. Stroking it lazily, he started jerking himself off to the obscene sound of Michael’s flesh slapping against your ass.

 Langdon snapped his hips forward and started building up a steady rhythm of thrusts and his manipulations with your asshole. You were taking him so well, he spread you out for him to watch his cock disappearing in and out of your pussy, claiming it as his. Each roll of his hips hit right at your sweet spots. When he slowed down to give you especially deep thrusts, you lost your mind. You cried out and shook your head so violently that Tom had to let go off of your face. Tears spilled out from the corners of your eyes, and you cried out a loud “Michaeeeeel,” at the top of your lungs. You felt so week that you did not even have the strength to clench the tight ring of muscles when he added his middle finger. Working his way, Langdon never stopped the movement of his hips, drawing loose figure-eights and swaying them back and forth.

 Tom’s hand, wrapped around his hard-on, was sliding along his shaft with a sloppy sound; he stroked the underside of it where a thick throbbing vein was located, and a low groan instantly fell from his lips. He closed his eyes in pure bliss and threw his head back, messing his short raven hair up. His agonizingly beautiful face was contoured in pleasure as he drove himself closer to his orgasm.

 “Open your mouth,” he ordered and stood up on his feet. Somehow, you managed to obey and did as he had told you, sticking your tongue out for him. Your breasts bounced vulgarly with every thrust of Michael’s cock. The fact you were still half-dressed (in tugged turtleneck and jeans around your ankles) and thus looked like a filthy whore who was ready to be fucked wherever and whenever Langdon and Riddle wanted to, was driving you crazy. You watched the way Tom’s cock with a purple tip throbbed and twitched in his palm, indicating his upcoming release.

 Everything happened simultaneously. Michael’s free hand covered your clit and rolled it between his fingers, his digits in your ass massaged it in a matching rhythm with his hips, sending you to the edge in seconds. Right at that moment, when your pussy started pulsing around Langdon’s cock, Tom came with a loud moan, painting your face with white ribbons of his cum. Some of it got on your tongue and lips, but you did not dare to lick it all off without his command. His hand yanked your head back roughly, and he made sure that cum covered not only your mouth but your prominent cheekbones as well.

 “Drop dead gorgeous,” he praised and gave your wet, cum-stained cheek a light slap. He collected the pearly beads with his thumb and pressed it against your tongue. “Here, have a taste.”

 You felt extremely sensitive, it was almost painful for you to take Michael who sped up his thrusts. Sucking on Tom’s fingers as if they were a fucking pacifier, you wriggled your hips, trying to give him a silent hint that it was all too much for you, but ended up taking him even deeper.

 “Fuck,” Langdon swore, and with the last sway of his hips, he spilled inside you. You felt his cock pulsing, and even though you had already finished, your pussy clenched around him one more time, squeezing every drop of cum out of him. Sweat beaded on your forehead, the remains of clothes stuck to your body like the second skin. Michael’s load filled you up to the brim, and when he finally pulled out, it was dripping out of you slit down to your thighs, covering your skin like shiny pearls. He removed his fingers from your asshole as well, leaving you undeniably open and stretched out for him.

 As soon as he loosened the grip on your pelvis, you fell onto the mattress, breathing heavily. Lying there like a useless toy with your arms and legs bent outwards, the only thing that you wanted was to go back to your dorm and sleep for days. Exhaustion crushed onto you like a tsunami, destroying the remains of your pride and dignity. Your limbs were numb, jelly-like, and you winced at the dull ache in your core when you tried to close your legs.

 A pair of strong arms scooped you from the mattress and forced you into a sitting position as if you were nothing but an obedient puppet. You scrunched up your nose, a broken, disappointed moan slipped off your lips, as Tom grabbed the hem of your turtleneck and pulled it up to take it off completely. At least, it became easier to breathe. You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to brush the combs, but soon realized that it was a waste of time. Your hand dropped helplessly on your thigh where numerous purple bruises from Michael’s grip started to bloom across your skin. Riddle’s cum mixed with your tears began to dry on your cheeks, giving you an unpleasant tingling, and you tried to wipe it off with the back of your palm. What a mess.

 Michael gracefully dropped on his knees. He grabbed your left foot in his hand and gently traced his fingers up from your toes to the area between the heel and the ball, stroking you and moving up to your ankle. He helped you get rid of your jeans and tossed them aside on the cool floor of the Chamber.

 “Please, I can’t do this,” you whispered, shaking your head. They clearly were not done with you, but you were afraid that you would eventually pass out if they continued assaulting your further.

 Langdon leaned forward and sensually caressed your cheek, running his fingers along your jaw until he reached the velvet of your lips. You looked up at him through hooded leads and sighed. It was the first time when he actually kissed you. His soft, plush lips brushed against yours passionately, he grabbed you by your chin and slightly tilted your head to deepen the kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you. He caught your lower lip between his teeth and playfully bit on it, drawing a couple of drops of blood and immediately licking them off. Having spread your legs with his knee, Michael nestled between your thighs and pulled away from you with a barely audible moan. He was good at playing the game where he soothed, deceived you and made you think he was going to be nice with you, but then ruined you completely.

“You can and you will, baby,” his beautiful blond hair was disheveled, pupils blown and obscured with lust and desire. He palmed your breasts and looked down at them to enjoy the way they bounced in his hands.

 “As if she has a choice,” Tom scoffed, positioning himself behind you. “C’mon Michael, we need to hurry, otherwise, you will have to finger her ass again.”

 “Not that I would mind,” a cheeky grin spread across Langdon’s lips, and he placed an open-mouthed kiss on your cum-stained cheek before he leaned back on his heels to give Tom more space.

 Riddle wrapped his left arm around your shoulders and used his right one for leverage when he lied back on the mattress and brought you closer to his chest. He bent his knees and plant his feet on the soft surface to not only help himself balance, but also position himself more comfortably behind you. When he was steady, he spread your legs wider, putting his erect cock right at your clenching entrance. You were on a full display for Michael who was standing right between your things. A blush bloomed across your cheeks when you saw the way his lips curled into a smirk at the view of your glistening slit and loose asshole. You wished the cool floor of the chamber could swallowed you up in flames from how embraced you were. A shiver jolted through your spine when you felt the head of Tom’s cock pressing against your little hole. You held your breath and looked at Michael with wide eyes.

 “All the way in,” he said in a sing-song tone, watching how marvelously your body was adjusting to Riddle’s size. You gasped and closed your eyes shut, gripping at the mattress beneath you so tightly, your knuckles turned white. Despite that fact that Michael had prepared you, it still hurt like hell. You cried out, and Tom let go off your hips for a second to take his time and spit on his palm. Having smeared the saliva all over his cock and your opening, he proceeded to penetrate you. You trashed and wriggled your butt on top of him, making it almost impossible for him to thrust up.

 “Keep fucking still,” he grunted in your ear and then sank his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder, leaving a burgundy red print. It was a lost battle from the very beginning. You knew it was over for you when Michael shifted towards and wrapped his fingers around your ankles like shackles.

 “Shhh,” he cooed and leaned forward to give your nipples small kitten lips. He looked at you through his curly fringe, catching your gaze, and swirled his pink tongue around your hardening buds. “Be a good little slut, sugar.”

 “This is too much,” you sobbed, throwing your head back on Tom’s shoulder. His hair was tickling your ear every time he shifted, trying to find the right position, and you could feel his chest rising and falling with every rapid breath.

 “You can complain all you want,” Michael arched his brows. “Look at yourself,” his slender fingers traced from your chin down to your sharp collarbones, tense stomach and lower, to your pussy. “He has penetrated you with just a tip of his cock, and you are already wet.” And just to demonstrate the shameful truth he collected the wetness of your slit and showed it to you.

 “I’m not even surprised, Michael...oh, fuck,” Tom moaned as he continued sinking into your asshole. “Whores like her would sell their souls to the Devil for a chance to be split on a good, fat cock. And you, sweetheart,” he emphasized the pet name with a thrust of his hips, bouncing you on his length, “have the privilege to take two at once, so if I were you, I would be more appreciative.”

 When he bottomed all the way down, Riddle stopped to brush his wet hair off his forehead and take a breath. He started off slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles. Michael’s fingers were nothing in comparison with the feeling of a real cock in your asshole. The dull pain started to fade away, and the first moan of pleasure escaped your throat, when Tom bucked his hips up, going a bit deeper.

 Langdon could not take his eyes off of you two. You were a panting mess in the arm of his friend who was doing his best not to let go of all his self-control and fuck the living shit out of you. Michael knew Tom was going to snap soon. He licked his lips and helped you bring your knees up towards your chest and rest your feet on the tops of Tom’s knees for extra support. This position allowed the Slytherin Heir to enter you at a particularly sharp angle and brush the tip of his cock against all the sensitive spots inside you. His hand reached down to his cock, and he pulled it out but just to thrust his shaft right back in.

 “C’mon, dude, stuff the bitch up,” he growled, his hand cupping your breast and squeezing it hard.

 Riddle did not have to repeat twice. Michael aligned himself with your entrance and filled you up in one swift motion. Your eyes rolled back into your head, and the scream that tore up your chest was so loud that even Basilisks shifted in his spot. Tom and Michael moaned in unison, thriving off your whimpers and pleas. Their hands roamed over your body, playing with oversensitive nipples, pulling your hair, griping on your sides and trembling thighs. They were everywhere. The air was thick and smelled like sex, suffocating you. Your head was spinning.

 Your mouth fell agape when you looked down and started watching Michael’s cock thrusting in and out of your throbbing core, feeling you to the brim. Your muscles were sore, and if it had not been for him and Tom holding you firmly, you would have already collapsed. When it was clear that you were no longer hurting and moans of pleasure rang through the room, bouncing off the stone walls, they started fucking you like two animals, devouring your insides. You felt dirty: the sloppy sound that was filling the Chamber was the result of Michael’s cum, your arousal and so much saliva that it was drooling down your thighs on the mattress. Red, white and back dots danced before your eyes, as you orgasmed around two pulsing cocks with a cry. It hit you so unexpectedly that for a second you stopped breathing and wrapped your arms around Michael’s neck with such strength he had to hiss at you in a warning.

 “No, no, no more,” you begged as he covered your clit with his hand and started rubbing on it harshly.

 “Keep milking my cock, slut,” Langdon pulled away, unlocking your embrace, and laced his hand around your neck. He kept slamming inside you at animalistic speed, and Tom was trying to match the pace. You were clenching around Riddle so violently that he was on the verge of losing his mind. He ground your hips against him, making you take him and Michael as deep as possible. The more they pushed your legs towards your chest, the shallower the penetration was. Their long, hard dicks hit all the perfect sports at once, and if you had not already been so oversensitive, you would have found it enjoyable, but since three groundbreaking orgasms had pierced through you, you were a goner.

 They did not listen to you at all. Competing who would bring you to your fourth orgasm of the night, Tom and Michael went all the way in. Langdon towered over you, his nostrils flared with each thrust of his hips, blue eyes stared right through you. Every moan they elicited from you stroke their egos and urged them to go deeper. Harder.

 The sensation of two cocks moving inside you, stuffing you to the hilt was indescribable. When Tom pulled out and spread your ass cheeks to demonstrate Michael his stretched out you were, you nearly blacked out.

 “You were fucking born for this,” Riddle praised you, venom dripping through every word.

 You knew they were getting close by the way their movements became more hectic, uneven, they started to slow down and switched to deliciously long, hard thrusts. You gritted your teeth and with a deep sigh gathered the remains of all your strength. You were going to hold on and let them finish.

 Michael pelvis rubbed against your clit as he kept pounding you, and although you thought it was impossible for you to cum one more time, the build-up pressure was about to unwind.

 Three. Two. One. And that was it. The pressure of their cocks inside your ass and pussy became unbearable and you exploded into million pieces, quivering around them so hard that Tom and Michael followed you right after. Hot loads of cum were shot inside you, filling you up and spilling out, running down your thighs. You saw Michael’s face contorted in bliss, and the thought of how painfully beautiful he looked at that moment made you shiver and bite the inside of your cheek in order to suppress another moan.

 “Don’t pull out,” he told Tom while looking down at your core. They stayed inside you for about a minute, which seemed like an eternity for you, ignoring your whines. Michael watched the mix of their cum dripping out of your folds in awe.

 They pulled out carefully, trying their best to keep the liquid inside you. The sudden feeling of emptiness was extremely uncomfortable.

 “Close your legs,” Riddle whispered, and you obeyed, clenching your thighs to make sure that every drop of cum was secured. He rolled you off himself, and you tiredly sprawled out on the mattress with your hands between your legs, sighing under your breath at how wet and sticky you were.

 Your throat was burning from your cries, an extremely rough blowjob, and dehydration in general. As soon as your cheek touched the soft material, you closed your eyes and wished upon solitude and peace. At that moment you did not even care if they killed you. Being too fucked out, your brain was unable to function, and your sore body refused to feel anything but numbness. You heard them saying something, but you were not sure if they were addressing you. Everything was spinning. The dark colors of the Chamber swirled around you, turning into one dark spot, which enveloped you like an abyss, shutting off your ability to see or hear anything. It was only you and darkness that you were thankful for, because it wrapped you in its arms and kissed your temples, dragging you deeper into oblivion. Away from Michael and Tom.

xxx

“Y/N, wake up! Wake up, you are gonna be late for Transfiguration!”

 “Is she dead?”

 “Shut up, Pansy, of course, she is not. Wake up, sleeping beauty!”

 You slowly opened your eyes meeting the worried stares of your roommates. The girls stood around you in a small circle, the look on their faces showed their surprise that you, a Slytherin prefect, had overslept for the first time in ages.

 “I-...” you licked your dried lips and cleared your throat, wincing at the burning pain in your throat.

 “Are you alright? Do we need to take you to Madam Pomfrey?”

 You shook your head at pulled the blanket up higher to cover yourself up. The memories of the previous night flashed before your eyes, and your hands flew up to your cheeks, searching for the traces of cum. The skin was smooth as silk.

 “Yes, thank you, I am fine… I just overslept” your voice sounded low and raspy, but you managed to give the girls a weak smile, and soon enough they left you alone, so you could get dressed.

 It took you a couple of minutes to calm down your mad heartbeat and lift the covers up to look down at your body. The ache between your legs and the overall feeling of exhaustion indicated that the view was not going to be pretty.

 “Oh my God,” you gasped at the sight of your stomach that was blooming with purple irises of hickeys and bruises. They were all over your breasts — and you were sure the neck too — abdomen, and thighs. You spread your legs carefully and touched your core with your fingers, moaning at how puffy and sore your folds were. You pressed your head into the pillow and let out a muffled groan. It was not a dream after all. The presence of their cocks inside you was as tangible as ever.

 Your legs felt like jello when you slowly put them on the wooden floor. Closing your eyes tiredly, you shook your head, letting it fall down in your palms. What were you supposed to do? Tell Dumbledore? Tom and Michael were two psychopaths, and whatever the plan they had, it was not going to turn out good for any of you. The first thing that seemed right to do was to take a shower and wash the ghost of their touches off your body.

 The water was soothing, sliding down your sides, and with a deep sigh, you sank to your knees on a tile floor. You could not tell anybody because in that case, you would also have to confess what a filthy whore you had been when you had cum on both cocks.

 After a long hot shower, you wrapped your body in a soft, fluffy blanket and made your way to the empty dorm. You needed to get rid of the diary, just throw it away into the depth of the Room of Requirement, and forget the entire experience like a bad dream. “Well, not so bad,” your heart skipped a beat at the thought, and you groaned at your own ignorance.

 xxx

 “Out of sight, out of mind,” you murmured, standing in the Room of Requirement with the diary in your hand. The cover was warm, and when you smoothed it with your fingers, for a second it seemed like the notebook was pulsing, as if it was a living creature.

 You closed your eyes and turned around, so your back would face the numerous piles of the things students had left in the room throughout the years. Your unclenched your fingers and threw the diary as far as you could behind yourself. It landed somewhere with a thud.

 “That’s it,” you stormed your way out of the Room, and headed to your next class, trying not to limp and considering if Obliviate would be the best charm to perform in order to forget that night.

 But did you really want to erase Riddle and Langdon from your mind? The blond and the brunette. They were like coffee and milk, enigmatic, and incredibly dangerous. You definitely needed some time to recover before you could think straight again. For the rest of the day, you were completely zoned out.

 xxx

“Excuse me,” a high-pitched tone interrupted your conversation with Winona Flint who was a sister of Marcus, a Slytherin seeker. You turned your head at the intruder to see a second-year boy who was holding a package in his hands.

 “Hey, what’s up?” You wondered, and raised your finger up, asking your friend to pause the story she was telling you.

 “I was told to give this to you,” he handed you the package, and you took it from his hands with a frown.

 It did not have any address on it, just a plain wrapping paper; the gift was anonymous. You quickly tore up the packaging and almost dropped it on the floor when your fingers brushed against the familiar hardcover.

 “Who sent you to me?” your voice cracked.

 “Y/N? Are you alright?” Winona asked, having noticed your reaction. She curiously looked over your shoulder to examine the gift. “What’s that?”

 “Tom Riddle and Michael Langdon,” the boy answered. “They said it was yours.”

 You were in for one hell of a ride.

*Let me see (Latin)

**J.K. Rowling Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Taglist: @divinelangdon @ms-mead @kaigitana @sebastianshoe @omgsuperstarg @langdonsdemon @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon @sojournmichael @sammythankyou @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @babypinkstyles94 @theghostoflangdon @americanhorrorstudies @bbyduncan @ticklish-leafy-plant @1-800-bitchcraft @wroteclassicaly @starwlkers @nightsblackroses @micheallangdons @langdvnshepherd @ccodyferns @ritualmichael @isoldedax @coloursunlimited

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (2/18)

Chapter 2: How to Be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons

It’s a new year, and Madelyn is trying to stay busy. Hancock pays a visit to the Detective Agency with an olive branch in the guise of a case for Nick. On the beat, a former mercenary turns informant with more information about the mysterious Railroad. Nick and Madelyn track down their missing person while Eddie Winter makes his first deadly move.  

“Well, sure there is. It comes complete with diagrams, on page 47 of 'How to be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons,' correspondence school text-book and, uh, your father offered me a drink.” - Philip Marlowe as played by Humphrey Bogart (The Big Sleep, 1946)

x - x

Without giving much away, this is a content warning for a minor character suicide that mirrors the canon in-game side quest.

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

January 10th, 1958

Nick’s desk was covered in case files, whiskey and cigarette ash—an organized chaos was what he liked to call it, but all Madelyn saw was a fire hazard. This was the way Detective Valentine worked best, however, frazzled and hunched over his scattered notebooks, mumbling incoherently behind the wafting plumes of smoke. The agency was for many the one gleaming beacon of hope in an otherwise dark and dishonest world. Nick had proved his reputation with the people was well earned by helping the community the best he could with the limited resources he had, maintaining a network of clients that kept him in business over the years.

“Everybody deserves their fair chance,” Nick always said, so much so that Madelyn considered putting it on a plaque for his wall—if the walls weren’t covered in photos, wrinkled maps and scribbled handwritten notes.

She found it all admirable, part of the reason she agreed to work with him when initially assigned by the District Attorney’s office two years prior. She didn’t realize that by staying, she’d be forging one of her strongest friendships, discovering one of her most trusted of confidants. Yet, as Madelyn lingered in the doorway of his office, she found it difficult to find the right words to say. She wanted to tell Nick about the clandestine note she received on New Year’s Eve, tell him she felt paranoid about being followed and wanted another training session at the shooting range. Instead, she continued to worry at her bottom lip, awkwardly shuffling the small stack of papers in her hands.

“You can stand there lookin’ like a doll or you can come in here and help,” he spoke, not bothering to glance up at her. Still, she noted his little smirk, eyes lit up as he scrawled away on his notepad.

“I know you didn’t hire me to be a pretty face,” Madelyn bantered, knowing it was all in good, clean fun.  She crossed the small space, planting herself comfortably on the cushioned seat in front of his desk.  

Nick gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I didn’t exactly hire you. You just showed up here on my doorstep like some kitten left out in the rain.”

She laughed, thinking back to the early days of their partnership. Providing legal aid to a private detective that didn’t always play by the rules—it wasn’t the easiest of jobs for Madelyn. It wasn’t until she realized Nick was forced into the unscrupulous position by the Boston Police Department, who saw his presence as interference rather than assistance, never giving the agency the insider access they desperately needed. Perhaps if they did, there wouldn’t be so many unsolved disappearances or murders plaguing the city. That being said, she made sure Nick stayed out of trouble, pulling in favors where she could, the two using their powers of persuasion to find answers to burning questions. It was easier to toe the line than cross it, but each day as the violence and corruption spread across the city, the line became harder to see.

“What’s on the docket for today?”

The question had barely left her lips when there was a commotion in the lobby, Ellie’s frantic voice calling out as her heels clicked across the wooden floors. “Sir, sir! You can’t just walk in there. You have to have an appointment and—"

“No worries, sister,” the familiar, dulcet voice approached. “They’ll be happy to see me.”

John McDonough—Hancock—strolled through the doorway like he owned the place, ignoring Ellie’s protests. The mayor’s younger brother looked considerably different than he did the night of the police gala—dressed in dark slacks and half-buttoned up shirt, a faded red jacket with golden, frilled trim more suited for Halloween than streetwear. He plopped into the empty armchair, hooking his knees over one side and glancing to Madelyn with a wink.

Nick’s demeanor immediately soured. He pointed at the other man. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t for nothing, Nicky boy,” Hancock grinned. “Can’t you bend an ear to an old friend?”

Madelyn focused on the detective’s expression, eyebrows knitted together in quiet contemplation as he rummaged for a cigarette before realizing he was fresh out. Hancock noticed, instantly reacting to produce a pack from his jacket pocket. He leaned forward to offer her first, but she declined with a silent wave, causing him to move to Nick. He hesitated, scrutinizing the gesture with narrow eyes before ultimately obliging.

“What are you doing here, John?” he asked, sounding more like the start of an interrogation as he struck a match.

Hancock appeared amused by Nick’s insistence on the name as he lounged back in the chair. “I have a peace offering for you. A case that the local police can’t be bothered with because of the victim’s so-called lifestyle.”

At Nick’s silence, Madelyn interjected. “What is it?”

“Missing person.”

Finally, Nick sighed, relenting. “Give us the details.”

As Hancock spoke, Madelyn wrote in her notepad, neat and succinct lines—they’d have more luck with her organization skills. The missing? Earl Sterling. Twenty-five-year-old bartender from the Fens who worked at the local sports bar across the street from Fenway Park. “Vadim, who owns the bar—close personal friend—came to me crying, thinking Earl had been snatched up by the boogeyman. But who would want to hurt Earl? He ain’t out to hurt nobody.”

Nick was nodding along, jaw clenched, clearly in frustration of another disappeared citizen. That would be thirteen—that they knew of. “And Boston P.D.? They think Earl was undeserving of a proper investigation?”

Hancock scoffed. “Friends in low places. Doesn’t matter that he’s squeaky clean. But since Vadim’s a Russian immigrant, a refugee that has had his run-ins with the law…”

“Of course,” Madelyn sighed, disheartened. It was a cruel underlying fact that not all Bostonians were keen to the changes the war brought. Most carried on with quiet discontent, but others were far more vocal to the point of outright bigotry. A child raised by virtuous parents, Madelyn knew better, ashamed of the city she had lived in all her life.

Nick could sense her stewing restlessness and spoke, nodding at Hancock. “We’ll take the case, track Earl down. One way or another.”

Curiosity got the better of Madelyn as she stared at the two men, sensing the lingering tension. Ever since Piper first mentioned the younger McDonough brother, Nick’s attitude had been uncharacteristically dismissive, and without explanation it was gnawing at her mind. “What’s the deal here?”

Hancock’s eyebrow arched high against his forehead. “Whatcha mean, sister?”

“The animosity in the air is thick enough that I could bottle it up and sell it as a fragrance,” she joked. “Might get rich enough that I could retire early. Buy that cabin up in Maine I always dreamed about.”

While Hancock bellowed out an impressed laugh, Nick sighed through his nose, lips set in a flat line as his cigarette dangled. Still, Madelyn knew he was amused, green eyes bright as he rolled them her way. Hancock’s entertainment settled as he crossed his arms over his chest with a final, breathless chuckle. “I’m surprised ol’ Nicky never told you about me and our time overseas.”

“You two served together?” she asked.

Nick reluctantly nodded, fingers tightening around the wrist of his prosthetic hand, the plastic-metal blend flexing. He didn’t like to talk about it—no matter how many years had passed between the end of the war and the present, it was still an open wound for many, including the detective. He balled his hand into a fist.

“London, during the Blitz,” he explained, in grim conciseness. “Was stationed in Kent in ‘41 during the bombsite recovery. As was John, though he was mostly preoccupied by the local…entertainment.”

Hancock hummed, with a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s something about the English accent, ya’ know?”

“You were disillusioned then, and you’re disillusioned now!” Nick suddenly snapped, hands smacked against the table as he stood up to loom over the other man. Hancock hardly looked intimidated, not even flinching as Madelyn did. “Sneaking off base to get your kicks in some back alley, coming back high as an Air Force bomber. No wonder you’re turned into a beatnik.”

“Better a beatnik than a dick,” Hancock murmured.

“Boys! Boys!” Madelyn stood up with a loud clap of her hands, garnering both of their attention as she stood. “Jesus Christ! Do I need to put you two in separate corners for time out like the curtain-climbers you are?”

Nick scrambled to sit back down, knowing it was a rare thing for her to use the lord’s name in vain, even lightly. Hancock snickered, but flinched when she whipped her head in his direction. “I think you owe Nick an apology, Mr. McDonough.”

He shifted uncomfortably like she had asked him to perform one of Houdini’s acts. “Sorry, Valentine.”

“We’re good, John,” Nick stood again, this time reaching over to extend his hand in some display of goodwill. Hancock took the offer, shaking it with a satisfied grin. “We’ll find out where Earl is.”

As the conversation came full-circle, Hancock tugged on the lapels of his coat and smoothed out the lines of his pleated slacks. He regarded Madelyn with a toothy smile, nodding his head once. “Miss Hardy.”  

She watched as he turned on his heel, slinking out the way he came. Ellie’s disapproving voice called out to him again in the lobby as the bell above the front door chimed, signaling his exit. Miss Perkins’ usual sunny disposition was marred as she leaned into the doorway of Nick’s office, bottom lip jutted out in a frown. “Who was that?”

“Sorry Ellie,” Nick sighed, moving to grab his faded trench coat from the nearby rack. Madelyn smirked, knowing Jenny had purchased him a new one over the holidays—one for Hanukah and Christmas—but there he was, slipping his arms into the same dusty rag. “Hopefully you won’t need to experience such indecency again.”

“Heading out?” Their secretary questioned, looking between the two of them with a shine of excitement in her features. She always liked when they were busy.

Madelyn gathered the case notes under her arm before quickly shuffling back to her own office, pulling on her cream-colored coat that was in much better condition than her partner’s. Purse and papers in hand, she met him and Ellie in the front room.

Nick was adjusting his hat. “Keep a light on for us, won’t you?”  

Ellie flashed a charming smile. “Always.”

Outside, there was a fresh blanket of snow on the sidewalk and a crisp chill in the air. Their destination was a short distance—only a few blocks east. She thought about what sparked their journey.

“Did you really mean that?” Madelyn questioned Nick as they walked in the direction of the Dugout Inn. He glanced at her, unsure of what she meant. “Disillusionment? Do you really not believe in Hancock’s cause?”

He made a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan as he rubbed at his chin. “I believe in results,” he answered, keeping his eyes focused on their path. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The Dugout Inn was a tiny hole-in-the-wall, located right on the corner of Boylston Street, opposite of Fenway Park. The clientele were mostly refugees, thanks to the owners, Vadim and Yefim Bobrov—immigrants from Russia who established the bar shortly after V-Day in 1945. Unassuming enough, though the two had their fair share of run-ins with Boston police over the years, mostly for expired liquor licenses or smuggling illicit moonshine. Never anything as serious as money laundering, tax evasion or murder. Mr. Bobrov’s good natured attitude had made him a valuable ally to Nick, perhaps even a friend, somebody the detective could turn to when searching for leads among the downtrodden and forgotten within the city.

Being a mid-morning Friday, it wasn’t surprising that the Dugout Inn was mostly devoid of patrons, save for Vadim’s twin brother and their lone waitress Scarlett who was dutifully sweeping near the back. There was one daytime drunkard, however, sleeping off his hangover in a faraway booth. Yefim was balancing the books at a nearby table, muttering about needing to pay the gas bill, barely acknowledging the passing duo with a wave. As they approached the bar, Vadim was beaming, wiping the countertop before them in earnest.

“Ah, my favorite gumshoe back to see old Vadim,” he set out two glasses, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to try the latest batch? May not have ripened yet, but…you always had a good sense of knowing!”

Nick softly chuckled, but shook his head as he removed his hat, placing it on the bar. “I’m not going to be your guinea pig again, Vadim.”

“And what about the lovely lady lawyer? My lapochka?”

Madelyn smiled at his flattery but waved her hand at his offering. “No, thank you.”

Vadim went to speak but hesitated, instead scrutinizing their appearance in his bar. Sudden realization dawned in his expression as he tightened his fist into the cleaning cloth. “Are you here about Earl?”

Nick had barely nodded before Vadim continued with a sagging hang of his head. “Oh, poor Earl. Gone, just like that. Such a good bartender. Good friend,” he trailed with a forlorn expression that morphed into one of slight amusement. “Terrible with the women, mind you.”

“Always in his cups about his face getting in the way,” he further explained. “I say, no mug is too ugly for any woman! What says you, Miss Hardy?”

She joined him in laughter, humoring the old flirt. “Oh, Mister Bobrov, if you were thirty years younger you might have a decent chance at making an honest woman of me…again!”

Even Nick snickered, shaking his head at the exchange. But they were here on business, not for a friendly exchange of words or a casual drink. They had a man to find, sooner, rather than later. At his signal, Madelyn pulled her notepad from her purse, pencil at the ready for any information they might gleam.

“See anybody from Winter’s gang around here lately?” Nick asked, eyes narrowed when Vadim quickly shook his head, coughing to clear his throat as the tone shifted. Nick quickly glanced to Madelyn who offered a quick shrug. Maybe zeroing in on Eddie Winter wasn’t the best idea. Would Vadim even know what a mobster type looked like?

“Oh!” The proprietor said excitedly, hands waving for emphasis. “A few days ago, there was this young mercenary type that I’d never seen before. Lingered about for a few days. Greaser kid that looked like he belonged to a bad crowd.”

“Did he and Earl speak?” Madelyn questioned.

Vadim shrugged, eyes glanced upwards as he remembered. “Yes? No. All I know is he looked suspicious. A—and I haven’t seen him since Earl disappeared!”

Nick was twisting his lips—a telltale sign he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the credibility of the information—but they had nothing else to go on. He tapped his finger against the counter impatiently. “Do you have a name? A location? Think carefully, Vadim. For Earl’s sake.”

A moment passed as the bartender mulled it over in his head. Vadim then straightened, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “MacCready! That’s his name! Rum and cola. Overheard him mention a hotel near Scollay Square…”

“The Rexford?” Nick mused, more to Madelyn than Vadim.

She nodded. “The Rexford.” 

Scollay Square by 1958 was not the thriving center of Boston theatre and community it once was. Practically a ghost town, with most buildings boarded up after being destroyed by fire or looters, few businesses remained. The Old Howard Theatre—long shut down by the Boston vice squad stood at the epicenter like a shining reminder of the past. Always Something Doing—but not anymore. The area was now known colloquially as Goodneighbor, nicknamed after Mary Goodneighbor’s 1953 striptease that ended it all. Goodneighbor was a hive of sex work and drug runners, bootleggers and mobsters, all just out to make their living in the world—the perfect place for a person to disappear.

Nick decided the trip west warranted the use of his black Cadillac. They’d make better time, and even he wasn’t one to be caught walking through Boston Common—even armed—at any time of day with the increasing crime rates. As they pulled up outside the Hotel Rexford, they observed a disturbance on the sidewalk, snow flurries disrupting their view. Madelyn was exiting the vehicle before Nick could rush over to pull open the passenger door, ever the gentleman as he offered his hand to her. But she was more focused on the three men in a clear argument on the hotel steps, carefully observing the interaction as she hooked her elbow around Nick’s arm.

“Well, we’re outside now!” The scrawnier of the three shouted from the stoop.

On the sidewalk below, a man with wide shoulders and a crew cut snarled back. “Didn’t have to be like this, MacCready! We were just here to deliver a message!”

Madelyn and Nick exchanged knowing glances but refrained from interfering. While they had their lead identified, the situation was hardly any of their business. It didn’t mean that they weren’t going to eavesdrop and make it their business, gather information that might come in useful later on.

“It only took you six months to track me down,” MacCready spoke, taunting his aggressors. “Winlock and Barnes. You two always hold hands across Boston? Don’t you know I left your wannabe gang for good?”

The man Madelyn assumed as Winlock shook his head, irritated as ever. “Yet here you are, taking jobs where you shouldn’t be. Listen carefully, MacCready, it has to stop.”

“Like I have to take orders from you,” he laughed and for a split-second Madelyn wondered if there was going to be a firefight the way the third man’s hand flinched along his side, reaching under his jacket.

Instead, Winlock defused the situation with a curt nod, signaling to his partner Barnes to step back. “We aren’t going to kill you. Today. Wouldn’t want a war with Goodneighbor, or with Winter.”

Nick’s hand around Madelyn’s arm tightened at the mention. Whoever these people were, they weren’t affiliated with the mob organization terrorizing Boston. MacCready crossed his arms, seemingly bored with the conversation. “Are we done here?”

The two thugs traded steely looks—this wasn’t over—not by a long shot. “We’re done. For now.”

As Winlock and Barnes passed the Cadillac, they took one slow, up-and-down look at the pair of onlookers before disappearing down an alleyway. Madelyn looked after them, deeply unsettled, but snapped back to the present as Nick swiftly led them to the lone man left on the hotel stairs, pacing as he kicked at the snow with his sneakers.

“MacCready?”

“Look pal, I’m not looking for any friends,” he said with a wince, shaking his head.

Madelyn looked at their would-be suspect now that they were up-close. For Vadim to have called him suspicious was not wrong, but if anything, the man simply appeared to be down on his luck. Overall, he looked nonthreatening: faded, rolled up jeans, dark flannel shirt with an army bomber jacket and a matching cap atop his dusty brown hair. He was skinny, like he had missed a few meals, and it made her wonder if he was another veteran of the streets that had returned from the war with no home to return to.

“We aren’t here to make friends,” Nick’s tone was firm, signaling it was time to take the proverbial gloves off. The man was squirmy and would need the two of them to act fast if they wanted the right information. “Do you know anything about an Earl Sterling?”

MacCready didn’t take to intimidation lightly. He narrowed his eyes, looking over both of them. “What are you, some kind of cop? Can’t do his job without his lady wife?”

“Lawyer,” Madelyn corrected, removing her hand from Nick’s arm. She gestured in her partner’s direction. “Detective. Best not say anything that incriminates yourself.”

Nick laid it on thick. “We know you were at the Dugout Inn when Sterling disappeared, MacCready. So do us both a favor and tell us everything you know!”

The man held up his hands defensively, bewilderment spread across his features. “Jeez! Okay!”

“I was only there for two days, following up on…something. Yeah I saw Earl there. Nice guy, if not a bit ugly, but who am I to judge?” MacCready talked and the pair listened, Madelyn scribbling away in her notepad the important details. “He kept talking about needing to get out of town. At first it was innocent like…for a fresh start to meet the perfect woman, but the more drunk he got, the more it sounded like he was running from the wrong kind of people.”

“Who?” she followed up quickly.

“Heck if I know,” he responded.

Nick prodded further. “He didn’t mention the mob or a loan shark? The Railroad?”

The mention sent a shiver down Madelyn’s spine. Why, she wasn’t sure. For all of their digging in the last two weeks, the organization—if it even existed—was still shrouded in mystery. She stalled in her notetaking and tuned out most of Macready’s response. “…it’s just a myth.”

A familiar expression fell across Nick’s face as he mulled over MacCready’s words. Helpful? Hardly. It was more of the same of what Vadim had offered, leaving them at square one. Earl was still missing, and they were no closer to determining why beyond a vague threat of needing to get away.

“I might have something you can use,” MacCready voiced, shifting awkwardly down the snowy stairs so he was closer to them. “But if I’m gonna help you, you gotta help me.”

“What happened to ‘not looking for a friend’?” Nick remarked with a light smirk.

MacCready grumbled under his breath, clearly uncomfortable with the circumstances of their visit. He wasn’t having a good day, it seemed. “All bets are off when your life gets threatened in broad daylight.”

“Is that what that was all about?” Madelyn asked, motioning towards the alley where Winlock and Barnes had wandered off to. She flashed a teasing smile, hoping to get a rise out of the man. “Colleagues of yours?”

“Fu—heck no,” he answered, censoring himself. Odd. She chalked it up to a man not wanting to curse before a lady and rolled her eyes. “They are Gunners. Small town gang that operates out of Quincy. I—I uh, used to run with them about five years ago. When I was younger. Dumber. But then I wised up. Got married and had a kid. Gig like that doesn’t really pay the bills, you know?”

“You’re married?” Nick asked, the two seemed to simultaneously note the missing wedding band. He was trying a different, more sympathetic angle.  

MacCready gave a solemn shrug, but his eyebrows furrowed with annoyance. “I was. But that isn’t any of your business.”

“Excuse me,” Madelyn blinked, the math not adding up in her head. “How old are you?”

MacCready chuckled like he was asked the question every day. “Twenty-two.”

Both her and Nick made the same surprised sound, staring at their suspect-turned-dud in disbelief. There went her veteran theory.

“I have a son, Duncan. He’s five years old,” MacCready continued, the emotions he expressed sincere. “I’m just trying to do the best I can by him. Can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“How do we fit into this equation?” Nick asked, tone softer than before. Madelyn smiled, knowing he couldn’t resist a hardship tale.

MacCready tilted his head back and forth with a low hum. “Two hot shot detectives like yourselves need an informant on the streets, right? Let me help you, and in return…”

“Lawyer,” Madelyn corrected, again.

“Exactly!” he replied, far too excited. “Crime and Punishment that sh—stuff.”

She decided not to lecture him on Russian literature and its vast differences to her actual career, which in itself were completely separate than what services she provided for the Valentine Detective Agency. She exchanged a silent, somewhat amused look with Nick, who seemed just as bewildered by the person they had crossed paths with. Finally, the two nodded and the detective extended his hand.

“Nick Valentine, Valentine Detective Agency,” he formally greeted.

MacCready chuckled as they shook hands. “You couldn’t make that stuff up, could you?”

His handshake with Madelyn was much softer, less amused. If anything, he seemed genuinely impressed. “Madelyn Hardy, attorney at law.”

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” he grinned. “RJ, Mac, MacCready. Whatever’s cool.”

“You have something for us?” she reminded, and he quickly removed his hand from hers with a short, excited inhale. The two watched as he patted the front of his jacket before digging through his pockets, finally producing a small key on a golden chain. “Is that…”

“Earl’s key,” MacCready answered with a sheepish smile, shifting his eyes away. “Figured if he was going to be running away, it might come in handy later on. Lives in those apartments near the stadium.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear this,” Nick muttered, shaking his head.

Madelyn wasn’t pleased that their best lead was stolen property, but at this rate, it was their best chance of tracking Earl Sterling down. She snatched the key from him before he could change his mind, tucking it away into her purse along with her notepad.

MacCready regarded her with a stern expression. “Remember my offer!”

She would. But for now, she and Nick had more work to do. 

That wasn’t the first time Madelyn and Nick had backtracked across town, chasing a lead on a case. As they raced through the Fens past the stadium to the grouping of apartments that matched the name on Earl’s golden key, she was grateful that at least this time they hadn’t been sent to Quincy, or Concord. By the time they reached the Parkview Apartments, the sun was setting and the frosty chill from the morning had settled to a near freeze. She couldn’t explain it, but an eerie sense of dread settled in her gut, putting her on edge. Nick seemed to feel it as well, the two dashing up the flights of stairs to make it to Earl’s door.

“What do you think we’ll find?” she asked, nervous.

“Not sure, but we’re about to find out,” he answered, prompting her to unlock the door.

Madelyn was careful, quiet in her actions as she clicked open the lock, Nick taking the lead as he pushed open the door inch by inch. She followed closely behind, the two making their way blindly in the darkened room, the only guiding light the moon that shined in through a broken window shade.

“Mr. Sterling?” Nick called out in a low voice, scanning the area. It was a tiny, studio apartment, with a kitchen nook, a foldaway bed, a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. From what Madelyn could tell, their missing person wasn’t there. Still, Nick called out again. “Earl? Are you here?”

“Nick, something doesn’t seem right,” she whispered, stepping away to inspect the foldaway bed. Even in the darkness she could see the mismatched stains in the carpet, an overturned nightstand and a few pieces of broken glass. She held her breath before tugging sharply on the release, jumping backwards as the bed—and Earl—came tumbling out. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Nick managed to turn on a lamp, revealing what she had found, rushing over to her side as she turned away from the horror, covering her nose and mouth as to not retch. He wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders, exhaling a low, defeated sigh. Earl was dead, but more than that, he had been brutally murdered.

“This wasn’t Winter,” Nick mumbled, drawing a quick conclusion. Madelyn had to agree, even if they only had the scene to go by—Eddie’s men weren’t into butchering their victims. “We need to call—”

They both froze as a clattering sound echoed from beyond the closed bathroom door. Nick swiftly pulled his weapon from its side holster—a well-cared for .44 revolver—and motioned for Madelyn to move behind him. She followed his silent instructions, and reminded him that she too was armed, calmly removing the small pistol she carried from the purse on her arm. He glanced at her with a startled expression—she’d hear about this later—but kept moving closer towards the closed door.

“We know you’re in there!”

When the door creaked open, the two were faced with a familiar, but horrifying sight. Doctor Crocker, a local cosmetic surgeon stood with a wild and strung out look in his eyes—a far cry from the friendly face on the billboard ads plastered around town. He cackled out a laugh. “Naughty, naughty! You’re not supposed to be here! But that’s okay! I can fix that. I can fix anything!”

Madelyn resisted the urge to curse or to scream. For a brief moment, she wondered if she felt this terrified when held at gunpoint more than a year prior by a different madman. Doctor Crocker, however, appeared completely unhinged, dangerous and unpredictable. He hadn’t just shot somebody. He had cut them apart and used their blood as paint for the walls.

“Take it easy, doc,” Nick attempted, raising one hand in a calming gesture, all the while keeping his gun aimed towards the doorway. “Let’s talk.”

“I—I didn’t mean to do it! Doctor Crocker is a brilliant surgeon!”

Talking in the third person was never a good sign, she decided, thinking he had to be high on some kind of illicit drug. Mixed with the adrenaline, the doctor was teetering on the edge of outright disaster.

“He never makes mistakes or loses patients! Only happy patients for Doctor Crocker!” he announced, reaching back to grab what turned out to be his own pistol. Now, Madelyn was petrified. And yet, she didn’t scream, resolve getting the best of her.

“You made a mistake, Doctor Crocker,” she tried Nick’s brand of persuasion, even if it made her skin crawl. “Do the right thing. Just think it through. Come with us quietly.”

At first, her words seemed to have an effect, the daze lifting from his eyes as he glanced down at the red stains that covered his clothes and the state of disarray surrounding them. Doctor Crocker flicked his gaze back to Nick and Madelyn, and the panic returned. “Oh god! I killed a man! There’s so much blood! Blood! All over me!”

He was weeping now, loud and hysterically. Hesitantly, Nick stepped closer in a last-ditch effort to resolve the situation. The doctor lashed out, pushing him away. Madelyn’s heart skipped a beat, and she thought she would be reliving the past all over again. “No! No one can find out!”

But Doctor Crocker didn’t aim towards them. Instead, he turned the gun on himself, barrel pressed firm against his chest before firing. The action took less than a second, faster than Nick or Madelyn could react or intervene. His body collapsed in the bathroom doorway, clearly dead on impact.

“You should’ve seen that,” Nick hushed, his faded coat coming into view as he tucked her head close into his shoulder. She didn’t even realize she was trembling. “You shouldn’t have seen any of that.”

A voice, somewhere in the back of her head told her it was just the beginning. She would become tempered, experienced. Most of all, she would heal. But first, she would see so much more.  

Just like that, the Earl Sterling case was closed.

The Boston Police weren’t pleased with them, but then again, they never were. It wasn’t until past midnight when they were released from the scene, not without a scolding from Sergeant Danny Sullivan. It didn’t matter that they had tracked down Earl Sterling when Boston Police wouldn’t (or couldn’t) and had managed to hunt down a killer in the process. As the police saw it, because any blood was shed, it looked indecent on their behalf, and it all had to be handled very carefully. Nick and Madelyn feared that was codeword for coverup. But they weren’t threatened, or told to keep quiet, which further fed into the detective’s either hypothesis—that Winter had nothing to do with Earl’s death. What had started as a run of the mill case had left them with more questions than answers.

Madelyn and Nick were exhausted by the time they returned to the agency. Ellie had left her little glass lamp turned on, just as she promised, but the brunette was long gone. Instead, a different, familiar voice called to them from Valentine’s office.

“Rough night?”

Piper winced as soon as she saw them come through the door, clenching her teeth in a sharp hiss. It was likely obvious how ragged they appeared, and Madelyn was sure some of their clothes were splattered with blood from Earl’s apartment. Nick pulled off his coat with a groan, tossing his hat across his desk as he snatched up the fresh pack of cigarettes Ellie had left behind. Madelyn didn’t bother, practically collapsing into her favored armchair on the left and slinking down, no matter how undignified her posture appeared.

“That bad?” Piper asked.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Nick responded, puffing out smoke before taking in another deep inhale.

The reporter tapped the rolled-up newspaper she carried against her palm, shifting her gaze between the two of them. “Well, since we’re already swimming in it,” she half-heartedly joked before unfurling the newsprint, dumping it atop Nick’s desk so he could see. “Johnny Montrano Jr. is dead. They found his body in the Harbor this morning while you two were running around.”

Fury seemed to be fueling Nick now, who was already starting on his second cigarette. Madelyn perked up at the news, realizing what his reaction would be. “The bastard’s finally done it. He’s finally had him offed. Fed to the fishes.”

“Fishes didn’t really get to do their job though,” Piper mused, rolling her eyes when the two remained silent, too focused.

Madelyn looked to Nick. “He’s looking to take over the northern territories.”

“If he hasn’t already,” Nick replied in an ominous tone. “Nobody is safe anymore.”

Eddie Winter had just made his first deadly move.

[gukptune]

—  resolution, 2 (m.)

↛ jungkook x reader

A stranded pirate caught in a ship wreck finds herself lost in the tides of a Samurai Kingdom. Witnessing the mass murder of her crew she makes way inland hoping to find her Captain, though she gets caught by someone she never wanted to affiliate herself with.

↛ genre: pirate!au, pirate!jungkook, pirate!reader, angst, smut

↛ warnings: nothing really, only angst haha but i assure you its good character building!!

↛ words: 2.3k+

↛ note: surprise! i had this in the works for sooo long, i felt like it was a good point to end part 2!! will def have a part 3 to end it all but yesss, this part is mainly to develop their relationship!

SERIES INDEX: Resolution

      — part one

      — part two

      — finale

SERIES MASTERLIST

Sunrise, sunset - over and over again. You’ve lost hope long ago, hope that you’d leave this strange land. The land of which you never understood the language and at every step you took to make way from chamber to grounds eyes were on you, peering hatred and despise for you. Your Captain hadn’t stopped his hunt for you and the rest of the living crew, he was stopping at nothing and you feared that made your life worse. Trying to fit in wasn’t something you could attempt.

You looked nothing like the people here, your braised skin healed slowly from all those times kept inside the walls. He said he kept you inside because he wanted you to heal, you wondered if he insinuated that to be a way to make you less ‘pirate like’. 

He had you dressed, cleaned and pampered. You looked the part in all ways but your own skin, all the scars and the marks can’t be erased. Somehow that made everything better, all his attempts to hid your truth yet reality didn’t like it happen.

Your past, your actions, your life was etched into your skin. Every day you would smile due to the fact that he was failing. In the end he gave up, maybe he finally excepted you.

All these weeks, all these months you didn’t hate the life he gave you, well the life he forced you into. He tried, he really did. Training was in order, in payment for your stay he would like you by his side ― his own weapon.

Seemingly a killer in disguise you’d become, he acted like you didn’t know how to fight. You knew it all, you’ve had your fair share of battles on the hungry sea, sending souls to reach the depths, handing them over to Davy Jones.

He was frustrated to say the least, his posture was upright and elegant. He had a recipe for his attacks, they were calculated and perfected. 

Yours were, nothing like that. It was aggressive, based on pure instinct and luck. You fought dirty and that was what he hated about it.

He would scold you for hunching, for throwing sand in his face to distract him, for believing in your instincts. You should hate him by now, yet you felt that his efforts were going to waste and yet he never gave up.

The question stays with you of why he really wanted to keep you, why he truly needed you ― a pirate far from home, a girl with no knowledge of Japanese, a rat of the sea.

“Aren’t you suppose to be reading?” A voice bellowed through the spacious room of which you called your own.

Biting your lip you kept your head still, in your cross-legged figure you shrugged continuing on with your previous action.

Jungkook lets out a displeased grovel, his bare footsteps against the wooden floor echoed against the thin walls. The dimly lit room formed a shadow of his slender yet strong body against the floor merely skimming at the corner of your eyes.

Before you know it he plops himself by your side, his hands crawling up the small table you sat yourself next to, “If you want to learn our language you actually have to make an effort.”

You scoffed, “I don’t want to learn your language, I’d like to learn another - something like French or Spanish you know the language of a isle I was suppose to raid.”

Jungkook sensed your sass, he sighed deeply giving up on the entire fiasco for now. He thought that you’d like to learn the language, mainly because you’ve been complaining about his servants and maids side eying you. Of course, most of it wasn’t harmful but curious. He would explain what they were saying but you never believed him.

His eyes glanced over the object of which your hand was covering. His eyes squinted, noticing your body turning away from him slightly, seemingly hiding what you were doing. The literature and writing tools scrambled across the ground before you.

You thought your silence would be enough to keep him away but hell, it wasn’t. His hand made quick work of taking you by surprise yanking the scroll underneath your hand into his own.

You jumped, pushing yourself over the table trying to grab for the parchment. He was holding up higher than you could reach in your sitting position. His eyes twinkled at the scribbles, which to him weren’t.

He lets out a laugh, “Didn’t know you had a crush on me, or that you drew well.”

Your checks flushed into a different shade, that wasn’t even the reason for you drawing that. It was a picture of him, mainly because you could only remember his face by heart that clearly and in detail.

“That’s—that’s not true! Give that to me,” You yelled, poking at his sides which made him flinch from the tickle and let the paper fall from his grasp and into your own.

You immediately placed it underneath yourself and sat on it. At least in this way he can’t get another look of it. His eyes were intense, it had a twinge of excitement and curiosity. 

“Hmm, are you sure?” He teased, seeing the nervous blinking you gave him, “Anyways, you draw well. If anything you could drop the pirating and become a painter for the Kingdom.”

“As if, I may draw well but I don’t paint as well as this,” His eyes raised in questioning that made you continue, “I would draw up maps and sketch the architecture, treasure, scenery, artefacts or ruins we’d come across to keep.” He nods, “Makes sense, but I’m sure that’s not the reason by your Captain really needs you back.”

With this, he completely looks away from you. Standing up and making his way towards the door, “Training at five this evening, don’t be late, koibito.” He mumbles incoherently after this, leaving your room entirely. Leaving you to sink in what just happened, he wasn’t going to let this down — nope, not Jeon Jungkook. The last word you hear confused you. Having heard this said a few times around, you never asked what it meant.

“Keep your head up and always looking around you, ____ , be quick on your feet and always agile.”

“We’re going to need to work on your flexibility because that kick barely went over my knee.”

“Are you sure you actually defeated other crews? If all your crewmates fight like you, I’m pretty sure you’d all be dead, ____.”

“You always counter then attack, okay, this is simple stuff. When you get better you’ll purely attack, and when you’re smaller than your opponent don’t try to attack because it will never go well.”

“Have you even held a sword before—a knife? A rock? You act like it’s heavy than yourself.”

“____, faster.”

“Left,____.”

“____.”

You wanted to die, yes, if there was a deep pit you’d jump right in. There is a river right there, maybe you could drown yourself before he notices. He’s picking up all the weapons right now, he’s busy.

You were on your back, breathing heavily on the ground. Sweat trailing down your entire body, the sun was going down now. You still felt like you were boiling. Flipping over on your stomach, groaning from the impact ― well he definitely bruised your ribs today.

Crawling, dragging your body against the grass you were so close but so far from the water, not realising how stupidly loud you were.

Jungkook was at this point done with the packing, all the weapons sheathed and stored in their boxes on the horse. He waved his horse off as it went about it’s way home, Jungkook had trained an extremely intelligent horse.

He raised his eyebrow at you, watching diligently as you reached your hand pathetically towards the water, “If you’re thirsty I have water.”

You pushed your face into the green luscious grass, muffling your despaired sobs in it. You shook your head aggressively.

“Then why are you heading towards the river, you’re going to drown from that current,” He explained, “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Feeling a spark of hope from his words, it would kill you. Lifting yourself off the grass and dashing towards the water. Obviously not thinking straight, the water looked great. Glorious waterfall to the right and probably another drop on the left.

Before your feet could step a metre closer to the stream you were lifted off the ground like a sack of potatoes.You would know because he made you lift potato sacks to grow some muscles.

“Whoa, whoa―I was kidding,” He turns you around to face him, pointing a finger at your face, “Do not kill yourself.”

You huffed, “As if I was that stupid.”

“You were the one flying towards death, it’s just the truth,” He bellowed.

You furrowed your eyebrows, shoving your shoulder against his. Jungkook letting out a chuckle at your childlike mannerism.

Before he could usher another word, a guard came running, he seemed extremely out of breath and troubled.

“Jimin?” Jungkook asked, his face filled with confusion.

Jimin nods, swallowing hard before answering, “Jungkook, he’s here. He wants her.”

All eyes narrowed towards yours, you blinked unknowingly. 

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathed, his eyes locking with yours.

“He says he has prisoners, that he’d trade her with ____,” Jimin said.

Her, was all you could gather from their conversation. Who would your Captain capture that would really allow Jungkook to trade you with. Honestly, you thought he’d never let you go.

“Her?” Jungkook asked.

Jimin sighs, “Jungkook, you know exactly who it is—we have no idea how he got the information or captured her but she’s in his hands.”

“Jungkook, it’s—”

A firing of a gun completely blocks your ears from taking in the name of the ‘her’. She must’ve been important, if not Jungkook wouldn’t be looking at you with eyes like that, like he was actually considering letting you go.

Jeon Jungkook, it was a stab in the heart for him. How was he suppose to make this decision, fuck, he knew that he’d lose one of you but he didn’t know who he’s more willing to lose.

Maybe it was anger, that you felt inside. You were annoyed that now because of a single her he’s changed his mind, did he forget his promises. Your captain killed hundreds and one person was suppose to make Jungkook pat your ass over. The sound of the gun, you knew it, you knew it well.

Jungkook had gotten you back in your room by force. You weren’t having it, you wanted to know of this person he’s so willing to trade. On the shell you wanted to tell him it was unfair that he’d let several of his men die, citizens die and not let you go but with one girl he was willing to take it all back. He was adamant, stubborn and fearless yet in his moment he was none of that. In the end it truly wasn’t that you were mad about, it was the fact that after all this time, it takes one moment for your faith in him to disappear.  

“Let me go!”

He’s had you his shoulder with Jimin guarding as he marched you into safety, ‘safety’ obviously by his words.

“____! Stop, I need to you calm down,” Jungkook hushed, you were placed on your bed with his arms out trying to stop you from slipping past him. He looked worried with his eyebrows up like that, his doe eyes widened―of course that was enough to make you sit down. You face mimicking his, he was serious and upset.

“Are you going to trade me?”

His eyes shot back to yours, blinking protrusively, “Trade? No, you’re not an object―”

“You’re going to hand me over?”

“No―you’re also not a prisoner―”

“―not anymore,” You corrected, your tone was brutal, like was cutting into him. He breathed heavily, brushing his hair up over his forehead, he held your hand in his. Rubbing his large warm hands over your knuckles gently, his body was kneeled in front of you as you sat on the end of your bed staring down at him slightly.

“Please, just listen to me,” His voice cracked, you gulped realising that this was troubling him more that you though and in a way you didn’t understand.

He bit the skin on his bottom lip before going on, “You want to know, I understand that, ____, I know. Your Captain’s got the woman my father chose as my betrothed―”

“Your… be-betrothed?” Spluttering your words in shock. As long as you had been here never had you heard of such a thing. All these days he spent with you, thinking it was process. It was bad to feel your heart race when he’d come get you for breakfast, for training, reading ― it was bad but it felt so good. Your change in expression didn’t slip past Jungkook, the tightness in his heart should’ve been enough to make him chose but here he’d need to choose between his duties and his heart.

“Who is she?” Your light murmur drummed against his ears, making it even worse for him.

He locks eyes with you, “You won’t know her, we grew up together and my father believes we are compatible ― I haven’t seen her in years.”

Knowing that they had history didn’t make you feel any better, you truly didn’t understand why it bothered you so much.

“I don’t care what you two are, I care about how you’re so unfaithful to your own words,” You sussed.

Jungkook stills for a second, as if was trying to understand you, before he nods. Yet he was persistent, leaning down over you. “Hey, ____, please, trust me. We are nothing, I just―my father would do anything to protect her and her family.”

That includes throwing you back to a man you now feared, a changed man who didn’t fight for the right reasons anymore. The tall young Captain stopped crossing your mind since the day you’ve started to trust the man in front of you. Maybe now you would begin to miss him, his embrace, his scent, his love. 

Your hand skimmed over the chain hanging down your neck, the ring shining in the light. It was a mark of trust, a mark of loyalty. Your face scrunched in thought, not noticing how Jungkook had caught sight of that ring. His nose scrunches before drawing back your attention with a squeeze of your thigh.

His breath hitched, his breath fanning over your hair, “I will protect you.”

His voice was sincere. As if he was trying to get you back on his side, it hadn’t worked. Words will mean nothing to you until he does what he promises, in the end he was unfaithful to his words, right? 

You merely nodded, eyes still stitched to the jewellery. 

Was it enough you wondered, these months with him. Was it enough to make you someone else, someone better. You had trusted him, believed in him but in the end could it overthrow your love for another, your love for Kim Taehyung.

It was hard, it was hard to believe in the words that came out of Jeon Jungkook’s lips anymore.

© archangegguk. 11 may 2019

[bestillmyslashyheart]

Your Cowboy

Alex’s laugh caught in his throat. It should be funny, it really should.

And yet.

Michael turned to him, cocky smirk firmly in place as he canted his head at just the right angle to catch the fading sun.

“Well fuck me sideways Cowboy.” Alex’s voice was barely more than a breath but the wide grin spreading across Michael’s face told him he’d been loud enough.

“That can be arranged.”

Alex groaned. “No, that wasn’t a request. I’m too sore.”

Michael smirked and swaggered over to him, the damn hat looking criminally good on him. “I told you the hat looked good,” he reminded Alex.

Alex bit his lip to hold back his retort. It was true, when Michael had first told him weeks ago that he’d bought a cowboy hat, Alex had laughed at him. Michael’s only defense was that it looked damn good on him and Alex would love it when he saw it. 

He wasn’t wrong.

Michael bent over Alex, his hands braced on the arms of Alex’s chair. “You like it, admit it.”

Alex shook his head. “I admit nothing.”

Michael grinned and stood up, adjusting the hat to somehow look even better. Alex barely held back a moan. He reached for Michael only for him to dance out of reach. “Nuh uh,” he protested. “Admit it.”

Alex thought about denying it but really, who was he trying to kid? “Come over here, Cowboy,” he demanded.

Michael eyed him but slowly meandered over. “You calling me Cowboy because I look good in a cowboy hat?” He questioned teasingly.

Alex rolled his eyes. “No. It’s because you look damn good in a cowboy hat. Now get over here.” 

Michael grinned and stepped into Alex’s grasp. “Whatever you say, darlin’.” Alex ignored the pet name for now and hooked a hand inside that obnoxious belt buckle and reeled him in all the way. He tilted his head to the side to avoid the hat and pulled Michael in for a kiss.

---

Alex didn’t bother reading the Caller ID when he answered the phone. “Who the fuck do you think you are calling at this hour?”

There was a low chuckle on the other end. “Well good morning to you too, darlin’.”

Alex relaxed back into his bed, the tension seeping out of him at the sound of Michael’s voice. And it was all Michael’s voice, the damn pet name had nothing to do with it. He swears. “Hey Cowboy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

They texted, sure, but in the four years since Alex joined the Air Force, he wasn’t sure they’d actually spoken on the phone more than twice. “Just returning your call. Calls, I should say.”

Alex’s eyes cracked open. “What calls?”

There was that chuckle again. “The fourteen phone calls I got last night? I particularly enjoyed the messages, if I do say so myself. I didn’t know you could make Cowboy sound that dirty, I’m impressed really.” Michael paused. “You getting a lot of practice with that?”

Alex was more focused on the revelation that he’d drunk dialed Michael fourteen times last night than he was on the jealousy in his voice. So he didn’t even think when he replied, “You know you’re the only Cowboy in my life, Guerin.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael sounded pleased. 

“Yeah,” Alex replied almost absently as he shifted around. “Fourteen times, really?”

Michael hummed. “The last couple were mostly incoherent, though.” He paused. “Fun night?”

Alex groaned. “Williams’ 21st birthday.”

Michael whistled lowly. Alex hummed in agreement. “You working?”

“Hell no,” Alex denied. “Got today and tomorrow off after covering for some guys last week.”

“Lucky you.”

Alex made some noncommittal noise before falling quiet. Neither said a word for a long while, enjoying the quiet sounds of listening to each other’s breathing.

There was a loud banging on his door shortly before it swung open. Patrick leaned heavily on the doorframe. “I fucking hate you Manes.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. 

“I have to go to the base,” Patrick ground out, his eyes barely open.

Alex smirked. “Have fun with that.” 

“With what?” Michael asked through the phone.

“Not you,” Alex assured him before turning back to Patrick who now had a smirk of his own.

“Is that Michael?” He asked.

Alex nodded slowly and Patrick crossed the room to flop down next to him on the bed. Without asking, he ripped the phone from Alex’s hand and pressed it to his own ear. 

“Tell me he actually left those messages,” he asked.

Alex didn’t hear Michael’s response but Patrick’s cackling started to worry him. 

“Oh man,” Patrick sighed. “That was great.”

And ok, that was enough. Alex tore the phone from Patrick’s hand and shoved at him with his other until Patrick rolled off the bed.

“What exactly did I say in those messages?” He asked Michael.

Michael laughed. “I’ll save them and let you listen next time you’re here,” he promised.

“In the meantime, I’m gonna have to put up with everyone who heard me leave them.”

“There was nothing bad, I promise,” Michael assured him. “But you did get a little sappy as the night went on. And horny.”

Alex closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Don’t worry about it too much, darlin’. I’m sure most of them were too drunk to remember, anyway.”

“In case he doesn’t mention it,” Patrick told him from the doorway, “you asked if you could save a horse every time you rode him and if yes then you were planning to save a lot of horses.”

“Oh my god.”

“This is why you shouldn’t date Cowboys,” Patrick ‘advised’. Alex threw a pillow at him.

When he finally left, Alex turned back to the phone. “Ok, I’m going to sleep for the next 12 hours or so and when I wake up this will all have been a nightmare.”

Michael laughed softly. “Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

“Night, Cowboy.”

---

He shouldn’t be here. He knew he shouldn’t. In the week he’d been in town, he’d done a damn good job of avoiding Michael and anywhere he knew Michael might be. So why he was sitting at the bar in the Wild Pony on Friday night when he knew from both Michael and Maria that Michael was a staple here on Friday nights, he didn’t know.

They were done. Over. Finished. 

Or at least that’s what they’d said on the phone. Loudly. Repeatedly.

Alex wasn’t even sure where it went wrong. Everything was fine and then within a month they could barely speak without fighting and then Michael called and canceled a trip to come see him at the last minute and they’d both lost it.

That was six months ago.

Six months without any contact and Alex was like a man dying of thirst in the desert presented with a fucking waterfall and told not to drink. How could he possibly resist?

So he was at the Pony. He’d been warming a seat at the bar for almost two hours now, long enough that Maria had checked on him twice, but he still hadn’t seen Michael. He thought about leaving, about sucking it up and just going out to the trailer, when Michael walked in.

Michael and that fucking hat.

Alex had to admit, when Michael had first gotten it, Alex was sure it would just be a fad. Something he wore for a while before he got bored of the aesthetic and moved on but no. He still wore it. And honestly, Alex couldn’t be upset about it. Michael looked good in that hat. And he knew it.

“All is right in the world,” Maria said sarcastically as Michael slid onto a free stool. “What would a Friday night be without Michael Guerin gracing my bar with his presence?” She shot him a wry look, not friendly but not unkind. “What’ll it be Cowboy?”

“Usual. And don’t call me that.” Michael’s voice was tired, like he was weary and not from a long day of work.

Maria raised an eyebrow. “You’re rocking the whole cowboy look but you don’t want to be called Cowboy?” She huffed. “Oookay.” She turned to get Michael his drink and Alex fled.

He wanted to say he didn’t know why he fled but he did. Cowboy was his name for Michael, dammit. The idea that he didn’t let anyone else call him that warmed something in Alex that he’d thought was lost. 

Alex found Michael’s truck easily enough in the parking lot and scribbled a note on a receipt he found on the floorboard.

I’m at the Airstream

A

And then he left. He drove out to Foster Ranch and let himself into Michael’s home and sprawled out as best he could on Michael’s tiny bed.

It was hours before he heard the sound of Michael’s truck. Hours where he could think about what to say to fix this mess they’d somehow created. 

When he stepped out of the trailer to greet Michael, everything he’d planned just flew out of his head. Michael walked towards him, his gait slow and rambling.

“Hey, Cowboy,” Alex greeted softly.

Michael paused, his shoulders tensing. “Alex,” he returned. “What are you doing here?”

Alex swallowed. It had maybe been too much to hope that Michael would respond in kind but he’d gotten used to hearing darlin’ fall from Michael’s lips. His name felt almost impersonal now. “I missed you.”

Michael huffed and shook his head, his hands resting on his hips as he kicked lightly at the dirt. “You can’t have missed me that much. Took you six days to come see me.”

Alex started. “How-”

“DeLuca mentioned it last week. She was really excited that you were coming to visit. Said it had been a long time since she got to see you for a whole week.” He didn’t glare at Alex but only just.

Alex sighed. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me. Last time we-” he stopped and shook his head. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“So why now?”

“I saw you at the Pony.”

“I figured as much since that note wasn’t in my truck when I went inside.”

“No, I mean I was inside. I was at the bar when Maria called you Cowboy and you told her not to.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Why don’t you want her calling you Cowboy?”

“Alex, why the hell are you here?”

“Just answer the question, Guerin.”

Michael huffed. “Because this asshole I’m in love with calls me that and I can’t stand to hear it from anyone else. Happy?”

“Yes.”

Michael paused, his mouth open to continue. “What?”

Alex laughed lightly. “Yes, that makes me happy. I like having something that’s just mine. I like that you don’t let anyone else call you Cowboy.”

“I’m confused.” Michael took the hat off to scratch his head. “You broke up with me.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “What the fuck are you talking about? You broke up with me.”

Michael eyed him. “You told me not call or text you anymore.”

“You said it was better if we didn’t see each other anymore!” Alex shouted back.

Michael stared at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? I told you I couldn’t make it that weekend a few months ago and you told me not to bother on another weekend.”

“Guerin, you called me up an hour before you were supposed to be there with a bullshit excuse about how you couldn’t make the drive-”

“My truck broke down!”

“-and then told me that it was better that way! That the driving was too much and you didn’t think it was worth it.” Alex focused on his breathing in an effort to keep the tears at bay. He’d thought he was done crying about this.

Michael didn’t say anything for a long while. “My truck is an old piece of shit that is hanging out through my sheer force of will.” Alex blinked at the non-sequitur. “The engine blew about an hour outside of Roswell and I tried to fix it as best I could so I could still make it out to you but the part I needed took a week to ship so there was no way I could have made it all the way to the base that day. When I said the driving was too much and it wasn’t worth it I meant to the truck. I was trying to suggest we meet up in the middle or maybe I could scrounge up for plane tickets because the truck can’t handle the trips anymore.”

Alex stared. “What?”

Michael huffed. “I was talking about the damn truck, Alex. Not us.”

“That-that is not how it sounded.” Alex shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Alex-”

“It sounded like I was too much of a hassle and you couldn’t be assed to try anymore.” Alex tried to glare at him but couldn’t quite manage it. 

“Darlin’ you are a hassle and a pain in my ass sometimes but I’m always going to want you. I’m always going to want to try.” Michael cocked his head to the side and half looked back at his truck. “It would just be easier if I didn’t have to drive so far.”

Alex nodded slowly. “So don’t.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Are you breaking up with me again?”

“I have a new posting,” Alex revealed. “That’s why I got a week to come back here. They gave me ten days to move and I didn’t need the whole time.”

Michael took a step towards him. “Where are you being posted?”

“Altus, in Oklahoma. It’s less than six hours.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Six hours, huh? I think I could manage that.”

“Halfway would work too.”

“You willing to try again, darlin’?”

“Always, Cowboy.”

---

Michael didn’t recognize the number but he answered it anyway. He’d been on edge for a week, waiting and hoping to hear something, anything.

“Hello?” He answered tersely.

“Heeey Cowboy,” Alex’s voice was rough like he hadn’t use it much recently and he sounded high as a kite but it was undeniably Alex.

Michael sagged against the side of his truck. “You’re okay.” It wasn’t a question except for the fact that it was. A week ago there was as a news report of an Air Force unit that was attacked outside of Baghdad. Three casualties. Now, Michael wasn’t typically prone to being a worry wart but that kind of news plus a complete lack of communication from Alex did give him pause.

Ok, he’d been a nervous wreck but so what?

“I’m right as fucking rain.” Michael furrowed his brow.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. I’m okay.” Alex tried to play it off but Michael could hear the undercurrent of pain in his voice. 

Michael waved goodbye to the other ranch hands as they passed and slid into the cab of his truck. “Darlin’ talk to me. What happened? Where are you? Are you still in Baghdad?”

“Nope.” Alex popped. “I’m in Germany.”

“Germany?”

Alex hummed. “It’s where the fancy hospital is.”

Michael swore his heart stopped. “Hospital? Why are you in the hospital?”

“It’s where you go when they cut half of your leg off.” Now his heart did stop.

“Alex-”

“Don’t,” Alex’s voice was suddenly sharp. “I don’t know what you’re going to say but whatever it is, I really don’t want to hear it. I just- I just want to hear your voice.”

Michael swallowed down the first five things that came to mind. He could always call Patrick later and grill him for more information. “I was working out at Foster’s today and this guy…”

He wasn’t sure what he said, really, But he talked for almost an hour, Alex making random comments occasionally, until he could hear Alex starting to nod off.

“Alex? Darlin’?” 

Alex hummed.

“You coming home?”

“Yeah, Cowboy. I’m coming home. It won’t be the same, though.”

“I don’t care. I just want you here.”

“I will be. I’ll have to get out of here and do therapy and get fitted for a prosthetic but eventually I’ll be there. I promise.”

---

“You cannot be serious!” Liz laughed. 

Maria shrugged. “Try it. He hates it.”

She saw Alex smile around the rim of his bottle as he pressed it to his lips and she smiled in response. It had taken months for the three of them to get back to this point. To where they all felt comfortable enough just sitting back and drinking and having fun. To being able to move past all of the lies and the secrets and the hurting each other that they’d done. 

Liz leaned back in her chair until it balanced on two legs. “Yo, Cowboy!” She yelled across the bar. Michael stiffened where he was bent over the pool table lining up a shot but he didn’t turn around. “Cowboy!”

Michael still didn’t react and Alex started to laugh. Everyone in the bar knew who she was yelling at but Michael was too stubborn to acknowledge it. 

Liz turned back to Maria with a huff. “He’s literally a cowboy, though! I mean he’s got the buckle, the hat, he literally worked on a ranch for years...he’s an actually fucking cowboy!”

Maria laughed. “And yet.” She spread her hands out. “He’s always hated it when people called him cowboy as like a name. Calling him a cowboy seems to be fair game but just Cowboy?” She shook her head. “He won’t answer.”

Liz shook her head, her hair swishing around her shoulders. “That’s dumb. Boys are dumb.” And ok so she’d maybe had a bit to drink. She turned to Alex. “Why is your boy dumb?”

Alex’s lips twitched like he was fighting a grin but Liz couldn’t understand why. She raised an eyebrow when he didn’t say anything.

“Alex,” she said as sternly as she could manage. “What do you know?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maria glance between them. “What?” Maria asked, but Liz didn’t look away from Alex. He knew something, she just didn’t know what.

“Spill, Manes!” 

Alex lost the battle with his lips and they spread wide in a big grin. “Hey, Cowboy!” He yelled. Liz whirled around in her chair in time to see Michael pop up and turn their way.

“What?” Michael asked with a laugh.

“What?” Maria asked, shocked.

Liz pointed at Michael and then at Alex and then back to Michael. “You didn’t answer me when I said Cowboy,” she accused as Michael walked over to them, Max trailing behind him.

“Yeah, and?” Michael slid into the seat next to Alex, his arm sliding up the back of Alex’s neck to card through his hair. 

“Why?”

“I ain’t your cowboy, Elizabeth.”

Max made some kind of noise that Liz didn’t bother to decipher. “Really?” She raised an eyebrow as she turned to Alex. “He’s your cowboy?”

Alex shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Michael grinned and pressed a kiss to Alex’s cheek right, where his dimple appeared as he grinned widely. Liz barely contained her ‘aww’.

“I’ve never heard you two use pet names,” she accused. “You mocked me and Max for using ‘babe’, for chrissake.”

“That’s because babe is unoriginal.”

“And Cowboy is so unique?” Max asked, laughing. Michael shrugged. “Everyone calls you Cowboy.”

“No they don’t,” Michael denied. “They try. Once. But that’s it. Besides, Alex was first so he get exclusive rights.”

“Oh that’s why I get exclusive rights?” Alex laughed. Michael nodded and turned and whispered something in his ear that turned the tips of Alex’s ears red.

Liz rolled her eyes. “Alright, so Michael’s Cowboy, what’s Alex?”

Alex glared at Michael but Michael didn’t say anything. He just smirked and stole Alex’s beer. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Liz denied. “I’m just curious.”

“You know curiosity killed the cat,” Alex warned.

She wagged a finger at him. “Ah but satisfaction brought it back.”

He shook his head and stood up, his hand grabbing at Michael’s collar to pull him up with him. “Unfortunately, I can’t help you with that. Thanks for a fun night out,” he waved at them with his free hand. “We’re leaving.”

Michael tossed a farewell over his shoulder as he let Alex pull him out of the bar.

[vandorens-archive]

ten questions tag | i was tagged by: @mshelleys, @emdrabbles, @pe-ersona, @evergrcen and @septemberliterature. thank you so much, and i’m so sorry i’m getting to this so late!

everything is under the cut!

@mshelleys

i. if you could change the genre of one of your wips, what would you change it to and how would the story/characters change?

So, trahison already features a ghost and a brief stay at a manor. have i considered turning it into a full fledged horror because of that? perhaps.

ii. do you think of your characters as actors playing a part in a movie or as people in history actually doing things that effect the future?

i think of them as actors playing in one long, crazy, unpredictable play. 

iii. role swap your protagonist and antagonist but keep their personalities the same; how different would your story be?

honestly, not different at all, because when it comes to it, the subject of trahison’s antagonist (s) is pretty complex. 

iv. are any of your characters based on you, family, friends, or someone else you know?

oh, absolutely. my characters range between self inserts, to characters i wish i was more like, to characters that are essentially walking, talking, breathing love letters to the people i care about.  

v. how long have you had your main protagonist(s) of your wip(s)?

I’ve been working with marin, nate and ruby for years, long before they were even called that and were a part of a dystopian crime novel (don’t ask). antoine joined them soon after, followed a while later by beth and isadora, and miles was invented during the plotting stage. 

vi. do you prefer to write chronologically or just make a bunch of scenes and order them after they’re written?

it depends on what i’m working on and how serious i am about it, but if we’re only talking about trahison, then chronologically!

vii. imagine the problem in your wip is sorted out, how would the protagonist recount the story to their children if they asked?

with a far away look in his eyes and an uncharacteristic fondness in his voice, marin would turn to his children, and tell them how extraordinary his friends were during his university years—their zeal, their inquisitiveness, and conveniently leaving out the uncomfortable loyalty they all had towards each other, until time and life’s commands separated them. 

viii. favorite (non-spoilery) line(s) of your current wip(s)?

This small bit of description, albeit a little purple prose-y, is one that i’m very, very proud of.

“ The morning rain had made its grave in the dirt, the bittersweet smell—like exotic black tea—rising into the air. It was the night pluviophiles came to dance. If I think hard, I can still taste the ghost of the raindrops on my tongue and sense Beth’s radiating warmth beside me; its own ghost ” - trahison, chapter three

ix. if your wip was a movie, could you see it be done in the 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, or 2010s? why that decade in particular?

so, fun fact, i hadn’t decided when to set trahison (see: the big question mark in my plotting notebook) but i have recently made up my mind and decided to set it in the seventies! if it was a film, then i could see it being made in seventies france! very a la the dreamers.

x. are you able to just make up a story on the spot, or do you need help (plot generators or other outside influences)?

sometimes i’ll take the help of prompts or media, but otherwise i just come up with things on my own!

@emdrabbles

i. what do the names of your main characters mean? did you pick them for the meaning or another reason?

i picked the trahison characters’ names based on two things: how much it related to the character’s backstory or personality, and how pleasing it sounded out loud. here are the meanings of their names:

marin — of the sea

ruby — deep red; precious stone; behold a son

elizabeth — god is my oath

nathaniel — gift from god

antoine — priceless one; beyond praise

isadora — gift of Isis

ii. what book are you currently reading?

I’m currently reading the time machine by h.g wells!

iii. last sentence written?

“ When the end of the world comes — I’ll film it ” — copycat, or the one where i predict the future. 

iv. who are some of your faceclaims?

i usually don’t use faceclaims, but if i had to choose:

marin van doren (trahison) — timor simakov

eloi hill (psychophantia) — maxence danet fauvel

cass parker (penny lane) — monica tomas

v. gimme some worldbuilding facts!!

alright, here’s one: in the world of psychophantia, not only is the magic system and your powers controlled by your morals, but so is your social ranking, your education, and any future you may have—to an extent. 

vi. do you outline? if so, do you have a specific method?

i’m a plotter and only really work well with a solid outline, however, my outlines range from a series of messy, incoherent bullet points to meticulous scene-by-scene planning based around the three act structure. this post is my go to for plotting assistance! 

vii. favourite author?

Like every tumblr user ever, i love donna tartt and maggie stiefvater, but i’m also a huge fan of f.scott fitzgerald, agatha christie and vera caspary!

viii. what is your oldest wip?

trahison! It went through many, many changes — from changes in genre to changes in character names, and there’s still a possibility that it could change even further. 

ix. what is your favourite wip?

every wip i reblog under my #others. tag! You all are so damn talented!

x. where do you get your inspiration from?

everywhere around me! from conversations i have with people, from films and books i consume, from the music on the radio — i like that anything and everything can inspire me to create.

@pe-ersona

i. in one sentence, explain your current wip!

a group of secretive students attempt to become immortal, only to uncover the worst parts of themselves — and each other — as they do. 

ii. was writing your main interest or did you have other interests?

although writing is my main interest (see: my social media bio on every platform ever), i also like to journal, sew, cook and make videos! my interests usually do have to do with the intention of creation. 

iii. what’s your favorite genre to write? to read?

I love writing horror and mysteries. those are my favourite genres, but i also love reading a good contemporary romance!

iv. what is one goal you have for your wip this year? how’s that goal going?

to finish the first draft! so far, not so bad, though i do wish i could write more, but unfortunately, time constraints plus school restrict me from doing so. 

v. how old is your wip? or when did you start writing your wip?

trahison is nearly three years old, but i only started writing the current version of it a year ago. 

vii. what scene made you cry or laugh or both?

these lines made me laugh out loud the first time i wrote them:

“ Up the stairs stumbled Miles, my slovenly genius roommate. He grinned at the giggles and winked at the exasperated stares. 

The gall of him! 

I wanted to be him. 

He managed to find his balance enough to reach our dorm. I immediately stepped back to let him in, and to make sure I was in no association with his uncomposed state. Nate gave a disapproving look at his back as he staggered in. 

I took another step back, raised a pointed eyebrow, and closed the door ” — trahison, chapter three

vii. how many ocs does your wip have? who’s your favourite?

my main wip, trahison, has six main characters. out of the main six, my favourite has to be nathaniel. he is very much the epitome of pure, and sometimes i wonder how he ended up in the middle of such a dark plot. 

vii. you have a brand new idea for a wip, what do you do? 

brainstorm, brainstorm, brainstorm. scribble down whatever the hell pops up in my brain, attempt to link it together by a thin string of yarn, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

ix. you are having your first book-signing, where are you?

i’m in a small bookstore, nestled in a corner near the storage room. almost no one knows about this town, so the line is small but chatty, fans exchanging theories and analysing certain paragraphs. the sight of them makes me feel warm inside. 

x. you have the ability to live in any book, publishing or not, what would it be?

would it be too cliche to say the harry potter universe? other than that, other worlds i would love to be a part of is the world in my novel penny lane, or in midst of a detective story.

@evergrcen / @septemberliterature

i. how did you come up with your wip’s title? what does it mean in relation to the story?

okay, so i discovered the word ‘trahison’ after hearing my french teacher say it, and immediately knew i had to use it for something. ‘trahison’ means betrayal or treason in french, which is one of the main themes in the novel. 

ii. do you title your chapters? if so, what’s your favourite?

I don’t, but I would love to!!

iii. what’s a recent line you really like?

Not a very dramatic or noteworthy line, but here’s one from a poem i’m writing:

“ So the two of you get in the car, proceeding to have an argument with the radio ” — examples of easy solutions, or the one where the internet has no answers. 

iv. are there any writing-related quotes you really like?

“i think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you” — keaton henson

v. do you have an idea for a cover design for your story?

A black background with serif text, that’s it. It’s simple. It’s mysterious. It’s the type of vibe I want to exude. 

vi. what sort of au can you imagine your story being?

...dark academia au anyone?

just kidding. in all seriousness, though, i can see a royalty/political au for trahison, or a medieval fantasy au!

vii. which oc would be the most angry with you as the writer?

eloi. i really need to give that poor boy a break. 

viii. if you had to tell the story from a different pov, which character would you choose?

ruby! she’s the token enigma of trahison, so i think her point of view would be very interesting to see. 

ix. what would be your oc’s taste in music if they lived in our world?

OKAY let’s see:

marin — classic rock, so the who, queen, def leppard.etc

ruby — that one person who you’re pretty sure only listens to classical music, but is actually very attuned to modern day music. she would mostly listen to female singer-songwriters, so take lorde, marina, lana del rey, and other such artists. 

beth — take one look at her playlist, and you’ll see that ninety five percent of it is mitski, while the other five percent is bedroom pop. she would like very tender, calm, cry to in bed music. 

Antoine — same as marin, but add other modern day music artists with eclectic sounds, such as twenty one pilots, arctic monkeys, that sort of thing.

nathaniel — classical music, instrumentals, and film soundtracks make up his playlist. if it has sung words, he won’t listen to it. has little to no understanding of modern day music and is too scared to find out more about it.

isadora — 2000’s diva pop plays in the background of her life. rihanna is her go to whenever she gets to control the party. Don’t be surprised if ‘rich girl’ by gwen stefani starts playing in your head at the sight of her. 

x. what’s one personal goal you want to achieve by the end of the story?

finishing it with pride!

[forest-of-stories]

“They Won’t Let You Remember”: Obsession Before Fandom

[This is another round of extremely personal spelunking into my own fannish past that I sometimes do on this and other platforms, including Dreamwidth, which is where I first posted it.  Content warning for digressions into Fannish Discourse, and also brains - mostly mine - conflating fiction and reality in sometimes unhealthy ways.]

Not long ago, my mom asked me on the phone if I was aware that a new Men in Black movie would be out later this year. I told her that I knew, and added, “If I see it with other humans, they might have to hear how the original was one of the root causes of my mind control feelings.” Not the root cause, I should emphasize: those feelings could have come from any number of sources, but that number is probably greater than “one.” We both knew why she had brought up this particular franchise. There is a file cabinet in my childhood bedroom that once contained many, many handwritten stories – some co-written with middle school classmates, though most of them weren’t – that featured the titular secret organization, the protectors of the Earth from the scum of the universe, as the bad guys. I wrote those in order to deal with the sharp turn that my already present Mind Control Feelings took when a silly science fiction comedy featuring giant space bugs encouraged me to root for characters who maintained the status quo by erasing memories from ordinary people – people like me – on a regular basis. Some of you might be asking, “Wait, you knew it was only a movie, right?” And my answer would be, “Yes, but…” Since time and emotional distance have both clarified and obscured my understanding of how I used to think and behave, here is the best (and probably most long-winded) way that I can answer that question for both myself and others: I was an imaginative and overwhelmingly anxious child. On the one hand, my imaginative side desperately wanted magic and aliens and Weird Stuff to be real, which I still don’t think was always a bad thing. On the other hand, during my preteen and teenage years, my anxiety (which wouldn’t be linked to a diagnosis until much later in my life) manifested as “what if?” scenarios that were at least as convincing as reality… even if they were based in speculative fiction. Even if I didn’t believe that they would happen, I spent a lot of time telling myself stories about what might happen if they did, or even just thinking, “What if this is how the world is supposed to work, even if I don’t like it or want it and you can’t make me?” So, although I knew the difference between fiction and reality by the age of twelve, knew that Men in Black was Only A Movie, my “what if?” reflex kicked in hard the more I recognized its world as being much closer enough to my own than my previous, limited encounters with memory erasure in fiction. According to the rules of that world, if the Weird Stuff were real, I wouldn’t even know, and, according to the text, shouldn’t know. “Wasn’t the next line of the theme song ‘They won’t let you remember’?” Older Sister asked, the last time we talked about it. Yes. Yes, it was. The immediacy is right there in the song’s refrain (which, by the way, is still an earworm and a half). At one point, Tommy Lee Jones’ veteran agent character insists that, while Earth is constantly under extraterrestrial threat, humans can only live our lives peacefully if we don’t know about it. (Keeping in mind that humans do a pretty solid job of threatening life on Earth ourselves, I feel like that statement is also linked to questions about the supposedly blissful ignorance of privilege, which go beyond the scope of this post, but are still worth mentioning.) Maybe I reacted so strongly to that bit of dialogue because I believed that it wasn’t true, or because I feared that it was. I’m pretty sure that it was the combination of that scene and its message, with my recurring issues around authority and self-control, and my growing self-awareness about my misbehaving brain, that set my anxious imagination spinning. I would guess that I was wondering something like, “What if the only way that I could have peace of mind was if somebody or something else edited my thoughts and memories without my knowledge or consent?” That idea scared me. It made me angry. And since I was not mature enough to have any filters or sense of other people’s boundaries, I talked – loudly and incoherently – to anybody who would listen, and quite a few people who wouldn’t, about how scared and angry it made me. A lot of the things that I said and did are now difficult for me to understand (one might almost say… alien), and I’m not sure whether they helped with my worries or just made them worse. I do know that this was neither the first nor the last work of fiction about which some of my loved ones told me to shut up because I was too obsessed, resulting in screaming fights, sneering mockery, and tears. I was also old enough, you see, to understand that I wasn’t responding to fiction in the same way that a lot of my peers were, and to, perhaps, start feeling like there was something wrong with me. Not that this was enough to shut me, in fact, up. But I did something else, too: I started to write the stories that I mentioned above. Some of my point-of-view characters were disillusioned agents, others were characters from other media that I enjoyed; the more sources I could pull from, and the more surreal I could make the mix, the happier I was. Still other POV characters were authorial avatars who started out as innocent bystanders and narrowly escaped having their memories wiped. (A few of those self-insert fantasies also involved my earliest fictional crush, who just happened to be an alien from a certain book series that I loved at the time. I quite happily imagined scenarios in which my very knowledge of his true nature was forbidden and yet our love conquered all in the end, but I never put any of those scenarios on paper. I kind of wish I had.) Some of the storylines fizzled out after a few chapters, while others ended with my protagonists riding off into the sunset with their minds, for the time being, safe. I should stress that even my writing wasn't necessarily integrated into my life in a healthy way: I scribbled during my classes (yes, I got caught at least once), I wrote scenarios that crossed the line from nonsensical into offensive (why so many “man in a dress” jokes, younger self? Why even one?), and I buttonholed friends and classmates as audiences and even collaborators despite their probably being much less interested than I was. Even though I was discovering a third option besides “shut up forever” and “shut up never,” it would take several more years, at least two more obsessions, and the discovery of online fandom (I only somewhat knew what “online” was in the late 1990s, and “fandom” was nowhere near my vocabulary) before I sorted out the appropriate time and place for each of those options. But I was on my way there, even if I didn’t know what “there” was. When I questioned and pulled apart an established narrative to turn the heroes into villains and shine a light on viewpoints that I thought the original creators had overlooked, I was writing fanfiction, whether I knew it or not. When I finally did find my way to fandom communities, it was thanks to the Harry Potter books, whose world-building also relies on what TV Tropes calls “The Masquerade.” (If you look up the page for that trope, guess whose quote is right at the top? Yeah.) Which led me to recognize it in certain versions of X-Men, and The Incredibles, and Torchwood and The Vampire Diaries and and and… The more I saw of organized efforts to conceal the existence of Weird Stuff from the Oblivious Masses, the more I understood that the audience was meant to feel like we were in on the secret, but I couldn’t stop sympathizing with the people who weren’t. I still dislike and distrust that trope to this day, even in works that I otherwise enjoy, and storylines involving memory erasure – consensual or not, narratively endorsed or not – still push both good and bad buttons, sometimes both at once. And I believe that my explorations of mind control in fiction, from the beginning until now, have partly been informed by questions like, “What if I couldn’t trust my own mind, and was asked to believe that this was for my own good and/or the good of society?” And, since it bears mentioning: I hope that nobody interprets this recollection as, “A storytelling device warped Nevanna’s understanding of reality, and therefore stories can reprogram people’s behaviors and problematic fiction should be eliminated!” First of all, I object to that kind of black-and-white thinking, as a librarian, a writer, and someone who tries to thoughtfully consume media. Secondly, it’s more accurate that the dysfunction in my own brain once warped my understanding of reality; that even then, I was still responsible for my own actions; and although I have a history of giving fictional constructs an unhealthy amount of power over my own life, I grew out of it. And even though I have mixed feelings about the debate over Problematic Fiction, and I certainly do not condone harassment and shaming – because I’ve been there and done that, on both sides – I try to maintain that it is not my place to stop people from having negative emotions about stories. Even if I don’t agree, even when their objections make me uncomfortable, I can disagree with what they’re saying or doing without invalidating what they might be feeling. And I try to be better at doing so, because I am the last person in the world to deny that stories spark powerful emotions and thoughts, that sometimes they go against the creators’ intentions. Part of becoming a responsible consumer of media and participant in fandom is learning to manage those emotions constructively and make space for other people’s feelings and needs. I used to be angry at my younger self for being unable or unwilling to do that. I’m not anymore. That said, one of the differences between preteen Nevanna and thirty-something Nevanna is that nobody has to hear me talk about mind control unless they want to. (Although I’m happy that a noticeable number of people usually seem to want to.) I never saw the original Men in Black in the movie theater. I think it took me several tries (much to Younger Sister’s frustration) to sit through it on home video, and the ghost of who I was back then, as much as if not more than the actual content, has kept me from revisiting the 1997 movie in the intervening years. If I wanted to watch it again, I think that I would want (and here I'll paraphrase a fantasy series, also about aliens, that more or less avoids the Masquerade altogether) to prepare myself emotionally. I still haven’t watched the sequels or had much interest in doing so, and I never posted any fanfiction set in that universe. It has occurred to me that I might end up writing fic for the 2019 reimagining, if I see it (it wouldn’t be the first time in the recent past that I revisited fictional worlds from my childhood in new and surprising ways). But if I do write anything – and maybe even if I don’t – I will continue to feel pity and compassion and gratitude for the twelve-year-old believer in Weird Stuff who heard, “They won’t let you remember,” and responded, “What if I did anyway?”

[matazz]

entries

diary entries of roy endoza

here’s some journal entries of roy endoza that i wrote for the duration of the campaign. for the most part, i kinda wrote these in my twitter drafts just to write down roy’s thoughts. sometimes to remember events that happened, and sometimes just to vent out roy’s feelings to myself. i ended up saving these on a document for safe keeping and i’m glad i wrote these.

‪entry 47‬

‪i miss milo so much. his laugh, his eyes, his smile. i would do anything to have that back.‬ ‪i know its my fault he’s gone. its only been a few months, but i’ll fix that; all of it. no matter how long it takes, no matter what happens. i’ll find some way to do it.‬ ‪entry 53‬ ‪i’ve retrieved a letter from a dream telling me to visit latham and retrieve a key. i’m curious, so i’ll check it eventually. it was definitely odd.‬ ‪entry 55‬ ‪i met a young boy. his name is fox. he’s some sort of shapeshifter. he’s quiet, but his presence is nice company. he also received a similar letter to mine. i have a feeling we’ll be travelling for a while.‬ ‪entry 62‬ ‪we retrieved the key & met some other ppl with letters too. we’re heading to a trinket store back in origin now. i dont wish for them to know of my life so i’ve found a way to steer them as far from possible to finding out about myself. i’ll probably visit ma too.‬ ‪entry 63‬ ‪an elf woman named leera attacked us after i told her i wasnt going to give her this key. i dont like her. she seemed very cocky.‬ ‪entry 65‬ ‪delilah is kind.. i feel like i’m able to trust her. i asked her a question about my goals, vaguely, and it turns out that ayce asked a similar question. based on the message in his later i get the feeling he’s undead.‬ ‪entry 66‬ ‪i told ayce the biggest con in all of history.. but i confirmed he’s undead. i have more hope in my goals now that i know its possible. he hugged me bc he thinks we’re similar. i dont usually allow people to do that but i’m sad for him. i wish i could ask more about him. ‬‪entry 69‬ ‪i’m getting closer to ayce, unexpectedly, but good for me. i need his information.‬ ‪he talks to me a lot about his life; i think he’s become dependent on me which is easy for me. its hard for him to see i’m using him when i lie to his face.‬ ‪entry 72‬ ‪we’re travelling to copper coast now for another key. if it werent for ayce, i wouldnt see any other reason for me to come. fox is still around, but i feel like he's doing his own thing. the other two arent big presences for me to care about.‬ ‪entry 73‬ ‪atlas is a werewolf? i didnt think those were real. this group keeps getting stranger. first a shapeshifter, second an actual living zombie, third a werewolf.‬ ‪ive continued my lie to the rest of them. they all seem to have believed me, strangely enough‬ ‪entry 74‬ ‪copper coast was very pleasant. i wish to come back someday.‬ ‪entry 88‬ ‪this trip to clandesteine has been a disaster.. what the honest fuck‬ just happened ‪entry 90‬ ‪fox told everybody about himself, finally. i feel this huge sense of pride?? i’m very proud of him. i dont understand why i feel so attached to him but i adore him so much‬ ‪entry 92‬ ‪((incoherent scribbles, kinda like “vsdjfsasifwnqkosdkv”)) i think i accidentally implied to ayce that i love him romantically and i think he loves me too... i’m freaking out and i dont know how to react... i think he thinks i’m cool and romantic but i didnt mean to be. ‪entry 93‬ in all honesty, i just wanted to tell him he needs to be more cautious of me. a part of me wishes he could figure it out himself so i dont have to tell him. ‪seriously! i dont know how i did that! i do love and adore him too but i feel like shit.. i dont deserve him, especially considering who i am. on the other hand, i hope he never finds out the truth about me.‬ ‪entry 94‬ ‪oh my god. atlas killed a man and ayce and fox proceeded to tell the guards. i feel sick. i’m currently at home but if they say my name at witness testimony i’m royally fucked. i dont know. i might just run for it and live in myr’s peak. maybe no one will find me.‬ ‪entry 95‬ ‪the group managed to get bailed out using ty’s name. benefits of being friends with rich people?‬ ‪fox found my poster though, so he saved my name during eyewitness testimony. i told him the truth. its been the first time i told someone how i really felt. he wants me to tell ayce but hes the last person i can tell. ‪entry 97‬ ‪we’re in lunarden! it feels nostalgic to be back.

i want to go back to every place i miss. i took ayce to that me and nori used to go to back in high school. i think shes currently performing in solardome? i miss her‬ entry 97.2 ‪i came up with a few different ways to complete my goal. i have a few more probing questions, but i will have to ask later. i think i’m getting closer to the answers‬ entry ‪97.3‬ ((scribbled out)) ‪i havent had sex in a while. i’ve wondered this before but realized it was an inappropriate question to ask. i wonder if ayce’s dick works? it probably doesnt. this is so sad. i dont know how i’m going to fuck him if thats true.. yikes‬ ‪entry 98‬ ‪i’m planning to get completely smashed once we get to solardome. i feel like i deserve it.. ive been pretty stressed and havent got laid. i’m crying remembering that ayce might not even be an option.‬ ‪entry 98.2 ((lost)) ‪i love ayce so much, and its confusing. am i just sexually frustrated? am i just lonely? am i just sad? i feel guilty because it tears me apart. im confused because i love milo still, too. i know i should tell him the truth, its whats right but i know he’ll hate me. i dont know what to do. (extra note inbetween the pages, torn out: to mom. i love you venhfrhdy mcuh. thank you fir everhything. yes. roy.) entry 98.3 what happens if i succeed? i hope ayce doesnt kill me. entry 100 ‪good morning. ayce & i are officially dating. were in solardome atm; i dont remember much of last night but i remember thinking he‘s beautiful. is it wrong to fall for him?‬ ‪entry 101‬ ‪good evening. i saw ms winters. she was undead, just like ayce. she died a year ago. her soul was lost though. i killed what remained of her undead corpse. i assume she was trying to remain in this world.. i’m scared that this will happen to him too. maybe ill have to do the same to him. entry 101.2 i hope ayce's soul is able to sustain in his body for longer. i cant afford to lose him. entry 101.3 ‪the blackness on my fingers has risen up more than it has before. its almost hard to write with my hands anymore. i assume its bc the gods know what i'm doing & are against it, so they're trying to give me more recoil than usual. but the last time i killed an undead corpse was in my house 6 months ago, and i promise that the last time i will use it is when i bring milo back. (torn note inbetween the pages: hi ayce. its unrealistic you'll ever find this but there's some things i want to say. back when we first met, i lied to you as a reflex when you asked me why i'm dealing with necromancy. to be honest, i could kind of gather you were undead, but i still lied anyway. my story is personal, its hard for me to be honest. i know i'm an idiot, and i'm sorry i used you. to be truthful, i still am a horrible person and for the entirety of our relationship i've already known that i was using you and i've felt so guilty about that. my feelings are complicated, but i've never lied when i said i loved you, and i still do; but i still want to bring milo back. i made a mistake and i want to fix that. the truth is that i still love him too. i know you deserve better. i'm sorry about lying to you. roy) entry 102 a dragon made us experience our dreams and nightmares. jade's scared of blindness and bugs. a valid fear, in a way. and she was dreaming of doing shows. i think it was supposed to display a feeling of happiness and joy, but it was just spooky since we all experienced her dreams with no sound. i never realized how scary it was to be deaf until i experienced it. atlas' was morbid. people were dying and there was so much gore. then there were people saying they owned him. i knew he was a bad person but it was scary to see all of that again. he dreamt of a workshop with a girl and a young boy. it seemed sweet, with a tinge of nostalgia. i would have never expected him to have dreams. he just seems like a horrible person with no sympathy to me, but i guess he has feelings. i still think he should go to jail, but i feel like he'll just try to kill me if i say anything instead. fox's was sad. we got thrown into a void

of empty space where we were surrounded only by dopplegangers and a vaguely humanoid figure. he seemed so lonely and upset. he's scared of being forgotten by us and that made me so sad. i adore him, and he's grown a lot since we first met. i gave him a hug when we went into his dream sequence. i hope he knows i will never forget him. his dream was sweet. he just wants to save people and hang out with us still. i think he'll go far, and i would love to be there for him still when all of this is over.c (the rest of the pages with entry 102 are torn out) when i saw milo in the old house again just being his happy lovely self i felt miserable and happy at the same time. i love him so much, and i knew i missed him already but seeing him again just made me feel so much love for him all over again. it just makes me miss him more. it's hard not to cry thinking about what i've done to him. i wish he could come back. ayce's was hard to watch. i witnessed myrkul force ayce to choose between killing me and quri. ayce cried as he couldn't make up his mind, and then i watched as i fell into a void. i felt sick and i wanted to puke. i thought ayce found out about me. i thought he knew that i was using him for necromancy, but when i asked him about it, he told me that he thought i killed him with quri. i... personally don't have any reason to ever kill him so that was a bit sickening to think of. i dont ever want to kill anyone. i dont even have anyone i hate enough to want to murder. the only person i hate enough to want to kill is me. i know based on what i said before i guess it might have seemed that bad; but haha... i would never ever want to do that. putting people down at hospital was rough. god, putting ms winters down was rough and she was already dead. i love him, but it's probably better if we end the relationship and just stay as friends? he's already witnessed me still loving milo, and he thinks i murdered him... i'll try to clear up his misunderstanding, but it'll be hard to without giving more of myself away. this relationship has so many problems. entry 103 a new discovery. the world isn't flat? the god's are using their powers to “lock off” the rest of the world. apparently sanctuary is only a small part of the world. that was a really weird discovery to find out? it's kind of hard to believe, but at the same time, not. apparently they keys we've been collecting hold the respective power of the gods, and they're used to “open” the gateway. i have no idea what that means. apparently beshaba wants to use our keys to do exactly that. and also they can kill the god's? entry 112 when we came back to lunarden we discovered that delilah and allen were kidnapped by atlas’ syndicate. i knew atlas was trouble. i hate having to associate with him. we’re going to save them yet it makes me nervous. entry 114 i feel like i almost died in there. we saved the others and no one was hurt though. we’re going to trip back to lunarden and then travel through the travel gates back to origin to try avoid people. allen mentioned something about strange readings. i have a feeling i know what it is. i’m going to ask lathandar questions. entry 115 nvm we encountered leera. this group genuinely scares me. I’m travelling with people who are down with murder. i should seperate. she uncovered my posters to them and i want to die. she also mentioned the last key at a ball. i need to bounce. lathandar also confirmed my suspicions last night. entry 116 fox left before i could. i feel bad. like maybe it was my fault. i miss him. we have to continue though. entry 117 its so hard to find a bag of holding. i just want to have this spirit stone around without having it in the open. entry 118 we’re in origin now and delilah let me rent out her bag of holding. an absolute kind soul. we bought tickets to the ball. so expensive. i wish i didnt do that. entry 123 i’ve done so much in preperation of whats to come. Soon. i hope it works. i’m going to travel to solardome and investigate those readings. entry 124 suspicions

confirmed. miss winters is alive. she captured my biological father. a strange way to meet him. i cant see him as my father. i told her about the key, and we’re going to rearrange our circle. we’ll still use the spirit stones, just as a backup. i’m scared. i’m terrified. i dont know if it will work and i dont know what will happen if it does. i know the gods will be mad but i’ll deal with the consequences when it happens. i’m sure i won’t be a champion anymore. we’re doing this on friday evening, which means i’m no longer attending the gala. they don’t need my assistance anyway.

[killer-barnes]

You Have No Idea

Peter Parker x Shy Reader

Request: Yes

Summary: Peter and the Reader go to school together, however once Peter shows up at Stark tower, the Reader is curious as to why he is there.

Word Count: 1,930

Warnings: language, fluff, adorableness, talk of powers, annoying Tony, shy reader (bc I’m trash). (Err, that’s it?)

A/N: To the anon that requested this, I hope you like it! I sort of changed it up a little bit, so I hope you don’t mind. The length of this, I apologize, holy shit. I could not find a way to end this. *Also, the Reader’s powers are based on the character Catiana (in case you are wondering!) Please let me know what you guys think of it, I’d love some feedback. Enjoy reading!

Walking into school, you held tightly to your backpack and moved swiftly through the crowd, avoiding an “accidental” bump in with anyone that came unexpectedly.

Since you had a few minutes before your first class, you went to your locker and replaced the books in your backpack with the ones you needed today for classes.

Rolling your eyes and groaning as you picked up your heavy Algebra book, you stuffed it roughly into your backpack.

It’s not that you hated math, it’s just you weren’t that great at it, which definitely bothered you since you were in a class full of legit geniuses.

Not only did that class give you anxiety with being called on or not understanding anything, but it was also because there was one nerd who always caught your attention. The one that should probably be in college level math rather than Algebra in some high school. The one who looked so soft and cuddly. The one with the never ending collection of sweaters.

The one named, Peter Parker.

Because of your tendencies to hang in the shadows at school, you thought you were unnoticed by Peter.

You liked it that way, though. You wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of trying to talk to him and miserably failing, due to your crush on the nerd.

As your day went on, it felt as though it was moving at the pace of a fucking snail.

Slow and annoying.

Once the day finally hit lunch, you tried to cherish the time you had left before your last class that you dreaded oh, so dearly.

As lunch was coming to an end, you prayed as you were walking to your last class that it would be fast and easy, especially since afterwards you were heading to Stark tower to meet a new recruit.

Tony had said the kid was around your age, which you appreciated. You were getting tired of the team’s old jokes and their incoherence of yours. You needed someone to relate to.

Quickly entering the classroom, you headed towards the back closest to the door, so you could get out fast once the bell rings at the end of the day.

Taking a seat, you let out a sigh, which is quickly turned into a choking of air as Peter fucking Parker enters the room.

Covering your choking with a cough, you lower your gaze to your desk blushing profusively, as you see Peter and his friend Ned take a seat to the direct left of you.

Fuck me…

He’s wearing that blue sweater again.

Ugh, why does he have to be so cute?

And that hair, oh my god.

Don’t even let me get started on tha-

Your thoughts were pulled as your teacher strides into the classroom shouting, “Welcome Class! Hope you all did the homework assigned last class!” while giving us all a strict, yet sincere stare.

As the teacher said this, your eyes widened in fear.

Shit!

I forgot… again.

As your fellow classmates were passing up their homework, the girl that sits in front of you, Mary, turns and asks if you have any to turn in.

Averting her gaze, you reply, “u-uh, I-uh, forgot it… at home.”

Giving you a sympathetic look and a nod, she turns back to face the front of the classroom.

Letting out another sigh, you sink down into your chair, blocking out the lesson for today, knowing you could just ask Tony or Bruce for help, since they never mind from what you could tell.

Blankly staring off into space, you hear your teacher call you name.

“Y/N, do you know the answer?”

Not even remembering a single thing the teacher had been talking about, you reply, “u-uh, I-uh…”

Stop stuttering you idiot!

Say a random number!

Say something!

“Uh, 4?” you answer, more as a question.

“No, I’m afraid that’s wrong. Please pay more attention, Y/N,” the teacher calmly replies, annoyance evident in her stance.

“Anyone else want to give it a go?” she adds, eyeing her students.

“Peter?”

You see Peter’s head whip up from scribbling rapidly in his notebook.

He’s probably working on the homework right now.

You think, jealous of his smarts.

“Oh, u-uh, x equals 89.27,” Peter stutters, a light blush of pink appearing across his cheeks.

“Ah, that’s correct, Peter! Alright, let’s move on!”

Once again, your attention was elsewhere.

After doodling in your notebook for the rest of class, the bell rung and you were quick to get out and head towards your locker to retrieve your other books.

Making your way out of the school building, you head towards the Stark Tower, excited to meet the new recruit.

Your head was filling with several different scenarios.

I wonder if they can fly?

Or teleport?

Oh! Or shapeshift!?

Okay, calm down, Y/N.

You don’t want to scare them away.

As you enter into the building, you see the lady at the front desk give you a welcoming smile, which you return as you head towards the elevator to the main part of the building.

Once the elevator opens to the area where all the Avengers live, including yourself, you see Nat and Sam chilling on the couch, while Wanda and Bruce are in the kitchen making some treats for the new recruit.

Nat’s eyes flicker towards your tired ones, as she welcomes you back.

“Hey, Y/N. How was school today?”

Turning your attention towards hers, you mumble, “oh, uh, it was fine. Nothing exciting.”

Before Nat or Sam can reply, Bruce shouts from the kitchen, “Y/N! How was Algebra?”

Closing your eyes and groaning, you see Nat and Sam giggle at your response.

Sulking to the kitchen, you see Wanda and Bruce carefully frosting some cupcakes in bright colors as you take a seat at the island.

Avoiding his question, you ask, “who are these for?”

Sensing your diversion of the question, Bruce presses the question again with a chuckle.

“Y/N, don’t avoid my question. How was Algebra today?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention…” you mumble out, looking away.

“Y/N, we’ve talked about this. If you don’t understand, you should be asking your teacher for help, on top of the help you get from us. We don’t like seeing you struggle,” he softly responds.

Sighing for the millionth time today, you mutter, “I know, I know.”

“Anyways, to answer your other question, these are for the new recruit coming today!” Wanda interjects, excitement present in her voice.

She always gets excited when she has the opportunity to bake her famous cupcakes, especially for someone new.

Smiling up at her, you question, “Oh, right! When are they coming again?”

Handing you a cupcake Wanda answers, “hmm, in a little bit. Tony will let you know when they’re coming.”

Sliding off the chair with the cupcake in hand, you grab your bag and start heading towards the elevator to your bedroom a few floors above.

“I’ll be in my room if you need me, guys,” you mentioned before closing the doors, hearing replies of “okay” and “see you later.”

As you enter your bedroom, you leap towards your bed, quickly engulfing its warm and fluffy exterior.

Taking a break before starting your homework, you scroll aimlessly through your phone, soon getting bored and switching towards your school work.

Moving your backpack onto your bed, you decide to start out easy, grabbing the book you are required to read for your English class.

After reading for what seems like hours, you wonder if the new recruit has arrived and decide to go investigate, knowing Tony forgot to tell you if they were here or not.

Making your way towards Tony’s lab, you hear chatter as you enter.

“Hey, Tony! Is the new recru-”

Your words are lost as you see the one and only Peter Parker sitting across from Tony in the lab.

“Ah, yes, Y/N. Sorry I forgot to let you know he was here.” Tony said, filling the gap you left open.

Before you had the chance to speak again, not that you would be able to anyways, Peter gazes towards you and asks, “Y/N? Wait… don’t I sit next to you in Algebra?”

“Hmm, so is this why you aren’t doing well in Algebra, Y/N?” Tony questions, finally making the connection.

Opening your mouth, you are left speechless after what Tony said, your face feeling as though it was on fire from the intense blush that rose upon your cheeks.

Giving Tony a death glare, you gaze back towards Peter, his face plastered with a light pink across his cheeks.

Covering your face with your hands, you mumble, “Tooony.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you two alone. No funny business, ya hear?”

Peter’s face turns a darker shade at Tony’s comment, but shakes it away, looking towards your embarrassed figure.

“S-So, uh- you’re an Avenger? T-That’s awesome.” Peter says, trying to rid the air of embarrassment.

Whipping your eyes towards him you rapidly shake your head no, realizing he knows what you are now.

That you have powers.

“U-uh, w-why would you think that, I-I don’t know wh-”

Peter smiles at you, chuckling at how you are trying to figure a way out of him finding out.

Knowing there’s no way around it, you add, “a-alright, yeah. I’m an Avenger. I’m guessing, uh, you’re the new recruit?”

Shifting in his stance, Peter blushes, realizing the situation he is in too.

“Oh, u-uh, yeah. I-I’m Spiderman.”

Hearing a gasp, Peter looks at you, your mouth agape and eyes wide.

Before he has the chance to say anything, you silence him.

“W-What? No way! Well, now that I think about it, that makes sense, I-I mean with all those bruises and cuts you show up at school with I saw when I would look at your adorable face. I mean, I just assumed you got into a fight bu-”

“Y-You think I’m adorable?” Peter inquires, shutting up your rambling.

Feeling the familiar fire rise to your cheeks you look towards your feet and stutter quietly, “w-well, I-I… yes.”

Giggling and smiling brightly, Peter says, “r-really? I didn’t think you noticed me. You’re always looking away from me.”

Scoffing, you reply, “that’s just because I didn’t want to get caught looking at you a-all the time!”

Blushing, Peter chuckles, “understandable, but you’re even more adorable. And, hey, since you know who I am and what I can do, can I ask you the same?” His eyes shining bright, yet curious.

Looking towards him, you nervously laugh, “uh, I-I guess that’s only fair.”

Giving you a smile, you take that as a signal to begin.

“O-Okay, well, uh I can shape shift into any living being if I touch their blood and I gain their memories in the process.”

Not even bothering to look up at Peter, since it’s nothing compared to what he can do, you add, “I-I know it’s nothing like your-”

“Are you kidding me?! That’s amazing, Y/N! Wanna trade?”

You stare at him like he’s crazy.

Taking in your expression, Peter is quick to back himself up.

“I’m just kidding, but seriously, Y/N. That’s really fucking cool.”

You just blush and mumble a quiet thank you.

Your guys’ conversation is put to a halt as Tony appears outside of the lab, his hand covering his eyes.

“Guys! I’m walking in. You better not be doing any funny business! This is not the place nor the time!”

“Toooony,” you groaned.

“He never gives you a break, huh?”

“You have no idea, Spiderboy.”

A/N: Sigh, I know I do shy reader all the damn time, but I relate to that the most. Anywho, sorry if this is shit. As always feedback is appreciated!