#usually this is in regards to writing but today its reading

[ktownshizzle]

Terms & Conditions | Chapter 3

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?

Genre: Fluff, eventual smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au

Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, I might include scootergate in a future chapter but please know it will be written sensibly imo and with so much love for our Yoongi (I just wanna protecc him at all costs even thru this silly story!), some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range

Chapter Warnings: reader vs IKEA furniture, 1k words about Yoongi's hands, second-hand embarrassment, more cracktastic internal monologues, a tiny bit of angst

Word count: 7k (approx. 30 mins to read)

Posting date: October 19, 2024

Notes: Very Yoongi-coded of me to work through my sickness. So, yes, behold an update, while I am in the throes of flu. Enjoy~

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Masterlist

Sometimes, the mediocrity in this office is just unbelievable. You’ve put in a request for a filing cabinet so that you can organize the copious amount of paperwork that’s been accumulating in your little space that has overtaken yours and Yoongi’s desks. That was two months ago. It finally arrives today, still in its flat box packaging.

Great.

You’ve been staring at the pieces of the Ikea furniture for what feels like an hour, trying to make sense of the instructions. Of course, they’re all diagrams and singular letters and numbers—just a bunch of arrows pointing to nuts and bolts that apparently hold this whole thing together.

Btw, where the heck is Yoongi?! He’s usually pretty punctual. Pretty and punctual. Hmm. Anyway…

Just as you’re about to abandon your unwanted task to write a strongly worded email to the procurement department, Yoongi strolls in your office, oblivious to the war inside your mind.

“You’re late,” you blurt.

Caught off guard, and wholly unused to your raging bitch tendencies, Yoongi looks like a deer caught in headlights, mumbling, “Sorry, I uh I just got this scooter and am still—”

Is he pouting? OH god…

“No, no…” you backtrack, not meaning to sound haughty at all. “You’re fine. I don’t really—sorry, I’m just in a mood.”

Yoongi nods, assessing the pile of rubble you are on, as he sets his helmet and bag on the desk. He takes a spot on the floor next to you, leans over to squint at the same set of instructions, and decides, “This shouldn’t be that hard.”

You roll your eyes, picking up a random board. “Yeah, says the guy who hasn’t tried yet.”

Wordlessly, Yoongi pulls the screwdriver from your hand and the nearest piece of wood, starting to line everything up. You expect him to struggle, because he’s an idol–LOL–he can’t be that good at this, maybe marginally better than you, but nothing to write home about.

Boy, you are so, so, spectacularly wrong. Chae would be laughing at you later that night as you recount this gross misjudgment on your part and would proceed to send you the link to Run BTS episode 148 and as you watch it in your bed with a sheet mask on you’d be like the fuck is wainscoting??

But for now, you are decidedly a non-believer, even as Yoongi moves through the steps with surprising ease, piecing it together like he’s done this a million times before.

“Hold this,” he says, passing you one of the boards to brace while he screws in the side panels. His fingers brush yours as he adjusts the position, and it’s then that you notice his hands.

Well, you’ve noticed his hands before, but this time it’s different. You watch as his long fingers grip the screwdriver, veins running along the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt sleeve, flexing with every twist. It’s oddly mesmerizing—beautiful, if you’re honest with yourself. They look perfectly balanced between grace and ruggedness, bone structure firm, but the skin warm and soft.

God, those hands… Your mind flashes to places it shouldn’t, and you quickly look away. You clear your throat, as you wrestle with thoughts of those hands wrapping tenderly around your throat. 

Holy shit.

He’s completely focused on aligning the screws, while you’re completely unfocused thinking about how you’d very much like for y’all to screw.

Wow. You are a fuckin’ pervert. And so shit at double entendres.

As he continues to work, you can’t help but observe his fingers as they move with precision. Long, lithe, bony in all the right places. Delicate, yet also powerful. And then there are those lovely veins—they pulse slightly with each motion, as his fingers curl effortlessly around the tool like it’s second nature. 

It’s way too easy to imagine those hands doing something else entirely. Something that has nothing to do with Ikea furniture. Everything to do with you. Naked, ideally. Now, preferably.

OK Stop. Stop right now.

With a shaky exhale, you force yourself to focus on holding the cabinet in place, but the mental image is seared into your brain now. There’s something unfair about how attractive Yoongi’s hands are—how much control they have, how easily they move, how they make your brain go berserk.

“You good?” Yoongi asks, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Hmm?” You blink, realizing you haven’t said anything for a minute.

He blinks blankly at you and doesn’t say more, just passes to you a handful of screws. You take them from him, swallowing the lewd thoughts racing through your mind.

As he finishes screwing the rest of the pieces together, his thumb grazes along the edge of the board, and your eyes trail after it like you’re hypnotized. You bite your lip, trying to focus on anything else. Anything but how good his hands look. Did you seriously just discover a fetish right now?

He shifts closer to tighten something, and you’re hit with the warmth of his body, plus the faint scent of his soap. Your heartbeat picks up, but you stay silent, pretending this is all fine, like you’re not on the verge of asking him to stop and just drag you to the back office closet to fuck.

Sweat is dripping down your neck at the sheer self control you are exercising at the moment. You need him to hurry the fuck up, because there’s already an uncomfortable wetness in your underwear and you need to deal with it stat. 

He inspects one of the wood pieces and knocks on it as if to test its strength and you study his knuckles, slightly prominent dappled with subtle brownish-pinkish marks perhaps from boxing.

Honestly, that’s so hot.

Yoongi finishes tightening one side and sits back, leaning on his hands, fingers splayed out on the floor. You glance down, and oof there they are again—those damn hands, long and elegant, resting on the floor like they’re mocking you. You wonder, just briefly, what it would feel like if those palms were pressed up against you, instead of the floor. Will those hands be gentle, rough, will he be the type to leave marks…

You’re staring. Definitely staring.

Yoongi clears his throat softly, and you snap your eyes up to his face. He’s watching you now, head tilted slightly, lips pressed into a line that looks suspiciously like he’s holding back a smile. There’s a knowing glint there—of course he’s caught you, but he’s not going to call you out for it.

“Want to hand me that last piece?” he asks, voice calm but with that little hint of amusement in it. He motions toward the final panel lying next to you, hand outstretched.

You quickly pass it to him, avoiding his gaze completely. His fingers brush yours when he takes it, slow, deliberate. 

Oh shit, he definitely knows.

He lines up the final piece of the cabinet and starts screwing it in, but there’s a shift in the air now. You force yourself to focus on what’s in front of you—on the fact that you’re literally just building a cabinet and not having an existential crisis over someone’s hands. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying to read his expression, but he’s focused on the task again, his lips slightly parted as he concentrates. You catch yourself staring at his lips now and quickly look away before he can notice that, too.

Finally, he finishes tightening the last screw, sitting back to admire the completed cabinet. “There. Not so bad, right?”

You breathe out a laugh, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Yeah. Thanks for saving my ass with this.”

Yoongi shrugs, wiping his hands on his slacks. “It was easy enough. I think you were just overthinking it.”

You roll your eyes, feeling more at ease now that the project’s done. “Well, maybe if I had hands like yours, I wouldn’t have struggled.” The words slip out before you can stop them, and your face ignites.

Fuckkkk stupid fuckk dumbass bitchhh

He glances at you, eyebrows raised, then looks at his hands, flexing his fingers like he’s just realizing what you’ve said. He’s silent for a second, and then, “My hands?” There’s that barely-there smirk on his face, subtle but unmistakable.

You scramble to recover. “You know what I mean,” you mumble, grabbing a stray screw off the floor, wishing it would just swallow you whole.

Mercifully, he doesn’t push it further. Just chuckles softly, leaning back against the wall, his gaze flicking to you for a beat longer. “You’re welcome,” he says simply.

He stretches his fingers one last time before stuffing them in his pockets. “They’re at your service, whenever you need them.”

Cheeky bastard.

“Yes, mom, I won’t be late,” you tell Chae as you tug your high-waisted leggings into place, your phone sandwiched between your ear and your shoulder.

“Ok. See ya!” 

Finally you smooth the fabric of your sports bra in the office bathroom mirror, turning slightly to check your reflection. The purple set hugs your body in all the right places, accentuating your curves and giving you that boost of confidence you hadn’t realized you needed. You’re not perfect by any stretch, but something about this fit makes you stand a little taller, feel a little bolder.

It’s after-hours, and the office is mostly deserted. You’d told yourself it’d be fine to walk back to your desk dressed like this—barely anyone’s around to notice. Yoongi left minutes ago, or at least you think he did. He never really stays after 5:30 p.m. except that one night he returned “for his ear buds” and even then he actually went home and just came back to get drunk with you, apparently.

As you step into the hallway, your dunks squeak faintly on the floor, echoing in the quiet. You glance around, feeling pretty damn good as you make your way back to your desk to grab your stuff before heading to Chae’s Pilates class.

But as soon as you open the door to your office, you freeze.

Yoongi is still there.

Standing by his desk, packing up, his head snaps up at the sound of the door opening. His eyes lock onto you, and for a second—just a second—they widen, raking over you in a way that’s anything but office-appropriate. His gaze drifts from your legs, up to your waist, lingering at the curve of your hips, then up to your chest, where the sports bra does more work than it has any right to.

You see the exact moment he tries to recover. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and he quickly looks away, busying himself with stuffing papers into his bag like they’ve suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

Oh. Oh.

The corner of your mouth twitches. It’s almost funny, really—after all the teasing and the subtle suggestions, Yoongi finally looks like he’s the one caught off guard. Finally. You saunter further into the office, a booty-tooch here and there, pretending like nothing’s out of the ordinary, but inside, you’re fully aware of the power shift that just happened.

“Didn’t think you were still here,” you say casually, grabbing your water bottle from your desk. You make a show of bending just slightly, and when you look up, you don’t miss the way Yoongi’s stare flickers toward your cleavage before he quickly averts his gaze. His ears are a little red. Gotcha.

“I thought you’d left already.” He clears his throat. “You uh you got a class?”

“Mhmm…” You hum sweetly, tossing the bottle into your bag. “Pilates. My best friend convinced me to go. Free trial and all.”

Yoongi nods slowly, still not quite making full eye contact, like he’s trying really hard not to look directly at you again. The sadistic part of you wants to make it worse, just for shits—after all, didn’t you deserve a little revenge after the way he had you silently losing your mind over his hands the other day?

“So… what do you think?” You tilt your head, as if the answer to that question isn’t already written in big, bold letters all over his face.

Yoongi finally looks at you then, before darting back to his bag, his fingers a little too purposeful as they zip the bag shut. “About Pilates?”

“No,” you say, smirking. “About the outfit.”

It takes him a second to process that, and when he does, you swear you see his jaw tighten. He presses his lips together, trying to keep his cool.

“It’s… nice,” he says, the understatement of the year, and you raise an eyebrow, daring him to say more. 

“Huh.” You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip, the motion drawing his eyes back to you at the sliver of skin that just revealed itself. “Just nice?”

Yoongi exhales, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time in the months you’ve known him, he looks rattled. Not by much, but enough to notice. You wait, feeling a surge of satisfaction, enjoying this just a tad too much.

He catches your gaze again, this time holding it for longer. His tongue drags across his bottom lip, the gesture slow, and finally, finally, he leans back against the desk, arms crossing as he gives you an appraising look. The faintest smirk pulls at his mouth, but it’s restrained, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. You are still in office premises after all, not in some club in Garosu-gil.

“You’re trouble,” he says softly, and the word hangs in the air between you. The same word you’ve used for him more than once—now, turned on you. “You know that, right?”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a grin. It feels like a straight-up W, having him flustered, even for a moment. “Yeah?”

He lets out a tiny chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah.” His eyes drop to your legs again, another once-over. When they return to yours, they’re darker, more intent. He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue before replying, “Definitely trouble.”

You pretend to mull it over, playing with the front zipper of your sports bra. “I mean, you’re the one staring,” you tease, fully aware of what you’re doing now.

Yoongi’s grin returns, a little sharper this time. “And you’re the one who walked in here looking like that.” His voice rasps just slightly on the last words, and it’s enough to send tingles down your spine.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you jest, this time repeating one of his lines from the other night. He shakes his head again at you, clearly remembering it, too.

“Well,” you say, voice deliberately airy, “I should get going. Don’t want to be late for class.”

Yoongi nods, and his eyes follow you as you move toward the door. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little smug in the way he’s gawking at you. Man like him is used to being surrounded by gorgeous women, being in an industry that demands being perfect, and yet he seemed enamored by a perfectly imperfect you. How you like that?

Wow he’s still watching. Well if he wants this as spank bank material tonight, then by all means, you consent for him to stare. 

“Have fun at Pilates,” he says, his tone a little too even.

You pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder with a triumphant grin. “See you later, Yoongi.”

You have to admit, work has been pretty inspiring since you and Yoongi started hinting at your attraction to each other. Coffee breaks now feel like mini dates. Over steaming cups of latte (americano for him) that now tastes a little less shitty, your knuckles brush sometimes—just a quick touch, but neither of you pulls away. And even though it’s brief, it’s starting to mean everything. 

It’s becoming more obvious: you’re both opening up, letting each other in, swapping stories that are equal parts random and revealing. He tells you about the black cat he ‘borrows’ from a friend when he feels lonely. You tell him about your complicated relationship with your dad, how it’s still a work in progress. Each conversation feels like another layer peeled back, another step toward something deeper. Hopefully.

But then, of course, your inner saboteur decides to join the party. You start wondering what this really is for him. A way to pass the time, maybe, cause he’s just bored in the house. You know the kind of life Yoongi’s used to, but since he’s forced to step away, and here you are... just there, conveniently available. A little distraction. Maybe that’s all this is. You think about how easily he could pick you up like a little plaything and tickle you whenever he likes. Cos, damn, you know he knows that you are very much tickled.

He hasn’t asked for your number. And honestly? You don’t think you have the guts to ask for his. But it’s not even just about guts–you think you’re a plenty empowered woman. There’s the NDA—a whole ass contract hanging over your head, making sure you won’t cross. You’re stuck, confined to these small, controlled moments within the four walls of work.

And that’s what gnaws at you the most: you don’t know if this could ever become something real outside of this space. Your lives, your worlds—they’re just too different. 

Your Saturday looks a little different today. Tonight, you find yourself in Chae’s place of work. You’re wearing a pretty little dress, paired with cute heels that make you feel amazing, even if they pinch a little. Your hair is softly curled at the ends, one delicate pin securing it behind your ear on one side, leaving the rest to fall naturally. It’s simple but enough to make you feel put together, like you belong here, even if this whole scene is a bit fancier than your usual.

The soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses fill the air as you settle in at the bar, a glass of sparkling wine in hand. The lighting is low, giving the restaurant an intimate, almost cozy feel despite its sleek, upscale design. Dark wood tables, candles flickering on every surface, and the kind of velvet seating that makes you want to sink right in. It’s posh, but not stuffy—like the kind of place where you can have a real conversation without having to shout.

You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes drifting around the room. The bar is polished marble, gleaming under the soft pendant lights that hang overhead, casting a gentle glow on everything. The vibe is understated but undeniably chic, with just enough buzz in the air to remind you that this is a special night. 

You imagine Chae in the kitchen, totally in her element, probably yelling at someone to get the garnish right while she’s knee-deep in prepping plates. Too busy to talk, but that’s fine. You didn’t mind. You’re here for the food, the drinks, and to support her.

A guy, about your age, slides onto the barstool next to you. “Hey. You here for the friends and family thing, too?” he asks casually, although it’s obvious since it is a private event after all. You know he’s just trying to make conversation.

You smile politely, nodding. “Yeah, my best friend works here. You?”

“Cousin of one of the line chefs,” he replies. “No idea who most of these people are, but free food, right?”

You chuckle. He seems harmless enough—just someone to pass the time with while you wait for the meal to start. The conversation flows easily, touching on casual topics. Nothing too deep, but enough to make you feel at ease in the unfamiliar crowd.

Then, out of nowhere, a ripple passes through the room. You notice heads turning, subtle whispers growing louder as two men were ushered to a VIP section at the far end of the restaurant. You exchange a glance with the guy–Jungwon, curiosity piqued.

“Who’s that?” Jungwon asks, craning his neck slightly. “Some kind of celebrity?”

You squint in their direction, but couldn’t quite make them out. “No idea, but they must be, with that kind of posse.”

Just then, your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance down, seeing a message come through.

Chae: fuck ur bf and my bf are here!!! Omgggg 

Your eyebrows shot up. You quickly type back:

You: Wtf are you talking abtt?!

But before you can get a response, you are ushered into the main dining area with the rest of the guests. The low lighting and beautifully set tables were designed for an intimate evening, and you found yourself seated at a small two-person table with Jungwon due to limited seating.

As you settle in, your vision drift towards the VIP section again, this time landing directly on someone you didn’t expect to see. Min Yoongi was sitting there with none other than Jeon Jungkook.

Your breath catches in your throat. Oh. Well, that explains the murmurs. The sudden shift in atmosphere. And Chae’s message.

You weren’t expecting this—him. Not here. Not tonight.

You tell yourself to look away, play it cool, but your eyes keep darting back, betraying you. Yoongi hasn’t seen you yet—thank God—but it’s only a matter of time. 

You’re hit with a wave of something—excitement? Nerves? Probably both. This was supposed to be a low-key night, a chance to support Chae and enjoy some free food and drinks. Instead, it feels like the stakes just shot up, like you’re tightroping between wanting to be invisible and being seen.

You take a steadying breath, flicking back to him one last time. He’s still talking with Jungkook, leaning back in his seat, completely unaware of the fact that your world just tilted slightly off its axis. 

Suddenly, Yoongi’s head turns, almost like he can feel your frantic energy. He sweeps the room, pausing when they find you. And for a split second, there’s something there—recognition, a softness in his expression, the kind of look that makes your heart stutter. His lips lift at the corners, like he’s about to smile, and for that brief moment, you let yourself believe in it.

But then, just as quickly, his gaze shifts. His expression cools, like a door closing in slow motion. The familiarity drains, replaced by something distant. Detached. He nods at you—polite, formal, like he’s acknowledging a colleague at a meeting. Nothing more. Before looking away.

Wow. That’s cold.

That tiny, hopeful flicker you’d felt just a moment ago? Gone. You weren’t expecting some grand gesture, but this? This feels like... nothing. Just a nod. Just formality. 

You shift in your seat, fingers tightening around the stem of your wine glass, feeling like shit.

Of course. Of course it’s like this. Why wouldn’t it be? Here you are, your first taste of seeing him outside your office bubble and your inner saboteur was right.

It’s disappointing, but not surprising. This was always confined to the office, wasn’t it? That’s where it was convenient. But out in the world, with people around and the difference of your class apparent? Just look–he’s in the VIP section and you’re… not. It’s different. He’s different. And maybe you are too, suddenly unsure of where you stand with him.

Was he annoyed? Uncomfortable that you’re here? You replay the moment in your head, trying to decipher the brief look on his face before it shifted. You’ve always had a tendency to overthink things, but still... that coolness in his gaze lingers in your mind, and you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed.

You glance away, pretending to focus on the glass in your hand, but the truth is, you don’t know how to feel. You don’t want to feel disappointed, but you do. And it’s hitting you harder than it should, because maybe, deep down, you wanted more.

But this is your first glimpse of what happens in the real world. And right now, it feels like you’re just two strangers in a crowded room.

The first course arrives, pulling you out of your thoughts, and you try to refocus, letting the taste of the food ground you for a while. You chat lightly with Jungwon, making small talk about the meal, the restaurant, anything that keeps your mind occupied. Every now and then, though, your thoughts drift back to Yoongi, to that cool, distant nod, and the wound in your heart expands. You try to shake it off, tell yourself it’s nothing, but fuck—it stings.

Your phone buzzes again with a message from Chae. You excuse yourself from Jungwon and pull your phone out.

Chae: If u don’t intro me to Min Yoongi, friendship over!!!!!!! Also jk but ik you havent met him yet. Omg im guna freakkk

You sigh. Of course. Chae doesn’t know. She hasn’t seen the awkward distance that’s already wedged itself between you and Yoongi tonight. And you definitely don’t want to be the one to burst her bubble. This is her night—a huge one for her culinary career. The last thing you want to do is drag your personal worries into it.

You type up a simple reply.

You: On it. Stand by. And pls act normal

Fuckkk how are you going to do this? You excuse yourself to the powder room. Looking up at yourself in the mirror, you adjust your lipstick and clean up the edges with the pad of your ring finger.

Yoongi’s a good person, you remind yourself, your mind running through every little moment you’ve shared with him at the office. He won’t embarrass you in public. That’s not who he is. But still, there’s that nagging doubt in the back of your mind—the one that’s been whispering ever since you saw his face earlier, the way his warmth slipped into something more distant.

And if he does embarrass you? Well... maybe that’s your answer. Maybe tonight is the night you get the clarity you’ve been secretly waiting for. 

You come back to Jungwon wiping his mouth with the table napkin, chewing the last bits of his mains. Before you can even politely excuse yourself, he gulps his drink in one go, “Hey, I think I'm actually gonna bounce.”

So that’s that. You text Chae and make your way toward Yoongi’s table, heartbeat picking up speed.

Chae: I’m goin in. Get your ass ready. 

As you approach, Beefy—the bodyguard you recognize from past run-ins inside the office—gives you a friendly nod and lets you through without hesitation. You give him a grateful smile before turning your attention to Yoongi and Jungkook. Jungkook is mid-conversation, laughing at something Yoongi has said, but as soon as you appear, their heads turn toward you.

You give a small wave and a smile. “Hey.”

Yoongi’s eyes meet yours for a split second, and he gives you a smile that reminds you of that day you first met. Forced. Awkward. Tight-lipped.

Fuck. You’re starting to feel like such an idiot. Maybe this was a mistake—maybe he really doesn’t want to associate with you outside of work. You should’ve read the room. 

But before your thoughts can spiral any further, Jungkook thankfully steps in. “I’m Jungkook, and you are?”

You give him your name, a small, polite bow. You’re about to explain who you are, but before you can, Jungkook’s face light up with recognition.

“Ohhh, wait,” he says pointing a finger at you, a grin spreading across his face, “You’re Yoongi-hyung’s boss.”

You freeze. Boss? His grin widens, and suddenly, there’s a teasing glint in his eyes as he flicks his gaze between you and Yoongi like he’s just connected some dots.

Yoongi shoots him a look, something caught between exasperation and warning. It’s like you can hear the silent “Don’t.” Jungkook ignores it, his smile only growing, and so is your confusion.

“That would be me,” you say, trying to hold onto your composure, giving Jungkook a nod while feeling completely out of the loop.

“Hyung, why didn’t you tell me she was going to be here?” Jungkook’s tone is light, but there’s an unspoken challenge beneath it, like he’s teasing Yoongi in a way that only someone who knows him well could. The silent back-and-forth between them is hard to miss, and it leaves you feeling both confused and embarrassed. There’s clearly something you’re not getting.

Yoongi just shrugs, his voice more detached than you’d like. “I had no idea.”

You furrow your brows, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Jungkook gives Yoongi a curious look, as if they’re having an entire conversation through telepathy. You, meanwhile, are just standing there, completely out of place and unsure whether you should laugh or back away slowly.

And Yoongi hasn’t even addressed you directly in the midst of all this. God, you’re so embarrassed.

At this point, you figure it’s time to bail. You gave it a shot, and it feels like Yoongi doesn’t even want you here. Sorry, Chae. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you Jungkook, but I should just—” You jerk your thumb over your shoulder, already planning your exit.

“No, no!” Jungkook interrupts quickly, grinning like he’s enjoying this way too much. “If you’re here, you should definitely join us,” he says, gesturing to the empty spot next to Yoongi. “There’s more than enough room.”

You hesitate, but before you can even respond, Yoongi speaks up, his tone calm but there’s something else beneath it—something strained. “She’s with someone already.”

You blink. Someone?

Ah. Now it makes sense.

You glance at Yoongi, the pieces falling into place. He thinks you’re here with someone, like on a date. Is it really why he’s been acting distant? Hmm. It’s almost funny now, if it wasn’t so painfully awkward.

You clear your throat. “Actually, I just met Jungwon here. I came alone.” You explain it to Jungkook, but really, the person who needs to hear it is Yoongi. “And he already left, so I’d be down to join if it’s cool with you….” 

Jungkook’s grin is immediate, and he pats the seat next to Yoongi like it’s been waiting for you all along. “Of course! Sit with us.”

You hesitate for a second longer, glancing at Yoongi to see how he’s reacting. His expression shifts—softens—and before you know it, he’s pulling the chair out for you, at the same time Jungkook gets a call.

“Be right back,” Jungkook says and disappears into the hall towards the back of the restaurant.

You settle into the chair beside Yoongi, feeling this strange tension. You glance at him, but Yoongi avoids you, eyes fixed on the table.

But then, just barely, you notice it—the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s smiling, the kind of smile that betrays him. The kind that says, Yeah, you caught me. And it confirms what you guessed was happening: he was actually kinda jealous. Which is ridiculous, because why would he feel that?!

He breathes out a soft fuck, before he runs a hand across his scalp. It’s almost funny now and you can’t help but shake your head at him, a small pout playing on your lips. You hear a “sorry” in the deepest register you’ve heard for his voice.

Neither of you says a word after that, but the moment speaks for itself. There’s a quiet agreement to let it go. 

“So…” you start.

Yoongi clears his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

You blink, a little surprised, but grateful for the gesture. “Just a glass of white, please.”

He nods, finally looking at you for a second before signaling the waiter. His voice is calm, easy, as he orders for you. He orders a whiskey neat.

As the waiter walks away, Yoongi leans back, glancing at you briefly before looking away again. He doesn’t say much, but the small smile that lingers on his lips tells you enough. He knows he got caught acting a fool. And he’s not quite sure how to deal with it.

And honestly, you don’t know what to feel about it, either. It’s… madness, really.

When your drink arrives, the clouds seem to part. You extend your flute towards him, and he clinks it with his lowball and you both take a sip, peering at each other through your own glasses.

Jungkook sits back down at the table, and the conversation picks up almost immediately. Jungkook leans forward, flashing a bright smile. “So, what’s it like working with him?” He jerks his head in Yoongi’s direction, boba-like orbs twinkling mischievously.

Yoongi sighs, leaning back in his chair, his usual calm demeanor settling in. “Stop,” he mutters under his breath, already sensing where this is going.

You laugh softly. “He’s not so bad. Actually, he’s really helpful.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows shoot up. “Helpful? Yoongi-hyung? Are we talking about the same guy?” He’s clearly enjoying himself, teasing while keeping the mood light.

Yoongi shoots him a look, shaking his head. “I’m right here.”

But Jungkook grins, ignoring Yoongi’s protest. “Nah, you sure he isn’t sleeping on the job?”

You chuckle, nodding. “Well, he does use his lunches for sleeping more than eating.”

Yoongi groans. “Great. Love this conversation.”

“I knew it,” Jungkook laughs, before drinking the rest of his drink like a shot.

You can’t help but snicker, but there’s something in you that feels a little protective of Yoongi. “To be fair, he is helpful. You should see him in the office. Always stepping in when I need something fixed.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch, fighting back a small smile. “See? Helpful.”

Jungkook just raises an eyebrow at him. “Wow, look at you, hyung. Gunning for Employee of the Month.”

“It’s literally just him in my department. He already wins by default.” you bump Yoongi with your shoulders to coax a tiny smile from him, and you’re successful.

Conversations flow naturally after that, going towards the meal you just had (which Chae would be happy to know got rave reviews) onto other things.

“So, where are you from?” Jungkook asks.

“Busan,” you say with a grin, catching the flicker of excitement in his eyes.

“No way!” Jungkook says, clapping his hands together. “I’m from Busan, too!” He leans in, his enthusiasm infectious. “Do you know that bungeoppang stall at Gukje Market?”

You blink in surprise. “The one with the darling ahjumma with the big hair and red lipstick? I used to go there after school.”

“Oh shit, really?” Jungkook lets out a laugh. “I still dream about that mmm...”

“The ahjumma?” Yoongi asks, straight-faced and full of shit.

Jungkook’s expression sours and you giggle.

“You’re just jealous you’re missing out, hyung,” Jungkook says, turning to Yoongi with a teasing grin. “Busan people know what’s up.”

Yoongi doesn't say anything, just looks at both of you with amusement as you share a high five.

Before Jungkook can continue, Chae finally approaches the table, in her crisp chef’s uniform and a bright smile on her face. 

You introduce her quickly, and she immediately fits in, shaking hands with both of them. You admire the composure, really, considering she is meeting her favorite people.

But what she says next surprises you, when she stops being “loyal ARMY” and starts being “protective best friend.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Chae says to Yoongi, her tone light, but knowing.

Yoongi looks momentarily caught off guard, but before he can say anything, Jungkook jumps in, grinning wide. “Oh yeah? Well, I’ve heard a lot about her too,” he says, nodding toward you.

Huh?!

You feel your face heat up, and Yoongi glances at you, clearly not expecting the conversation to turn on him like that. “Wonder why you two talk about each other so much,” Jungkook muses, tapping his chin dramatically.

You and Yoongi exchange a look, both of you feeling the awkwardness creep in. You try to laugh it off, but it’s clear both of you are embarrassed.

Chae, despite starting this whole ripple, decides to shift gears to give you a reprieve, “Anyway, I hear you’re part-timing in the military kitchen, Jungkook. I’ve been dying to know what you think of our food, as a fellow professional.”

Jungkook beams, clearly thrilled to be praised for his culinary pursuits. “Oh, it’s fuckin’ phenomenal. Though—that,” he points at one of the dishes on the table, “that’s way better than anything I’ve had lately.”

Chae’s face lights up. “Ah, that makes me so happy. That’s one of my original recipes. What did you like about it?”

As the two of them dive into an enthusiastic conversation about food, you feel a shift under the table. At first, you think it’s nothing—a stray napkin, maybe. But then it happens again, more deliberate this time. You glance down, and—oh shit, that’s Yoongi’s hand.

Your breath catches for a second, your heart doing a little flip. You glance at Yoongi, but he’s still keeping his attention on the conversation between Chae and Jungkook. Still, there’s something there—something softer—that he doesn’t quite hide.

He’s slow, careful, like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away. You freeze for a second, your pulse kicking up. His fingers brush yours lightly before he gently takes your hand in his, slipping it under the cloth of the table like it’s a secret just between the two of you.

Your heart soars. He’s talking to Chae, pretending everything is normal, but this? This is definitely not nothing. You glance at him, but he’s looking ahead, calm and composed as always, matching the tenderness in the way his thumb strokes over your knuckles.

You squeeze his hand back. It feels like the confirmation you’ve both been waiting for, even though neither of you says anything. 

As the night winds down, the crowd starts thinning out. You wait near the entrance for Chae to finish up, scrolling absently on your phone. You’d figured Yoongi left through the back at some point after he and Jungkook were requested to tour the kitchens. But then you glance up and there he is walking towards you.

He stands close, gaze steady on you, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “I’ll drive you home,” he says, his voice low, like it’s not even a question.

You’re caught a little off guard. “You don’t have to—Chae and I were just—”

“I’ll drive you home,” he repeats, softer this time but just as firm. There’s something in the way he says it that makes it hard to argue. It’s not just the offer—it’s the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already decided.

And because God knows you’re so weak for this man, it’s almost pathetic how you just nod wordlessly.

Chae appears, barely catching the tail end of the conversation. Her eyes dart between you and Yoongi, and then—because of course she can’t resist—her jaw drops dramatically. 

She pulls her phone out, putting on the most ridiculous performance. “Yeah? I’ll come over!” She pretends to talk to someone, then covers the phone mic, turning to you. “I won’t be home. Don’t wait up. You have the whole apartment to yourself, all night.”

You shoot her a look, and she gives you a wink before making herself scarce. You groan inwardly. Way to be subtle, Chae. Really nailed it.

Yoongi chuckles under his breath, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He motions to the car waiting outside. “Come on,” he says, and just like that, you’re following him out into the cool night air.

The car pulls up, sleek and black, with a driver already waiting inside. Yoongi opens the door for you, and you slide in, nerves buzzing in your chest. He slips in beside you, the driver closing the door for him.

The city lights blur past as the car moves through the streets, and for a moment, you’re both quiet, just watching the world pass by. But then, you feel it—his hand, creeping over the seat like it’s found a familiar place, slowly sliding over yours.

Your breath hitches as his fingers intertwined with yours again, his touch warm and steady. There’s no hesitation this time. His grip is a little firmer, more certain.

“Come closer,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, but the way he says it sends a shiver through you.

You hesitate, more out of nerves than anything. “It’s ok,” you mutter, half-playful, half-nervous. “I’m fine here.”

Yoongi lets out a low chuckle, the sound deep and amused. He doesn’t push it, but his thumb strokes over your hand again, like he’s perfectly content with the small bit of contact for now. Still, you feel the tension simmering between you—the quiet pull you’ve been dancing around for weeks, maybe months.

The rest of the drive passes in a blur, your thoughts spinning. When the car pulls up in front of your apartment, you take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself. You know what comes next. You’re psyching yourself up to make the move, but Yoongi’s voice echoes in the stillness inside the car.

“Good night,” he says, watching you with that look that makes your heart race. “You look really pretty tonight.”

You feel the blush creeping up your neck, “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He nods, a boyish grin on his face. 

And before you can stop yourself, the words spill out. “Yoongi, do you... want to come up for ramen?”

The second it leaves your mouth, you cringe inwardly. Ramen? Really? But it’s out there now, and you can’t take it back.

Yoongi’s tongue skims the seam of his lips before it curves into a knowing smile. “Ramen, huh?”

You clear your throat, trying to salvage whatever dignity you have left. “Yeah... you know. If you’re hungry.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Yoongi unbuckles his seatbelt, his eyes darkening ever so slightly. “Ramen sounds good.”

A/N: So....... ramen, eh???? Please lmk what you thought about this chapter <3 Any favorite parts? Personally, it was Yoongi drooling over MC's gym fit. That was hella fun to write.

Thanks again for reading this you lovely human!

Important poll right here Chapter Four >

Taglist: @glossdebut @kam9404 @mar-lo-pap @nnybtitts08 @granataepfelchen

@perfectiondazesworld @wobblewobble822 @yoongznme @caressesurloceanlove @rinkud

@kayleefriedchicken @jajabro @tinytan-gerine @xxbibin1208 @forevercarpediem227

@yoongicatagenda @someshinesomedont @marnz1990 @iheartshopping @confidentjus

@queenbloody @whydoeyecare @sadroses98 @curlyquennn

@sexytholland @kiki-zb @hiddlestandom

Hope I didn't miss anybody, but if I did please shout at me in the comments. 💕

[toxycodone]

Monster Fucker's Journal : Introduction

ship. laios touden x reader, reader x various monsters

chapter content: nsfw, masturbation + desc of monster sexual organs. reader is gender neutral but there is references to a clit and getting wet.

read on ao3 | click here for masterlist | next chapter (coming soon!)

Holding the wooden bowl up to your lips, you take the last sip of the broth, savoring the taste on your tongue.

Goddamn. Monster food is tasty. Never in your life did you think you'd be trying Giant Scorpion hot pot, but you're thanking every deity watching from above you're now able to say you tried it.

This is much better than Laios's odd first attempt at cooking these creatures. Despite his amassment of knowledge, cooking does not seem to be one of them.

Despite Marcille's claims of food poisoning and incessant whining, you still decided to give the meal Senshi prepared a taste, and you're glad you did. The flavor was rich, yet earthy...reminding you of the nice soup served at that tavern on the surface.

But this one was better. Much better. It's actually made from monsters! How fascinating!

Laios Touden thought he was the only monster lover around, often regarding himself as an outcast. That is, until he met you. You started out as a usual recruit--someone experienced enough to hold their own but green enough to not punish his wallet. The longer you spent alongside the blonde, the more his interests started to grow on you. The most prominent being monsters.

He seemed to grow quite fond of you as well, sharing his thoughts and theories with you in the little amount of spare time you shared during rest hours and between missions. Listening to him speak about the creatures always lifted the burden of the day off your shoulders. Laios is always so passionate when you get him going. His eyes glimmer with interest, tone so full of ardent affection--you can't help but watch with a lovesick grin.

You wonder if he could feel the same type of way for a person. That person hopefully being you.

Nearby, Laios sits on his bedroll. His large hands slap against the broad midriff of his armor, cauisng the sound of hollow metal to resonate in your ears. It snaps you out of your thoughts.

"That was good!"

His face is curled into a smile, a light flush on his face. You take a moment to appreciate the view. From the corner of your eye, you spot Chilchuck peering at you with a raised brow. Your eyes dart away, focusing elsewhere.

There's a nudge at your shoulder.

"Hey." Laios regards you with wide, curious smile. "How'd you like it? Good, right?"

You nod your head, then explain how different--yet delicious, the food was. In the back of your mind, you always wondered how monsters tasted, or hell, if they were even edible. Today, you can mark that off your bucket list.

His smile spreads from ear to ear now. If anything could radiate pure sunshine, it would be this man.

"Glad to hear it! You know..." He pulls a notebook from below the collar of his armor. It's comical enough to make you snort lightly. "I should take some notes."

Laios begins to scribble down what he's learned so far about the anatomy of walking mushrooms, giant scorpions, and of course--how to prepare them for consumption.

That journal...

Its cover is frayed, edges worn from overuse. There's a plethora of dog eared pages that sport tears and colorful tabs alike. Each page is covered top to bottom in notes you've been dying to read.

Laios promised a while ago let you take a look at it. However, he always seems to be too busy writing to ever give you the chance. Just looking at it makes you sigh. Oh, how you'd kill to get a peek into his mind. You're sure there's quite a bit of knowledge to be found perusing those pages.

The scribbling stops. The man shuts his book, before setting it back into its resting place inside its armor.

"Well, we should check out the path ahead. The first floor might not be too dangerous, but one should always take dungeon crawling seriously." Laios stands up, stretching a bit. The other party members move with him, but he holds out a hand.

"You guys stay here. Let your food disgest. It shouldn't take too long for me to check the path ahead."

The smile on his face is gentle, genuine. You don't understand how others have grown to ostracize the man. He's the most caring person you've met since arriving on the island.

Chilchuck and Marcille seem more relieved than anything. The two gorged themselves on monster food, so the rest is likely well needed. That speaks especially for the elf. Her stamina isn't the best, so traversing the dungeon right away on a full stomach seems like a recipe for disaster. Senshi gives a gentle nod and moves instead to pack his cooking supplies.

Laios picks up his sword and moves to the exit. You stand up too now, grabbing your things and following after him.

"Hm?" Laios, unsuspecting of your presence, is surprised. "Don't you want to stay with the others? I can handle this alone."

You shake your head. Despite his claims, you're not letting Laios venture out by himself. Plus, what if he spots a cool monster? If you can't peek at his journal, then you're gonna gather just as much firsthand experience as he has.

And the blonde doesn't fight you on the topic. Unbeknownst to you, your presence is always a welcome one to him. You both venture into the corridor leading to the second floor.

No matter how much time passes, it's always difficult to get used to the dim lighting within the dungeon. Gentle torchlight illuminates your path, which you're thankful for, but also a bit miffed about. Couldn't they have picked something larger? Brighter? If you were the Dungeon Lord, you would've replaced them with something different by now.

Wait...who the hell is lighting all those things in the first place?

Wait. Not important.

Instead, you focus on following in Laios's heavy footsteps. His leather boots tread lightly on the stone floor, barely echoing along the similarly crafted walls. There's a little tinkering noise from his breastplate, which you can only assume is the journal moving around in his armor. Thank goodness you're on a higher floor. That noise would be a dead giveaway for a monster.

This is probably the least dangerous hallway in the dungeon, no traps or other dangers to be found beside the occasional slime or walking mushroom. However, your party leader always feels the need to tread safely.

The familiar stale air surrounds your senses. To others, it's sickening. To you, it's homey. You're in your element now.

Laios halts, almost causing you to bump into him. Before you can ask a question, he turns to face you.

"I'm gonna head down the staircase real quick, then our little expedition should be over."

You nod. It's a cramped space. There's no need for you to both go down. If he needs any backup, you'll only be a shout away.

Before descending, he reaches in his armor, then pulls out the journal. Laios rests it in your hands.

"Can you take care of this?" He asks, almost bashfully. "I don't wanna make too much noise going down to the second floor. Or risk getting it damaged if a monster is waiting by the entrance..."

God, his expression is cute. He cases so much about this personal journal...why is he so adorable? Of course you'll protect it.

With an expression of gratitude, Laios takes off down the staircase, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Its a bit of a bummer. You've been down this corridor without any sight of a monster. Hell, the entire first floor had more action. What's the deal with this place...?

Then, you're reminded of the book in your hand.

Now, you know you should be keeping a watchful eye for monsters and listening out for a distress call from Laios...but things have been so boring. There's no harm in a little light reading, right? Just while you're on your lonesome…

You thumb through the pages, starting off at his first real notes on monsters. First is walking mushrooms. You can tell these don’t interest him too much, the notes are lacking. Which is unsurprising. Laios tends to enjoy more complicated monsters. These bumbling creatures have never seemed to truly catch his interest like others. There appears to be a few notes about him theorizing their anatomy–wondering if they reproduce via spores and if said spores are dangerous. It’s interesting to think about in itself. Maybe these monsters could actually be scary if given those attributes. Laios might be onto something here.

The next page is about slimes. Some of the ink is smudged and weathered due to age. However, there’s new notes on the page in fresh ink. They document Senshi’s explanation of slime anatomy and how to cook them. There’s simple fun facts that Laios has shared with you thrice before, and the reminder makes you smile. Most of your reading is spent reminiscing on these factoids, before you hit the section titled “Reproduction”. 

It’s childish, but heat rises to your face as you press on.

The things about slimes seem to be lacking in solid truth. It’s mainly just Laios’s personal theories of their breeding habits. Asexual reproducing is one. Then there’s something about an exchange of genetic material between slimes. Apparently, Laios once found what appeared to be slime eggs in the remains of a heated bathhouse. It appears they search for a place warm and damp to lay their eggs. They likely have some sort of appendage used to lay their eggs in a safe place like this, similar to a snail.

Another note follows, something you wonder if Laios wanted to keep private?

‘What if they lay their eggs in live hosts?’

The thought makes you rub your thighs together. This is wrong. Weird. You should not feel wet at the thought of this. But you persist, letting a hand climb under your waistband. What Laios doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

‘It would explain their behavior. Slimes would grow docile as they look for a host to incubate their eggs. Ideal places to lay are rare in the dungeon, but other creatures (including adventurers), are plenty…”

Your fingers circle over your clit. You knew you liked monsters, but not to this extent…the idea of this being odd steadily starts to fade as you stroke yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve had a proper orgasm. Your body is desperate for anything at this point.

‘They likely function similar to other monsters that accommodate their prey (i.e.: “man eating” plants). Slime secretions have been used as various forms of lubrication. Perhaps during their breeding season, they contain elements that heighten arousal. That would inspire potential vessels to be more willing to their intrusion.’

It’s enthralling. The idea of a creature helping you reach a peak of ecstasy you never considered before. Your movements pick up the pace as you read on, driving you closer and closer to orgasm. As much as you wish you could make noise, you’d rather be caught dead than let Laios witness you getting off to his journal.

Would the creature treat you gently? Teasing you before eventually coaxing an intense orgasm out of you? Or would it relentlessly pound away, trying to stretch you out to accommodate its eggs and leave you a sloppy mess? 

You haven't felt this hot in a long time. It’s embarrassing how quickly you’re about to cum in your pants over something so vile.

Maybe it would cover your whole body in secretions, making your body feel fuzzy with delight, before toying with your clit. Sucking, teasing, running over the flesh until–

A wet, sticky drop lands on your head.

You’d be terribly grossed out if the dungeon hadn’t jaded you already. If anything, you’re more shocked to be snapped out of your lust induced haze. Your peer up at the ceiling to be greeted by an all too familiar monster.

This slime isn't like the one that attacked Marcille earlier at all. It's larger. And an odd color. Why is it pink....?

Your thoughts linger to Laios's journal. Didn't he make a note about this? 

‘During certain times become more docile and take on a pinkish hues. It’s theorized this may be due to a breeding season. It is unclear how slimes reproduce.’

You have an idea. 

A gross, unorthodox one. But it’s an idea nonetheless.

You have to coax the slime down here. You jump up, then wave at it, but the creature doesn’t seem to notice, causing you sigh out in frustration.

Another droplet lands on your head. You grit your teeth. This is your one chance to accomplish your newfound dream. And you’re not gonna let it go to waste. But how the hell are you gonna get this thing down without startling it into attacking you?

Wait...what exactly did that dwarf say? Slimes are attracted to noise, right? They can see your exhale, and attack when you exhale....

So you shout.

"LAIOS!"

And the slime drops from the ceiling, landing on your foot.

Just as planned, your knight in scathed, dull armor comes rushing down the hall, calling your name.

"Are you alri--?" Laios's golden eyes widen when he spots the slime. His weapon is unsheathed in a quick movement, ready to defend you against the monster with Senshi's prior slaying instructions fresh on his mind.

"Wait!"

Before Laios can bring his blade down on the creature, you hold out your hand. He ceases, confusion settling on his features.

"It's not harming me. I-if it wanted to kill me, it would've gone for my head to suffocate me, right?"

Rationalizing this seems impossible. But if anyone were to listen to your desire to fuck monsters, it had to be Laios Touden. So you're putting all your faith in him now. You've yet to judge him, so you hope he holds the same regard for you.

"I...guess." The sword in his hands lowers ever so slightly. It scrapes a shallow mark in the ground as the man steps closer. His head tilts to the side, brows furrowing as he studies the situation at hand. "So you don't want me to kill it?"

You're certain Laios will just take this as you having a healthy respect for monsters, then shoo it away to forgo violence. It takes a lot of mental fortitude, but you swallow the lump in your throat and continue.

"It's interesting behavior....you know, it is breeding season. Which is why they're more active as of late."

The slime starts to creep up your pant leg. Something appendage-like sticks out from its front, prodding at your calves and inner thighs as it makes it's way further.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is really happening.

Laios seems to notice what's going on. A hint of pink tints his pale cheeks, hands making their way to raise his sword once more.

"Laios."

He ceases his movements once more. And you seize your chance.

"Why don't we just let this happen?"

a/n. hey!! if you made it to the end thanks for reading <3 I'm really excited for this series and I hope you enjoyed it!

please consider liking/reblogging/leaving a comment *prayer hands emojis* engagement feeds me (along with other writers! so pls show some love <3)

[rileyslibrary]

I love your sense of humour and have cracked up at your stories multible times. Maby you can find some inspiration in this:

Price ordering the team to an etiquette training so they know how to behave in case they have to go under cover in a more "fancy" environment (or the upcoming mission may require something like this). I'm thinking about Ghosts "sausage fingers" from the origami bit on a delicate litte cake fork... Or him needing to *converse* with someone.

I think putting these hard soldiers in a situation that's out of their comfort zone is always a fun read!

Thank you for letting us enjoy your fantastic writing! <3

Be gentle, man!

Relationship: TF141 x F!Reader with a potential Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader (platonic?) on the horizon. Also there’s an OC in the story.

Word Count: 1,598 (approx. 7-8 min reading time)

Notes: I began writing this last night as a joke, and couldn’t stop. Thank you SO MUCH for inspiring me to do this, anon. It’s a crackfic btw. (There’s a part 2 now here)

———————————————————————

The training room feels out of place compared to its usual purpose. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the once-busy gym has been transformed into a classroom for an unlikely lesson—manners, of all things. Table manners, to be precise.

“Talk about Fitness Vs. Finesse,” Soap whispers, and you playfully nudge his side. The comment reaches Gaz’s ears, and he lets out a chuckle. Yet, Price’s death stare reclaims your attention and brings you back to focus.

You all sit around a long, polished mahogany table atop the gym’s boxing ring, admiring the delicate china and crystal glassware set before you. It reminds you of Aunt Claire’s preserved collection, which rarely leaves its cabinet. Lady Theodora, your etiquette instructor, assures you that each piece serves a purpose, and you will put them all to use. Every. Single. One of them.

Lady Theodora, the epitome of timeless confidence, moves gracefully around the table. Her silver hair is slicked back, framing a face that exudes years of wisdom and experience. Her Bordeaux-coloured shawl billows behind her as she glides, catching the gentle breeze her steps create. She pauses behind Price’s chair and reveals the reason behind today’s masterclass: an undercover operation.

“In the world of espionage, where appearances can mean the difference between life and death,” she says in a soft voice, “the art of etiquette becomes a weapon, a shield, and,” she concludes, resting her hand on Price’s shoulder, “your ticket to survival.”

“Bollocks.”

All eyes are drawn to the far end of the table, where a shadowy figure prefers to go unnoticed but isn’t afraid to express doubts. The only visible sign of life is a hand fidgeting with the butterknife.

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant.” Lady Theodora says, and Ghost leans forward, revealing his unmasked—and visibly annoyed—face.

“We’re soldiers, not knights,” he claims. “Teaching us how to use all these,” he says, motioning to the various utensils before him, “is a waste of time, both yours and mine.”

Lady Theodora regards him gently as if looking at a child throwing a tantrum. She smiles and walks behind him, gripping the back of his chair.

“You seem quite certain of your own competence and doubtful of mine, Mr Riley,” she says, amused.

Ghost tilts his head to the side, partially facing her.

“With all due respect, Lady Theodora,” he replies, “I don’t believe you fully comprehend how such missions operate.”

Lady Theodora lets a light chuckle as she moves closer to Ghost’s face.

“My record of 25 confirmed kills, three of which were accomplished with a butterknife like the one in your hand, might suggest otherwise,” she admits. “Now, would you kindly move your seat forward, Lieutenant? I’ll show you how to act like a proper gentleman.”

Ghost’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows hard. He returns the butterknife to its original position and pushes his chair forward with Lady Theodora’s help.

Gaz clears his throat and looks at Soap.

“Imagine her dinner parties,” he whispers so Price doesn’t hear him, “they must be perfectly executed.”

“Bet she makes a killer soufflé,” Soap whispers back.

You look at them and mutter, “You two are beyond help.” Unfortunately, it’s your own comment that catches Price’s attention this time, and he gives you a stern warning to behave.

“Let’s get started,” Lady Theodora says. “Projecting confidence and grace requires proper posture: sit up straight, shoulders back, and imagine a string pulling you upward from the crown of your head.”

You all adjust your posture, attempting to imitate Lady Theodora. Ghost used to a more relaxed posture, finds it difficult to maintain the required formality. His broad shoulders hunch forward, and he struggles to keep his legs straight.

“Excellent,” Lady Theodora remarks, catching Ghost’s struggle but choosing not to comment further. “Next, we shall delve into the art of dining. Each utensil on the table has a specific purpose, and it is essential to use them correctly.”

She points to the array of utensils laid out before you. Multiple forks, knives, and spoons of various sizes and shapes make the sight overwhelming.

“The outermost utensils are for the earlier courses, while the inner ones are for the later ones.” Lady Theodora says, “It’s like unwrapping a gift, one course at a time.”

You all nod and place the napkin on your lap to begin the process.

Ghost’s ingrained military habits take over when food is served, causing him to devour it quickly. He shovels forkfuls of food into his mouth without looking up and barely pausing to chew.

“Mr Riley,” Lady Theodora addresses Ghost, who shoots his head up to look at her. “I understand the military inclination to eat fast, but we must remember that the food isn’t going anywhere. Take your time, savour each bite, and enjoy your meal, please.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Ghost mumbles with his mouth full.

Lady Theodora raises an eyebrow. “Mr Riley, it is impolite to speak with your mouth full,” she reminds him. “Please, swallow your food before continuing.”

Ghost swallows and clears his throat. “Apologies, Lady Theodora,” he mutters.

Lady Theodora smiles and nods at Ghost’s response. “Very well, Lieutenant Riley,” she says. “Remember, dining is about more than just the food; it’s also about the company and the experience.”

As the training continues, you witness Soap’s attempts to initiate a proper conversation, only to subconsciously bring up military strategies. Gaz, on the other hand, struggles with small talk and, when asked about his hobbies, blurts out his love of explosions.

“Kerosene is one hell of a—”

“No kerosene talk on the table, Sergeant,” Lady Theodora interrupts. “How about we talk about something more appropriate, like, for example, what did you do today?”

“You’re not going to like it.” He replies.

“Did it involve kerosene?” She asks and receives multiple excited nods from Gaz.

Ghost forgets about his napkin while using the finger bowl and instinctively flicks his hands to dry them. Droplets of water scatter across the table, and Lady Theodora steps forward with a calm smile. She retrieves his napkin and hands it to him. “Remember, Lieutenant,” she whispers, “the napkin is your ally.”

Throughout this ordeal, Price seems to be the only one who already has a natural fluidity in his movements. Like he already knows about etiquette.

You compliment his impeccable manners, but Lady Theodora intervenes before Price can respond.

“Oh, that’s because the Captain already received my services a few years ago,” she reveals, winking.

Price, caught off guard, coughs and sputters, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. After regaining his composure, he clears his throat and grins.

“Yes, well, Lady Theodora’s guidance has been, um, invaluable,” he manages to say and lowers his gaze to his plate. Gaz raises an eyebrow, and Soap gives a sly smile.

With the etiquette training completed, Price gracefully positions his utensils on his plate and folds his napkin. Lady Theodora hands him a file stack, which he distributes to you.

“These files contain detailed background information for your assigned roles,” he explains. “Study them carefully; familiarise yourselves with the personas you will embody, and don’t worry; with Lady Theodora’s help, you’ll have plenty of time to learn how to carry yourselves.”

He watches you all as you take hold of your respective files, scanning the pages and absorbing the details that will shape your performances.

“Gaz, within those pages, you’ll uncover the roadmap to shape your tech persona, along with essential contacts and valuable industry insights,” Price declares.

“A startup entrepreneur,” Gaz mutters and nods, “nice.”

“Soap,” Price continues, “your file contains the lineage and history of an alleged oil tycoon family; you’ll assume the identity of their sole son and heir to the business.”

“Why do I get the oil-moneyed spoiled brat?” Soap protests, “Gaz is the one obsessed with fossil fuel!”

Price looks at Lady Theodora, silently begging her to take the lead.

“Focus on embodying the demeanour of an heir, Sergeant MacTavish,” she comforts Soap. “Acquiring in-depth knowledge of the business is not a top priority now.”

Finally, Price shifts his focus to you and Ghost. His voice softens, and a smile appears on his lips.

“As for the two of you,” he says, “your assignment requires a convincing portrayal of a couple.”

You and Ghost exchange a brief look before returning your focus to the files in your hands.

“Laswell will provide you with a forged marriage certificate and photos of your alleged relationship,” Price continues. “The documents will serve as tangible proof if the need to validate your connection arises.”

“Any chance to let us know who or what we’re after?” Gaz asks, and Price shakes his head.

“Baby steps, Sergeant; we’re waiting for Laswell to give us more intel,” he explains, “but as far as we know, we’re dealing with people who can buy their way out of some very sketchy shit.”

“Language, Captain.” Lady Theodora reminds him.

“Please accept my sincere apologies, Theodora,” he says and turns to Gaz. “I meant sketchy things, Sergeant.”

As they continue discussing the mission, your mind wanders on the latest information. Ghost’s partner? How? You look at the file and then back at Ghost. You see Lady Theodora walking behind Ghost’s chair and leaning close to his ear. She looks at you and whispers to him.

“I told you, Lieutenant,” she says, “I’ll mould you into a proper gentleman.”

Ghost turns to face you as well. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lady Theodora,” he replies.

But Lady Theodora smiles and touches his shoulder, “Oh, you’ll see, Mr Riley—you’re my gift to unwrap, one course at a time.”

———————————————————————

Part 2 ->

[aquilaofarkham]

Dying Has Never Frightened Us: Intergenerational Trauma, Healing, & the Burden of Legacy in Castlevania

An analytical and interpretation essay that discusses how the concept of family legacy and duty can lead to intergenerational trauma in the Castlevania franchise. Focuses primarily on the Belmont who found strength from his pain by honouring his family’s legacy no matter how heavy it felt or the burden that came with it and the Belmont who found his own strength from the ones he loved and who loved him in return.

☽ Read the full piece here or click the read more for the text only version ☽

THE BURNING NEED FOR RETRIBUTION: INTRODUCTION

The world has trauma. It is deep, collective, spanning its roots over centuries and territories dating back to when the borders of today never existed, and it has largely gone untreated—but not undiscussed.

From children’s cartoons to award winning dramas, trauma has become one of the most common topics for media to discuss, depict, and dissect. It makes sense given the sort of physical and mental gauntlet which society has been through in the past five years. Sometimes even in just the past twenty-four hours. From an uptick in disasters stemming from climate change, the rise of publicised policy brutality, genocide as a result of settler colonisation, new developments coming to light after decades of denial regarding the residential school system in Canada, and of course a global pandemic which is still making ripples. Then there is the recent examination of generational trauma which differs from culture to culture. The open wounds we’ve already left and will be leaving for future age groups.

Seeing how fiction reflects reality and vice versa, it isn’t any wonder that movies, television shows, and video games find ways of processing this worldwide sensation of frustrated ennui along with the need to find answers as to how regular citizens can fix things, including ourselves, when politicians and world leaders cannot. When reality cannot provide satisfying resolutions, when we are left confused and even angrier than before due to the apparent shortcomings of institutions meant to provide relief towards the average person, it’s natural to look towards specific media. Whether for coping mechanisms, validation for this collective and personal trauma, or simply for cathartic release so the emotions don’t have to remain bottled up.

Castlevania , both its original 2017 series and the most recent entry of Castlevania: Nocturne (as well as the video games which the show is inspired by), is no stranger to this popular trend of storytelling and characterisation. Yet this trend also comes with its own controversy. When done with a deft writer’s hand and a layer of empathetic critical thinking, trauma in fiction and how we heal from its intergenerational effects can be a powerful tool in raising awareness in regards to something left forgotten by the larger public or it can allow viewers to look inwards at themselves. Done poorly or with a lack of empathy and taste, then the floodgates open.

But beyond the usual discourse surrounding trauma in fiction (how to portray a “realistic” panic attack, what makes a “good” victim, the problematic connotations of forgiving one’s abuser, etc.), Castlevania has its own things to say about the lingering effects of grief, guilt, and pain over the course of thirty-two episodes (now a fourty episode runtime with the inclusion of Castlevania: Nocturne season one). The series—particularly the first which ran from 2017 to 2021—has now gained a reputation for being one of the darker animated ventures tackling themes of religious corruption, abuse, sexual manipulation, and injustice among many others. The value and thoughtfulness of each depicted theme ranges from being genuinely compelling to delving into mere shock value yet the series is also known for its uplifting ending and cathartic release from such dark themes.

One could write entire dissertations on each complicated character and their developments. From Dracula’s suicidal tendencies as a result of unchecked grief to Isaac’s conflicted redemptive journey beginning with his unflinching loyalty to the king of vampires and ending with him forging down his own path in life. How characters such as Carmilla, consumed by her inner agonies and burning hatred towards the world to the bitter end, was left isolated from her sisters until she was forced to choose the terms of her own death, while others like Alucard, Sypha, and to an extent Hector rose above their individual torments in favour of hope and survival. However, this examination will focus on the series’ titular family of vampire hunters. Namely, the Belmont who found strength from his pain by honouring his family’s legacy no matter how heavy it felt or the burden that came with it and the Belmont who found his own strength from the ones he loved and who loved him in return.

Note: this essay will delve into speculations and purely interpretative hypotheses stemming from the author’s own opinions in regards to how they personally read the presented text. It will also discuss heavy spoilers for the majority of Castlevania games and the first season of Castlevania: Nocturne.

—

WHAT A HORRIBLE NIGHT FOR A CURSE: THE CYCLE OF TRAGEDY IN THE CASTLEVANIA GAMES

This examination begins in the exact same place as the show began with its inspirations and references: the original video games developed and distributed by Konami Group Corporations. It’s easy to get swept up in the notion that because of the technological limitations with video games at the time, the Castlevania games are devoid of story or characterization. Yet even the most bare bones of a story found in the games can still have something to say about the burden of legacy and how trauma left unconfronted has the possibility of tearing down that legacy. The most prominent example being Castlevania: Symphony of the Night , arguably the first game to begin delving into a deeper story and character driven narrative. It follows the events of Castlevania: Rondo of Blood , a game which portrayed its protagonist Richter Belmont as a force of nature in the face of evil, always knowing what to do, what to say, and emerging victorious without so much as breaking a sweat (or candelabra).

In keeping with the time of its release and the landscape of popular media particularly in Japan, Rondo of Blood feels like a traditional 1990s action anime complete with brightly coloured cutscenes and character designs reminiscent of Rumiko Takahashi and Rui Araizumi (despite the usual classic horror elements present in every Castlevania game). This is most evident with Maria Renard, the second playable protagonist who attacks with her own arsenal of magical animals and even has her own upbeat theme music during the credits when players complete the main story in “Maria mode”. Richter also shares many similar personality traits with his counterpart, namely his optimism in the face of danger and the confidence that he will be the hero of this narrative.

Of course all this changed in the direct follow-up to Rondo of Blood , the aforementioned Symphony of the Night . Arguably the new staple of future Castlevania games to come, not only did it change the gameplay and aesthetic, it changed the very core of the characters as well. The game even begins with the same ending as Rondo of Blood where Richter fights and defeats Dracula with the help of Maria. Then during the opening crawl, we discover that during a time skip, Richter has vanished and Maria is searching for him. Surely this will be nothing less than a heroic rescue and the most powerful Belmont of his century will be restored to his rightful pedestal.

Yet for the first half of Symphony of the Night , the player is faced with a sobering realisation—the villain we’re supposed to be fighting, the one responsible for conjuring Dracula’s castle back into existence, is Richter himself. No longer the hero we’ve come to adore and look up to from the previous game. Of course, the player along with new protagonist Alucard both know that something isn’t right; perhaps Richter isn’t in his sound mind or some nefarious force is possessing him to commit evil deeds. But unless the player solves the right puzzles and find the right in-game items, Symphony ends with Alucard putting down Richter like a rabid dog. However, this ending can be avoided and a whole second half of the game is revealed.

Richter’s canonical ending is left ambiguous at best, tragic at worst. He laments over his moment of weakness, claiming the events of the game were his fault despite Alucard’s insistence that confronting Dracula was always going to be inevitable. Still, the tragedy of Richter’s fate and how he is portrayed in Symphony of the Night comes much later, when it’s implied the Belmonts are no longer capable of wielding the fabled Vampire Killer, a leather whip imbued with supernatural properties that has been passed down generation after generation. One mistake and misjudgment left the Belmont legacy in a perpetual long lasting limbo with the titular hunters themselves seemingly disappearing from history as well, leaving others such as the Order of Ecclesia to pick up the fight against Dracula’s eventual resurgence. It isn’t until the height of World War II (the setting of Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin ) when the whip’s true potential is finally set free thanks to the actions of Jonathan Morris, a distant relative of the infamous vampire slaying family. However, the only way in which Jonathan can reawaken the Vampire Killer is by defeating a manifestation of the person who last wielded it and also whom the whip abandoned nearly two hundred years prior—Richter Belmont.

Yet players and fans don’t get to see it in the hands of another Belmont until the events of 1999 when Julius Belmont defeats the latest incarnation of Dracula and seals his castle away in a solar eclipse. Even then, he loses his memory until thirty years pass and he’s forced to do battle with Soma Cruz, an innocent transfer student who is also the reincarnation of Dracula. If the protagonist of Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow succeeds in defeating the cosmic threat that has awakened his supposed “evil” destiny, then Julius can finally lay down the Vampire Killer in peace (until the sequel Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow , of course). If not, the game ends with Julius keeping his promise to Soma should he lose sight of his human side and let Dracula be reborn once again. In a scene that directly mirrors the beginning of Symphony , Julius enters the castle throne room, Soma throws down his wine goblet, and the screen goes black. The cycle continues anew. Julius has upheld the duty of his family name but at what cost.

The theme of tragedy getting passed down through different generations, permeating from person to person even with those who are not Belmonts, is a staple of later Castlevania games following Symphony of the Night . In some instances, pain and trauma is what jumpstarts the story moving forward. Castlevania: Curse of Darkness begins with its protagonist Hector in a direct parallel to Dracula swearing revenge on the one responsible for the murder of his wife; an ultimatum that follows him every step of the way, fuelling his rage and determination up until the penultimate moment when his goal is within reach. Yet even then he cries out, claiming this “murderous impulse” isn’t truly him—it’s the result of an outside force he himself once aided before defecting before the events of the game.

Something similar occurs in Castlevania: Lords of Shadow , an alternative reimagining of the franchise that while still a topic of division amongst most die hard fans has also seen a resurgence of popularity and reevaluation. It begins with Gabriel Belmont grieving over the death of his own wife (a trope which is unfortunately common amongst the majority of Castlevania titles). This is a wound that follows him throughout his journey until an even more painful and shattering twist regarding Marie Belmont’s demise is revealed to Gabriel later in the game.

However, there is one example from the games that stands above the rest in regards to the sort of damage which generational trauma as a result of familial duty and legacy, upheld to an almost religious degree, can inflict. So much so that even a declaration of retribution can evolve into a generational curse.

—

HUNT THE NIGHT: LEON BELMONT & THE MYTH OF FREE WILL

The Castlevania timeline didn’t always have a set beginning. An inciting incident by which all future stories, characters, and inevitable calamities could base themselves off of. Rather it changed from game to game until a definitive origin was settled in 2003 with the release of Castlevania: Lament of Innocence . For at least two games, the starting point was supposed to be with Simon Belmont, making his way through a labyrinth of dark forests and cursed towns, before finally traversing the ever changing fortress in Transylvania to defeat Dracula. He even went as far as to gather the remains and resurrect the eponymous lord of his own choice just to rid himself of another curse entirely. 

Castlevania protagonists are always cursed by something. Whether it be the cause of Dracula’s influence, their own actions as seen in Lords of Shadow , a curse of the flesh like how Simon had to tackle his own ailment in Castlevania II: Simon’s Quest , or something else just as common as Dracula’s curse: the burden of honouring a family duty.

A basic yet iconic 1986 entry followed by a sequel that had potential especially with the first appearance of the now famous “Bloody Tears” track but suffered from a rather confusing and lacklustre end product. Then suddenly the starting point for the franchise timeline changed drastically. Castlevania III: Dracula’s Curse despite the numerical inclusion in its title stands as more of a prequel, detailing the exploits of the Belmont who came before Simon. Not much was altered in the grand scheme of things; the titular vampire hunter still essentially slays Dracula with the help of three other playable characters, said final boss having been driven mad and more violent than ever by humanity’s slight against him. However, not only were the methods by which Dracula is defeated changed but players were given more insight into the sort of burden placed upon the Belmont family name.

When the story of Dracula’s Curse begins, protagonist Trevor Belmont isn’t revered as a legend or hero but rather a blight on larger society who the people only turn to as a last ditch effort against rising evil. The regular god-fearing people of Wallachia now fear the Belmonts and their power (it is also implied that some still feared the barbarian-esque Simon despite his legendary status) so the family is excommunicated. Trevor is forced to enlist three other outcasts—or simply two other fighters, depending on which version of the story you examine—in order to carry out the family business. Even when the rest of the world has shunned them and there are plenty of others just as capable of stopping the forces of evil, a Belmont still has a destiny to fulfil. 

Yet once a series has gone on for long enough, things within the established canon are bound to change—again and again. Whether through re-examination in order to line it up better with present day morals and sensibilities, or through good old fashioned retconning in favour of something more interesting, more thought out, or less convoluted. Other times, it’s simply because either the creator or viewers wanted it to happen. In 1997, this occurred with the release of Castlevania Legends on the GameBoy, a prequel to Dracula’s Curse that was meant to serve as the actual origin for the Belmonts, Dracula, and even his son Alucard. Instead of Trevor, the very first Belmont to fight Dracula is now his mother, Sonia Belmont, seventeen years old and already burdened with the glorious purpose of her bloodline.

Sonia is undoubtedly the protagonist of her own story with agency and drive. However, the game ends with a stark reminder of why the Belmonts have a place in the Castlevania universe. The last we see of Sonia in Legends is in the form of an epilogue where she holds her newborn child and states that one day when he’s grown, he will “be praised by all the people as a hero”. Despite her triumph over Dracula—a monumental feat itself—it seems that her purpose in the end (the purpose of most Belmonts other than to forever fight evil in fact) was to merely continue the bloodline so that descendants can carry out a promise made centuries before by another Belmont—someone that neither Simon, Trevor, Julius, or Richter ever knew.

The inevitability of sudden retcons within long-running media was not as kind to Legends as it was to Dracula’s Curse . Because of how the in-game events conflicted with subsequent entries (for example the implication that Trevor is actually the son of Alucard, thus further tying the Belmonts to Dracula through blood as well as duty), both Legends and Sonia were completely removed from the canon timeline. This is merely one reason why the next attempt at creating the definitive origin for the franchise, now a cult favourite among certain subsections of the fan community, was regarded with some animosity. However, twenty years after its release, Castlevania: Lament of Innocence is considered by many as an underrated entry. It is certainly the darker title where both the hero and villain stumble through their own hardships yet neither emerges completely victorious by the end.

The opening narration crawl of Lament of Innocence describes the lives of Leon Belmont and Mathias Cronqvist. They spend most of their lives as reflections of each other; one grows into more of a fighter while the second is coveted for his intellect and ambition. Both are valorous, honourable, and products of their own respective plights. Despite his service to the church, Leon is soon systematically stripped of everything save for the clothes on his back because he wouldn’t follow their orders blindly. While Mathias is forced to watch as an uncaring god (the very same god he serves) takes away a figure of pure virtue and love. This figure, Elisabeta Cronqvist who appears to be a splitting image of Dracula’s next deceased wife Lisa Tepes, was the last remaining tie Mathias still had to whatever bit of morality he still feels, which he eventually throws away when deciding to drag his only friend and everything he holds dear into hell alongside him.

The difference is how both men react to those personal horrors and how they let it govern their pasts, presents, and futures not just for themselves but for others who follow after the dust has supposedly settled. Two men, two best friends turned hateful enemies because of an interlinked tragedy. Not only that, but also because of their perspectives, morals, and the way they view a world that is unkind to them. Both were spurred by the death of loved ones, both used it as a conduit, or rather a catalyst for the radically opposing directions in which their choices take them and their families. Leon chooses to struggle onwards towards a world free from darkness and horror despite his pain. Mathias chooses to revel in that very same darkness and pain with a fire that would burn for aeons. In the end, one thing is absolute. A single thing the two men can agree upon as they flee down adverse paths: one of them will destroy the other.

Yet the timeline of Castlevania proves that this choice comes at a great cost for the Belmonts in particular. By the end of Lament of Innocence , Mathias has revealed himself to be the great manipulator pulling the strings behind the scenes. Due to the immense grief he felt over losing Elisabeta to a presumably common illness made untreatable because of the time period’s medical limitations (coupled with his own arrogance and narcissism), Mathias finally becomes Dracula. Dominion over death and even god by has been achieved by doing what Leon’s righteously moral mind cannot comprehend: transforming himself into an immortal creature driven by bloodlust. All he had to do was lie, cheat, and cruelly outsmart everyone else around him. That of course includes Leon as Mathias’ manipulation tactics were also the cause of the mercy killing of Sara Tarantoul, Leon’s fiance, to stop her from turning into a vampire herself. After watching his former friend escape before the sun can rise and disposing of Dracula’s constant right hand man Death, Leon finally feels his anger over such a betrayal boil over. He gives one final message to Mathias, now the new king of the vampires: “This whip and my kinsmen will destroy you someday. From this day on, the Belmont Clan will hunt the night.”

This is how Castlevania: Lament of Innocence ends. Unlike other entries like Symphony of the Night, Aria of Sorrow, or Harmony of Dissonance , there is no good, neutral, or bad ending that can be achieved if the player is aware of certain secrets and tricks. There is only one for Leon and Mathias. The inclusion of multiple endings in some Castlevania games versus a singular set ending in others may seem like a small coincidental narrative choice in conjunction with evolving gameplay, but it matters in the case of Lament of Innocence. From the moment Leon enters the castle to rescue his fiance, the wheel has already started turning and his fate is sealed. Mathias has already won and Sara, along with future Belmonts, are already doomed. And Leon’s ultimatum made in the heat of the moment would go on to have repercussions centuries later. “Hunting the night” gave the Belmonts purpose but it also burdened them with that exact purpose. While Dracula deals in curses, so does the Belmont family—a curse of duty that gets passed down throughout the bloodline.

Leon Belmont was of course never malicious or cruel like Mathias was. He never wanted to deliberately curse his family because he suffered and so should they. His choice was made out of anger and retribution. Still, it goes on to affect Simon, Sonia, Julius, and others in drastic yet different ways. Yet in the case of specific Belmonts like Trevor and Richter, we see how this family legacy can have varied consequences in far more detail through the introduction of animation and serialised writing into the Castlevania franchise.

—

SOMETHING BETTER THAN A PILE OF RUINS: TREVOR BELMONT & STRENGTH FROM LEGACY

If there’s one thing that Castlevania makes abundantly clear with its four season runtime, it is that trauma does not inherently make people better or more virtuous. We of course see this from the games with Mathias and his personal crusade against god which leads to the complete dissolvement of his closest friendship. Or with Hector and the rage he feels towards his wife’s murderer, who also happens to be his former comrade under Dracula’s employment. Even Leon’s promise to both his friend, now his most despised enemy, and future descendants can also be an example of how gut reactions to pain, grief, and betrayal can have damaging consequences in the long run. This particular dissection of trauma when it affects a survivor negatively and in almost life-altering ways while still giving them a chance at achieving their own method of healing is most apparent with the animated representation of Trevor Belmont.

At its core, the first season of Castlevania airing in July of 2017 with four episodes in total is inspired by the events of Dracula’s Curse with the following seasons taking more from Curse of Darkness along with original story elements. It begins with the brutal execution of Lisa Tepes after she is falsely accused of being a witch. Shortly afterwards, Dracula declares war on all of humanity in an explosion of grief-riddled vengeance (a declaration that is not dissimilar to Mathias’ cursing of god after Elisabeta’s admittedly more natural death). Hundreds of civilians are slaughtered in the capital city Targoviste and hoards of night creatures descend upon more townships across Wallachia. 

This would be the perfect opportunity for a Belmont to stand up and fight back except there is one problem: the Belmonts have been eradicated from this world on false grounds of black magic and aiding the vampire lords instead of hunting them—much like how Lisa was slandered and paid the price with her own life.

The only Belmont left surviving is Trevor himself and his introduction does not paint him in the most optimistic or even heroic light. In the midst of being excommunicated by the church, he’s been wandering aimlessly for the past few years while languishing in whatever tavern he stumbles upon. In one particular bar Trevor finds himself in, he overhears the other patrons cursing the Belmonts and blaming them for Dracula’s siege upon humanity. He tries to stay out of it and not bring too much attention to himself until one glance at the family emblem stitched into his shirt breast is enough to ignite an all out skirmish.

Trevor hides his true identity not because he’s ashamed of it, but for his own safety and self preservation. In fact, the opinion he holds of his family is the total opposite from disdain for the sort of legacy they have saddled him with even in death. He reacts strongly to false accusations directed towards the Belmonts, angrily correcting the bar patrons by stating that his family fought monsters. However, he quickly realises he’s said too much and tries saving face by once again detaching himself from possibly being connected to the aforementioned Belmonts.

It’s only when Trevor is backed into a corner and is fresh out of snappy drunk retorts (thanks to a few hard hits to his nether regions) does he finally admit to his real lineage. As mentioned earlier, Trevor finds himself caught up in the first real brawl of the series not because of the pride he feels in himself but the immense pride he feels for his bloodline. All the while, he’s given up trying to hide what he is—a Belmont—and what he was born to do—fight fucking vampires.

Every time Trevor has the opportunity to bring up his bloodline whether in a fight or in conversation, it’s usually spoken with some bravado and weight even when he’s inebriated. However, when visiting the ruins of the Belmont ancestral home in season two and thus directly confronted with what little remains of his family legacy, Trevor loses all that previous bluster and becomes far more contemplative. He doesn’t reveal much of what it was like to actually live as a Belmont, only that it was “fine” and “no one was lonely in this house”. Even when staring up at the portrait of Leon Belmont, he says nothing and instead firmly  grips the very weapons which his ancestor must have also wielded.

It’s clear that Trevor feels no shame, bitterness, or lack of respect towards his family history despite the hardships that have come with it. Still, it’s difficult for him to truly accept the duty of being a Belmont and Trevor continually struggles with it over the course of two full seasons. Upon arriving at the ruined city of Gresit which is under constant threat of night creature attacks, Trevor doesn’t seem particularly concerned with the people’s plight or with helping them. He inquires about what’s been happening by speaking with a few local merchants but it’s only in order for him to gain a better picture of the situation that Gresit finds itself in. Otherwise, he’s simply passing through on his way to another tavern, fist fight, sleeping spot, or all three. Until he puts aside his own needs for self-protection in favour of saving an elder Speaker (a fictionalised group of nomads original to the Castlevania show who have made it their mission to help less fortunate communities and pass on their histories via oral tradition) from a potential hate crime committed by two supposed men of the cloth.

This moment acts as a representation of the first chip in Trevor’s carefully maintained armour. During the bar fight, he claimed over and over again that he was a Belmont in both skill and purpose. However, Trevor hasn’t done much to prove such a proclamation. Because of his ennui and poor coping mechanisms due to lingering trauma, he’s been all talk and not a lot of action—until this point. At first he tells himself to walk away, this sort of confrontation doesn’t concern him. Then he remembers where he comes from and uses the very same family heirloom to help someone physically weaker than himself.

Yet when he accompanies the elder back to where the other Speakers have found shelter from the monsters repeatedly demanding their heads as well as future night creature attacks, Trevor’s metaphorical walls are erected back up. He won’t take any part in this eradication of humanity whether as a victim or perpetrator and especially not to stop it. The people of Wallachia made their choice in the unjust murder of Dracula’s innocent wife, they made their choice when they decided to massacre what was left of his family, and the church made their choice when they decided to fight Dracula’s armies themselves without the Belmonts. Why should he lift a finger (or whip) to save the masses?

Despite this nihilistic attitude, Trevor proves to be a poor defeatist. He still desperately wants to protect the Speakers and warns them of an oncoming pogrom planned for them. A massive hate crime fueled by superstition and facilitated by the corrupt Bishop of Gresit which will supposedly save the city from night creature ambushes (this can be interpreted as a direct allegory meant to comment on how minority groups such as Jewish and Romani communities were used as scapegoats during the Mediaeval period). However, the Speakers refuse to budge and decide to face the angry and misled crowds head-on. They instead tell Trevor to leave in their place which, in a burst of frustration, spurs him to finally act like a member of his clan should. 

What follows next is one of the most defining moments of the series for Trevor, cementing his place as a Belmont. Another corrupt member of the church demands to know what he could possibly stand to gain from fighting back considering his downtrodden state and the fact that he’s entirely outnumbered. Trevor’s answer is simple: nothing. The Belmonts don’t protect everyday people for any great reward or because of any strong personal ties. They do it because it’s their duty and the right thing to do. Trevor even mirrors something which the elder Speaker told him; a family mantra that encompasses the very purpose of the Belmonts, dating back to Leon: “It’s not the dying that frightens us. It’s never having stood up and fought for you.”

Trevor’s healing journey does not end at this moment. He still has moments of hesitation where someone like Alucard has to forcibly remind him of his place as Belmont, saying he needs to choose whether he’s really the last of a long line of hunters or a drunkard. This leads to a fight sequence that nearly spans the length of an entire episode where Trevor further proves himself by taking on at least three different creatures all with varying degrees of strength, skill, and fortitude. Episode six of season two is the ideal example of not only Trevor’s determination but also his quick thinking. Moments such as him wrapping his cloak around his hand so that it doesn’t get cut while his sword slices through the throat of a minotaur or using a set of sticks to beat against an adversary when his whip is knocked away. Being a Belmont means using one’s intellect (no matter how unconventional it may seem) as well as one’s muscles. 

There is also another albeit less violent instance at the start of season three where he still feels the need to hide his surname while in an unfamiliar village. Then there is the revelation that malicious stories about the Belmonts and their supposed demise still circulate amongst rural Wallachian communities. Yet despite coming from a family of old killers (a term Trevor uses before facing off against Death in the final season) his family name remains his strength and the weight of both the Vampire Killer and Morningstar whip keep him grounded rather than burden him. The Belmont name carries such weight throughout the series that by the end, there is strong consideration from Alucard of naming a new township nestled in the shadow of Dracula’s castle after that family.

Trevor deals with his pain and trauma quietly, almost numbing it with the assistance of alcohol and dodging the harder questions regarding what his family was really like. He still finds strength in remembering what the Belmonts are here for despite the tribulations that come with the family name. Hardships that continue and evolve nearly three hundred years later.

—

THE THINGS THAT MAKE ME WHO I AM: RICHTER BELMONT & STRENGTH FROM LOVE

Depending on what sort of mood you might find the author of this essay in, their favourite Castlevania game will vary. At the moment, it’s a three way tie between Symphony of the Night for its artistry, Lament of Innocence for its story and characterisation, and Aria of Sorrow for its evolved gameplay. However, one personal decision remains relatively consistent no matter the mood or time of day: Richter Belmont is the author’s favourite Belmont and the inclusion of him in the latest animated adaptation Castlevania: Nocturne has only cemented that fact.

It makes sense from both a narrative and marketing standpoint as to why we’ve suddenly gone from the events of Dracula’s Curse/Curse of Darkness depicted in the previous series all the way three hundred years later to Rondo of Blood . Narratively, Richter and his companion Maria Renard already have a direct link to Alucard through the events of Symphony , which Nocturne will most likely cover and be inspired by in its second season. Marketing wise while also appealing to the largest demographic possible (even those less familiar with the games), amongst more recurring characters like Dracula and Alucard, Richter is arguably one of the most recognisable Castlevania figures right down to his design.

Certain traits and visual motifs of other Belmonts have changed drastically over the years and with each iteration. Meanwhile, from Rondo and Symphony , to Harmony of Despair and the mobile game Grimoire of Souls , to finally Nocturne and the inclusion of Richter as a playable character in the fighting game Super Smash Bros Ultimate , specific elements of Richter never waver. This includes his blue colour scheme, his tousled brown hair, and his iconic white headband. All of which carry over in the first season of Nocturne which not only expands upon Richter’s character first established in Rondo of Blood but also further examines said character.

For example, Richter’s true introduction directly following the downer cold opening is without a doubt the farest cry from Trevor’s. While Trevor’s first scene acted as a sobering depiction of what happens when physically/mentally damaging coping mechanisms mix with unacknowledged grief, Richter’s first fight gets the audience’s blood pumping, complete with a triumphant musical score and a showcase of his skill with the Vampire Killer. Richter is cocky, but not reckless. He’s sarcastic, but not sullen like Trevor was. Because of his upbringing after the death of his mother, filled with positive affirmations, he values the wellbeing of others along with their fighting experience. Yet his confidence does not overshadow his acknowledgement of the family burden. Richter is well aware of how heavy the Belmont legacy and duty can weigh upon an individual’s shoulders along with how closely it can tie itself around a person’s life and their death—a reminder as well as memory which haunts him for nine years.

When Nocturne begins, its first major fight sequence takes place between Richter’s mother Julia Belmont (an original character for the show) and the vampire Olrox, an enemy taken from Symphony of the Night now reimagined as a seductive, complex Indigenous vampire on his own path towards vengeance against the very person who took away the one he loved most in this world—just one of many thematic parallels to the first series, this time referencing Dracula’s motives and justification for his grief. Just when it seems like Julia has the upper hand thanks to her magical prowess, Olrox transforms and ends her life in a swift yet brutal manner. All of which happens right before ten-year-old Richter’s eyes.

Julia was simply doing her duty as a vampire hunter and her life as a Belmont ended the same as most of her ancestors did: in battle while fighting for the life of another. Why then did it hurt Richter most of all? Why does it haunt him well into his early adult years? And why was it seemingly more so than how Trevor’s trauma haunted him? There are two probable answers to this, one being that Richter was only a child, directly confronted by the cause for his mother’s sudden and graphic death with no way of fighting back despite being a Belmont.

In the case of Trevor, although he was a few years older than Richter when his entire family and ancestral home were burned in front of his eyes presumably by the same people they were supposed to be defending, the circumstances which followed them afterwards are vastly different. For nine years Richter was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him whereas Trevor only had himself and the hoards of average Wallachians who hated him because of superstitious rumours and the church’s condemnation. Trevor had over a decade’s worth of experience in becoming desensitised to his pain and trauma, masking it beneath self deprecation and numbing it with alcohol. He wasn’t even aware of the fact that he was a deeply sad and lonely individual until Sypha pointed it out to him.

Despite his bravado and brighter personality than his ancestor, Richter is also an incredibly sad, hurt person who suffers somewhat from tunnel vision. He obviously has empathy and wants to protect people from monsters, vampires, and the like. More so than Trevor did during his introduction before his moment of self-made rehabilitation. However, he doesn’t seem to care much about the revolution itself or what it stands for. He attends Maria’s rally meetings but he doesn’t take active part in them, opting to stay back and keep a watch out for any vampire ambushes. He admits that he doesn’t really listen to Maria’s speeches about liberty, equality, and fraternity. And in the most prominent example of his disillusionment with fighting for a larger righteous cause, when given a revolutionary’s headband, he shoves it into his pocket and mumbles about how tired he is of everything.

This could be interpreted as defeatist if Richter wasn’t already trying so hard to uphold his family duty and maintain a level head. He needs to have a sense of control and almost achieves it until Olrox so casually confronts him in the middle of a battle which Richter and his friends seemed to be winning until they’re forced to flee close behind him. When Richter runs away and emotionally breaks down the moment he’s finally alone, it isn’t because he’s weak or cowardly. On a surface level, it was due to his fear and panic over not being able to face his mother’s killer (someone who has proven to be much, much stronger and more powerful than any Belmont). Yet it was also a form of harsh admission to himself. He couldn’t maintain that aforementioned sense of control and perhaps he never will, not where he is right now at least.

It isn’t until he’s reunited with his grandfather Juste Belmont (long thought to have died, leaving Richter as the final Belmont) that this negative mindset brought on by unresolved trauma begins to shift. In many ways, Juste is another callback to what happened with Trevor. He suffered an immense tragedy in the past and has since spent his entire life drifting from tavern to tavern, avoiding his own grandson and instead leaving him in the care of people far more capable of raising him and instilling better morals within the youngest Belmont.

Other mentor-esque characters appear in Nocturne such as Tera who raised Richter alongside her biological daughter Maria. There is also Cecile, the leader of a Maroon group which Annette joins after escaping slavery. Despite their individual pains, these two women maintain the hope that humanity can be changed and the evils of the world can be defeated. Meanwhile, Juste has thoroughly lost his own hope. He reveals to Richter that “evil will always win” because of how it permeates everything and is far stronger than any Belmont, even the most magically inclined members. No matter how many Draculas, Carmillas, or Lord Ruthvens are defeated, it will always find a way to creep back to the surface whether through the upper class of France or through the very colonisation that nearly wiped out Olrox’s people or enslaved Annette’s family. 

One of the first things that Juste says to Richter directly references the sheer weight of the Belmont legacy, all of which culminates within the whip itself. This can also be a reference to the Vampire Killer carrying a living soul as Leon Belmont was only able to awaken its true power by sacrificing Sara Tarantoul. The whip has both a metaphorical and literal weight which the Belmonts must come to terms with.

Yet for Richter, family is maintained not through blood ties, which can easily die out or be abandoned because of generational trauma, but through the people we find and attach ourselves to. Under the immediate threat of losing his found family, all of Richter’s pain and anguish explodes when his magical powers violently return to him in one of the most visually impressive and cathartic moments of Nocturne season one, complete with an orchestral and operatic rendition of “Divine Bloodlines” taken straight from Rondo of Blood as he ties the same headband he nearly discarded earlier around his head. Then once the dust settles and Richter is asked by Juste how he managed to tap back into that great power, he simply responds with the most obvious answer he can come up with: there are people who love him and he loves them in return. 

This is reiterated when Richter is reunited with Annette and describes the same revelation when she asks how he was able to regain his magic. Not just a mental revelation but for Richter, it was a physical sensation as well. Just when he believed he had lost everything, something reminded him of all the things worth protecting in his life and all the pain he’s had to endure.

Richter finally donning his iconic white headband is symbolic of not only his decision to actively join the French Revolution but also his revelation that the love he feels for Maria, Annette, and Tera is his own righteous cause. That, to him, is worth defending just as much if not more than the concept of a centuries old curse turned legacy.

—

SLAVES TO OUR FAMILIES' WISHES: CONCLUSION

Richter, both his game depiction and his recent Nocturne iteration, acts as a reflection and subversion of what a Belmont is along with what that family duty means to different members. Trevor found healing from his trauma through his duty. Richter found his healing through love. Of course Trevor loved Sypha and Alucard in his own way, but throughout the entire first series, from the moment he removed his cloak at the end of season one to standing up against Death in the finale, his driving motivation was always to preserve his family’s legacy despite his own shortcomings. The Belmonts were all but gone and Trevor had been exiled, excommunicated, and turned into a societal pariah. Had he given into despair and continued with his vagabond ways, who else would wield the Morningstar, the Vampire Killer, or any of the knowledge cultivated by previous Belmont generations?

But for Richter, family legacy is more of a nebulous concept. It gets mentioned in conversations and we see its varying effects on individuals, but even when Richter is reunited with Juste, the immediate priorities of his found family takes the place of his blood family. This, according to him, makes him a Belmont. 

It is also important to consider that we are still only on the first season of Castlevania: Nocturne with season two having been renewed and in production merely a week after its initial premiere. With the reveal of Alucard as a last minute cliffhanger in the penultimate episode, it will be interesting to see how his own characterisation as well as his close tie with both the Belmonts and his own family burden will further develop especially after three hundred years within the show’s timeline. One of the biggest possibilities is that in contrast with his youthful brashness and instability that was the crux of his character in the first series, Alucard might serve as a sort of mentor figure or perhaps his own generational pain will bond him further to Richter and Maria, more so than he was in Symphony of the Night . Then there is the question of whether Richter in the midst of the apparent losses he suffered during the finale of season one will follow down the same path that his video game counterpart did.

In 2020, the author wrote another Castlevania -centric essay which detailed the visual, thematic, and aesthetical shifts of the franchise from its inception during the 1980s all the way to the 2017 adaptation through focusing on how these changes affected Alucard. By the end of that essay, it was mentioned that despite the show being renewed for at least one more season, the overall future of Castlevania remained unknown. This is still the case for now. 

Though one can make educated assumptions and theories, there’s no way of knowing what sort of direction season two of Nocturne will take with its themes and characters. This is doubly true for the games themselves. Despite the anticipated releases of the Silent HIll 2 and Metal Gear Solid Delta: Snake Eater remakes, as of now Konami has not revealed any official decisions to remake, rerelease, or produce new Castlevania titles. One can hope that due to the success of both shows along with the anticipation for Silent Hill and Metal Gear Solid remakes that something new will be in store for Castlevania in the near future.

Castlevania , both its games and animation adaptations, prove that there is a place in this world for every kind of story. In the last episode of season one airing in July 2017, Alucard states what could very well be the thesis of the entire franchise: “We are all, in the end, slaves to our families’ wishes”. Yet even if we cannot escape the narrative we’ve been latched onto or, for dramatic purposes, cursed with, there are ways in which we can combat it and forge our own healing process.

—

MEDIA REFERENCED

Castlevania (1986)

Castlevania II: Simon’s Quest (1987)

Castlevania III: Dracula’s Curse (1989)

Castlevania: Rondo of Blood (1993)

Castlevania Legends (1997)

Castlevania: Symphony of the Night (1997)

Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow (2003)

Castlevania: Lament of Innocence (2003)

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness (2005)

Castlevania: Lords of Shadow (2011)

Castlevania (2017—2021)

Castlevania: Nocturne (2023—)

[gingerlee-holds]

Letting Off Steam

this is a bday fic for @littleleesblog!! my first steps into the hazbin writing community heehee! idk if people like this one, ill write sequels about him getting charlie (me), angel, idk we'll see

btw yada yada this is a tword fic- Ler!Alastor Lee!Lucifer

Word Count: Reading Time: Warnings: Idk, swearing? Alastor bein a lil shit? barely any editing?

If you prefer a quieter living space, perhaps the Hazbin Hotel isn’t for you. Loud arguments and the commonplace occurrence of walls being blown in could make for a very harsh experience on the ears - not to mention the frequent singing. There were, however, a few locations at the hotel where it’s quiet, such as Charlie’s room, the library, and, shocking nobody, Alastor’s radio station, located on the far northern side of the hotel on the very top floor. Whenever Alastor got the chance, he stayed in that room for as long as possible during the day - usually to avoid being roped into the shenanigans of the other hotel residents. 

On one particular day, however, it seemed like the radio demon couldn’t catch a damn break.

Charlie had called him to the lobby at 7 AM to settle a disagreement between Vaggie and Angel regarding “Breakfast Booze” at the bar. Then, not an hour later, Lucifer was badly practicing the accordion in the lounge. This was followed shortly after that by the TV demon, Vox, interrupting Cherri’s favorite show to deliver a laughably defamatory news segment on Alastor’s performance in his fight with Adam, accompanied by such phrases as ‘pussied out’ and ‘spineless.’ It should come as no surprise that he was already stressed when Charlie cheerfully gathered everybody in the lobby. His entire face hurt with the exertion required to keep a smile.

“Okay, everyone,” Charlie began. I was thinking, what better way to celebrate the grand opening of the newly refurbished hotel than by playing hide-and-seek?” She did a little twirl as she finished, trying vainly to excite her friends. 

Angel Dust raised his hand and, not waiting to be called on, asked, “How the hell does that follow?”

Undeterred, Charlie continued. “Hide and seek is a game that requires exploration! We put a lot of work into rebuilding this place, so we should try to enjoy it! Now, who would like to seek first…?”

A hunt. Oh, what luck that on such a poor day as that, Alastor could finally stretch his legs a little and do what he did best: scare the living daylights out of people! His smile widened, and his eyes squinted like a shark when blood was in the water. He stepped forward with perfect posture as always, resting his hand on his cane. “I would be delighted to!”

“No-” Both Lucifer and Husker had begun to protest, but Charlie clapped her hands with glee. Everyone knew she was just happy to have someone invested in her activities. 

“Perfect! Count to sixty, and then come look for us!”

“Oh, splendid.” The radio demon casually walked over to the wall, closing his eyes as if it mattered. Hands resting on his cane, he chuckled softly to himself. “One.” He heard silence behind him. “Two.” Again, he heard nobody move. 

‘They must not be taking this seriously,’ he thought. Gradually, the sound of radio static began to hum through the lobby as Alastor’s antlers grew larger. 

“Three.” Still nothing.

‘I won’t let them ruin this for me, not after today. Drastic measures, then,’ Alastor thought. He cleared his throat innocently. Then a deer call echoed around the room as he turned his head all the way around on his neck, eyes the shape of bright red dials and smile of sharp teeth impossibly wide.

“FOUR.” 

It had its intended effect. All of the hotel’s residents yelped various exclamations and expletives and took off in every direction, unsure if they were now hiding for their victory in the game or their lives. 

Alastor chuckled softly and turned back towards the wall, appearing normal again. He continued counting, interspacing the numbers with tunes he remembered from a past life, patting his cane to the rhythm. ‘I really should sing more often. It’s a shame I don’t often get the chance,’ he mumbled. Alastor knew he would find each hider eventually - after all, he had a lot of practice with hunting overlords - but Charlie had not mentioned a time limit, meaning he would take his sweet time to savor the silence and the hunt. When he finished counting, he decided to be a bit theatrical and sent a shockwave through the ground at the tap of his cane, instantly turning off every light in the hotel. He turned, smiled eagerly, and sank into the ground as a shadow, moving through the darkness like a cloud of smoke. ‘Now… who to look for first?’

-

Lucifer Morningstar, king of hell, didn’t realize how fast he was flying until about a minute after Alastor’s little scare. It upset him a little to discover how easily startled he had been, especially since he had easily beaten Adam, who had easily beaten Alastor. He sighed in annoyance as the lights above him went out, and to keep from flying into a wall, he flew to a stop, landing gracefully on the ground. With a subtle flap, his wings glowed softly, surrounding his hallway with a gentle golden light. He walked forward, not looking for a hiding spot. He had a feeling that that didn’t matter.

He suddenly felt a chill on his back. Lucifer whirled around, staring closely into the dark hallway behind him. Sensing no movement, he huffed and walked backward a bit, turning back around only to walk into the chest of the radio demon, letting out an indignant squawk.

“Ah, your highness! It seems you were the first to be found! You’re not very good at this, you know~!” Alastor said in that smug tone. 

“Well, Mr. What’s-His-Name,” Lucifer replied as he wiped off the front of his suit before confidently resting both hands on his apple cane. “I’ll have you know I’m only doing this to make my daughter happy. I don’t fear you, busboy.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed in determination. There was no way he was letting any of the other hotel residents come out on the other side of this activity willing to mess with him. That meant attitude-correcting. “You know I mean no disrespect, your highness!” he said, twirling his cane in one hand while adjusting his tie. “I simply had higher expectations of you!”

“As did I for you! I cannot believe my Charlie put her faith in you of all demons to keep her safe. You had one job, and you-” Lucifer stopped when Alastor sank into the shadows again, disappearing. “Typical.” The king began walking forward again, doing all that he could to give off the impression that he wasn’t scared, but all the effort in the universe couldn’t have held back the squeak that came to his lips when he felt a poke to his side. 

“Oh, my~! Someone’s a little on edge~!” came a delighted voice from the darkness. Lucifer growled in frustration and extended his wings to make the hallway as bright as daylight. Unfortunately, this is what Alastor intended, which Lucifer soon discovered when he felt claws scribbling in the pits of his wings, right on the sensitive area where they connected to his back. “Now, what an unfortunate weakness for royalty to possess~!”

Lucifer squealed, buckling over and landing on his knees on the floor. Alastor had suspected that the fallen angel was ticklish since Charlie was a walking tickle spot, but verifying it like this was nothing short of delicious for him. 

“Youhuhu- youhuhuhu lihihihittle-! Cuhuhut ihihit ouhuhut!” Lucifer’s strength had left him for some reason, and he found himself powerless to defend himself from the radio demon’s attack. Giggling like a child, he tried in vain to reach around behind him to swat away the attack, but this only opened him up more. Alastor’s claws zipped around and wriggled into his ribs, causing the king to let out an outrageously embarrassing squeal. He swung around to free himself, extending his wing to fling back the demon. It made no contact as he landed with a thump on his back, his hat tossed aside. 

“Ah, ah, ah~! I have to make sure you play the game better next time! After all, it’s only fair that there should be consequences for losing, especially being the first to lose!” From beneath him, hands grew from the floor to scribble into Lucifer’s wing pits again, making the fallen angel arch his back in surprise. 

“DahAhahahamn yoUhUhuhUuHU!” he laughed, kicking his feet a little. He reached back again to defend himself, only to be met by his apple cane, quickly used to pin his elbows to the floor with a yelp. 

“Fell for it again~! Tsk, tsk, your highness! We all must learn from our mistakes here at the Hazbin Hotel~!” Alastor suddenly materialized in front of him, leaning casually against his cane as he smugly observed the plight of the king of hell. 

“Yeah, well, you’re a-” Lucifer’s taunt was cut off by his shriek when shadowy hands grew from the ground to wriggle their fingers against his ribs. Alastor’s cooing was absolutely not helping, and it took everything in him not to whine when he felt the hands undo his coat and vest, leaving him in his plain undershirt. 

“There we are, now to teach you a lesson!” Alastor watched as his shadow hands continued their evil work, relishing every second of the king’s humiliation. He had ghostly digits wiggling against the ribs, scribbling in the wing pits, and he had just summoned two more hands to squeeze experimentally on the thighs, making Lucifer squeal like Angel’s pig. The fallen angel’s wings flapped on the floor, but his arms were pinned, keeping him firmly grounded. 

Alastor smirked and stepped forward, leaning down to wiggle a claw against the king’s belly. “You’re far too precious to act all tough, Your Highness! Don’t worry, I’ll let the others know about this discovery of mine~!” With that, he stood tall, straightened his suit, and turned to walk away, fading into the hallway’s darkness. 

“D-dohoHohn’t youhu fu-fuhuhuhCKING-!!” Lucifer couldn’t even get the words out as one final hand scribbled along his collarbone. He could do nothing but lie there on the hallway floor and laugh, hoping that Alastor would eventually have mercy. It might be a while before then since he was the first one found. Maybe he would have to put more effort into hiding next time… 

Read the next part here!

[howtofightwrite]

So happy you're back after all this time! I have a question, do you happen to know how people fought in ancient rome? Particularly gladiators and soldiers? Sorry if this isn't the blog for this question tho!

I think we've covered both of these questions independently over the years.

Gladiators were a performance sport. It was more about glorifying the Roman Empire and its victories, than a conventional fight. As a result, most Gladiators were armed with specific variant, “loadouts,” designed to cosplay as various enemies that The Empire had conquered, and they only fought against specific countering variants. Specifically, the variants would be matched in such a way that it would be difficult for either combatant to have a decisive advantage over the other, with an eye towards creating situations that would result in a lot of visible injuries, without serious harm to either participant.

In case it needs to be said, gladiators were a significant financial investment, and they weren't casually killed in the arena. The point was for visible injuries, and a bloody spectacle, not a slaughter. Sometimes someone would die, but having them die on the field wasn't the intention, and they generated a lot of money, and on the rare cases when they were killed, it was meant to be a climactic moment, not someone taking a blade to the gut and collapsing mid-fight.

Obviously, I'm barely scratching the surface here, because it gets a lot deeper, but the simple answer is that in the vast majority of cases, gladiators were armed with weapons that were designed to make seriously harming their foe difficult to impossible. Also, the gladiators were something that evolved and became more complicated over time. When they first started in the Republic, it was a much more stripped down structure with prisoners of war being given a sword and shield and forced to face off against one another.

As for the Roman Legions. I'm not sure I've ever seen a comprehensive description of their training techniques. The Testudo, (or Tortoise) is one of the more famous examples of their specific combat style. Legionaries would create a shield wall, and the soldiers behind the front line would raise their shields to cover the formation against attacks from above (usually arrow fire, or thrown spears.) While being able to strike with javelins. In practice, the formation had issues, including being vulnerable to siege fire, and mounted archers were able to easily flank the formation. It's a neat story, but the formation had serious limitations.

One thing we haven't talked about before (I think) was the Roman's use of biological warfare. During sieges, they would load (locally sourced, I assume) corpses onto catapults, and then launch them into the besieged city.

Beyond, the major thing about the Legions was the extremely disciplined and orderly combat formations, with a lot of attention paid to managing battlefield movement. It wasn't so much about exceptional individual performance, so much as their ability to operate as a unit. This isn't a particularly mind blowing concept today, but in an era when professional soldiers were the exception, or limited to the elite forces, it had slightly more impact.

Regarding the details of their training, I've never seen any of that come up. Now, granted, I've really tried to research that degree of Roman history. So, if you're asking, “how, exactly, did they swing the gladius?” I don't know, and I don't remember ever seeing anyone credibly claim they had that insight. As far as I know, the only surviving Roman training manual was De Re Militari, (there's around 200 surviving Latin copies) which is far more concerned with overall strategic planning and command. If you're trying to write Roman era military fiction, it's probably worth reading. So, I'm not sure this is exactly what you were looking for, but I do hope it helps.

-Starke

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[suspiciouslypinkrosegarden]

𓆝 𓆟 Armin Week 2024 𓆝 𓆟

Day 3: Prompt Nerd Armin

Description: Nerd Armin x Shy Nerd Reader. You sit behind Armin in class and want to get to know him! Relationship to Armin as well as school (whether it's high school or uni) is left undefined, for all ages, stages and how you personally see Armin. Gender neutral as always.

I didn't have too much time to edit/write, so sorry if flow isn't great! I wanted something quick and cute lol

Pretty blue eyes hidden behind thick black glasses, and a terrible habit of raising his hand with a level of excitement that no one else seemed to have. Armin was the boy who sat in front of you during this class, staring at the back of his blond head more than the white board most days as you zoned out to the background noise of lecture. He always seemed to shrink as the teacher would ask for anyone else to answer the question presented, as if suddenly ashamed he was ten steps ahead of the rest of his peers. 

As he entered the classroom each day, the charms and pins on his back pack usually caught your eye, clinking of plastic turning your head in his direction. You admired the way he seemed to show off his interests without shame, everything he owned decked out with references to what sparked his personal joy. This was what helped you take notice of him in the first place, eyes immediately drawn to the wings of freedom sticker on his laptop he carried with him everywhere he went. You wondered if he was looking forward to seeing the finale in theaters soon to be released.

As a couple of weeks passed, summer gone as the leaves fell brown upon the ground, you found yourself collecting data on him subconsciously thanks to his decoration based transparency. A Star Wars notebook, anime keychains, ocean themed stickers, and assorted pencil toppers or themed pens which he’d occasionally chew on. He was a nerd right to his core, and suddenly your few items felt pale in comparison to his elaborately crafted image. Call Armin what you will, but you wanted to get to know him as someone with similar interests and no one to share them with. 

In this new semester, you were determined to initiate a conversation somehow, neither of you usually speaking to each other unless instructed to do so for chapter discussions. He already had close friends unlike you, rushing off after class to join together as part of a solid trio, making it hard to say anything as the hour and a half came to a close. He seemed reserved as someone content with his friend group already, while you seemed reserved as someone usually too nervous to speak. But today you’d do your best to reach out to Armin yet again, hoping something small could come of it. 

Before lecture, your hand stretched forward in an attempt to tap his back, stopping as he received a phone call from one of his friends about a movie tonight. You pulled away. As the teacher prattled on about an unrelated topic, you tried to make a joke regarding its lack of importance to what you were learning, but he just didn’t hear you. You stayed silent the rest of class. Instructed to share summaries on last night’s reading, he turned to look at the girl to his right instead of back at you. You almost audibly sighed. And once the clock reached its anticipated time, you stood up in another day’s defeat, spilling out the open contents of your pencil case sitting on your lap and not the desk. 

The noise was loud, plastic and wood clattering against the shiny flooring as items rolled underneath the many rows of black chairs. You felt embarrassed, but for once Armin seemed to not want to rush out of class. As you knelt to start collecting your belongings, you watched as he leveled with you on the ground to start doing the same. His hands gently passed you your Sanrio pens, and it was him who decided to speak first. 

“Your pens are cute…is Cinnamoroll your favorite? I’ve got a pin of him on my bag.” 

You smiled, noticing how he suddenly seemed a bit timid.

“Actually, Mocha is my favorite, but merchandise for her is impossible to find. I noticed your pin a while back and actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you I like your keychains and such.”

You let it all out, ignoring how heavy any of your excitement might come across to be.

“I like your R2D2 notebook too…and I saw your Starship Enterprise charm on your bag-”

He brought his hand up to his face, pushing his thick black glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he cut you off. There was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks, and you saw his shyness slowly melt away at the introduction of topics he was familiar with.

“So…you’ve seen the original Star Trek too?”

[canmom]

more on art production ~under capitalism~

reading Who Owns This Sentence?, a very engaging and fiercely critical history of the concept of copyright, and it's pretty fire. there's all sorts of fascinating intricacies in the way the notion of IP formed around the world (albeit so far the narrative has mainly focused on Europe, and to a limited extent China), and the different ideologies that justified the types of monopolies that it granted. the last chapter i read skewers the idea that the ability to exploit copyright and patents is what motivates the writing of books and research/invention, and I'll try and pull out the shape of the argument tomorrow. so far I'm only up to the 18th century; I'm looking forward to the rest of their story of how copyright grew from the limited forms of that period into the monster it is today.

it's on libgen if you wanna read it! i feel like the authors would be hypocrites to object :p

it is making me think about the differences between the making of books and other media, from (since this has been rattling around my head lately) an economic angle...

writing books, at least in the case of fiction is usually done on a prospective, spec-work kind of basis (you write your novel with no guarantee it will get published unless you're already an established author under contract). admittedly, a lot of us probably read books by authors who managed to 'make it' as professional authors and write full time - but this is not a lucrative thing to do and to make it work you need truly exceptional luck to get a major hit, or to be extremely prolific in things people want to read.

the films and games of the types most of us play are, by contrast, generally made by teams of salaried people - and thus do rarely get made without the belief it will be profitable. if you went on about your 'monetisation model' when writing a book, people would look at you funny and rightly so, but it's one of the first questions that gets asked when pitching a game.

open source software is a notable comparison here. a lot of it is done for its own sake without any expectation of profit, taking untold hours, but large free software projects tend to sprout foundations, which take donations (typically from companies that use the software) to pay for full time developers. mozilla, notably, gets a huge part of its funding from google paying for their search engine to be the default in Firefox; this in turn drives development of not just Firefox itself but also the Rust programming language (as discussed in this very enlightening talk by Evan Czaplicki). Blender is rightly celebrated as one of the best open source projects for its incredibly fast development, but they do have an office in amsterdam and a number of full time devs.

what money buys in regards to creative works is not motivation, but time - time to work on a project, iterate and polish and all that. in societies where you have to buy food etc. to survive, your options for existence are basically:

work at a job

own capital

rely on someone else (e.g. a parent or partner)

rely on state benefits if you can get them

beg

steal

if you're working at a job, this takes up a lot of your time and energy. you can definitely make art anyway, loads of people do, but you're much more limited in how you can work at it compared to someone who doesn't have to work another job.

so again, what money buys in art is the means of subsistence for someone, freeing them to work fully on realising a project.

where does the money come from that lets people work full time on art? a few places.

one is selling copies of the work itself. what's remarkable is that, when nearly everything can be pirated without a great deal of effort, it is still possible to do this to some degree - though in many ways the ease of digital copying (or at least the fear if it) has forced new models for purely digital creations, which either trade on convenience (streaming services) or in the case of games, find some way to enforce scarcity like requiring connection to a central server and including 'in-app purchases', where you pay to have the software display that you are the nebulous owner of an imaginary thing, and display this to other players. anyway, whichever exact model, the idea is that you turn the IP into capital which you then use to manufacture a product like 'legal copies', 'subscriptions' or 'accounts with a rare skin unlocked'.

the second is using the work to promote some other, more profitable thing - merchandising, an original work, etc. this is the main way that something like anime makes money (for the production committee, if not the studio) - the anime is, economics-wise, effectively an ad for its own source manga, figurines, shirts etc. the reason why there is so much pro media chasing the tastes of otaku is partly because otaku spend a lot on merch. (though it's also because the doujin scene kind of feeds into 'pro' production)

the third is some kind of patronage relationship, notably government grants, but also academic funding bodies, or selling commissions, or subscriptions on a streaming platform/patreon etc.

grants are how most European animated films are funded, and they often open with the logos of a huge list of arts organisations in different countries. the more places you can get involved, the more funds you can pull on. now, instead of working out how to sell your creation to customers who might buy a copy, under this model you need to convince funding bodies that it fits their remit. requesting grants involves its own specialised language.

in general the issue with the audience patronage model is that it only really pays enough to live on if you're working on a pretty huge scale. a minority make a fortune; the vast majority get a pittance at most, and if they do 'make it', it takes years of persistence.

the fourth is, for physical media, to sell an original. this only works if you can accumulate enough prestige, and the idea is to operate on extreme scarcity. the brief fad of NFTs attempted to abstract the idea of 'owning' an original from the legal right to control the physical object to something completely nebulous. in practice this largely ended up just being a speculative bubble - but then again, a lot of the reason fine art is bought and sold for such eye watering sums is pretty much the same, it's an arbitrary holder of an investment.

the fifth is artworks which are kind of intrinsically scarce, like live performances. you can only fit so many people in the house. and in many cases people will pay to see something that can be copied in unique circumstances, like seeing a film at a cinema or festival - though this is a special case of selling copies.

the sixth is to sell advertising: turn your audience into the product, and your artwork into the bait on the hook.

the alternative to all of these options is unpaid volunteer work, like a collab project. the participants are limited to the time and energy they have left after taking care of survival. this can still lead to great things, but it tends to be more unstable by its nature. so many of these projects will lose steam or participants will flake and they'll not get finished - and that's fine! still, huge huge amounts of things already get created on this kind of hobby/indie/doujin basis, generally (tho not always) with no expectation of making enough money to sustain someone.

in every single one of these cases, the economic forces shape the types of artwork that will get made. different media are more or less demanding of labour, and that in turn shapes what types of projects are viable.

books can be written solo, and usually are - collaborations are not the norm there. the same goes for illustrations. on the other hand, if you want to make a hefty CRPG or an action game or a feature length movie, and you're trying to fit that project around your day job... i won't say it's impossible, I can think of some exceptional examples, but it won't be easy, and for many people it just won't be possible.

so, that's a survey of possibilities under the current regime. how vital is copyright really to this whole affair?

one thing that is strange to me is that there aren't a lot of open source games. there are some - i have memories of seeing Tux Racer, but a more recent example would be Barotrauma (which is open source but not free, and does not take contributions from outside the company). could it work? could you pay the salaries of, say, 10 devs on a 'pay what you can' model?

it feels like the only solution to all of this in the long run is some kind of UBI type of thing - that or a very generous art grants regime. if people were free to work on what they wanted and didn't need to be paid, you wouldn't have any reason for copyright. the creations could be publicly archived. but then the question i have is, what types of artwork would thrive in that kind of ecosystem?

I've barely talked about the book that inspired this, but i think it was worth the trouble to get the contours of this kind of analysis down outside my head...

[alexrosekey]

Hermione-centric and HP World Building Expansion edition

A late entry from me. Beware that this list is based on my personal preference. If you don't like the ships, remember the rule - don't like don't read. Ship and let ship!

That being said, it has been a while since the last time I've come up with a rec list. But reccing great fanfics has remained one of my greatest passion. Having decided to fully integrated myself into the Harry Potter fandom again, I'm amazed at how creative and talented the authors of this fandom are. There are a plethora of interesting ideas and premises, with various themes and genres along with inquisitive, thoughtful observation regarding the characters and the world building of Harry Potter.

Without further ado, let's dive in to my submission for today's @hprecfest prompt: fics with over 100k+ words. All the fics below are Hermione-centric (one less than the other two but still), with amazing social commentaries on the HP world and impeccable observation on the magical world, which to me are the best aspect of HP fic.

unsphere the stars by @cocoartistwrites (M, 222,827, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle)

When you can't change time, but you can't go forward, what is left? Hermione learns how to be the protagonist of her own story.

To quote one of the bookmarks: Hermione is more than she ever was. This story is a journey of Hermione to grow, to love and to explore magic and its beauty more than she could ever be. Don't let the pairing deter you, this is no doubt one of the most memorable fanfic reading experience I have in my years of being in fandoms. Hermione and Tom are both portrayed spectacularly and thoughtfully, and the prose are some of the most poetic I've ever seen.

To sum up the whole of my reading experience, I laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling for 30 mins after reading the last chapter, completely shell-shocked.

All I could say is, if you want an astounding character arc for Hermione, with in-depth magical system and immersive world building, plus interesting OCs and breathtaking writing, then this fic is definitely for you!

*This fic could also be placed under the prompt of Day 7: A Canon-Compliant Fic.

2. What's Past is Prologue by ABitofWit (E, 244,611, Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy)

It's eight years after the war and Hermione Granger has taken a break from her career at the Ministry of Magic to compile an oral history of the conflict. She's interviewed just about everyone she can get her hands on but she wants to be thorough. And that means getting in contact with a very unwilling Lucius Malfoy.

Listen, I know the pairing is weird as fuck. I know, I had my doubt too before reading it. But the raving bookmarks convinced me to give this a chance. And boy, it was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

This fic is more than just a ship fic, it's about love and what we would do for it, the greyness of life and choices, of redemption and finding one's self worth outside of pre-existing, archaic ideas and values. It's about change and how we're never too old to learn. WPIP is everything I've ever wanted in a fic, emotional, sincere, humorous, gorgeous, sexy, steamy and sweet. Full of heart and soul.

Most of all, the development of and between Hermione and Lucius is so natural and makes a lot of sense, without them being OOC. This fic reminds me that Hermione is not at all flawless (the opposite of the usual Mary-Sue, little-miss-perfect trope that Hermione tends to be portrayed in fics), while successfully humanizes and makes Lucius Malfoy one of the most interesting HP characters in my eyes. (Who would have thought that I've spent years not giving a jot about this guy, only to fall in love with such a mess of a man like him??)

Combine with sharp commentaries and observations on the British Wizarding World, Wizarding politics and a not-canon folder supporting cast, this is no doubt one of the best HP fic, and one of the best fanfic I've ever had the pleasure to read.

*This fic could also be placed under the prompt of Day 2: A Comfort Fic and Day 9: A Rare Pair Fic.

3. Six Pomegranate Seeds by Seselt (E, 185,965, no pairing but implied Theodore Nott/Hermione Granger)

At the end, something happened. Hermione clutches at one fraying thread, uncertain whether she is Arachne or Persephone. What she does know is that she will keep fighting to protect her friends even if she must walk a dark path.

Sooo, this is one very weird fic. One of the oddest fics I've ever encoutered, in fact. I've read it twice, one before I read the book series in full, one after I've finished the books. And let me tell you, SPS is a stunning work.

The odd, floating third-person POV, the dry and sharp, straightforward tone of Hermione. Her competency, her compassion despite all the pain and the emotional repression. This is definitely not your usual time travel fix-it fic.

Most of Hermione's work happened in tandem with the 7 books' main storyline. Hermione's soul is put into the body of a young orphan Pureblood heiress. This gives the fic one of the most interesting spin on the Hermione-is-a-pureblood trope.

Through Hermione, we have a closer look into the background and the context of the main events of the books, plus a deeper understanding of the Pureblood society and a much more sympathetic view into the students Slytherin house. All without whitewashing and offsetting the corruption and the effects of the Purebloods and the Slytherins' stuffy, archaic views on not only the young generation of students but also the British Wizarding world.

I lost count of the amount of time I slapped my knees while reading this work the second time whenever I encountered a particularly sharp line of thought/commentary from Hermione in this fic. I'm also amazed at how much work and research the author has put into SPS, particularly in terms of making up tons of new magical theories and the use of exotic and lesser known vocabulary (seriously, if you decide to read this one, prepare a dictionary next to you, or get ready to regularly stop mid reading in order to look up certain words 😆)

*This fic could also be placed under the prompt of Day 7: A Canon-Compliant Fic.

That being said, thank you for checking out my list! Thank the admins of @hprecfest for holding such a fun activity. Feel free to join in yourself. Happy reading 💋

Day 16: A fic that made you laughed

Day 19: Fic with the hottest smut

Day 22: An unfinished fic (hasn't updated in 10 years or the author stated it has been abandoned)

Day 26: A fic with an ending you can't stop thinking about

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Penance

Summary: Disobedience requires atonement in Otto's eyes. Warnings: Religious guilt/shame, power imbalance, age gap, smut. Word count: ~1400

Dedicating this to my fellow old man fucker @exitpursuedbyavulcan // Huge thank you to @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for her encouragement and reading through my draft // Beautiful moodboard by @xionthelostpuppet

She kneels before the Seven Pointed Star, the cold hard flagstones are unforgiving against her skin, and her joints cramp in protest. She has lost all sense of the passing of time, it feels like she’s held this position for an age. Each time the slick of her arousal between her thighs cools it is quickly replaced by the heat of renewed wetness, doing little to aid in her judgment of how long they have been at this. The ache in her cunt is unrelenting, tears of desperation prickle the corners of her eyes.

“Otto, please.” She whines. “I said I was sorry.”

The older man’s blue eyes roam slowly up and down her naked form as he regards her carefully. “And I said you must earn your forgiveness. What part of that is troubling you, pet?”

She attempts to stifle the wail of anguish she longs to let out, a whimper passing her lips instead.

It was never supposed to have happened. A simple serving girl and the Hand of the King, it was scandalous, improper. Yet she had given in all the same. There was no denying that she found Otto attractive, and perhaps that’s what had done it; her lingering gazes as she’d walked the length of the dining hall, her fingers brushing against his as he’d taken the cup from her. 

He had remained seated at the table one evening, after everyone else had retired. It had all happened so fast, one moment she was leaning across to refill his wine, the next he had her against the wooden surface, hips pistoning between her legs as the jug toppled over, spilling its ruby red contents onto the floor.

“You will pray to the Mother for forgiveness.” He had whispered as he’d pulled out of her.

The next day a paige had delivered moon tea to her, along with a wax sealed note instructing her to meet Otto in his chambers later that evening.

From that point onward she had spent every evening in Otto’s chambers, wetting his cock and warming his bed.

That was where he’d left her this morning, denied release and with her cunny dripping with his spend. She was under strict instructions not to touch herself in his absence - he’d know.

He seemed to take great pleasure in delaying her peak and, while she was usually all too eager to indulge him, today she throbbed as he left her wanting with no idea of when he’d return. She had tried her best to obey his command, but as the minutes had ticked by into hours her resolve had crumbled.

She had rucked her shift above her hips, sighing in relief as her fingers began to circle her pearl. Eyelids fluttering closed, her soft sighs of pleasure elevated to wanton moans as she pushed herself closer to the edge.

The clearing of a throat had caused her eyes to snap back open. She froze, her heart feeling like it had stopped as Otto stood before her, his gaze dark and disapproving.

“Are you stupid? Or just disobedient?” He asks coolly. It sent a shiver through her. She was in trouble.

Before she had a chance to respond he had ordered her to remove her nightgown and kneel before the Seven Pointed Star. She’d known better than to argue, though he had never raised his voice or hand to her in anger, she wouldn’t dare to disobey him a second time. Otto didn’t deal in anger, he dealt in consequences.

That is how she finds herself now, nipples pebbled in the coolness of the air, and Otto looming over her, a cat toying with a helpless mouse. He has been listening to her desperate apologies in heavy silence, continuing to deny her any form of relief without ever having to utter a word.

He hasn’t shed his outerwear since he returned. He leans down, a leather riding gloved hand brushing between her legs. She shivers at the smoothness of it as two fingers glide between her folds and pull away glistening in the dimmed light.

“This does not look to be indicative of your remorse.” He muses, arching an eyebrow as he inspects his digits closely.

He presses them to her lips and she opens her mouth instinctively, allowing him to press forward as she sucks her essence from the material. He withdraws them with a quiet hum of approval.

“Are you truly ready to repent for your impure behaviour, pet? To atone for your wilful disobedience?”

“Y-yes.” She stammers. She’d agree to anything right now, if only to put an end to this torment.

He circles her, coming to a stop once he’s behind her.

“On your hands and knees.” He orders softly.

She repositions herself, biting back a sigh of relief as she is finally allowed to move. Her weight being more evenly distributed is a welcome respite to her sore knees. She trembles with anticipation as she hears the rustling of clothing behind her. She is sure that in her lust induced haze she must be imagining it, until she feels him kneel behind her.

“You remember who to pray to, don’t you, pet?” Otto inquires. “Or has you behaving like a common strumpet knocked loose all reverence of The Seven from your pretty little head?”

“I remember.” She whispers, feeling her cheeks heat up with shame.

“Good girl.” He says lowly. “Now keep your eyes on The Star and say your prayers.”

She lets out a choked moan as she feels him push inside of her, all thoughts leaving her head the moment his gloved hands grab her hips and he begins to thrust inside of her.

“I shall stop if you are incapable of doing as you’re told.” He grits out, his pace not faltering despite his words.

She mewls piteously, before she is able to speak. “I-I pray to the Father…to ask that his judgment of my indiscretions be merciful.”

The Seven Pointed Star blurs as her vision tears up, the head of Otto’s hardened length bullies at the spongy spot deep inside of her.

“I p-pray to the Mother…m-may she be merciful to me for my sins.”

Otto’s breathing is ragged, his grip on her ironclad as he continues to drive into her.

“I pray…to the W-Warrior for the courage to resist my lustful urges.”

Eliciting a needy cry of pleasure, she can feel herself fluttering ceaselessly, and she still has four more prayers to go. She has no idea how she will last.

“Keep going.” Otto urges, the gravelly edge to his voice suggests that he is struggling every bit as much as she is.

“I ask th-that the Smith protects me from my…from my impure thoughts.”

Otto’s leather clad hand wraps around her throat, pulling her back flush against him as he continues to fuck her. The sensation of his clothing against her bare skin is enough for her to know that he has only freed his cock, yet another humiliating imbalance in their power dynamic, but one that causes her to clench involuntarily around him.

“I pray…gods…I pray to the Maiden for forgiveness for tarnishing my virtue.”

She hears Otto chuckle darkly, the hand not holding her neck snakes around her body to tweak sharply at one of her nipples.

“Oh!” She yelps at the sudden jolt, before continuing. “M-may the Crone provide the wisdom to rise above my baser urges.”

Her climax is painfully close, her body is wound so tightly she fears she may snap, and from the way that Otto’s pace falters she can sense he is getting closer too. Her final prayer is almost strangled sounding.

“I-I pray that the Stranger absolves me of my sins…so that I may depart this life as a woman of piety…oh!”

She peaks as Otto delivers a particularly forceful thrust, her body going rigid as she wails in ecstasy before falling lax against him. He fucks her through her release, before pulling her tight to him and spilling inside of her with a groan. The brush of his beard against her heated flesh borders on being overstimulating.

He pulls out of her, standing to readjust his clothing as he stares down at her prone form. “There is nothing pious about that wet little cunt, you shameless harlot.” 

He strides from the room, leaving her laying there, a satisfied smile spread across her face as she stares lazily up at the Seven Pointed Star. She knows that he is right, and if she is a sinner it is because Otto Hightower has made her one.

[ultra-violet-heart]

THE 2018 DENGEKI BUNKO INTERVIEW WITH 86--EIGHTY-SIX AUTHOR ASATO ASATO

Disclaimer: This translation is made by me for fandom purposes only. This interview, conducted in 2017, gives major insights on how the sci-fi mecha series 86--EIGHTY-SIX was conceived and written before it eventually won the Dengeki Novel Prize back in 2016.

Please ask my permission and credit me+this post if you will be re-translating this to other languages. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST ON YOUTUBE AND TIKTOK AND PLEASE DO NOT REPOST THE IMAGES ON THIS INTERVIEW. Please take the fan translations here with a grain of salt. 

Credits to @Yashamise from Twitter for copies of this Dengeki Bunko Kono Light Novel ga Sugoi magazine.

Erratum: This interview was conducted and printed in 2017, but this Kono Light Novel ga Sugoi magazine is dated 2018 as an advance issue of sorts. This interview has been summarized here. My apologies for the title.

I’m posting my Ko-Fi here as currently, I’ve been having financial trouble regarding my medicine, so if anyone can donate, I would be much grateful for the help, thank you very much.

AN INTERVIEW WITH 86--EIGHTY-SIX AUTHOR ASATO ASATO

“I wrote what I liked, in the way I liked them,” this author says. This tale is filled with the grief from war, the ugliness of racial discrimination, as well as the romance of mechas and of garter belts! In this interview, she reveals to us everything about its roots and its appeal! 

Text and Composition: My Street 

Illustrator: Shirabii

Translator’s Note: For purposes of this interview translation, the interviewer will be labelled as “MS” for My Street, since they layouted and probably conducted this transcribed interview. Also, for words that have brackets or parenthesis:

{} = implied by context                             

() = given emphasis/given parenthesis in the interview itself

[] = included in the footnotes/translator’s notes

A robot lover as far as she could remember

MS: Thank you very much for your time today for this interview. It was surprising to learn that the author {for 86--EIGHTY-SIX}, Ms. Asato, is a woman.

ASATO: I get that a lot (haha). My family says the contents of my work is just “the usual {for Asato}” though. I think my Afterwords have the impression they’re written by a woman, and I never hid that in particular (haha).

MS: This year {2018}, 86--EIGHTY-SIX placed first in the New Works category and second in the bunkobon {paperback} category overall. How do you feel about this now?

ASATO: I’m very happy. I knew of KonoRano’s existence [1], so I was hoping {86--EIGHTY-SIX} might be listed there somewhere, but it was a surprise that it placed higher than expected. As I said in this interview’s foreword: “I wrote what I liked, in the way I liked them.” I’m thankful that many readers found it interesting.

MS: For readers who haven’t heard of 86--EIGHTY-SIX, can you give us a summary of this work?

ASATO: It’s a lively, filled-with-clanks story of the protagonist Shin, his merry band of thieves, and their remotely-working-class-president Lena. [2] (LOL)

MS: 86--EIGHTY-SIX is your debut work. Can you tell us about the time you started writing this work?

ASATO: I’ve been writing ever since I can remember, and I started with writing manga {scripts}. I switched to writing novels around before I started junior high school and have been writing them ever since.

MS: You’ve been interested in robots and military-related things ever since elementary school, is that right?

ASATO: Yes, that’s correct. My mother liked {Space Battleship} Yamato [3] and Gundam, and as I have a younger brother, I got into watching and reading anime and manga targeted at boys. I was rarely exposed to anime and manga targeted at girls. We had the Mobile Suit Gundam movie trilogy [4] at home (which I’ve seen many times), and I also watched The Brave Police J-Decker [5] and The Brave Express Might Gaine [6], as well as other shows in The Brave [7] series. The only anime I had watched that is {targeted at girls} is Magic Knight Rayearth [8], which is another story with robots fighting in it (haha).

MS: I reckon such an environment led you to writing 86--EIGHTY-SIX. Can you tell us about your writing process?

ASATO: I originally submitted {works} to the Kadokawa Beans [9] Bunko Newcomer Awards. I avoided the Dengeki Novel Prize as it was rather {too hard to enter} due to the large number of entries [10] there. The novel entry I made on the 21st year of the Dengeki Novel Prize (2014), however, was totally not aimed at women at all, so I didn’t have any other choice but to submit that to said contest, as it has the closest deadline. It was a sci-fi fantasy work, with a theme of redemption, set on a time before and after {a} revolution. At that time, I thought, maybe I can go past beyond the 3rd round of screenings and unexpectedly, maybe placed on a good spot? However, the evaluation I got from the judges were “This is a 100% a work targeted at girls” and “Next time, we hope you will submit a work that should be Dengeki Bunko-like”. As Dengeki Bunko [11] is an all-kinds-of-genre publication, I didn’t know what ‘Dengeki Bunko-like’ even meant. I thought about it a lot but couldn’t figure it out, so I just kept on writing and finished my next entry, which is 86--EIGHTY-SIX.

MS: How did you come up with the idea and structure of 86, a war drama where unmanned drones and “unmanned manned drones” battle each other?

ASATO: I once read a newspaper article whose main message was “It won’t be good if a country sends its citizens to war, but it shouldn’t be a problem if they made an army of foreigners fight in their stead.” In that case, I felt very afraid that other people will be forced to fight instead of us, with the idea of “those aren’t people, but drones” justifying this and everyone just allowing it {to happen}.

MS: As written in Volume 1’s Afterword, looking back at history, it. is true that racism and racial exclusion existed to no small extent. So, why did you decide to incorporate “racism” into your work?

ASATO: Ever since I started writing novels, I have repeatedly written about boundary lines between “human beings and those who are human but not treated as human beings”, with 86--EIGHTY-SIX being in a similar vein. One of the bases for this is probably the class discrimination found in Final Fantasy Tactics [12], for example. A character there, Argath, who is an aristocrat, tells a commoner character: “But the gods have no eyes for chattel! [12]” This line has stayed with me ever since. After that, I continued to write with the motifs of “human beings and livestock in human form” and “human and those considered not humans”. I think BLACK/MATRIX+ [13] influenced me as well. This game deals with ethnic discrimination, set in a world where black-winged people are ruled over by white-winged people. In there, those who were discriminated against were treated harshly. They were treated like livestock, with the game having this line of, “Why is a mere slave like you wearing clothes?”

MS: Do you often play games?

ASATO: When my gaming consoles weren’t connected yet to the Internet, I used to play a lot of RPGs. I’m not good at action games. I did play a lot of Final Fantasy, like Final Fantasy VI, Tactics, VIII, IX, and X [14].

MS: Are there other works which influenced you? I wonder if there’s something similar like the war situation in Knights of Sidonia [15], which was mentioned in Volume 1’s afterword.

ASATO: I often watch a lot of robot shows, Knights of Sidonia included. In addition to the Gundam series mentioned earlier, I also watched Full Metal Panic [16] and Gunparade March: A New Song for the March [17]. It’s not a robot series, but I also have read Battle Faery Yukikaze [18] over and over. I like {literary} structures where the protagonist side is overwhelmingly inferior while the antagonist side is the superior one. I want to see the flow of emotions from the characters more than the fight scenes themselves. I think emotions such as fear, resignation and desperation show more in situations where {characters} are hopelessly in a big disadvantage. Winning a battle by domination can be exhilarating, yes, but those other emotions don’t show as much during that. That’s why I prefer for the protagonists to win through unrefined and tenacious means, rather than them winning by outsmarting {enemies}.

The work’s influences from horror films and in-depth military research

MS: The Legion are getting more ominous, and the deteriorating situation for Shin and his group is putting them on a very big disadvantage, if I’m not mistaken.

ASATO: 86--EIGHTY-SIX has been influenced more by horror movies than robot anime, with it being based on movies such as The Mist [19] and Screamers [20]. Mist is a horror story where the protagonists get trapped in a supermarket due to a mysterious fog and monsters, and the people gradually lose their ability to make rational judgments as they are unable to defend themselves or escape, without any rescue in sight. This horror movie has a great ending, so I’m inviting you all to watch it without further spoilers. 86--EIGHTY-SIX was initially set as a novel about a fog of nanomachines covering the walls outside of the Republic, and the “Legion” being an aggregation of said nanomachines. However, that kind of thing couldn’t exactly be defeated by conventional weapons, so it was rejected at the setting phase. These elements from this setting, however, were retained in the form of Volume 1’s final boss character and the appearance of those electromagnetic jammers clouding the sun.

MS: It’s rather surprising this came from a horror setting.

ASATO: The other {inspiration mentioned earlier}, Screamers, is a sci-fi horror film where autonomous war weapons evolved on their own and went out of control. In 86--EIGHTY-SIX, the Self-Propelled Mines, which look like wounded soldiers, are based on Screamers. The work is rather interesting as one has no ideas who their enemies are and everything else looks suspicious.

MS: So you have a situation like this, and you applied what kind of emotions you want to be shown in that situation, correct?

ASATO: Yes. Looking back, I think I was strongly influenced by the novel Chaos Legion [21] {in this regard}. Shin’s Personal Mark, which has a shovel on it, was influenced by his special ability as well as his role being the “Undertaker” responsible for collecting the fragments of his comrade-in-arms’ {Feldreẞ} units.

MS: The more I hear about it, it seems this work is really packed full of things {you} like.

ASATO: While I was writing this, I played the Black Hawk Down [22] movie repeatedly instead of just background music. It’s also a favorite {movie} of mine.

MS: I would like to ask you about military-related matters. What kind of material did you use for your research?

ASATO: I borrowed all relevant materials I use from the library, so I don’t have any specific references… About racial discrimination, I read materials about Nazi Germany [23], the internment camps in US as well as the 442nd Infantry Regiment [24] and Scroll of Agony: The Warsaw Ghetto Diary [25]. As for the weapons, the Juggernaut and the Legion are based and patterned from tanks, so I’ve read materials dating back from World War II [26] as well as the Gulf War [26], where 120mm tanks were the main weapons used. The Juggernaut’s 57mm cannon wasn’t used very often, so I had a difficult time finding research material for it. The unit itself is based on the M551 Sheridan [27]. This airborne assault tank has aluminum alloy armor, but the Juggernaut reflects the pitiful aspect of said flimsy armor which explodes upon impact by any stray attack.

MS: Why did you make the Juggernaut and the Legion multi-legged tanks?

ASATO: Because it’s romantic! I love multi-legged tanks! My first exposure with them is the X-ATM092 [28], a spider-shaped mobile unit from FFVIII. The loud, resounding footsteps it produced as it chased you away was very scary, and it left this impression of being a symbol of a very powerful weapon. I also like Ghost in the Shell’s Tachikoma [29] and the Tobigumo from the Swallowtail novel series [30]. In reality, multi-legged tank units aren’t really fast enough, and there is too much ground pressure for those to actually carry a 120mm cannon… but I make up for it with my imagination (LOL)

A character that embodies the idea of “to be human” walks alone

MS: Concerning those people called “Eighty-Six”, what do you think it means “to be human”, which you tried to depict in Volume 1?

ASATO: What I tried to depict in this work is “to respect other human beings, and to live without regrets.” However, I don’t think everything I wrote in this main part is actually correct. I think this is the answer the “Eighty-Six” came up with due to the environment they lived in. In Volume 2, the stage now shifts to the Federacy, so the theme there is now what will happen if said environment has changed.

MS: In Volume 2, I see this as a story where the “Eighty-Six”, who managed to get safety for the time being, nevertheless still returned to the battlefield. I think this sentiment was portrayed very well.

ASATO: Volume 3 will focus on what happens inside {Shin’s head} after he made that choice, so please look forward to that. After all, they don’t feel safe even after coming to the Federal Republic of Giad. And the war against the Legion isn’t over yet. Since the Eighty-Six think they will not survive if they don’t fight, I think they will continue to fight until the Legion disappeared. Then… what will they do after the Legion are eventually gone? …They will certainly have to think about that in the future as well.

MS: Do you have a favorite among all the characters?

ASATO: It’s Raiden. Of course, I love the two protagonists, Shin and Lena, but Shin isn’t really a very cooperative character with me, so I have a certain attachment to Raiden, who provides much support. Instead of simply just crafting the plot, I write in a way that captures how each character would act in line with {the type of} world I've created. That’s why I do not know what the characters think, what goals they have, or what pasts they bear unless they “talk” to me. Shin is not the type {of character} to talk about anything in particular, and he doesn’t even say anything much except for his name. It wasn’t until I finished writing that climax of a battle in Volume 1 that I realized what he was fighting for. After I wrote it, I was like, “Huh?! So, this is it?!” and was surprised as the author (LOL).

MS: So, you didn’t think about Shin’s background at first?

ASATO: Yes, that’s right. During that climax, I finally understood {everything} concerning Shin, so I went back on that part and wrote the details that I then added. 

MS: So even at the plotting stage, you haven’t put together the {setting and background} for each of the characters?

ASATO: To begin with, when I wrote Volume 1, I haven’t even made a plot. I didn’t even have a story structure in particular, and just wrote while letting the characters act. The first time I finished this volume, the last two pages were still missing, but Shin brought them to me, saying, “Sure enough, write up to this far.”

MS: What happened after Volume 2?

ASATO: I have submitted the plot… but stressed on the important scene that “I won’t know everything until I write it” then submitted it. As a result of this, only the boss character from Volume 3 remained in that plot I submitted. {I caused} my editors a lot of trouble.

MS: How did Frederica (the character) come to be?

ASATO: Frederica is a character with a part further on in the series, so I intended to debut her in Volume 2. As I was writing her, however, it seemed she and Shin have similarities on what they carry on their backs. Since then, she acts as a mirror to Shin. As Shin is a character who is not very good at grasping his own emotions, {I had Frederica} serve as the one who verbalizes those emotions. I wondered then, what does it mean to have a 10-year-old verbalize {another person’s feelings}? (LOL) I simply wanted to show a little girl. In Volume 2, the heroine, Lena, is absent, but I can’t have another girl the same age as her as this volume’s heroine… and so, under this pretext, I brought out {Frederica as} the little girl heroine.

MS: For some reason, I thought there’s other many works featuring little girls in the battlefield.

ASATO: If this were about a real battlefield, it would have been filled with old men. I like older men soldier characters, so that would have been fun to see, but I don’t think readers would find that interesting. Cute little girls adding a touch of color {to a work} is important (LOL).

MS: Did you decide on the setting from the start?

ASATO: The setting was generally decided from the beginning. The scenes were written out as needed. For example, regarding the battlefield, the Legion are ground-based weapons, and it would be troubling if they’re easily eradicated by aircraft weapons. That’s why {I had} the Eintagsfliege, a Legion unit which has jamming, and restricted the use of aircraft and communication devices. This, however, would have prevented Shin and Lena from communicating with each other, so I then devised the special communication device called the Para-RAID.

MS: How deeply did you think about this world’s setting on itself?

ASATO: The necessary scenes have been chosen in detail, otherwise, the rest of the details aren’t fixed. For example, it’s not in the main story, but the Republic’s population has already been decided upon. It’s the reverse with the countries on the edge of the continent that aren’t scheduled to appear, as they might have a Chinese-like culture… that’s all I thought of it right now. There’s also this “sensory tuning”, which hasn’t been written in the setting yet, but is scheduled to be involved in the future part of the plot. However, as I said just a short while ago, the story {as a whole} is influenced greatly by how the characters act, so it depends on them to make the best use of the setting. From this point on, who will survive and who will die… is something that I still don’t know.

MS: Is it still unknown how the war against the Legion will move forward?

ASATO: The basic points {for that} have been decided, with the foreshadowing being built onto step by step. However, it is up to those two, Shin and Lena, if they will follow suit. (LOL)

MS: What about the Legion, then?

ASATO: About the Legion, the setting about them has been solidly established, including the future boss characters. However, I can’t say anything about them yet. Details about them have been foreshadowed little by little. I write hoping the readers will be surprised by this later.

The love for garter belts explodes! A talk about eroticism

MS: Changing the subject, what it is about your particular fixation towards garter belts [31] and pilot suits [32], both of which you spoke so passionately about in your Afterwords?

ASATO: About the pilot suits, on the outline for volume 2, I wrote "I don’t want men’s pilot suits paired with ground-based armaments!!!" using half of the A4 outline paper and submitted that (LOL). I’ve wondered whether pilot suits are really necessary, apart from space or aircraft or even ground battles. I’ve my doubts about it, and with said doubts I don’t want {characters} just wearing pilot suits, even in a robot thing. I do agree with the editor-in-charge about “Female pilot suits are justice!” so Lena wearing a pilot suit is scheduled to appear in the future [32]. After all, the garter belt shows a good place between sexy and cute. I think the eroticism {from the garter belt} dwells in its self-contradictory element: it’s just one additional item {in a set of clothes}, and somehow manages to show more skin―I think that’s the charm of the garter belt. In particular, if the color {of the garter belt} contrasts strongly with the skin color {of the wearer}, the impression of bare skin is more emphasized in spite of the wearer. Because of this, I think it’s wonderful that Shirabii colored the belt part {of Lena’s garter belts} black.

MS: It’s amazing the garter belt drawn by Shirabii has the functions of both a belt and a ring, isn’t it?

ASATO: Furthermore, Lena’s military uniform, a garment that is very much seen in public, has garter belts, which are usually private items, and I think that adds further to her ambivalent charm even more. As a matter of fact, at first, I argued that it would be better if {her} thighs were not visible all the time but could be glimpsed at occasionally, but after a 2 AM discussion with the editors-in-charge while looking at the rough draft of the cover art, they convinced me that “That ‘occasionally’ should be now!”, and we settled on its current form. The ideal situation {we have} was when {Lena} lifts her legs up and a glimpse of the black lace garter can be seen through the slit of {her} dress. However, as Lena is a prim and proper lady, the only situation I can think of where she lifts her legs while wearing a dress is when she is about to wear heels… I’ll have to ask Shin to do his best on this one.

MS: Rather a difficult situation, isn’t it?

ASATO: It’s Shin, after all. Also, a military uniform with pretty boy shorts + sock garters is also cute, and as Theo hasn’t appeared with his military uniform yet, I’m thinking to add that to his outfit now… (LOL). However, middle-aged soldier uncles shouldn’t show their bare legs with shirt garters! (Editor’s note: Please Google “shirt garters” for more info)

MS: Are there any {role/inspiring} models for your characters?

ASATO: Basically, none. However, as mentioned earlier, Shin is partly inspired by Sieg Wahrheit [33] from Chaos Legion, while Lena is partly inspired by General Garrison [34] from Black Hawk Down. In the film, {Garrison} is placed on a situation where he could do nothing but only communicate with his subordinates in adverse circumstances, and this inspired Lena’s position {in the series}. In Black Hawk Down, many characters died before we even understood them, and I think that influenced 86--EIGHTY-SIX as well.

MS: That’s right. They die when the chapters change. When you are writing, you’re writing without knowing who is going to die, isn’t it?

ASATO: There are some characters whose manner of death came to mind as I was writing them. I think they’re good kids, but I have no choice but to let them face their fates (oops).

MS: If the names of the Eighty-Six characters were names of Japanese people, would they still make good names?

ASATO: Yes. All their names can be written in kanji. For example, Shin’s surname, “Nouzen” is from the kanji of the Chinese trumpet creeper (凌霄花) {pronounced as “nouzenkazura”} [35].  I actually like the arrangement of the kanji {from that plant} within the kanji for “surpassing the sky” (霄を凌ぐ) {pronounced as “sora wo shinogu”}. If you use the same kanji and put the honorific (君) {pronounced as “kun”} on it, you can form the characters for the Eurasian goshawk (凌霄君) {pronounced as “ryoshoukun”} [36]. This is also a reference to Shin’s image, as he does resemble a hawk.

What’s next for this series? There’s so much more to write about!

MS: What will happen in Volume 3 of 86--EIGHTY-SIX? [37]

ASATO: It will be properly connected to Volume 1’s Epilogues, so please don’t worry about that. The battle scenes, which were limited in Volume 2, will be much increased here. It might be even tragic.

EDITOR KIYOSE: This paperback series will, of course, continue to be serialized, and the series will also be expanded into various adaptations such as comics [38] and other various media. This work will have a lot of side stories, so we hope you will all appreciate this series as a whole.

MS: Can you please tell us about the future developments of 86--EIGHTY-SIX?

ASATO: The stage has shifted to the Federacy from Volume 2, and as the war situation gets more violent, the environment surrounding the Eighty-Six and the others is about to deteriorate further. There will be new enemies for mankind to face, and their own numerous personal conflicts standing on their way one by one. However, they have survived far difficult circumstances up until now, and since Lena will join them in earnest by Volume 4, I think they will still survive, stubbornly, shamelessly, and boisterously. However, I really wouldn’t know what would happen unless I write them. (LOL)

MS: How many volumes does this series will have?

ASATO: Currently, I'm thinking of around 13 volumes. The war against the Legion has a general flow and an ending in sight already, so I'd like to get to that point first. In addition to that, I’d like to like to write a side story about Raiden and Shin when they just first met, if I have the opportunity [39]. There’s so much more I want to write about. From Volume 4 onward, countries other than the Federacy will be related, and there’s plans to stretch out the stage even more. The Queen's Knights [40], led by Lena, will also make their appearance. I think there might be some slight surprises about Shiden, who first appeared in Volume 2.

MS: Lastly, any message for the readers who have supported you and the series?

ASATO: I was never active on the web at all, and I was totally an unknown newcomer writer. I believe the reason why I and the 86--EIGHTY-SIX series have come this far is due to the readers who picked up the books and supported us. So, everyone, I will do my best to write bringing Shin and Lena and the Eighty-Six’s battle to conclusion, so from this point on, I look forward to your continued support!

{End of Interview}

Translator’s Notes (Most of the blurbs here are taken from respective relevant Wikipedia articles, and the notes also include the Magazine Notes from the actual interview):

[1] Kono Light Novel Ga Sugoi: Kono Light Novel ga Sugoi! (このライトノベルがすごい!, lit. This Light Novel is Amazing!) is an annual light novel guidebook published by Takarajimasha. The guidebook publishes a list of the top ten most popular light novels according to readers polled on the Internet and votes from critics, influencers, and other people related to the light novel industry. 86--EIGHTY-SIX ranked 2nd and 5th in the bunkobon category here in 2018 and 2019.

[2] Lena is the class president of Class 2-E in the 86--EIGHTY-SIX Operation High School spin-off side stories and the manga. This is probably among the first references to said spin-off.

[3] Space Battleship Yamato: one of Japan’s most influential sci-fi/mecha series, a Japanese science fiction anime series produced and written by Yoshinobu Nishizaki, directed by manga artist Leiji Matsumoto, and produced by Academy Productions.

[4] Mobile Suit Gundam: The first series in this very popular Japanese military science fiction media franchise, it was re-released into a film trilogy in 1981.

[5] The Brave Police J-Decker: The fifth installment in the Barve series.

[6] The Brave Express Might Gaine: The fourth installment in the Brave series.

[7] The Brave mecha and sci-fi series: a Japanese toy and anime franchise Brave series made by Takara and Sunrise, and currently owned by Bandai Namco.

[8] Magic Knight Rayearth: a mecha, fantasy and isekai shoujo manga series made by the all-female manga artist group CLAMP.

[9] Kadokawa BEANS Bunko Award: The contest launched by Kadokawa’s female-focused light novel imprint, Kadokawa Beans Bunko.

[10] Dengeki Novel Prize: a literary award handed out annually (since 1994) by the Japanese publisher ASCII Media Works for their Dengeki Bunko light novel imprint, spearheaded by parent company Kadokawa. It is among Japan’s largest light novel contests, with more than 4500 entries submitted annually. 86--EIGHTY-SIX won 1st place in the Rookie Awards category in 2016, launching it to the spotlight.

[11] Dengeki Bunko: a publishing imprint affiliated with Kadokawa’s ASCII Media Works. Many anime adaptations from light novels were published by Dengeki Bunko, including 86--EIGHTY-SIX.

[12] [Magazine Note 1] Final Fantasy Tactics: A tactical simulation RPG released in 1997. The socially conscious storyline, which tackled friction between nations and the gap between the rich and the poor, became very much a hot topic during its time.

Please take note I used the Final Fantasy Tactics: The War of the Lions translation here as contextually I believe this translation has more in line with EIGHTY-SIX than the translation of the actual game Asato played, which is the original Final Fantasy Tactics. Also, Argath vs Algus :3

[13] [Magazine Note 2] BLACK/MATRIX+: A tactical simulation RPG for Sega Saturn, with the PlayStation port released in 1998. It has a unique setting where virtue and vice are said to be reversed.

[14] Final Fantasy: a fantasy anthology media franchise, first and mainly developed as RPGs, owned, published, and distributed by Square Enix. Currently this franchise has 16 main series game releases. One of these games, Final Fantasy VIII, has its main soundtrack (“Eyes on Me” by Faye Wong) featured on the Afterword of 86--EIGHTY-SIX Volume 7: Mist.

[15] Knights of Sidonia: A sci-fi/mecha seinen manga, made by Tsutomu Nihei and ran from 2009-2015 in Kodansha’s Monthly Afternoon magazine. Its anime adaptation, which ran for two seasons, was produced by Polygon Pictures and aired from 2014 to 2015.

[16] Full Metal Panic!: a series of mecha light novels written by Shoji Gatoh and illustrated by Shiki Douji, published by Kadokawa’s Fujimi Fantasia Bunko and ran from 1998-2011. Its anime adaptations were produced by Gonzo, Kyoto Animation and Xebec respectively, from 2003 to 2018.

[17] Gunparade March: A New Song for the March: The anime adaptation for the Playstation video game Gunparade March, produced by J.C. Staff and aired in 2003.

[18] Battle Faery Yukikaze: a Japanese military science fiction novel series written by Chouhei Kambayashi. Its five-episode OVA adaptation ran from 2002-2005.

[19] [Magazine Note 3] Mist: A 2007 film based on the award-winning science fiction horror novella by Stephen King.

[20] [Magazine Note 4] Screamers: A 1995 futuristic science fiction horror film, based on Phillip K. Dick’s novelette “Second Variety”.

[21] [Magazine Note 5] Chaos Legion: A mixed-media action RPG released in 2003, getting a novelization by Tow Ubukata.

[22] [Magazine Note 6] Black Hawk Down: A 2001 war movie. Based on a non-fiction work about an actual urban war between international forces and guerillas that occurred in Somalia. The film depicts how a UH-60 Black Hawk​ gets taken down and this being dragged into a war situation.

[23] This is a very extensive subject, so please feel free to check out Nazi Germany on Wikipedia to get at least an overview.

[24] Another extensive subject, so feel free to check out 442nd Infantry Regiment on Wikipedia to get an overview.

[25] [Magazine Note 7] Scroll of Agony: The Warsaw Ghetto Diary: A diary kept by a Jewish teacher, {Chaim A. Kaplan}. It described the persecution and pillaging by the Nazis, as well as the three harsh years of {Kaplan’s} life.

Printed in Japan as (ワルシャワ・ゲットー日記―ユダヤ人教師の記録 or “Warsaw Ghetto Diary: A Jewish Teacher’s Record”), with Kaplan implied to have died in 1942 when he was sent to the Treblinka death camp along with other Warsaw Jews.

[26] Another extensive subject, so feel free to check out World War II on Wikipedia to get an overview. Feel free to also check out Gulf War on Wikipedia to get an overview on this topic.

[27] [Magazine Note 8] M551 Sheridan: an American tank developed to be amphibious, airborne tank. Its body was made of aluminum alloy to help reduce weight, but this made it vulnerable to anti-tank weapons and land mines, and it could explode when the shells it’s equipped with are triggered.

[28] X-ATM092: A spider-like robot boss enemy found in Final Fantasy VIII.

[29] Tachikoma: a blue-colored AI walker/roller tank that looks like a spider in the Ghost in the Shell cyberpunk media franchise.

[30] Swallowtail series: The sci-fi novel series written by Chitose Touma and published by Dengeki Bunko in 2008. The series is about artificial fairies, androids created in the form of humans, to be companions to still-living humans after parts of Tokyo’s population were wiped out in a pandemic, and one of these fairies, Ageha, is investigating a serial killer causing destruction. The work also has this multi-legged armored tank called “Tobigumo”. So far as I know this mecha doesn’t have official art, however, a fanart can be found in Pixiv here.

[31] [Magazine Note 9] Garter: They’re suspenders of sorts. “Garter belt” is the term for {a fabric strap which} which is clipped on over-the-knee socks or stockings. Having no shorts above garters is righteous! between the rich and the poor, became very much a hot topic during its time.

Asato’s interest in garter belts is not only shown in the novels, but also in the anime, which is noted to have a lot of thigh shots of Lena wearing said garter belts.

[32] [Magazine Note 10] Pilot suit: In this case, this is the type of suit that sticks really close to the body. As it shows the body lines quite clearly, it’s considered quite fetishistic. 

In the current time, 86--EIGHTY-SIX Volume 5: Death, Be Not Proud, has already been published, and Lena did wear the Cicada, which is Asato’s homage to pilot suits.

[33] Sieg Wahrheit: the protagonist of Chaos Legion.

[34] William F. Garrison: a retired major general of the United States Army who commanded United States forces during Operation Gothic Serpent including the Battle of Mogadishu, which served as an inspiration for the novel Black Hawk Down.

[35] The Chinese trumpet creeper, a native flowering vine species found in East Asia, usually in China, can mean “fame”, “honor”, “glory”, “abundant love” and “life filled with flowers” in the flower language.

[36] Eurasian goshawk: a medium-large bird-of-prey found in Europe and Asia and is among the species considered as “true” hawks. The kanji used in the article actually just refers to how Shinei Nouzen looks like a hawk, but upon further examination of said kanji in this reference, it pertained to that goshawk as well.

[37] Volume 3 of 86--EIGHTY-SIX was just about to be released in Japan around the moment this article was published, serving as a promotion of sorts.

[38] Several manga adaptations of 86--EIGHTY-SIX have been published as of current time. For more information, please check out this 86 Reddit Manga FAQ for further details.

[39] Besides Volume 1, Eighty-Six’s Interlude: Headless Knight II, Asato has managed to write this in the side stories Volume 10, Fragmental Neoteny Chapter 8: The Banks of Lethe and Alter.1: Claymore Squadron.

[40] The Queen’s Knights, formally known as the Brísingamen Squadron, was the squadron Lena became the Handler with after the Spearhead Squadron was sent on the Special Reconnaissance Mission. It was led by Shiden Iida and was pivotal in the Republic of San Magnolia’s defense during the 1st Legion Large Scale Offensive.

[arthenaa]

Courting the MC more specifically with a music. Both or our beloved Slytherins helping each other out. Can we do a Hufflepuff character cause I love the challenge of it. Thank you and good luck!

harana - sebastian x hufflepuff!reader x ominis

definition: means to serenade. an old courtship tradition in the Philippines that men do to formally meet and court women. Usually done by singing.

summary: After seeing the sudden rise of suitors after saving Hogwarts, Sebastian and Ominis go out of their comfort zones to top the other men in courting you. Even if it means getting to sing a little.

note: ahhh tysm for requesting !! not sure if this is what you meant but i immediately thought of my culture's old courting tradition so why not <3 i also love writing ominis and seb as two idiots in love who love vying for ur attention. the song below sets the mood and its opm (filipino music) and its v good ahhhh its optional tho! the song's abt a person falling in love w someone and finding them as their muse.

tags: reader is gender neutral despite the definition, fluff fluff, seb and omi are jealous fucks and being the slytherins that they are they get competitive, the end slowly descends to a crack fic cause its 3 in the morning, mentions of breaking kneecaps and homicide but its just ominis joking around, reader acting like a slytherin for a few seconds, reader is hinted to grow up in filipino culture but its just mentioning harana, other than that everythings by ur choice, seb and ominis insulting gryffindors BUT ITS NOT SRS ,,, ily my gryffindor readers, i love writing imelda as a menace, seb and ominis duet, im so fucking in love w them.

"That's the twelfth fucking letter I've seen today." Imelda eyes the letter on your desk in transfiguration class as the three of you enter the room. Poppy sends a harsh glare at the Slytherin as you busy yourself with examining the letter.

Do you think that saving Hogwarts and the fate of the wizarding world would lead you to this type of situation? Not at all. Sure you expected some type of attention— If anything, you wish you didn't receive any unnecessary ones at all but certainly Merlin has other plans for you. The result of being in Hogwarts' main spotlight has caused numerous heads to turn. At first, it was out of respect but then that same respect suddenly turned into something more.

You could hear whispers of attraction from your yearmates and the giggles from 3rd years as you roam the halls of the castle. It felt good for the first few days but now with the number of gifts and letters you're receiving, you wished you were once the 5th year who people regarded as a late bloomer and not worthy of their time.

You sigh as you read the letter, raising your eyebrows in amusement as it contained quite explicit details regarding you. You close the letter fast before shoving it in your satchel. "Hopefully, that's the last one."

"Ha!" Imelda scoffs as she sits down beside you. Poppy sits on your other side. "After that whole fiasco at the Great Hall, you think their fragile egos would allow that to top their chance with you?"

You let out a groan at the mention. For some reason, one of your suitors decided to send a howler to top the other gifts sent to you. Apparently the thought was the louder it is, the more it'll get your attention. He took it quite literally and you spent most of your lunch wallowing in misery as Poppy comforted you.

"I just pray there wouldn't be any more howlers screaming at Y/N's face. A bit of an overreaction must I say. Who would want to date that?" Poppy sends you a pitiful look. You pinch her cheek at her concern.

"These things are overwhelming— You think if I asked Leander to drink a polyjuice potion of me in exchange for blackmail on Sebastian, would he agree?" You turn to Imelda with a hopeful gaze. The Slytherin girl chuckled.

"I'd drink a polyjuice potion of you if you gave me blackmail of Sebastian." Imelda leans close with a mischievous gaze before backtracking with hesitance. "On second thought, I might just be bombarded with love letters and that goo goo eyes from Sallow and Gaunt so no I take it back."

"Goo goo eyes?" You let out a confused laugh. "Since when do they do that?"

"All the time." Poppy chimes in as she watches students slowly pile in the classroom. "It's quite fun to watch actually."

"No, they don't?" You incredulously reply as you glance back and forth at your seatmates.

"Yes, they do." Imelda retorts

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do." Poppy puts a hand on your shoulder, whispering it slowly. You playfully shove her hand away.

"On a third thought actually, let me drink the polyjuice potion. I'd like to mess with the two and see their fucking reactions when I tell them I'm in love with Garreth Weasley." Imelda jokes as she nudges you with her arm. It might've been the best time for the subjects of the conversation to enter. You stop yourself from laughing as Sebastian winks playfully at you, walking towards your table and propping a leg on the elevated platform. Ominis follows behind him, smiling at the sense of your presence.

"You're in love with Weasley?" Sebastian gasps dramatically. Imelda spins around in surprise before scowling at the entrance of Sebastian.

"As Y/N." Imelda responds. Sebastian turns now to you with a raised eyebrow.

"Y/N's in love with Weasley?" Ominis adds more to the confusion. You roll your eyes at them. Poppy watches as the two men tense at the thought, waiting for your explanation. She thinks Imelda is right. This is quite amusing.

"No, I'm not. Stop twisting things." You correct them. Ominis and Sebastian visibly relax and it almost makes Poppy cackle.

"Then who's in love with the Gryffindork?" Sebastian seats on the seat in front of you, Ominis sitting beside him. "Oh yeah, before I forgot."

Sebastian turns around to you, placing a bag of chocolate frogs on your desk. You fall silent at the gift before smiling at him. Sebastian nonchalantly licks his lips before continuing. "It's from both of us."

"Both of you?" Imelda leans over to send a knowing gaze at Sebastian who flips her off.

"Thank you. I was supposed to get some on my trip to Hogsmeade later. You're heaven-sent." You giggle as you lean forward to pinch Sebastian's cheeks before ruffling Ominis's hair. The two only grumble in thanks, ears flushed red. Of course, you wouldn't notice, Imelda thinks as she watches Ominis fix his hair without even snapping at you for ruining it.

"No one's in love with Garreth. Y/N was just asking Imelda if she'd drink a polyjuice potion of them in exchange for blackmail on Sebastian, would she agree." Poppy explains as she leans back against her chair. Sebastian turns with furrowed eyebrows.

"You'd offer me over that?" Sebastian gasps, betrayed. You chuckle at his expression before glancing at Ominis who shrugs at the thought.

"It's quite a tempting offer." Ominis jests before Sebastian smacks his arm in retaliation.

"I mean if you spend a day like Y/N, won't it be so entertaining with the number of love letters they're getting?" Imelda places an arm on your chair behind you, sighing as she drums her fingertips against the wooden surface of the back of the chair. This catches Sebastian and Ominis's attention.

"What letters?" Ominis's voice is quiet but firm. You sit up, tense as if you've been caught doing something you shouldn't be doing.

"You don't know?" Poppy unawarely responds. "Y/N's the center of attention. Tons of suitors are asking for their hand. The gifts are horrendous so far though. Especially, that howler."

"Is that the same fucking howler I heard people talking about in the greenhouse?" Sebastian looks at you for confirmation to which you sheepishly nod.

"That's quite aggressive." Ominis huffs in annoyance. "Can't believe they would resort to unnecessary means of conveying feelings rather than just doing it properly."

"It's fine guys." You try to reassure them. "It'll die down."

"Do you take that as proper?" Imelda raises her eyebrows, eyes subtly glancing down at the bag of chocolate frogs on your desk. Sebastian squints his eyes to a glare at her.

"You ought to learn how to keep your mouth shut, Reyes," Ominis replies as he pulls out his quill. Reyes leans back to catch Poppy's eye before quietly mocking Ominis, repeating his words. The Hufflepuff laughs at her antics before sitting up at the entrace of Professor Weasley.

You catch Sebastian's hand moving back up and resting on your desk, palm facing up. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion as he seems to focus on Professor Weasley's discussion but the twitch of his fingers as he motions for you to give him something says otherwise. You try to give an extra quill at first but he shakes it off, then the chocolates, then a handkerchief but none fits what he's blindly requesting. So as a joke, you place your hand in his palm and surprisingly he curls his fingers to hold yours. It was an odd position but you smile at his cheekiness. He tilts his head to the side, smirking at you from the side of his eye.

The moment was short-lived however.

"Mr. Sallow, I advise you to focus in class and have your hand hold your quill instead." Professor Weasley shoots a pointed look at Sebastian and then at you. You smile sheepishly, hesitantly pulling your hand away.

The Slytherin boy only smiles innocently. "Apologies, Professor."

Ominis grumbles beside him, hitting the side of his thigh with his knee. The Sallow boy makes a show of holding his quill toward Professor Weasley who shakes her head in amusement. His eyes then look up to assess the room, finding multiple stares at him. Most of them were filled with jealousy.

Definitely worth it.

"You're a moron. An idiot." Ominis hisses as he pinches Sebastian on the way out of class. Sebastian yelps in pain as they stop in a secluded corner to allow Ominis to chastise him for his little act back at class.

"What? It was worth it!" Sebastian reasons as he rubs his abused arm. "The look on their face was hilarious. You should've seen them."

Ominis raises an eyebrow at him to which he chuckles. Before the two could ask you to hang out with them in the Undercroft, Poppy had immediately whisked you away, claiming that you two had plans for something back at the Hufflepuff common room. If being nice was a person, Sebastian thinks it's you as you allow yourself to be dragged away by the energetic girl. Imelda however was a pain in the ass as she gives the both of them with a knowing look and a wiggle of her eyebrows before moving along to wherever she's going— probably to fly her stupid fucking broom.

"I didn't know we had competition." Sebastian says as he leans back against the stone walls. His head turns to Ominis who does the same as him, fiddling with his wand.

"I mean why wouldn't we." Ominis blows a raspberry. It almost makes Sebastian laugh at how uncharacteristic it is but he knows better. Ominis is worried. "It's more understandable that they'd have more admirers now."

Sebastian nods in understanding as he now turns to face the almost empty corridor. The soft breeze from outside blew softly against their robes, tousling Sebastian's curls.

"Doesn't change the fact we're first, though." He smiles, nudging Ominis's shoulder with his own. Anyone who probably wasn't Leander Prewett would immediately guess the budding attraction these two had for you. Samantha Dale was the first one to point it out, and if she weren't Sebastian's dearest friend, he probably would cast an oscausi on her for being so loud with her teasing. The two kept it from each other at first before they both noticed things at the same time. How different the other acted around you. All it took was a hushed conversation in the Undercroft and your sudden presence as you entered the secret room with an excited smile as you gushed about your adventure with Natty and the Hippogriffs, that the boys had a silent agreement.

That they'd pursue you together.

Of course, it didn't hinder the fact that you might choose only one of them. So they agreed to not disturb each other's alone time with you or their individual efforts in pursuing you. After all, they were best friends first before you.

It didn't also help the fact that they haven't formally courted you yet.

"I heard from Poppy someone had given them a bouquet of roses in their common room. It caused quite a commotion yesterday." Sebastian scoffs. "Why are we now only knowing this?"

Well it was probably because they were deemed to be the rivals to have the best chance on winning you over. They had been with you right from the start and we're considered to be your dearest friends. Of course people would keep things from them.

"Anyways, did you get the thing?" Ominis tilts his head toward Sebastian's direction. "I still can't believe this is how we'll do it."

"It's romantic! Also, yes." Sebastian grins as he leans his body against Ominis. The blonde stumbles a bit to the side at the sudden pressure on his side.

"Get off me."

"No."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to agree to our hangout a while ago. Poppy insisted her situation was too dire to ignore." You smiled sheepishly as you open the doors to the room of requirement. Ominis smiles in understanding while Sebastian whistles as he admires the place.

"Will never get used to this at all." Sebastian sighs dreamily, tucking his hands in his pockets as he stands at the center of the room. You promised to make it up to them before Poppy rudely dragged you away to your common room and when Imelda grudgingly approached them in the Slytherin common room with a message from you, they were quite ecstatic. The two made haste in gathering their things to meet you at the assigned place (Ominis made sure that Sebastian had the thing they needed before leaving).

They had been here a couple of times before. Once after that whole scriptorium escapade, You had said that it was only fair that you show them your secret hideout after they had entrusted theirs with you. Ominis tried to argue that it wasn't necessary, not realizing that you were actually leading them to the place but you had already pulled them in and shown the wonders of your vivarium before they could even have the chance to say no.

"Same." You breathed out before turning to them with a smile. With a skip on your step, you grab Ominis first and guide him to suit down at the lounge area located at the center of the room. It faced the vivariums quite nicely, allowing a glimpse of the happy creatures fluttering around in their dens. You then moved to the brunette who lets himself be dragged to the chair beside Ominis. "Wait here, I'll just feed them. Highwing's got herself a new offspring and Godiva's handling triplets. I'll be right back."

You spoke of your Hippogriff and Niffler with love and affection that it almost makes Ominis jealous but he only nods in understanding. 'Really, over a niffler?' Ominis thinks, pinching himself on the thigh as he hears your footsteps fade away inside the vivarium.

There's a moment of silence before Sebastian reaches over to slap Ominis's arm. The blonde yelps in pain. "What the fuck?"

"Are we supposed to y'know..."

"What?"

"To..." Sebastian makes hand gestures to which Ominis makes a deadpan face.

"To?"

"Y'know..."

"You do know I can't see you right?" Ominis grunts, annoyed. He could just sense Sebastian making weird movements with his hands from the way his robes ruffled against each other.

"Right, forgot. Silly me!" Sebastian laughs. He's been trying to piss off Ominis since this morning from making tasteless pun jokes to borderline harassing the poor blonde. Ominis has only had enough before he decides to result to homicide (jokingly).

"Keep making jokes like that and I'll break your fucking kneecaps off."

"Damn, you don't have to go that far." Sebastian moves his chair slightly to the right in fear of what Ominis might do.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Sallow," Ominis threatens like a fucking menace in society. "Disability is never a choice unless I inflict it."

"I'm sorry."

"Got that right."

"I'll be there in a moment!" You had emerged from one of the vivariums on the second floor. Sebastian and Ominis awkwardly smile at you, the brunette going for a wave as well. You smile at them before heading back in. The room had given you a way to easily travel between vivariums, giving you fast access to tend to your beasts.

Sebastian turns to Ominis and huffs before a determined look flashes on his face. "It's now or never, Ominis."

"Now wait a fucking minute—"

"You can do it," Sebastian grumbles under his breath as he apparates a guitar in his lap. He adjusts the instrument as he glances up at where you had disappeared. "Any moment Y/N walks through those doors and we don't do this now, we lose to fucking Leander Prewett. Would you allow yourself to lose to a fucking Gryffindor of all people?"

"No," Ominis replies as he grips his knees in nervousness. "That would be degrading... I don't like being degraded... Actually.... I change my mind, it depends."

"Depends on what?"

"... Nothing, just forget about it. Anyways, I would rather be stomped on by a troll than let Leander Prewett get a chance."

"Exactly! It's like getting stupefied in the ass." He furrows his eyebrows in determination as he reaches one hand to grip Ominis on the shoulder.

"You speak as though you've experienced it."

"... Things are better left unsaid, my friend." Sebastian smiles before they hear your voice again, this time coming from left vivarium. Sebastian smacks Ominis's arm before placing his hands back on the guitar.

"On three." Sebastian whispers before counting down.

The soft strumming of the guitar catches your attention. You had been trying to get Neo, Highwing's son, to stop following you back into the room after you had tried to tend to your patient guests below but now, you just wanted to investigate the sudden music filling your ears. You quickly make your way out of the vivarium, stepping into their vision as you gasp in marvel at the sight of Sebastian playing the guitar beautifully. You lean against the balcony railing, biting your lip as you pointlessly fail to prevent a smile from coming out.

It's Ominis's voice that even shocks you further.

Georgia, wrap me up in all your

I want you in my arms

His voice is magical and melodious. Like raindrops softly tapping against the window or the sound of a piano on a sustain pedal. Continuous and ethereal. You stare at him in awe as he continues to sing.

Oh, let me hold you

I'll never let you go again like I did

Oh, I used to say

As Ominis sings, your eyes catch Sebastian's eyes, never leaving yours as he expertly plucks the strings of the guitar. Your breath hitches as his eye never seem to leave you as you descend the stairs, slowly making your way towards them before stopping a few meters away from where they're seated. Then you hear Sebastian's voice.

I would never fall in love again until I found them

I said, "I would never fall unless it's you I fall into"

It's beautiful. The way Ominis's ethereal voice blends with Sebastian's smooth one. While Ominis reminds you of magic itself, Sebastian gives you the feeling of reality. The concept of it all. It sounds quite ironic with two concepts unimaginably relating to one another but in your world, it coincides perfectly. Two unintangible concepts make sense together. Just like you three. Vast differences and yet you had formed a bond like no other.

Your smile reaches to your eyes as you listen to their song.

I was lost within the darkness, but then I found her

I found you.

The strumming softly ends as the both of them lick their lips in nervousness. There was a moment of pause before you let out a soft giggle and clap joyously at their performance.

"That was wonderful!" You walk towards them, sitting on the coffee table in front of their seats. Sebastian and Ominis blush at your compliments.

"Do— Do you know what it means?" Ominis hesitantly asks.

You stare softly at the two. "It's harana, isn't it? You're both serenading me?"

Sebastian breathes out a shaky breath before nodding. "We've felt for you for quite some time now. We decided to pursue you together. Apologies if that made you feel overwhelmed."

"No. No! It's quite alright." You reassure them. "I'm happy that you've resorted to this method. It certainly brings back a lot of memories from home. The streets are always filled with music because of it. I wondered if I would ever get to receive one."

You bite your lip as you reminisce, your hands fiddling with each other. You let out a sigh before reaching out to hold one of their hands in yours. "Thank you. I'm glad you did."

Sebastian eyes furrow in confusion. "Are— Are you allowing us to court you?"

"Mhm."

"Is it me or?"

"Together." You nod as you glance back and forth at their surprised faces.

"Together?" Ominis whispers.

"Together." You repeat.

It takes a moment to process before both of them surge from their seats to hug you. You almost fall off but the Ominis's hand on your waist catches you. The three of you laugh.

"Well I mean, three is better than two, right?" Sebastian giggles like a schoolgirl as both he and Ominis lean back enough to be close to you and not hog your space with his weight. "I can't fucking believe this."

"Well, you have to." You smile before you smugly cross your arms over your chest "I was gonna let you two court me either way, I was just waiting for you two to ask."

"What if we hadn't agreed to pursue you together?" Ominis raises his eyebrow in suspicion. Your eyes playfully look away as you purse your lips.

"You have to." You shrug with a smile. "I'll make you. Besides, it's no secret that you two like each other as well. I have eyes you know."

The two blush once again at your observation to which you two laugh.

"Well, green has always looked better with yellow." Sebastian coughs as an attempt to recollect himself before smugly smiling.

"Unfortunately, I have to disagree." You sadly smile. "Imelda says we'll look like puke together. She's decided to call us that if we do in fact get together."

"Well, fuck Imelda." Ominis snorts. You giggle at his reply as Sebastian nods, agreeing with him in badmouthing your friend.

"Fuck Imelda indeed."

You decide to let this pass and fly over your head. Surely Imelda won't mind.

She doesn't need to know.

A/N: This took quite long HAHAHA but I had fun hehe hope this satisfied you anon <3 will be editing this in the morning gnight

[graysparrowao3]

Heyyooo!

I'm popping in cause i just wanted to let you i really love your stuff and miss seeing you on my dash.(why tumble timeout??) I'm sorry someone felt the need to come at you with unkindness but i bet there's a lot more people who LOVE seeing you roll across their timeline (self included). I love your writing, its super sweet and i adore how you present the characters. I do hope that person didn't dampen your spirits too much, You're a gem!

Helloooo! 💛 This was such a kind thing that you took the time to say, thank you so much. It really, really lifted my spirits and to hear that you enjoy my presence and writing is so touching (and especially as I absolutely adore all your content and posts too!). You're absolute royalty. I'm so glad to actually be able to be back in your presence and respond to you now as well!

I don't know if you remember this post, but in celebration of being freed from Tumblr jail and in gratitude for your kind words, I finally wrote you something based on this prompt. It's just a series of three short scenes but I hope you like it! I'll put it below a cut.

Summary for bonus part 4 of the Rolan, Cal, and Lia sneaking in and out for dates series: Cal and Lia are sneaking around trying to hide their romance liaisons from Rolan, who, unbeknownst to his siblings, already knows about them both...

Words: 1,174

Cal gathered up the usual stack of envelopes, scrolls, and a copy of the latest Baldur’s Mouth that filled the postbox and began to sort through them as he sauntered into the kitchen where his family was seated.  

“For the owner of Ramazith’s Tower.” Cal handed an unusual, sealed paper over, then dropped the rest of the assorted junk onto the middle of the table.

Rolan tucked the envelope quickly away.

“Love letter?” Lia teased.

“Not that it would be your business if it was.” Rolan returned the light-hearted tone.

“Just joking,” Lia leaned casually on her shoulders, “but now I’m interested.”

“Never you mind.” Rolan waved her away, taking another bite to break his fast.

“Not that you have to tell us,” Cal settled back onto the table and flipped idly through the Gazette without reading it, “but it would be nice if you found someone.”

“I’m sure it would,” Rolan mumbled, “alas, your curiosity will remain unsatisfied. I promise it is not about my personal affairs.”

“If you say so,” Cal was already distracted by one of the illustrations, dropping crumbs onto the page as he chewed. “Weird thing the other day. Could’ve sworn I was being followed.”

“How’d you figure?” Lia’s brow creased with concern as she placed her drink down.

“Pass that here,” Rolan ignored the conversation and gestured for Cal to hand him the newspaper.

“Not sure exactly. Might’ve been imagining it.” Cal grimaced as he tried to recall, “was probably nothing.”

“Worth checking, though,” his sister insisted.

“I’m sure you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” Rolan glanced briefly over the top of the page.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, “you’re probably right.”

“Rolan,” Lia pulled down the top of the paper in front of him, “think it’s worth a check – to be sure.”

He opened his mouth, then scoffed, reluctantly agreeing,

“Fine, fine, I’ll check up on it today. I’ve got more than a few favours I can call in. I’ll keep us quite safe, fear not,” he folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

“Thank you, Rolan.”

When they were done and the crumbs cleared and the plates cleaned, Rolan restrained his interest long enough to nonchalantly stroll to his office. Once inside, he quickly applied an Arcane Lock to the door and hurried to the desk, eagerly taking out the envelope and opening it with rushed hands. The letter unfolded, finally the favour he’d called in had paid off. He huffed as he read – they could’ve been a little more subtle about it, at least; he wasn't supposed to have been aware of them.

Archmage Rolan – as you wished, please find below the following information regarding the individual that has been seen in the company of your brother. Stand up member of society, as far as I can tell. Boring, honestly. And not that you asked my opinion, but they did seem rather happy in each other’s presence. It was sickening.

No, I didn’t ask, Rolan thought, but he couldn’t help but smile.

Rolan sat, legs and arms crossed. Eyelids falling gently shut before he commanded them to remain open. It would be morning soon. Lia should have been back long ago. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor. Then… a sound. He leant forward in the chair, ears willing it louder. Two sets of poorly concealed footsteps lazily approaching the door outside. He exhaled. At least she was alright. A click in the lock and the door creaked open. With a quick flick of his wrist, Rolan shrouded himself in Invisibility.

An uncharacteristic giggle followed by a soft gasp of excitement. His sister stepped backwards across the threshold,

“Shh,” Lia pressing her finger delicately against her partner’s lips, “lest my brothers hear.”

Rolan raised an eyebrow.

Lia fell back in, replacing her finger with her own lips. She pulled them in close, willing them to step into the tower with her body, hands in their hair. They obliged, their hands on her, searching the edges of her corset, exploring the material tight against her sides, sitting on her hips, teasing at her waist.

Oh, Gods, no. Absolutely not.

A sudden sound caused Lia to pull away. She turned to see a heavy tome that had slammed onto the ground nearby. She crept over and looked around, finding no obvious place where it could have fallen from or been dislodged.

“Tower is Gods damned cursed.” She muttered. She returned to her lover at the door, lacing her arms around their shoulders and pulling them in for a passionate goodbye. Rolan rolled his eyes and shuffled away, grateful to find his bed.

Rolan was enjoying a glass of his favourite red and warming himself by the fireplace after a long day. Long, but rewarding. Honestly, he couldn’t have imagined better, more fulfilling days. He heard the comforting noise of two tieflings moving into the room to join him before the night called to them all.

“I thought we might,” Rolan gestured lazily with his glass, “spend some time together tomorrow evening. Games, drinks, what have you.”

“Tomorrow?” Lia stopped before she made it to a chair, her question tenser than it ought to have been.

“Does it have to be tomorrow, Rolan?” Cal exchanged an uneasy look with her.

“I suppose not, though,” Rolan took a sip of his wine and smiled indulgently into the glass; he’d let them sweat just a little, “what’s the problem with tomorrow?”

“Just…” Cal stumbled, “something else might come up.”

“Might it,” Rolan raised an amused eyebrow.

“I just mean, there was something going on, maybe. I’m not sure. Better to be free for it than not.”

“Is that so,” he took another sip, enjoying himself immensely.

“All got our secrets,” Lia crossed her arms defiantly, “don’t ask you about yours.”

“I think you’ll find you do,” Rolan waved his goblet, “all the Gods damned time, actually.”

“Fine, have it your way.” Lia said, wishing she didn’t sound as disappointed as she did.

“No, no, by all means, do have your mysterious plans tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later.”

“Don’t know about that,” Cal relaxed.

“You are many things, dear brother, but a master detective is not one.”

“Is that so?” Rolan’s smug smile loosened by the wine.

“Not saying you’re not good at other things,” Cal added, quickly.

“Just that you’re not always the most insightful. That can’t be news to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rolan swirled the claret liquid around the class, “I might have picked up a thing or two over the years.”

“Go on then,” Cal tempted him, “if we’re hiding something, what is it?”

“Let me guess,” Rolan feigned ignorance, “a friend I might disapprove of – someone from the guild, perhaps? Or perhaps an unwise game of chance in someone’s basement somewhere.”

Cal and Lia shared a cheeky look.

“Yeah,” they settled into the chairs beside him, “something like that.”

“You see,” he relaxed back, a smile of contentment on his face, “I’m sure I wouldn’t have a clue.”

[neutron-stars-collision]

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 8 - London Bridge Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 7 Summary: With preparations for the next ballet of the season at all time high, it seems like only Neil is capable of calming you down. With whatever means necessary. After all, that's what friends are for. Warnings: Swearing, explicit language, implied sexual content. Author's Notes: Well, hello. As you might've seen from my posts, this one is early and only 3/4 of what I have outlined but seeing as it already took near two months, I figured I might as well split this here. It's 10k so not bad either ✨ This way I'll be stressing less about how long it's taking me to write this. This is the first chapter of the so-called Nutcracker season, so I thought I might drop some reference videos again in case y'all wanted to see what the sequences I refer to look like. And so that the two hours of research aren't entirely wasted lol Anyways, here's Waltz of the Snowflakes and Waltz of the Flowers. Enjoy the extra education 💕 Thank you for reading and being patient as I try to wrestle my brain into obedience 💖 Let me know what you think? Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added).

For someone who usually hated the mere mention of the word routine and all that it entailed, you took a worrying amount of joy in having it established on Wednesdays. There was something to be cherished in the cold autumn breeze as you hurried down the streets, knowing that soon you could talk to him like you had been itching to since you had parted. The countless texts and occasional phone calls in between hardly mattered in that case. Not because they were not good enough at sustaining the connection, but rather because while they kept you sane, they could never replace the real thing.

The exact way Neil’s eyes shone in the sharp light of the fluorescents whenever you said something funny or scandalous. Or the curve of his smile, breaching that thin line between mere joy and smugness at being the sole object of your attention and desire. Or perhaps the different topics you cycled through within the twenty-minute-long window the shared commute allowed you. There was hardly reason nor logic to them, but every Wednesday morning, as you approached the St. John’s Wood station, you would find yourself increasingly curious about what this day would entail. What you would talk about. What you would be able to learn about him.

No matter the minutes spent wondering and debating, you could never anticipate the conversation in its entirety.

By now, you were a pro at finding Neil the moment you stepped aboard the train. Most times you would spot him before he knew the train had stopped at your station. He would raise his pretty blond head and meet your gaze, lighting up instantly and getting rid of any apprehension you could still hold over being so openly into him.

Today was not any different in that regard. Once you had successfully located him (head bowed over a book in his lap, the blonde hair tousled by the wind raging outside), you crossed the space despite the sudden movement of the carriage and unceremoniously dropped to the seat next to him with a greeting ready on your tongue:

“Hey, you” your grin widened as Neil’s head swivelled in your direction with worrying speed.

You stared as he closed the book without bothering to mark the page, letting his gaze trace its customary path over your face and body. It was always like this. His eyes would wander over your features with detailed focus, almost as if expecting something to have changed. The moment made you pause, instantly concerned whether there could be something amiss, but the uncertainty vanished the second Neil’s lips widened into a bright grin. The courage to ask what it all meant was nowhere to be found yet. If ever.

“Morning, sunshine” offering you an overeager wink, he dropped the forgotten book in the bag and focused on you.

That sort of unspoken declaration still stroked your ego like nothing else. And you were unwilling to understand why that could be.

“If there’s anyone worthy of the ‘sunshine’ title, it’s you, my dear” stifling a yawn, you reached out to further ruffle his hair, enjoying the feel of his soft locks between your fingers. If the move had an ulterior motive (it did), you did not let it show and instead chose to relish in the myriads of feelings passing through Neil’s face. Namely affection, arousal and hunger, “What with all that hair and a dazzling smile,” before you could lose the feeble illusion of control, you dropped your hand back on your lap and met his questioning look with a blank smile.

Moments like this were best not discussed. And least of all on public transport. Despite it being over a week since your late Friday night commute and the decisions it had solidified, you were yet to make any substantial changes to your relationship. You were yet to ask him for another memorable night or a fleeting moment in a private place. For now, endless flirting, occasional sexting and increasingly courageous touches had to do. But, as always, they were not discussed. They simply happened. By an accident, of course.

“The hair is dyed” arching his eyebrow at your blatant misbehaviour, Neil offered the comment flatly.

Well, duh.

“Yeah, I know. You need to give me your hairdresser’s details because they’re doing a splendid job” barely resisting the urge to bury your fingers in his hair again, you clasped your hands together and chose to stare down the impertinent woman, shooting you both dirty looks across the carriage.

Only once she looked away, visibly flustered, you could glance at Neil again. As always, you found his gaze firmly trained on you. As if looking away was not an option.

“I’ll pass on the praise” shrugging, Neil allowed his eyes to wander, tracing invisible paths down the curve of your neck and further down, forcing your blush out of hiding whether you wanted or not.

Swallowing past the heat rising in your face, you uncrossed your legs and forced your brain to behave. That would not do. Being eternally flustered was not a state you were used to or even wanted to be. But increasingly, it was a state you were finding yourself in almost daily. Something had to be done about it. And fast.

Chancing a cheeky look at Neil, you allowed your mouth to run along and do its own thing. That always worked.

“You should. Who knows, maybe they, too, have a praise kink” as soon as the words were out, you knew it was the right call.

The leverage to give you the upper hand and render Neil speechless. Even more so that he was well aware you were right. The realization was written plain on his face, in the slack jaw and wide eyes, struck dumb by your boldness. Checkmate.

“Too? Are you insinuating something?” leaning forward and into your personal space, Neil’s voice dropped a notch.

The hastily put-up mask of indifference did nothing to deter you. You knew you were right. His reaction to the things you said that Friday night was something you thought of every day. Particularly the undoubted effects your bold use of ‘good boy’ had on Neil. His gasps, the groans of pleasure, and then-

“Wouldn’t dare to” mirroring his position, you leaned further into his space until all that was left was a few mere centimetres between you, easy to breach should you want to, “Except that we both know it’s true,” you met his gaze with an unyielding smile of your own, beckoning Neil to argue.

You could see the defiance in his blue eyes, the desire to throw you off the haunch by all means necessary. But you could also find defeat there, the embarrassment stemming from the simple fact that Neil knew he had already lost. You were right. As always.

Feeling the pride of victory surge through your veins, you opened your mouth to deliver the final strike before Neil closed it with a finger against your lips. The sudden touch burned like a hot poker, inciting thousands of thoughts you would rather not entertain. Not now, at least.

“Don’t” from the command in his voice, you could ascertain that Neil knew where it was all heading. He could tell that the words on your tongue were those two that had proved his weakness before, “Not here,” the unspoken plea finishing the speech did not go unnoticed.

It was strengthened by the silent resolution in his eyes as Neil lifted his finger from your mouth and let his fingers carefully caress your chin, angling your face for a kiss that would not come. Not here, as he said. Not yet.

“Very well. Next time,” as soon as the reply fell in the space between you, Neil nodded, solidifying a promise that had not quite been voiced but was understood by the both of you, “Soon, I think,” the addition was only a formality.

You both knew it would have to be soon. As if reminded of your surroundings, Neil dropped his hand from your face and shot you a smirk. Soon, indeed. Before your brain could run away with thousands of scenarios concerning that second rendezvous and all that you wanted to do to Neil when given the chance, he spoke again, swiftly changing the subject:

“What’s your stress level, Cupid?” it was easy to discern that it was a tactical move on his side, an easy way to move the conversation to a safer zone that would not make either or both of you misbehave in public.

But still, the question made the wave of affection spread over your chest, mostly because he cared enough to ask and wanted to hear the answer. And you really wanted to talk to someone about the sleepless nights and heart palpitations growing in frequency the closer it got to the audition day.

“Through the fucking roof,” sighing against the anxiety levels steadily building up in your system, you levelled Neil with a tired look, “I’ve less than a week left” by now, the countdown felt almost like minutes left till your scheduled audience on the death row.

Or something equally dramatic. From the seriousness reflected at you in Neil’s eyes, you knew he was all too aware of it.

“I know” he reached out to squeeze your arm comfortingly and asked, “Do you have the choreography all figured out?”

The question only increased the affection you could barely contain. Ignoring the sudden desire to snuggle up to Neil like a cat to attempt to show even an ounce of your current feelings, you chose to focus on the more pressing issues. Namely, the fear coursing through your veins and talking to the only person who seemed to understand it all.

“I think?” stifling another heavy sigh, you leaned back in the chair to stare at the Jubilee line map above the window opposite “I mean that’s basically the plan today. I’m going to the studio to practice every single variation till I can’t tell my Clara from the Snow Queen” this time a pained groan was unavoidable.

As much as you were looking forward to losing yourself in dancing for the whole day, all that followed was too terrifying to name. Yet, with every word spoken on the topic, you could hardly keep the fears at bay. They multiplied and strengthened till you could feel your heart rate rise, the pulse thundering in your ears. There was so much to dread, so many unknowns. So much that you could not foresee and so much that could go wrong. Too much.

“I’m not sure I know what that means, but I know that you’ve got this” through the rising panic, you registered Neil’s reassurance but could barely process it.

The spiral must have shown on your face because the next thing you felt was his careful touch, gentle fingers running over your forearm to take your hand in his and squeeze it. Without thinking, you let Neil entangle your fingers loosely and glanced at him, judging his mood. Finding nothing but concern and steadfast belief in your abilities, you turned away again, focusing on voicing what had to be said. Who knew when would be the next time you would have a willing listener available?

“Yeah, well, I’m not convinced,” swallowing hard past the doubt and worries that Neil did not want to hear any of your bullshit, you focused on the steady caress of his thumb running over your knuckles, soothing the nerves and reminding you of his presence. It had to be enough, “Sometimes I just… Do you know that feeling when you want something very badly, but you’re also almost certain that if you do get it, then it will be taken from you?” the question came out in a rush, words melting together into one anxious mess but the understanding in Neil’s gaze kept you going “I want to do well, but I’m also terrified of what might happen if I do succeed” getting the words out after days of rotating them in your head felt almost like a relief, offering you a chance to take a deeper breath. Even if they still seemed true, accurate, “So much so that sometimes I wonder whether I should just give up. Stop trying” finishing the tirade with an exhausted sigh seemed like an apt conclusion as you turned your head back to Neil, both dreading and needing to see his reaction.

Those were some of the things you had never told anyone else. The thoughts that kept you awake during many lonely nights and those that pushed you to the limits of what was supposed to be bearable. The drive behind every anxious thought and inexplicable fear. That which none of your friends needed or wanted to hear.

No one except for Neil, that is.

If the understanding on his face was anything to go by, he wanted to listen. His hand kept the reassuring hold over yours, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. This one time, being seen did not hurt quite so much. Maybe if Neil could peer inside your heart and soul, he would be able to make sense of it all when you could not.

“But isn’t the fear of fucking up stronger than that of having succeeded?” after a beat, Neil’s question fell with a heightened impact upon the noise from the departed station fading into the background.

Wasn’t that the clue of it all?

“I don’t know” with no answer but another pained sigh, you allowed your head to rest against Neil’s shoulder. Only then, with the pleasant warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek and the faint certainty that you could feel him nuzzle your temple, could you speak words into existence with only Neil as your witness, “I wish I had a way of knowing what’s destined for me” once you started talking, it was difficult to stop, unburdening your heart word after word, with no fear of judgement to be found “Like a horoscope but one that truly works” feeling the itch of frustration beneath your skin, you closed your eyes to attempt anchoring in the moment.

Even if only for a second. A second spent soaking up Neil’s warmth and his solid presence. A second spent not losing your mind. For a change.

“I’m pretty sure you’d go mad if you knew what fate has in store for you” feeling Neil’s steady gaze fixed on your face, you looked up in time to see the intent behind his words there. A subtle confirmation of the fact that he knew what he was saying was true and that you knew it, too. Even if you would never admit as much, “I know I would,” shrugging lightly not to disturb you from where you still had your chin propped on his shoulder, Neil cracked a small smile.

As if willing you to see where he was going with this. And you did know. It was only that sometimes (or rather most of the time) logic was difficult to come by. In those moments, ruled by fear and worry, all you craved was certainty. A knowledge of what the future held and what steps you needed to take to abstain from fucking it all up. But that was not something you could have. And that, in turn, was fucking you up. It was embarrassing and relieving to know that Neil understood without you having the words to express it all.

That he just knew. Like he knew everything, it seemed.

“I would too, but maybe insanity is better than whatever this is” ignoring the strange thoughts, which could lead you into the temptation, you raised your head from his shoulder and offered a tired shrug.

It was better that way. Safer.

“The tragedy known as everyday life?” his mouth quirked into a familiar grin, its traces already warming up your body and soul.

It was increasingly harder to look away from him in those moments. In those pauses between words, when his gaze was all you could focus on. When his blue eyes offered solace from fears. When it seemed like Neil did not mind being your anchor, the one thing keeping you on the verge of sanity.

When all you truly wanted to do was to press your lips to his and keep kissing him until everything else faded. Until there was nothing that could scare you.

Well, maybe, except for-

“Quite” you shook your head lightly, praying to all deities the ridiculous thoughts would disperse. Stuck in a daze, you looked outside as the PA crackled to life, announcing Southwark as the next station. Without a reason you could name, your heart missed a beat. It was time to go, “Fuck, I should get up. I don’t want to leave you” the honesty was easy to voice once you were arrested by his blue gaze, having made the mistake of glancing back at Neil.

You could tell he would need no convincing about the truthfulness of your admission. Neil’s soft smile, undoubtedly influenced by what must have been a particularly pathetic look on your face, only strengthened the conviction. He squeezed your hand, remaining securely clasped in his, and nudged your shoulder with his:

“Nutcrackers await you, Cupid” the simplicity of that reassurance was enough to make you grin, especially since you could tell Neil had not yet done his reading on the ballet.

With a remorseful sigh, you rose from the seat, letting go of his hand. Your eyes did not yet get the memo, as they stayed glued to his face, roaming over the features you now knew almost as well as your own. Within his gaze, you found the missing inspiration and the courage to ask what you wanted.

“Actually… Would you want to come up to the studio tomorrow evening? To provide feedback and butter me up?” you bated your eyelashes to complete the look, fully aware it was unnecessary.

Neil never needed the vapid flirting. He only seemed to need to know you meant what you said. And this time, there was no space for doubt.

“I’d love to” mirroring your manic grin, Neil captured your hand between his palms and brushed his fingers over your knuckles in a move that was almost reverent.

It was dangerous, too. You blinked against the haze in your eyes and tugged your hand free from the loose grasp. With the lights of Southwark creeping into the carriage, you knew it was time to go. Lest stupidity persisted.

***

Inviting Neil to the studio to watch your final touches to the choreography before the Friday audition seemed like a good idea when you said it. But over 24 hours later, waiting for the man himself to arrive and pacing up and down Hatfields with increasingly torrential thoughts, you began to wonder whether it was all a mistake. An overindulgence. Because what if Neil saw what you had prepared and thought it just as lacklustre as you worried it was?

For whatever reason, sharing this crucial part of your life with him was hard. It was a daily uphill battle, torn between the innate desire to show off the only thing you were remotely sure you were good at and the fear of falling short. Almost every time, you could only reach an impasse without a resolution on the horizon.

The spiral was cut short with a gentle touch on your shoulder, stopping your pacing before you could collide with a man-sized wall. Startled, you looked straight into the familiar blue eyes, now tinted with happiness and a dose of worry. Almost as if Neil could see the depths of unease in your soul. Before he could see too much, you schooled your features into a grin and pulled him in for a hug. At least those offered the comfort of hiding your face.

For a beat. Just enough time to get over whatever this was.

“Hi” pulling back with a satisfied sigh, you met Neil’s gaze with a renewed sense of control.

For a second, you did not feel quite so close to losing your mind. Small victories.

“Hello. Shall we?” Neil took that decisive step from your hug only to take your hand in his and tilt his head towards the entrance to the ballet studio.

For a split second, that ghost of panic was back, its cold fingers digging into the fabric of your soul and making you consider bolting, leaving, using a weak excuse and calling it all off. But then Neil smiled, a reassuring, steady grin that felt like a ray of sunlight melting the ice. You could take a deeper breath and nod. It was alright.

As if in a daze, you led him through the studio. By late afternoon, the space was almost deserted, with only a handful of staff and dancers milling about in the different parts of the building. The emptiness of the space offered the comfort and privacy you were seeking. Uninterrupted, you led Neil to the room you had occupied just before leaving to greet him and set your bag back on the designated chair before retrieving your phone and connecting it to the Bluetooth speaker. You could hear Neil move in the background, undoubtedly settling on the floor like the last time. Before you could turn to confirm the assumption, he broke the silence:

“So, what have you got for me, Cupid?” the playful notes in his voice made you turn, taking note of the grin on his face as Neil sat down with his back against the mirrored wall, legs outstretched, “Mind you, I’ve done my research” shooting you a wink, he made the show of taking out a leatherbound notebook from his bag and flipping it open, seemingly at random.

You had a feeling that the pages were not empty. And that they were indeed filled with research. You could feel a grin blooming on your face as you arched an eyebrow and asked:

“YouTube videos?” twisting your mouth into a smirk, you queued up the correct Tchaikovsky tracks and took off the jumper you had thrown on before going outside.

Neil’s gaze slid over your body, lingering on the skin you had just revealed. Your smirk sharpened upon the notice with the confidence drowning out the anxieties.

“Precisely,” Neil nodded, prideful and smug, “And Wikipedia,” grinning, he glanced at the notebooks and skimmed over whatever was written inside.

You resisted the urge to join him on the floor and tug the journal from his hold to look. Instead, you chose the verbal way of getting something out of this conversation. An upper hand of sorts.

“Good boy” you waited until Neil met your calm gaze with widened eyes and broke into a satisfied grin. It still worked. As much was clear from the way his breath picked up, the fingers of his hand shaking as he tightened the grip over the notebook. It was only once that startled look turned into a glare that you chose to offer contrition, “Sorry, I had to,” you could tell there was no grudge to be held there, so you shrugged and answered the question he had asked before, “I’ve prepared Waltz of the Snowflakes and Waltz of the Flowers. I could maybe, perhaps get lead for both” even speaking the hopes into existence seemed like asking for too much.

But there was no other way. You had to try because, by now, you knew giving up was not an option. It would not work.

The nervous energy coursed in your veins as you forced your body to move, stretching lightly to prepare for the demonstration you had brought down on yourself.

“You could. There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it. Come on, show me what you got” Neil’s words acted like the necessary checkpoint, keeping you from straying too far into the land of insanity.

That, and the belief in his eyes, as if he was confident what he was saying was true. As if he needed no convincing to know you were good enough for what you set out to achieve.

It was almost too much.

“Have I mentioned that you’re bad for my ego?” straightening up after the usual stretches, you met Neil’s gaze with a fond look.

There was no point in hiding it by now. Neil knew he was important to you. He knew that you cared. You had already lost that battle where it counted.

“I’m not saying anything you don’t deserve, babe,” Neil needed no time to think about his response; its placement timed perfectly with a wink at the end.

Still, the affection spread over your skin like a disease, making it impossible to attempt scouring for a witty response. All that was left was sincerity.

“Thank you, Neil. I can’t remember anyone being this nice to me since… forever, probably” getting it out was the easiest part, immediately followed by the trickier bit, which necessitated you not to crumble in the light of compassion in his gaze.

It was a task you almost failed at. All because it hurt to be looked at like a pitiful object, but without the shame that usually came with it. No, Neil looked at you like he could not comprehend the lack of care you were handled with during your life. He saw nothing wrong with you but instead blamed everyone else for what happened. For the things he did not even know. You quivered under the warmth in his eyes and broke the eye contact, gaze darting to locate the pointe shoes. Once you spotted them, you quickly crossed the space and sat by the pair to put them on.

It always did the trick of calming you down.

All the while, you could feel Neil’s eyes on you, undoubtedly assessing your nerves and sanity. Looking for the right thing to say. Something that would not make you flee any more than you already had removed yourself from the conversation. After a beat, he must have found it, for you heard him clear his throat and break the silence with a decisive conclusion:

“That’s their loss” despite the wishes of your reason, you looked up at Neil, only to find him smiling at you softly.

No traces of pity. No traces of contempt, either. Only a friendly smile, his back pressed against the mirrors and the notebook forgotten in his lap. It was enough to make you smile back as your hands tightened the bows of your pointes, following muscle memory. Once you were assured the knots were secure enough, you stood up and flashed Neil with a bright grin, officially moving on from that conversation:

“Both variations that I’ll show you will be Pas de Deux in the production. That means-” before you could delve into an explanation, Neil raised his hand, stopping your words without a catch.

“That they’re duets, I know” the trademark smirk appeared upon his face at your slightly bewildered look, and Neil added with a self-explanatory shrug, “I told you I’ve done my reading” that spark of satisfaction in his eyes was not something you thought you could ignore.

Partially because you were surprised by the research he has done, or, more accurately, you were surprised Neil cared that much. He has put in the effort without you even having to ask.

“I’m impressed” you made no moves to hide the affection from your eyes as you let another beat of silence pass you by, locked in his gaze as always. Once the moment passed, you nodded to reassure yourself and shake off the thoughts, and continued, “Since it’s just me tonight, it’ll look a little different. That’s a disclaimer” turning back to your phone, you scrolled down the track list to find the correct variation.

That nervous energy was back, but this time, you knew that only dancing could get rid of it. Only losing yourself in the movement would do the trick. Well, that and the constant look of admiration that Neil seemed to point at you. That, too, helped with the anxiety.

“No complaints from me. If I get to watch you triumph and look beautiful while you’re at it, I’m good” as if reading your mind, Neil shot you another fond smile and seemingly settled further into his chosen spot, the back of his head lightly propped against the barre.

The pose could not be comfortable, but he did not seem to mind it. His eyes traced your every move as you put down the phone after pressing play on the music and slowly walked over to the side of the room to take up the position.

At the last second, before you had to focus on the music and the steps, you met Neil’s gaze and smiled, a simple word of gratitude ready on your tongue:

“You’re incredible” you watched as his smile widened, and the warmth spread over your chest, lightening up the nerve endings in that curious way you never quite understood.

It did not matter. You took a deep breath and started, slipping almost effortlessly into the role of Snow Queen. From then on, everything was easy. You closed your eyes against the warm studio lights and moved through the choreography without a second of doubt.

The six-minute Waltz of the Snowflakes necessitated precision and focus, with each note requiring a shift, a pirouette or an arabesque. It was not an easy piece, and you could feel sweat trickle down your temples and underneath the black bodice as your wrap skirt followed graceful air movements with a mind of its own. Yet, still, despite the exertion, something about it felt right. Like it was a role that you were meant to play. Another chance to showcase that perhaps this is what you were supposed to do.

As you froze in the final position and the first orchestra track faded, you risked opening your eyes to gauge Neil’s reaction. He stared back, seemingly transfixed with his blue eyes almost alight with something you could not name. Upon your glance, the corner of his mouth quirked, revealing another of your favourite smiles. That had to do when it came to encouragement, for before you could notice anything else, the opening notes of the second waltz rang out in the studio space. Recognition flashed in Neil’s eyes as his foot started tapping out a familiar rhythm. Despite yourself, you grinned before silently counting the beats until your grand entrance.

The second role – Dew Drop Fairy, cheerfully leading a piece of Tchaikovsky’s music almost everyone knew, even if they insisted otherwise, was a variation you did not expect to like quite so much. It used to seem too lively, fleeting and sweet for someone like you. You were not sweet. Unless one considered liquorice a sweet – particular and not everyone’s cup of tea. Yeah, that comparison made much more sense. But then, one dreary afternoon, when you rehashed the choreography for the Waltz of the Flowers from the videos and memory, you found that it could work.

Maybe. Probably. (Probably not).

After hours of practice, you were tentatively leaning towards the affirmative. Maybe. Tonight, it felt almost close to getting rid of the ‘maybe’. It felt like it was meant to be. Even with the burn in your thighs and the strain in your arms from maintaining the frame. Even with the lingering fear before tomorrow’s audition threatening to take away any remaining pleasure. The closing notes of the waltz sounded in the studio as you landed the final pirouette and opened your eyes with a gasp, caught somewhere between the striking understanding of the rightness of it all and the sudden desire to look at Neil.

To let him see you.

His eyes were there, waiting for you, always inviting you to drown within their depths at your convenience.

Suddenly, death by drowning did not seem like a bad idea.

“How was that?” cutting the tortures of the unknown short, you pressed pause on the music and steeled your spine against his all-seeing gaze.

As if sensing your unease, Neil’s smile softened, his eyes showing nothing but the affection you had seen before. That smile was easier to breathe in. Easier to understand.

“You’re truly something else, aren’t you?” the flash of something in his face was much more difficult to understand. Your brow furrowed almost unconsciously as you tried to ignore the flush of gratitude at the open praise, “As I said, I’m no expert, but this looked effortless in a way that hours of hard work can only ensure” taking a meaningful pause to save your sanity, Neil shifted in his spot, folding his long legs and propping his chin on his knees. Adorable did not quite cover it, but it was the best word you could find, “This technique, the precision, just the way you hold yourself when you dance… I don’t know much about fate and such, but I do know that you were meant to be doing this” the glimmer in his eyes told you that was what he aimed to achieve with the speech.

That, yet again, Neil has seen through your bullshit and knew where the trouble was. What it was that you needed to hear. With your fidgeting body unable to stay still even for a second, you sat on the floor on the opposite side of the studio and tugged at the ribbons on your pointe shoes to take them off. It was better than standing stock-still in the light of his scrutiny. In the light of all things in his gaze that you did not want to acknowledge. Instead, you let your heart speak as it rarely had a chance to.

“I’d like to think so. When I’m dancing, it’s like nothing else matters. I’m free to do as I please. To be who I always wanted to be,” with the bows loose, your fingers picked at the strips of satin as more sincere words found their way out of your heart. Words you had never voiced before either, “In those moments, I want to believe that I’ve become her. That this is who I am. Maybe not perfect, but-” your second of hesitation did not go unnoticed.

Before you could find another stack of constants and vowels to put in the resounding silence, Neil interrupted you with a confident tone:

“You’re not perfect, but you’re real. I think that’s much more important” despite your desire to remain nonchalant, your head whipped up to steal a glance at him.

To understand what he could mean by such a bold statement. Instead, your attention was stolen by the fact that you did not expect Neil to start standing up from where he previously looked comfortable curled up on the floors. His intense gaze measured you up as you took off the ballet shoes and dropped the only question that seemed to make sense:

“Why?” without being able to name a reason, you stood up, following some innate sense of direction that scrambled in alarm the moment you understood Neil had something on his mind.

Something you could not foresee. It was not fear that made you move, backing away towards the barres, but rather that familiar connection that sparked in your body and soul. You were not scared of him but feared what his proximity tended to do to you.

You feared losing control. Again.

Simultaneously, there was nothing you wanted more. It must have been that reasoning that made Neil take a decisive step in your direction and close the remaining gap. You stared with mouth agape as he approached, with an almost unusual amount of certainty in every move and stilted your hands as they fidgeted at your sides. Gently, he squeezed your loose fists and let go, only to tilt your chin and force you to meet his gaze. You still did not understand what you were seeing in the depths of his eyes.

But for once, it was almost comforting. That knowledge that someone else was willing to take care of you and act in your place, and all you had to do was let them do it. It brought relief, easing burdens you had not known you had been carrying. You could see the understanding in Neil’s eyes as he gave another cursory look over your face and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, eliciting an effortless sigh. Once he pulled back, you both knew there would be no resistance no matter what he wanted to do.

Another affectionate smile was the last thing you saw before Neil turned you to face the mirrored wall and pressed his chest against your back. There was no space between your bodies as he embraced you tightly, his hands resting on your stomach and just below the collarbone. His proximity felt close to overwhelming, with the warmth of his touch burning your skin and the searing intensity of his gaze meeting yours in the mirror. You took a deep breath, needing to centre yourself somehow. If only to prolong what seemed inevitable at this point.

Tentatively, you raised your hands to cover his palm sprawled across your midsection and allowed yourself to relax, leaning into his body. That seemed to be the confirmation Neil needed to break the silence:

“Because I can do this” answering a question you did not even remember asking, Neil nuzzled the top of your head and allowed his nose to trace a path down the nape of your neck and under the ear, nosing at the pulse point, with the utter confidence of someone who has done this before.

And indeed, he has. The familiarity of where you had found yourself, enveloped in the most tempting of embraces with nothing but the mirrored walls to be your witness, did not escape you. It was a tried and checked position. One that you could not oppose because it felt too good. Too comfortable.

Yet, with your brain still not entirely overcome by the haze of arousal, there was opposition to be detected. It kicked and groused, reminding you incessantly how unlike you all this was. How dangerous, despite feeling like everything but. How outrageous to just let Neil have it. With an inward sigh, you tilted your head to offer more neck for his perusal (currently littering with tender pecks) and forced your voice to remain steady as you asked:

“Are you trying to seduce me again, Neil?” this question was an easy callback.

One that Neil instantly clocked as you saw the corner of his mouth curl up in a smirk. There was no need to add that the seduction worked the first time and did not have to be repeated. Or that he hardly had to do anything but ask to have you. He knew that already.

You stared as Neil bowed his head, the golden strands catching light, and your skin catching fire from his closeness and the gentle kisses on your neck. Breath caught in your throat as his teeth nibbled at the tender flesh.

“Not quite” raising his head to shoot you a cheeky smile, Neil gave your entwined bodies an appreciative glance before he met your gaze, the tentative touch of his wandering hands only moderately distracting, “It’s just that the last time I wasn’t brave enough to say what I really thought” the pointed look in his eyes completed the sentence with the unsaid.

With the words that hardly needed to be spoken. Especially with the fact that now that he had admitted it, Neil allowed himself to be even braver. The hand previously resting on your sternum moved lower. His firm yet gentle fingers skimmed down the neckline of your bodice to cup your breast, stoking fire in your veins. Despite yourself, you pressed your body into his hold and breathed out the only response you had the mind to conjure:

“I trust you know better now” the remains of defiance shone in your gaze as you jutted your chin out, hoping to appear unaffected.

A futile task, indeed.

Especially with the way Neil pressed another kiss to the crook of your neck, marking the skin subtly. Your fingers squeezed his palm, pressing it further against your abdomen, wishing for it too to move. To do something about the need pooling between your thighs, wetting the gusset of your panties and seeping into the fabric of your bodice. Squeezing your thighs to get even a fraction of relief, you swallowed a groan and entwined your hand with his. Neil finished a meticulous study of yet another plane of your skin between the neck and the slope of your shoulder and met your hazed gaze with confidence. It was a look you were increasingly familiar with. It sharpened his exquisite features, giving him a dangerous edge. An edge you were desperate to cut yourself open upon. The growing desperation seeped through the pores in your soul as Neil gave you another assessing glance and replied:

“Naturally. Seeing you like this, so confident and in your element, is… It’s working on me” this confession was proclaimed with much less confidence, almost as if Neil worried that it was something you could dislike hearing. An idiot, if you ever met one, “You’re so graceful, so beautiful,” you stared as his palms continued their journey. The hand pressed against your abdomen shifted southward and instantly made you gasp. The sound did not escape his attention as you saw the uncertainty fade from Neil’s gaze, replaced by the familiar hunger “I’d like to touch you,” the unspoken question in his voice hardly needed anything more than a nod.

A nod you had granted him instantly, desperate to feel his hands where you needed them.

And his thumb rubbing over your nipple through the fabric could only do so much. Read: not enough.

“You are touching me” arching your eyebrow to push Neil in the right direction, you widened your stance and propped your head on his shoulder, leaning against him with almost all your weight.

Neil did not seem to mind the move. You watched as those enthralling sparks appeared in his eyes, a foolproof sign of an idea taking shape in his mind. With agonizing slowness, his hand brushed down your mid-riff, pausing for a split second at the elastic band of your wrap skirt. He seemed to debate something for a split second before following with a settled decision and parting the tuille with careful fingers. The breath you were supposed to empty from your lungs stumbled with a gasp as you watched Neil’s hand disappear between the folds of your skirt. Before you could even think about exhaling the oxygen trapped in your lungs, you felt his hand slip between your thighs, curious fingers tracing the gusset of your bodice. Even without noticing the wolfish smirk on Neil’s face, you knew what he would encounter.

The evidence of your arousal has already dampened the fabric, only completing the pathetic picture you presented with the warmth flooding your face and an irregular breath making your chest rise and fall in an unnatural tempo. Tangled strands were plastered to your temple as you stared at the mirror, barely fighting the desire to take matters into your own hands. And get relief because Neil’s teasing touches running up and down your slit did absolutely nothing.

Nothing but get you even more frustrated.

“Not like this,” the annoyance must have shown on your face, for Neil retraced his hand from between your legs and met your gaze with something akin to resolution, “Would you like to come to mine for a drink?” there was no hesitation in the proposal.

Nothing to make you feel like Neil did not want to ask, or felt pressured to. And there was no objection you could find that would make sense because you very much wanted to go back to his place. And continue whatever this was.

Ideally, with much fewer clothes in place. Yet-

“Neil, we both know that it won’t be just a drink” meeting his gaze with a deadpan expression, you grabbed the hand he had just moved back to your stomach from between your thighs and kissed his fingers with intent.

Mostly, the intent of making Neil blush wildly, as he did. But also to show that despite your weak protest, you did not mind the course of the evening or where it would take you. It was only a matter of time until you let yourself give in for the second time. Until you had an opportunity to act out the fantasies, which multiplied in your mind since the first night.

“Is there anything wrong with that?” the hints of doubt in the question were something you would accept under any circumstances.

You hated how the worries could so quickly shade any sense of confidence or arousal from his face and body. You could feel his grip loosen, letting centimetres of space between you, which already felt out of place. Before your brain could concoct any farfetched ideas, you used the newly created gap to turn in his embrace. Strengthened by the element of surprise, you had the advantage of the time it took Neil to process the new state of things. You used it wisely, first placing your hands on his chest to gain the necessary leverage and then whispered the reply with all the determination of someone who knew what they were doing:

“Absolutely not” your gaze searched Neil’s eyes for hints of anything contrary, but you found nothing. Except the need for you to be the brave one. You were happy to comply, “I think I’d like it to be… more” slowly, you allowed your fingers to brush over the expanse of his chest, reassuring and strengthening the message.

Neil’s shy smile shone through the cracks of his uncertainty, making your heart soar. As always, being in the spotlight of his affection felt like the cosiness of sunlight on an icy winter morning. It felt right.

Neil’s hands previously hanging limply at his sides, came up to cover yours pressed against his chest. It was the only warning you got before he dropped the question with a dangerous edge to his smile:

“With ties and shit?” the lethal sparks in his eyes only completed the picture, instantly drawing you back to that moment.

To the brazen comment you made straddling his lap with an undone tie in your hand. To one of the fantasies that had been born at the same instant. For the sake of the future, you were glad to see Neil was not opposed to the idea. That concept was nowhere near gone from the growing list of your wishes and daydreams.

A sudden laugh bubbled from your throat, adding that familiar tint of madness to everything you ever said, felt or did with Neil. Madness you were willingly jumping head-first into.

“Not necessarily” your faux frown carried the suspense over till an appropriate amount of time had passed for you to drop the pretence and offer Neil another wide smile, “Although-”

Neil’s burst of laughter cut short any elaborate innuendos you could have planned. You would not have it any other way.

***

If someone asked you to envision Neil’s apartment without seeing it for the first time, you would never have imagined it to look like that. A medium-sized flat just five minutes from the Swiss Cottage Underground Station, filled with things. Posh twats would have perhaps called the space cluttered, but you preferred the adjective – lived-in. Because that is what it was. When Neil closed the door behind your back and let go of your hand for the first time since getting off the tube, you did not know where to look or which item to pick up and scrutinize. Not for the wish to judge but that same innate desire to understand him. To know everything you could about Neil.

“Welcome to my humble abode” as soon as the words were out of his mouth, along with a reassuring smile, you let go of the remaining apprehensions and leaned into the curiosity with the zeal of a scientist.

Almost reverently, you floated past the furniture lining up the corridor walls, peeking inside the wardrobe with its door left ajar. A row of jackets, including leather, denim, and a fleece, did not satisfy the desire to know, but it stoked the fire. Its sparks lit you up from within as you moved down the hallway to the living room, stopping at the threshold to take in the room. The most notable features included a bookshelf brimming with tomes of different colours and sizes, a worn-out leather sofa, shelves full of CDs and vinyl, a quality record player and… a piano. A piano. Of all things. An inconvenience.

Your eyes stopped at the sight, unable to move on from the object. It made so much sense, and yet it was not something you expected. The music sheets propped on the shelf told you it was frequently used, and, therefore, not a decorative item. Your paralysis must have shown on your face, for soon you heard Neil’s footsteps, the sound stopping just behind your back as you felt his hand touch your shoulder. Unconsciously, you leaned into his warmth, resting your back against his chest.

“Care to explain this?” you asked the question as soon as you had stifled the grin elicited by Neil pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

As if the meaning was unclear, you waved your hand at the instrument and looked up at him. From the vantage point, his hair looked like a halo, contrasting with the sharp edge of his smile and the hand he had returned to your chest.

“I’m no Chopin, but sometimes I like to play” shrugging, Neil glanced at the piano and added, “It’s very relaxing,” the thoughtfulness in his voice told you there was more to the story.

A conversation to pick up soon to know more about him, but, for now, more pressing matters directed your line of thought. Matters like the fire in your veins stoked by Neil’s touch and the persisting desire for things only he could provide.

“Mhmm. You’ve never mentioned it,” you frowned at the disappointment in your voice that you certainly did not wish to disclose.

It made no sense to have strong feelings towards an instrument. Secondly, you knew that Neil would latch onto this indescribable something and not let go until he understood the reasons. Despite being unable to see his face, you could already feel his curiosity spark. It did not take too long for him to grab at the chance and dig a little deeper:

“Didn’t think it’s relevant. Why? You’ve got an ick concerning pianists?” you did not like the hints of smugness in his tone or the way he tightened the hold over your body, fingers digging into your breast, overwhelming the senses.

You barely resisted the moan which got stuck in your throat, saving the remains of dignity. With the brain cells slowly transforming into horny idiots that could not do anything but thirst after Neil, there was not much opposition left in your system. What was the point, anyway? It was best to admit it now and have it over and done with so you could move on to more important pursuits.

You cleared your throat, buying for time (and pointedly ignoring Neil’s teasing touch drifting past your ribcage and further down your body) and closed your eyes as you admitted the truth:

“… No, no. Quite the opposite, actually” there.

And it was not something you had confessed to before, either. There was no need. No pianists to be met in Soho as you prowled the streets for another one-night stand. Or, at least, none admitted to playing the piano in the brief time together. But the fact was a fact. No matter how embarrassing or mortifying to say out loud.

Another fact was that as soon as you had noticed the piano in his apartment, the images started multiplying in your head, strengthening the undeniable truth that you did have a thing for pianists. Neil included.

“Well, that’s excellent news to me, Cupid” you could hear Neil’s smile in his voice as he placed his hands on your hips and turned you in the embrace to face him. As expected, the smirk was already there. As was the gleam in his eyes, telling you that your confession was welcomed. Before you could even consider saving face in any feasible way, he leaned in and captured your mouth in a searing kiss. One that made you cling to his shoulders, desperately seeking more. Whatever that would be. Parting way too soon, Neil gave you another infuriating grin and asked, “Would you like a vodka tonic?”

Despite the sudden desire to punch him in that annoyingly pretty face, you resisted the need and offered him a faux grimace, tinting the response with a weary sigh:

“Yep, I definitely need a drink after this” your gaze flicked over him, scanning Neil from head to toe, searching for places to strike when the time was right.

Which would be soon. Or so God help him.

From then on, it was almost too easy to let go. To fall into Neil and let him catch you. To take what you wanted from him. Unlike that first evening, this time was not slow; it was not deliberate in your mutual desire to understand and to learn. It was a tumble, fast and tasting of vodka tonic and coming back home. But you would never tell him that.

Instead, you touched him, indulging in every sigh, gasp and moan you could elicit. You kissed him, taking everything Neil was offering and demanding more. You let him touch every inch of your skin. And when you could not wait any longer, you settled atop his lap and took him, your fingers tracing the marks you had left on his chest and neck. This, too, was unforgettable.

When it was over, and you left his flat with an amicable smile and a strange ache in your chest, you took the long way home. Walking down Finchley Road, you tried to understand what it was. What made Neil different? Why was it difficult to switch off your head and heart when you were with him? Why, sometimes, when he looked at you, you felt like you mattered in the grand scheme of things? Why did all this matter so much? Why did it pain you to realise you did not remember a single detail from his bedroom? Why the fuck did you care?

But you did not know. You did not understand. With a weary sigh, you stifled the questions and glanced at the sky. The blue moon shone down at you. You smiled back and ignored the doubts.

It didn’t matter.

***

You did not want to analyze why your first thought after getting the cast list for this season’s Nutcracker was to message Neil with good news. Or why you did that before you even congratulated the other girls. Without letting yourself hesitate over the sensibility of your life choices, you took out the phone from your pocket and typed out a simple message:

/ 🏹, 12:57 pm/ Say hello to your new friend, the Snow Queen and the Dew Drop Fairy :)

You did not have to wait long for his reply.

/✝️, 12:58 pm/ So now there’s two of you? Lucky me :)

/✝️, 12:58 pm/ Congratulations, Cupid. I knew you could do it, sweetheart.

/ 🏹, 12:59 pm/ Thank you, you’ll definitely hear me yap about it for the next two months.

/✝️, 1:00 pm/ I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling. How was the audition?

/ 🏹, 1:01 pm/ It was surprisingly easy. Might even say a walk in the park…

/ 🏹, 1:01 pm/ Getting laid the night before might be the key to success.

/✝️, 1:02 pm/ You’re welcome. We can make that a tradition if you’d be so inclined.

/ 🏹, 1:02 pm/ Gladly. You should know I’ll never say no to great sex.

/✝️, 1:03 pm/ So you’re telling me it was great?

/ 🏹, 1:03 pm/ You know that it was, Neil.

/✝️, 1:04 pm/ Yeah, I know. You’re also great, btw. My darling, my sweetheart, you.

The idiotic smile on your face seemed unavoidable as you locked the screen and forced yourself to abandon the conversation for now. Even if just to preserve the remains of your sanity. But also to finally talk to the girls. Somewhere at the periphery of your attention, you could feel their gazes boring holes into your head. Always so attentive and curious, you doubted your manic grin would escape their attention. Unfortunately.

You did not have to wait long for the proverbial penny to drop.

“Who’s that smile for?” the sweetness in Jemima’s tone made you frown as you pocketed the phone and forced yourself to meet her searching gaze.

The girl was a fantastic friend, someone you and the other soloists could depend on whether to borrow an emergency pad or ask for help during rehearsals. But, as you already knew too well, she was also nosy. And ever since you introduced Neil to the squad those two weeks ago, another interrogation was hanging over your head. Now, the time has run out.

“No one particular, Jem,” forcing your angelic smile to reappear, you leaned back in the chair by your dressing table and started rummaging through the make-up bag without looking for anything.

You were not willing to make this easy. To embarrass yourself in front of the girls without a fight or even an attempt at pretending nothing was happening. Never in a million years.

“That sounds like an avoidance to me” Jemima’s voice did not lose a dose of its confidence as she arched an eyebrow and moved closer to your desk to corner you.

Verbally and physically. And your patience was running thin. Stifling a curse, you swivelled on the chair to look at the woman and replied:

“That’s your problem” aiming for a sassy rebuttal, you shot her a saccharine smile and turned back towards the mirror.

The glaring lack of arguments you could offer had to be ignored. However, you were painfully aware that it would not be. Not with them.

As if she could hear your internal crisis unfolding, Grace stood up from her chair, where she acted out the impassioned audience role and joined you on the opposite side, leaning over your shoulder like a keen angel of inconvenience. Her long blonde hair brushed over your collarbone as she met your glare through the mirror and added her part:

“Jem has a point, though. You’ve been somewhat more… cheery recently” as though driven to make you seethe with anger, Grace lifted the corner of your mouth into a caricature of a smile. You swatted her hand away and let out a groan, barely resisting the urge to storm out of there. You knew it would be pointless, only prolonging the questioning until the next opportune moment, “Is that Neil’s doing?” she innocently batted her eyelashes in the face of your ire.

There it was. A collective gasp from the other girls made you roll your eyes as you considered the options. Utter denial of Neil’s existence was now off the table. Sighing, you steeled your spine and decided to lay it all out. The official version. The one you maintained with everyone involved, including yourself.

“Well, we are still friends if that’s what you’re asking. And we might’ve fucked once or twice” the crude addition did what you needed it to as you took note of the resounding gasp, followed by giggles and knowing smiles from your ever-persistent audience.

You hoped it would be enough to stop the questions. If needed, you were willing to impart the knowledge of just how good Neil was at sex. Or how driven he was to make you come each time. That should do the trick.

But before you could even open your mouth to share the dirty details, Jemima patted your shoulder almost protectively and spoke:

“Good for you” worst of all, you could tell she meant it. She was happy you had Neil in whatever capacity you did. You forced your heart not to soften and went back to mindlessly sorting through the make-up. Soon, she proved you right, yet again, “Does that mean you’ve gotten over your little hang-up?” although the question could not have been any less straightforward, something about how she asked made your attention prick up.

Despite your wish to at least appear unbothered, you raised your head and turned towards the woman with an arched eyebrow at a ready:

“What do you mean?” the glare in your eyes was there to assure Jemima that your guard was still up.

That she had not succeeded. And never would.

You stared into her hazel-green eyes as the woman contemplated the pros and cons of risking your fury. Although you had a couple of guesses towards where it was going, you still did not anticipate the question that broke the tense silence next:

“Have you finally joined the club of losers in love?” you certainly did not like the knowing look in her eyes, paired with a soft smile, suggesting that (somehow) Jemima could see into the depths of your heart and soul.

She saw all the ugliness and the fears and was willing to address things you never even dared think of. It terrified you, and you had to look away before she saw too much. Swallowing hard, you turned back towards the mirror and scoffed, falling back on the familiar. It has not disappointed you yet.

“No, of course not” it was easy to throw the assumption back at her as if it was the most ridiculous thing you had heard. It was nonsensical, “You know me. Love doesn’t exist in my book. I’m not willing to fool myself into thinking it could be real. I’m not delusional” the edges of ire crept into your tone, making you spit out the words with more vehemence than necessary.

As soon as your tirade ended, regrets set in. They were strengthened by the sudden silence from the group, taken aback by your reaction. Covering your face with your palms, you hunched over the dressing table and sighed heavily.

“Harsh, love. But you do you” you felt the coolness of her touch as Jemima squeezed your shoulder and left your side, finally offering merciful respite.

One look at her through the mirror told you all the savage words were forgiven. You did not have to atone. But that did not mean you were not already plotting ways to make it up to them. Chocolates and coffee seemed like the best choices at present.

Before you could decide, your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you took it out to look at the screen. Another text from Neil.

/✝️, 1:27 pm/ Do you want to visit the church tomorrow?

/✝️, 1:27 pm/ I figured it’s time you uncovered the greatest secret of my existence.

/ 🏹, 1:28 pm/ Oh, fuck yes.

/ 🏹, 1:28 pm/ Where do we meet?

/✝️, 1:28 pm/ Canary Wharf station. Where we kissed that one morning. Be there sharp at 9 am.

/ 🏹, 1:29 pm/ You know it, babes.

And just like that, your mood has lifted.

No, you were not willing to understand that either.

[labselkie]

i am BONKERS. WACKY EVEN. this is shorter than my usual works but i did it in the span of maybe less than an hour

like i said in an earlier post. i’m hyped for agatha but liv love never dies, unfortunately. SO HERES ANOTHER ADDITION TO MY FANTASY AU YAYY!

Olivia’s journal was more like a grimoire than anything: thick pages bound with dark leather and worn as if it were dropped into the sea. The seal princess stood over it, hands gently held at its sides. The lab was eerily quiet, morning light bathing the stone floor in all hues of sky blues and sea foam greens.

Slate blue eyes flick over the date, before passing strange scribbles of equations to finally start the novel of an entry. Almost two years ago, when they first properly met.

“The princess came in today,” It started, words written in sharp, heavy strokes indicative of stress. “The king’s court held a meeting regarding her future with the kingdom’s diplomacy, specifically under the case of a suitor. The entire council were dead set on her betrothal. I wasn’t at the court, the poor thing barged into the laboratory, about to crumble into tears.”

Lucielle’s face tenses into a small frown, no matter how much she apologized she felt petrified for acting so childish. She’s about to continue her lamenting, before continuing to read.

“But she was too scared to slam the door, twenty three and more timid than a common beast. ‘They’re trying to sell me!’ She whined, collapsing right into my favorite chaise lounge before rattling on and on about the insufferable men she met. That was the longest I had went standing at the back of that seat and not collapsing into it myself! I never really got to look at her before then, maybe some passing glances. I never truly noticed how fuzzy she looked.”

Lucielle absentmindedly rubbed a hand on the back of her neck, claws dipping through her curls as she felt the soft fur down her spine. The alchemist wasn’t exactly wrong.

“I almost zoned out once she got to listing everything wrong with the princes, until she actually referred to me.”

The princess paused. “‘I’m sorry, I just came in to request a potion’ She was nearly passed out in her dramatic anguish. She said she needed help to ‘calm down.’ I just hate that I couldn’t say no.”

The writing trailed off before a decorated line slices through the page, harboring the start of a strange recipe. A mixture of steeped iris ground with coral, a strange concoction with a result of an almost glittery tea. Of course, Olivia liked to keep her secrets, but stashing spell recipes in a journal was much more underwhelming than a cursed encyclopedia or a sealed away tome. Nonetheless, she kept reading- She wanted to know what Olivia thought.

“She said it was ‘pretty’, she didn’t even pry to see the ingredients, she just sat up in my seat and fixed up her dress. So, I sat at the edge and, to her dismay, tried to talk her through the spell. But she insisted she’d be fine. It worked fast, with her inhuman status she was much more susceptible to the effect of any magic. {To test further.} I had to catch the teacup before her heavy hands dropped it.”

Lucielle clung to every word, seeing this from new eyes, from those white rimmed glasses, was the most interesting thing she’s experienced in weeks. The potion assisted with rest, that’s the description she remembered. It was a common concoction, sold to the most restless humans and the most cunning of stage hypnotists, any form of the liquid would be equally potent.

“I still remember how her eyes fluttered, how the fur at her collar stood on end, even if I was much more worried about saving the cup and saucer at the time. She almost fell limp, I believe I felt my heart stop in that moment, as if I had killed her. But, alas, she just melted into my lounge with a dog-like whine. I couldn’t move, I was so shocked, I think I was scared. Scared that I hurt her, scared of seeing her majesty in an almost drunken stupor from just a few sips. And it was quiet, it was so quiet without her worried ramblings I thought I’d go mad. I just sat, and stared- Not out of some carnal desire like I feared, but rather an odd sense of curiosity. I have no doubt I will never forget this encounter, especially not when I tried to stand. She reached out for me, like a drowning man at sea, her hand weak but still holding all the grace of an angel’s. I was too caught up in my anxious stupor I could barely catch her words. ‘You’re nice.’ That was it. That was all she wanted to tell me before she fell asleep in my lab…”

The last bit of writing on the page is smaller, like it was added as an afterthought, like something Olivia would rather die than forget.

“I draped her sealskin over her as she rested. What is this woman doing to me.”

Lucielle felt her lips part, her mind reeling. She still felt like a burden for that day, but this was a lot, she could never say she read it. She feels hot, embarrassed, terrible that a simple spell had reduced her to a drowsy mess. But her thoughts are cut off by the sound of footsteps outside of the lab, and she decides to make a swift exit for the balcony stairs.

All that she left was the small, flat test of a sand dollar, nestled between the pages.

[teamliftfest]

Written fanworks offerings 🎉

Hello everyone! Your mods thought we'd highlight some of the non-traditional offerings to showcase some of the incredibly cool offerings our community has up for auction for the next couple of days. Keep an eye out!

We're not listing out all the fanfiction offerings because there are 33 amazing offerings for fic across multiple fandoms and that post would break your mods' patience with formatting on Tumblr 😅 But you can check out all 33 offerings under the fanwork: fanfiction tag on our Dreamwidth page.

So today: written fanwork offerings that aren't fic. All usernames link to their offering page. Please read carefully - some pages have multiple offerings.

Mitch is offering a primer on DEL/Czech Extraliga/Slovak Extraliga/DDR Oberliga/Czechoslovak Hockey League/Men's National Team: "A primer about a singular modern league could include information regarding the current set of teams, mode of play, a closer look at player distribution (i.e. age groups, inclusion of youth, relevance of import players etc), research into funds and off-ice engagement, assessment of international standings and so on. Can be made as concise or detailed as desired."

somewhat_invested (shaun) is offering a hockey primer: "Another option is a primer, which can be as narrow or specific as the bidder wants. [...] my primer creation process usually includes more research than I add to the final primer, which I’m happy to share with the bidder."

Max is offering a hockey or women's football (soccer) primer: "I want to write a primer about YOUR favorite team/player(s)/ship(s)! In an ideal scenario, you have an idea of what you want included in the primer, and I'll do all the research and put it all together in a gdoc or presentation or however you want it done. This primer can include some meta analysis if that's something you want as well."

Strigimorphaes is offering cycling meta/analysis and fan poetry in addition to fanfiction: "I love stuff that has to do with specific races and Danish riders; I like writing about Remco Evenepoel, Geraint Thomas, and the Visma LAB team, too, but I'm mostly up for anything."

Atlas/Another_Stranger is offering cycling fan poetry and meta/analysis in addition to fanfiction: "I can write for almost anyone, and I have a fondness for analytical essays and fanfiction writing in particular. In terms of subjects/themes: trust in a competitive environment, death, grief, trauma related to: sexuality, culture/religion, and family, societal and familial expectation/duty, media bias and public relations in motorsport, bigotry/prejudice and how it informs the sport, its fans and its players. I also have an interest in queer theory and the socio-economic-political-personal implications of omegaverse + what it’s usually known for. In poetry: modern and trad form and structure both, content varies as needed."

moregraceful is offering a poetry chapbook on baseball or hockey: "I am offering a chapbook of at least 15 poems on the baseball or hockey topic of your choice! This chapbook will contain both free verse poetry and traditionally structured poetry like pantoums and haikus."

Check out all of these offerings and so many more on our Dreamwidth page! Hint: sort by tag.