#would wonder how long until something would make them break under pressure

[plasticfangtastic]

Dairy Girl

A Homelander X F! Reader fanfic

A/N: I am still working on my other projects but I just wanted to write something fun and light to get me back into writing. I hope y'all enjoy this short little piece, btw i aint got no kids so i have very little idea how milk banks work, this will be a 2 or 3 part story.

Synopsis: In order to provide a constant supply of fresh breastmilk for Vought’s number one hero, Vought has had to get quite nifty in order to prevent this secret desire out the press and the public– you have unfortunately discovered the truth.

Tags: Stockholm Syndrome, abusive dynamic, Homelander being Homelander, dub-con, dark, mild smut, breastfeeding kink, kidnapping, child-death mention tw, cheating tw, set in s4 but canon nothing, slow burn.

Word Count: 3K

Part 1– Heifer

Such a small box, smaller than a shoe box, just big enough to fit its contents with enough space for his ghost to move. You stared at the small box as its buried in the family plot… you never thought of visiting this place to ever bury the last shred of happiness you had left, his body was born weak, so small you wonder if you’d given birth to a child or a chick, 2 months ago you had come home to find your now ex in bed with his ex, he had turned this betrayal on its head and blamed you for it, something about your lack of desire lately, about how your pregnancy had given him amounts of pressures he'd never agreed with, talking endlessly about his needs and how much you’d ignored him.

Whoever this man was, you didn’t recognize him.

Time blurred into nothing but disconnected colors and shapes, all you know was that the stress and anguish lead to this.

A box under soil.

Days passed and in your empty apartment, surrounded by all the stuff you bought you stood in front of the sink, throwing a bottle of fresh milk down the drain feeling tremendous guilt, the doctor said you would dry out soon enough but your breast had swollen so much your bras no longer fit– even the spare ones you bought just in case they’ve grown a size too big from what you expected, you booked an appointment with your doctor hoping they could give you whatever cocktail of drugs to dry you out and save you from the pressure and pain in your chest, it had been nothing but a passing message from a worried neighbor who had stop by to give you some mail that had been sent to them by accident when she mentioned her daughter-in-law had donated her excess milk after her little one refused to latch, she gave you the name of the charity and after much thinking you gave in, you lost your baby but there was some woman out there who could end up experiencing your same grief if their baby starved to death, yours simply born too small and weak to hold your finger for very long.

It felt good, you met the women running the charity and even some of the faces of the women you helped, as you delivered your frozen packs to the women’s clinic where the charity operated, it helped you heal, it gave your pain purpose, but as the months faded behind you a part of you worried about how much you keep producing, less than before but still too much, yet you keep going knowing it would end soon enough. 

Perhaps somebody in the clinic or the charity had dropped your information to these people but you'd received some mail regarding some research trials Vought International was running and how they needed some donors to drop fresh samples, in their pamphlet they offered to pay a decent amount--your divorce had been costly plus having to move to a new place and breaking your previous lease had left your bank account quite dry, this was cheap money, you had given your milk for free, you looked at the few pouches you had collected for next week's drop you saw a wonderful opportunity to make some quick cash.

You went to the Vought Clinic and saw a few other women filling up forms, reading old magazines or dilly-dallying on their phones until some nurse called their numbers, you filled the medical form, waited less than half an hour before your number was called, brought into a small bleach scented room, the nurse read your form and told you she would take a blood sample, a doctor came in, reciting whatever script he’d been given about what this project was, giving you big words you had no interest in, this was about providing better milk formulas closer to natural milk than anything currently in the market apparently, thanking you for your donation, he looked at your form smiling as he saw your inked words.

“You're still producing 4 months after…” The doctor handed you a disinfecting wipe and a freshly steamed breast pump in a silver tray– we just need two samples, please press the alarm to let us know you’d finished, then follow Nurse Potts to the front counter to sort out your payment.”

It had been an awkward experience, but there you were 300 dollars richer, you probably should’ve read those papers a bit closer before signing but money was money and you were told to come back if you could.

You did it a couple times for 2 months, much like a man donating sperm for pocket money or plasma to pay the rent.

That was the first mistake, you headed home and woke up the morning after wishing you had stayed out for an extra hour or two, perhaps caved in to your friends pressures and tried going back to dating (after all your ex was whoring himself all across the lower east side without moral qualms) or hookups so you would had gone to a different address, maybe you should had taken a taxi instead of taking the train and walking home.

Regardless you woke in some strange empty room, the only thing beside your person was a pair of pale pink hospital gowns, grippy socks, clean underwear and a pair of thick large towels, you screamed and banged on the door for an ungodly amount of time but nobody ever came, you stayed alone in that room for what could have been 12 hours or more… maybe less… who knew it was all too much, suddenly a sharp sound cut into the silence a note had been slid under the door, you rushed to the note.

It was instructions, they wanted you wearing their clean clothes, you could not leave the room unless you did so, and as much as you hated the idea, you wanted to get out so badly, you knew if you wanted to escape your only chance came in knowing your surroundings, you begrudgingly and tearfully changed, waiting until anything changed– the doors hissed opened, a woman in a sharp cream coloured suit stood there with clipboard and an armed guard, at the sight of the heavy looking gun– you froze.

Then you took the first step towards hell.

You knew the following things: You lived in some basement area– there were no windows, only elevators. You weren’t alone, there were other women here and they made sure to keep your interactions at minimum no doubt to keep all of you submissive and not getting any ideas, sometimes familiar faces will fade and you could only speculate nightmares. Lastly… your purpose, the reason you were trapped here in the first place was… to lactate.

A plucky little thing that stayed optimistic despite your shared horror called herself a ‘Heifer’ she wasn’t wrong… you lived in a small cell where everything had sat on top of each other feed to keep fat and producing milk much like a cow, whoever developed this diet knew of all the ingredients known to help production, and you knew there were putting something else in the food for your breast begun to feel uncomfortable, for a little while you thought you could fight it by starving yourself, then two men with guns came into the room and told you to eat or else.

The time you spend outside this microflat hong-kong style cell was in the milking room and the shower room, you were ordered to stay clean and quiet, at least in the milking room you had some television and could spend time with the other women, but they keep you isolated, you could do very little, sometimes music would play and a book would be dropped with your food but your happiness wasn’t priority, you had to fill a quota.

After a couple weeks of this you simply accepted defeat, too many guns… not enough spaces to run, and nothing to come home to… a man that wanted to sue you for more feeling as if the judge had been unfair, a pestering family who acted as if they had been the only ones who experience loss, an empty cot you still hadn’t gotten rid off and piles and piles of bills, in this quiet cool room you had spend endless hours thinking, you didn’t love your job, you had been distant from most of your friends and you could only imagine that they assumed you had run away or killed yourself after what happened nobody could blame you.

Existing for the sake of existing until you could figure out what to do next.

“Good Evening… I’m glad you’re eating so well” The lady you met the first day said as the door hissed open, she watched you like a hawk as you process this sudden interruption, clutching at your paper thin blanket, you looked at the floral fabric in her arms and the clipboard under her arm– I need you to sign this before you’re allowed upstairs”

“Am I being let out?” You said anxiously, no way it could be that easy you thought.

The lady let her smile waiver, looking at the unseen guard then at her wrist watch as she handed you the clipboard.

“Your performance might determine how soon you'll be release…”

“You assume I won’t go to the police…”

“That wouldn’t be wise Miss L/N but we assure you that you’ll be sufficiently compensated for the inconvenience.”

You wanted to yell, but a voice in the back of your head thought of this but nothing but pageantry, you were dead either way, but perhaps this could be your opportunity to escape, whatever they wanted to do now meant being outside of these buried walls, you signed the sheet without thinking, briefly considered stabbing the bitch in the eye but is likely they would turn you into swiss cheese before you even took a step too close, she took the paperwork from your hands and in change handed you a long sleeved dressed straight out of the mormon section in target, she closed the door and you dressed up.

The halls looked so odd when you didn’t wear your prison clothes, the other few doors housed sleeping and bored girls, your plucky friend hidden behind one of them, the new girl hidden behind one of them and the girl you seen before in the milking room once hid behind one of them.

They took you to an elevator– it was old box, if you had to guess by the button’s design maybe built in the late or mid 70s, you never left their side until the elevator closed before them, the box moved slowly, a dingy silver box with low honey coloured lights, so dim… and you were alone, as the light chime as it went up you felt your entire being sink into your stomach, your heart beating so fast you were sure you were gonna have a heart attack before the doors opened once again, swallowing dry spit, your eyes opened so wide it hurt.

Quiet… it was so quiet when the doors opened, you expected something else, something menacing… something frightening– not an old house, an old house in the middle of some evergreen forest, everything screams old, untouched, museum like, like it's meant to present this idea that somebody lives here but not really, despite it being an elevator hidden behind a bookcase, you take a few cautious steps, your naked feet bury in the plush carpet, there’s bird singing outside and the sun is so bright and warm it hurts your eyes, the cool tones gone and this feels like a bad dream, pinching yourself but you’re awake, tragically awake, a weird wiry smile creeps on your lips, an almost laugh escapes your lips before you can feel tears burning your eyes.

“Hello…?” You ask and you don’t know why.

As you venture into the living room, hands firm against the tacky dark pink wallpaper, you found old floral couches that matched the drapes and despite how old school it was it had a charm to it.

Then you saw him.

Perusing the VHS collection filled the entire bookcase on the wall, just rows and rows of VHS boxes, some plastic and some cardboard, the TV boxy and just as antiquated but who cared— he was there.

You ran before you even realized you done it, crashing into him with desperation, tears staining your cheeks and you could barely breath as you tried so hard to speak.

“Homelander please help me!! I’ve been kidnapped!! Please!!” You cried, pulling on his suit– please!!”

Those endlessly blue eyes more poison dart hide than veronica flower bush the more they stared at you calmly, his lips into a thin smile and his hand thad taken your wrist inflicting just enough force to keep you firmly in his grip… to show you how he wasn’t an ordinary man, he looked at you as your tears changed meaning as if you were the most unfortunate creature he’d ever seen, his lips parted just enough to show those sharp canines that had looked so charming in sidewalk posters, now you could sense their presence squeezing at your jugular.

“You are so much prettier in person, Y/N.” His voice is disturbingly soft and calm, intimately quiet as he takes a whiff of your neck, moving you to make it easier, his free hand creeped towards your hip– I was so glad when I saw your picture and you weren’t hideous.”

Trembling against him, a nonexistent cold draft blew against you, your whole body shivering and covered in goosebumps.

His eyes fixated in your breast, mouth agape as his tongue dared to lick his lip, watching you like a starved man at a las vegas buffet, his hand slithering upwards, you know where this is leading, you can’t stop crying but you can’t scream either, you're just there as his hand avoids your breasts and creeps towards your back and presses your bodies together.

“I’m so glad you signed that sheet, I was getting sad endlessly waiting for one of you to agree to the deal” He says quietly, you stare at him and you realize you should’ve actually read that stupid sheet– why so scared? I ain’t gonna bite.” He bites the air as a joke and you could tell that that single bite could have torn your finger off cleanly.

His eyes shift to your clinging fingers that stayed so stiff against his padded suit, you stopped squeezing at him now they rested limp against him.

“Let’s watch a movie…” 

It’s an awkward dance concluding in sitting down on a couch, its surprisingly soft and you’re sinking on the cushion while your mind dissolved in the sky, the coffee table had a humbled spread of snacks, pizza and milkshakes, not once did you notice, you stared at him clutching at your dress as he picked something out of the shelve, watching as his hand worked the VHS player, the clicks and whirling all you could focus on. He sat beside you as the speakers began to play the included trailers, he took the drink urging you to do the same with a menacing look, filling you with incomplete thoughts as you obeyed.

Malt vanilla marinated in your tongue, you had a terrible thought.

‘Milk’ 

You were there to provide milk… to whom? Why just milk? You thought they would sell your body or your organs, experiment on you but… they wanted your milk, but who was buying it? Who was drinking it? Where did it go? You stared at the pretty blond whose arm kept your shoulders still, you saw the news– you’d known he had a child and who knows with whom but his kid was old enough to not need it… was it for him? You thought… thinking of it as ridiculous until you remember how 20 minutes ago  he was staring at your tits as if he was malnourished, you looked at his lips pursing as he took a long sip of his milkshake and wonder if that was milk… from a cow… not a heifer like you.

Homelander smiled at you.

“I don’t like ‘The mothman prophecy’ , never been a Richard Gere fan” he said casually.

“He was really good in ‘Pretty Woman’ . This one is okay…” You looked at the screen your voice so stiff– what’s going on…? Mr. Homelander… I…"

“Shhh… watch the movie” He leaned against you resting his head on your shoulder– you tasted the best… every batch perfection– such delicate custardy taste… So this is what we are gonna do… I’ll keep you in this floor so you’re not so bored ."

You swear he’s purring as he rubs himself against you marking you as much as he was making himself comfortable.

“There’s cameras everywhere… The glass is bulletproof, doors won’t open without a fob and code, and there’s no phones or internet, but if you do manage to get out of here just be aware I’ll know.” He said such terrible things as if it was nothing– if you tried to off yourself there will be 3 armed guards and nurses here in less than a minute but if you behave I promise you– you’ll be allowed out, but only if you gain my trust.” He looks up at you as you focus on those thin lips of his– there’s no kitchen but your meals will be delivered… if you want anything just tell the camera over there.”

He pointed at the corner tucked in between two VHS tapes was a small camera.

“I like you Y/N you're cute… you’ll behave for me, right?”

You nodded, too afraid to disagree.

“Now… let’s finish the movie… I actually like this part”

You stared at the pizza box, you could at least tell that the pizza was from an american restaurant, which made you feel safe ‘Select Pizza and Grill” said in the box and you knew you were somewhere in Pennsylvania, far from your apartment in Clinton Hill.

You looked at your boobs feeling his piercing gaze on them, you started drawing lines connecting weird things together, back when you were donating your milk, girls joked about people buying for medicinal and fetish purposes, this spelled itself out for you.

Maybe you could get out of here… but you had to do something weird… but as you heard the birds outside and the warm light peeked into the room, you realized maybe you could leave… no you’ll leave, you’ll go back home and you would find a way to ruin this man and those bastards beneath you, you’ll get them out too, so you took one courageous breath and forced a smile on your dried lips.

“You really liked it?”

“Huh?”

“My milk…” You mumbled– you know I never tasted it myself but am glad to get a review.”

“It’s really tasty” he bites his lip.

Your hand plays with one of the buttons on the dress.

“It hurts a bit… I usually get asked to pump around this time… dunno if you know this but it's a bit painful when they get this swollen.”

The look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know and as you leaned away from him pulling on buttons with slightly trembling fingers, you watched him follow your movements like a snake chasing prey.

“Would you help me out, mister superhero?” Is not flirty but is slightly playful and you’re surprised that you can lie that well, he’s so shameless as he shakes his head enthusiastically, mouth opening for you– please don’t bite.”

He gasps as you let him see all that he’d wanted from the get go, why he put you in that box, why you ended up in this place for.

His body was lighter than you thought as he sunk against you-- eyes closed, body limp against yours, he made the softest sounds it put you at ease somehow, for a moment you saw a very small being latched on your chest, you’d only experienced it once before, and it was seared into your mind as a painful yet tender memory, so you close your eyes dreaming of a fantasy far removed from this peculiar reality, half lid eyes found a man so blissed out your lips curved, this was unbelievable, the world most famous supe keeping you hostage just so you could indulged him.

But you knew now… that this was your way out.

[rotten-pomegranate]

Day thirty : abuse of power with chrollo x phantom troupe member reader

Tags: @aliceattheart @my-eyelash-flew-off

Warnings: chrollo uses you for sex often, abuse of power, threats of being fired/killed, smut, afab

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*come to my room*

You knew what that ment, he wanted sex, you had managed to avoid him for the first three days so you thought you where in the clear

Was he just playing mind games? Probably, letting you think he wasn’t gonna have you pinned under him in his bed while he fucks you

As you walk down the hallway past all the other members doors you wonder if they know, they have to right? He never lets you be quiet, doesn’t matter if the sound is you begging him to stop or keep going

Do they ever wanna stop it, help you while your getting defiled by your own boss? Or do some of them enjoy it, get off on it

Your pulled from your thought when you reach his door, you raise your hand to knock but he opens the door first

“Ahh good, I was thinking I would have to come get you myself” so you kept him waiting to long

“Come in” he takes your hand to lead you to the bed so gently like he hasn’t made you bleed so many times

While he’s gentle with you every other time during sex is the exception, he’s never gentle with you during sex

He doesn’t waist time pulling your cloths of and discarding them somewhere in the room so he can have you bare on his bed

All he had on where simple grey sweats that he took of just as quickly to favour climbing on top of you “you look lovely tonight dear”

He reaches down and sticks his fingers in you and all you can do is tear up and look away, your dry, it hurts so bad but he doesn’t stop until he feels his fingers become slick

“There we go, are you ready darling” he doesn’t wait for you to respond before he pumps his cock a few times and starts pushing in

“ahh my love you feel better every time” you try thinking of how you got here when he starts moving

Getting recruited when you where young and stupid, only to regret it for years after, to lay under your boss when all your job was to get info

He lets out a long groan that brings you back “ahh I could never put you out there, this is to good”

All you can do is look down at where your body’s connect “do you do this to all the girls in the troupe or just me” you nearly sob out

“Just you, only ever you” he speeds up

You start moaning when he hits you cervix with more pressure “see you like it, I don’t see wh-ahh why you complain so much” you know he’s not stupid enough to believe your moans are genuine pleasure but you can’t fight

His thrusts are getting sloppy, his forehead has a wet tint to it and his hand goes to hold you neck while the other squeezes you hip almost enough to break it

His hips star stuttering before you can even get close to getting off but he’s never paid much mine to your pleasure in these late night meetings with only you two present

You know he’s cuming before you can feel it by the way he collapses on top of you

You only feel his dick pump you full after, also an unpleasant feeling

All his weight makes it hard to breath but it’s gone quickly and you feel him floop down next to you

You both catch your breath for a moment before you speak up “I cant keep doing this chrollo”

“Hmm, I would hate to have to fire you over something as trivial as sex” your shut up that easy, being fired from the phantom troupe is code for being executed

You sit up to get dressed and he grabs your wrist “try not to avoid me next time, I’ll have to punish you if you do”

“Yes boss”

[mvltisstuff]

HI!! i was wondering if you could do a buck fic to where they’re working at the 118 and he just randomly starts getting really needy - like arms wrapped around reader’s shoulders and walking (waddling rlly..) while still holding onto them. then like a cute little cuddle session at home where he talks abt how he wants to marry reader and just talks about the future.

THANK YOU!!!!!!

clean - e.b

summary: request

evan buckley x reader

gif from @housewifebuck

a/n: guys!!! i love this i can’t wait for a new buck in s7 :)) anyway, 1989 TV SO SOON GUYS WTF, it feels like yesterday was red tv 😧

the lightning had taken care of the other fires in buck. he was different, and he couldn’t tell if he hated it or loved it at first.

the man he was was reckless and like a shiny new toy for someone to play with. he allowed people to string him along and pull at his arms until he did what they wanted. it almost felt like his purpose, to be a prop for everyone else.

he thought y/n would leave him soon after the strike. everyone else liked to do the same thing. his parents giving up on him after his youthful mistakes, abby fleeing because he wasn’t enough for her, aly fearing her future with him. he thought y/n would crack under the pressure of almost losing someone like buck, now he hates himself for second guessing her.

he started to appreciate the smallest things in his girlfriend. the softness of her words, the light reflection of sun in her eyes, the cotton-like skin on her hands as they grazed over it. he almost didn’t want to face her after the accident, but she was clutching onto his hand when he woke up. and, there hasn’t been a day where she hasn’t reminded him that she’s going nowhere.

she knew bucks scars as she watched them all get handed to him. she knew how silently fragile he was. he could see it clearly in her as well, noticing each fear of hers and the love she’s pushed away. it was foreign to both of them, the tenderness of each other.

it’s been years since they began dating, and somehow every day is brand new with them. y/n doesn’t ever believe that buck has something to make up. but, he thinks so. he’s been spending years begging for love, and now he has it. now, he wants to show the world what he has after it tried to strip him of everything.

it doesn’t matter how long a shift was, when buck was back to work, every free moment was spent on her heels. he used to go through work, only looking around to see who maybe looked at him. now, he looks forward to see his girl waiting for him wherever he may be.

today was no different, y/n was stocking the engine full of brand new supplies from the new shipment. the trucks glazed red popped out from her perfect polishing on the sides.

“this truck looks almost as good as you,” buck whispers, placing his hand on the side of her waist, making her jump in place.

“and what are you supposed to be doing right now?” she teases back.

“taking it easy, like you and bobby told me!”

“so you come and flirt with your already girlfriend? professional hours baby, remember?”

“those are boring, though. i just want to take you home and never leave.” he sighs, placing his chin on her head.

“just a few more hours, i believe in you!” she encourages, making him smirk and land his lips on her cheek, running away like a little kid.

y/n stood with buck at the island of the kitchen, smelling over bobby’s new dishes that he had prepared for the team. he made several things for a feast amongst everyone, getting a well deserved break.

she could practically feel buck breathing on her neck as he peered over her shoulder. normally, someone doing that would be insufferable, but buck makes it seem normal. it makes her smile, knowing how close he always wishes to be.

“if i didn’t know any better i’d think you were conjoined twins.” chimney takes a turn at his own joke, trying not to laugh at himself. he gets a smile from y/n, but the fakest look you ever did see from buck.

“i’m gonna slap you and i hope it shocks you.” buck snaps back, half joking but also half annoyed as well. chimney takes his plate and scurries away.

buck makes two plates as y/n grabs them drinks from the fridge, moving over to place it in the seat next to her. before she can even think about sitting, buck slightly runs into her with his hip. he places the plates down perfectly on the mats before pulling her chair out. she gazes at him, noticing the cheesy grin on his lips. the team stops to notice his abruptness on pulling out her chair, and kissing her head as she sits.

as the dinner closes, and the sun dips lower, the calls come in slower. luckily, the shift is just ending, so it’s just buck and y/n left in the kitchen as she scrubs away at a bowl. he sneaks up behind her, grabbing a dish to dry from her.

“hi, honey,” he says, looking down at her.

“hi, buck,” she smiles back, noticing the excitement on his face just getting to be near her. “do you wanna talk?”

“about what?”

“i just want to make sure you’re okay, baby,” her kindness and concern comes through her angelic voice, buck almost getting distracted by the sound of her.

“i’m fine!” he replies. “just been thinkin’”

“we can talk about it if you’d like.”

“maybe later, i just can’t wait for us to go home together.” he dries the plate as y/n scoops them all up, buck wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking his face into her neck. he locks his fingers together and rests them on her belly. she just giggles, waddling over to the cabinet where she slides the dishes in. it would’ve been easier if she wasn’t like a tree to a sloth, but easier isn’t always for the best.

the car ride home in his truck was nothing less than romantic. his hand was rested on her thighs the whole time if it wasn’t on the gear shift or the wheel. she practically had to keep touching him somehow to make him keep his eyes on the road.

when the duo finally arrived at home, she looked over at buck and could tell how sleepy he was. his eyes told her everything, and she can read him like a book now that she’s admired him for so long. “hey, go shower and come back down here.”

buck agrees, taking a quick shower and changing into some more comfortable clothes. when he walks back down the stairs, he can smell the sweetener of his favorite tea wafting through the living room, as y/n sits down in her soft sweater and places the mugs on the couch. they’re matching LAFD mugs that y/n’s parents bought for them. she turned on reruns of new girl as she moved to grab a blanket from the basket, leaning against the arm of the couch.

“come on,” she sweetly curls his lips up at him, signaling for him to come lay with her. he happily obliges, going to sit between her legs on his side, the side of his face buried into y/n’s warm chest.

the tightness of her arms wrapped around him eases any weight of the day or stress on his body. he lets himself relax in her hold, knowing she’ll keep him safe from whatever might come his way next.

one of her arms is rubbing his back as the other cups his face as he appears to be intently watching the show, but he’s not.

he thinks of small y/n and buck mixes running around a small house in los angeles, the sun shining through the curtains early in the morning. he thinks of the smell of ice cream and the reflection of the moon on the windows as they get ready for bed. he thinks of a warm vacation with a shining rock on her ring finger.

“i can’t wait to see you in a big, white dress,” he mumbles into her shirt, smiling just at the thought of seeing her on a carpet, walking down an isle to greet him.

“what is going on in that mind of yours?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair.

“i just- i don’t want anyone else but you,” he begins. “you could’ve ran. you could’ve left me in the dark, but you didn’t. you’re the only person who hasn’t done that to me. i trust you, and i know you won’t. it’s my turn to show you that i’m here to stay, and that we’re forever.”

“listen,” she starts next, the clear adoration in her eyes. “i would lay on this couch, all day, every day, if it meant you’d come back to me. id do anything, and literally anything, to spend the rest of my life with you. im sorry for every other woman who can’t be with a man like you.”

he doesn’t know how to compete with sentences like that. it feels brand new, even though she tells him all the time. it feels different after the lightning strike. someone above tried so hard to ruin the best things he had going on, but he pulled through. he wants to think he’s strong on his own, but buck knows he wouldn’t be here if y/n wasn’t next to him. if she hasn’t picked up the pieces that everyone left behind, if she hadn’t taken the time to put him back together.

now, buck barely thinks of all the shit that’s happened to him. how could he, when the future is definite right in front of him? he used to just assume his life would be the same forever, but y/n’s flashlight guided him out of the cave he was in. he sleeps in her arms without a fear that she’ll disappear from him, and without a fear that things are out for him.

[bluehoodiewoozi]

DRABBLE MARATHON #15:

WEN JUNHUI + first love

1.5k words // warnings: alcohol consumption.

This party would be fun – at least so you had been told. It would just be a cute little celebration of a year well-spent, complete with only the best drinks and culinary goods. Dress code: ugly Christmas sweaters recommended but not mandatory.

And yet, you felt like you were trapped, stuck in a vast ocean of Christmas decorations, gingerbread cookies and Vernon’s holiday remixes of all the best songs. 

It’s not that you didn’t like socialising or meeting people. Minghao’s house was full of your friends and acquaintances and you were having the time of your life until he drunkenly told you a secret: Junhui would be coming to the party too, right as soon as his plane landed.

Junhui – the first man to ever make your heart pound, the first man to kiss your lips,  the first boyfriend you had had in college, the first everything. And while he wasn’t the last, no one else compared. 

You hadn’t seen him in two years. Your last memory of him was the day he left for his hometown a week after graduation. 

“I’ll come and find you again one day,” he had sworn that day as the two of you shared tearful goodbyes, giving the other a piece of your shattered hearts to keep. 

For reasons unknown to the both of you, you had decided to not continue your relationship at a distance. Long distance being painful was the excuse you gave when someone asked. 

But now, after two years, the distance would be no more. No more excuses, no more longing – in just a short time, he would be in the same room as you again. 

“How much have you had to drink?” Mingyu wondered and plucked the glass from your hands. “You’re all pale.”

“Jun’s coming,” you whispered, panic restricting your chest while butterflies fluttered their wings in excitement just the same. “He’s coming to the party.”

Mingyu hummed in thought. “Yeah, I think Hao mentioned something about that.”

“Do you think he remembers me?” 

“He promised he would, didn’t he?`” He nudged your side gently before offering a reassuring smile. “Junhui doesn't break his promises. Besides,” he sighed, “he always asked about you when we called.”

The butterflies won, for now. “He did?”

“Every single time. You’ll be fine.”

Just as you were about to come to terms with the words — or fight them, perhaps –, Soonyoung’s voice broke your little illusion of there being more time. “JUN! OH MY GOD, YOU ACTUALLY CAME?!”

He squealed and and jumped around and screamed like a little kid receiving his favourite toy for Christmas before dashing through the lines of guests and tackling a tall figure in a hug. 

“I missed you, man!” he cried, now sobbing into the man’s shoulder – no doubt drunk out of his mind. “Don’t ever leave again, Junhui!”

Junhui laughed – god, had you missed his laugh. “I missed you too, Soonyoung.”

“It’s Tiger,” he was promptly corrected by the crying  man. 

Junhui blinked and patted his back. “I– Sure. I missed you, Tiger.”

‘Tiger’ sobbed louder at that and hugged him even tighter, causing his poor victim to groan under the pressure. “I missed you and so did Hao and Mingyu and Jihoon and– Oh! And (Y/n) missed you the moist–” he hiccuped while you tried your hardest to hide behind Mingyu, “most!”

You were going to be sick from nervousness and it only got worse when Junhui’s eyes immediately began searching for something – someone – in the crowds upon hearing your name.

His gaze caught yours before you could hide away properly. Your breath caught in your throat and your heart stopped for a moment before fluttering at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. He offered you a smile.

Before you could find the strength to return the gesture, he was pulled away by Seungkwan. As they disappeared into the kitchen, you finally found your breath again.

“You should talk to him,” Mingyu told you but he didn’t sound as playful as he usually did when he told you things like this. He sounded almost… Sad? Disappointed? Mournful, perhaps? The smile he put on hardly looked genuine. “I bet he’s missed you as much as you missed him, you know?”

“I–” you gasped and the room seemed to be spinning as reality slowly set in, “I’m going to go get some fresh air.”

“Here,” he sighed and shrugged off his blazer, “at least put this on. I don’t want you catching a cold before New Year’s.”

You thanked him, shrugged on the blazer and headed out to the balcony. The chill of the air was a welcoming change – it lulled the butterflies back to sleep, just like you preferred them. 

He was really here, in the same building, breathing the same air, and he was as handsome as always – if not even more. The years had been kind to him and you didn’t doubt he must have a wife by now.  She was probably pretty and kind and a little aloof like he was – the perfect pair, his ideal other half like you never could be.

And you? You were alone still, holding onto a silly little hope that he’d still love you as much as he told you he did when you had a breakdown in the middle of your last finals’ season. To the moon and back and all around the world, as bright as the stars in the sky – that’s how he had described his feelings for you and you doubt he even remembered. 

The door creaked open and you tense up in anticipation of what was about to come. You didn’t dare turn to see who it was – perhaps it was Mingyu urging you to come back inside, or maybe Soonyoung coming to beg you to join him in karaoke, or maybe–

“I figured I’d find you here,” you heard him speak and your whole world shook. Junhui shuffled to stand next to you, leaning against the railing to look out at the city. “It was a little loud inside, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly but really it had been your own heart that had been so loud.

He chuckled. “I had forgotten how loud the guys were. I missed them though.” 

You nodded, unable to form sentences now that he was so close. You were staring at your hands – just a few centimetres and you could hold hands with him again. 

“I missed you,” you then heard him breathe out and the butterflies came to life again. “I missed you so much, every day. I guess it’s true what they say: you never forget your first.”

“But you can always move on,” you replied solemnly.

He hummed. “Have you? Moved on?” He seemed to regret the question as soon as he said it.  He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sure you did. Mingyu seems nice. He always did like you.”

Your heart dropped in shock. “Mingyu?”

“You’re wearing his jacket right now,” he laughed wistfully. “I always figured if it wouldn’t be me, it would be Gyu.”

“Oh!” You rushed to correct him now that you knew what he meant. “No, no, Mingyu and I– We aren’t– We never– I never. I haven’t moved on.”

“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “You haven’t?”

“Well,” you started with a gulp of air, “I tried, but… no one compared.”

“Me too,” he breathed out and you saw that sparkle in his eyes you had missed so much. “There was no one like you, so I just waited… and waited…”

“Waited for what?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered and he seemed to be closer to you all of a sudden, your noses brushing together, “but I’m done waiting.”

You didn’t need to ask him what he meant by that, nor did you have the time to. He leaned closer and closer until you felt his lips against yours. Your fingers rose to play with the hair at the nape of his neck as his arms lowered to pull you closer to his chest. You faintly noticed your – Mingyu’s – blazer falling off your shoulders as Junhui embraced you closer, and closer, and closer, until you could feel the familiar fluttering of his heart against yours.

You expected it to feel foreign – years had passed, after all – but instead, it was as if he never even left. As if he had been here with you all those years, holding your hand and laughing at your dumb jokes while fighting off Soonyoung’s attempts at playful flirtation. 

As if there was only him and you in the world and that was all you would ever need.

“I missed this,” he all but gasped out once you pulled apart again. “I missed you.”

“I can’t believe you left me here to suffer alone for all those years,” you told him with a disbelieving laugh, “and then you come back and kiss me dumb?`”

A smirk on his lips, he shrugged. “But you’re not complaining, are you?”

“Only on one condition.”

“Anything,” he whispered and pecked your lips once more as if to seal his promise.

You believed him. “Stay. Here. With me.”

“With you? Forever.”

You had spoken in a daze of hopeful delusion but here he was, replying as if it was the only truth he knew. Your eyes widened. “What about your life back home?”

“My home is where you are,” he confessed with a small smile. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realise.”

[sa1808fi]

I sent it in tags already but I also wanna send it as an ask:

5 years is honestly a crazy amount of time if you pull in real world logic. In a lot of medias you have characters stay trapped for 30 or thousands of years in prison, and while it's an impressive amount of time it's not that easy to sympathize with - unless you're a convict ig 😭

5 years is a lot easier to visualize, though, a lot easier to relate to and sympathize with. No angst for the sake of angst. A realistic, 4-5 time frame that would make sense for a toy to go missing in.

Idk about anyone else, but my views on people or troubling situations can change in the span of DAYS, weeks or months at best.

So the fact it took two entire years for Emmet to even START breaking is truly a testament to how strong his will is, and just how much pressure from all sides it takes to shatter it. Constant "proof" that his friends never cared about him right in his line of sight, and yet he remains optimistic for over 730 days. Seven hundred and thirty days of holding onto hope. Some would call that naive. I think it's inspiring.

...it really sounds like a lot when you put in that perspective, huh? And that's only year two. Out of five.

No wonder Rex is the way he is. He stops being so violently out of character to Emmet once you put it into perspective just how much it took to drag him down to this point

Probably around 60 months, 260 weeks 1,826 days, 43800 hours, 2628000 minutes, and 157788000 seconds.

Long time to be paralysed and stuck with your own thoughts, watching as the people you called friends move on without a second thought.

It's just angst.

That's the whole thing about those 5 years, it's just Emmet suffering.

Compared to tons of other media where characters are trapped for a long time by themselves, it is pretty common for them to go insane or go on a whole villain arc as revenge to the people who wronged them.

On some occasions, said characters come out the 'same', but that should be taken with a grain of salt, since those times a lot of what was their life has been torn away, and they have to help another group of people.

The thing is, is that these characters that are trapped are usually able to do something while trapped. It really the isolation that’s a common appearance between them.

Emmet had a chance to watch the world move on. He wasn’t able to do anything during those 5 years but watch and think.

I say he starts to break after 2 years because while he’s able to stay optimistic through the first stretch of isolation, the reality of the situation eats away at him.

Some people might say "Oh that's not the worst, apocalypseburg lasted 5 years as well." Which... okay it did last 5 years too, but all of those things that happened over those 5 years also transferred to the years in undar.

Emmet finally breaking and deciding to change his whole personality and sense of self was the after-effect of his treatment in the first movie, apocalypseburg, and undar.

It wasn't just Undar that broke him. Everything before that piled ontop of him until that one event finally made him snap.

I guess at the end of the day that's all he really is. A man. One that has gone though way too much and finally cracked under all the pressure.

Emmet is an individual that possesses a lot of willpower to be able to keep up his cheeriness for most of his life, especially in the face of dangerous or depressing situations that would otherwise end with other people giving up.

But that cheeriness was also making him push down any negative feelings he had. Emmet is the reliable ray of sunshine in everyone's eyes, he had to ignore all the hateful comments to keep up that happiness.

[pixel7777]

The First Worshipper: Ch. 7

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

If you want to read from the beginning, searching my blog for #myfic will bring up all my fanfic posts. Link for Chapter 1. Link for art discussion post.

Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

still 110 years AB

My beloved Tav,

It's been... quite some time since my last letter. I'm not entirely sure I should be writing now. The habit feels like an old wound I keep reopening, though perhaps that's unfair to us both.

I've moved forward—finally, as I'm sure you're saying wherever you are. (Don't look so smug about it.) Sebastian helps, more than I thought anyone could. He understands things I never had to explain, and he makes me laugh without trying to fix me. Rather like you did, come to think of it.

But you should know—though perhaps you already do—that Jaheira has joined whatever cosmic gathering awaits those who've left us. She went peacefully, surrounded by the grove she loved. Halsin held her hand until the end. The Vale bloomed spectacularly that day, as though nature itself was welcoming her home.

The funeral is next tenday—Halsin insisted on preserving her long enough that anyone who wanted to say farewell would have the time to get here. Don't fret—for once I haven't any shenanigans planned.  Well, maybe a small one, but Jaheira always loved a good joke.

I wonder if you've met her there, wherever "there" is. I can almost hear the lecture she'd give you about letting me flounder for so long. Or perhaps you're the one lecturing her about leaving Halsin behind. I'm not sure who'd win that argument, but I'd pay good coin to witness it.

I still love you. I suspect I always will. But I understand now that loving you doesn't mean I have to stand still, waiting for an answer that isn't coming. You made your choice when you refused to return, and I'm finally making mine.

One promise, though: You won't be forgotten. Neither of you will. I'm writing your stories—the real ones, not the sanitized versions the nobles prefer—and am planning something marvelous with them. Every mischievous deed, every act of defiance, every moment of grace under pressure I can extract from my memory and the relics of our early years are making their way onto paper and then... then we will see. Future generations will know exactly who you were, not just what you did.

*Forever yours, but no longer only yours,

Astarion*

* * *

I stood in the shadow of an ancient oak, watching the crowd fill Reithwin's central square. The place had changed since our days fighting mind flayers—gardens bloomed where ruins once crumbled, and children played where darkness once lurked. Sebastian squeezed my hand, a silent anchor in the sea of faces.

Jaheira would have hated all this fuss. Or pretended to, at least. Her body lay on the flower-covered dais, looking far too peaceful for someone who'd spent her life fighting every injustice she stumbled across.

Karlach's great-grandchildren dotted the crowd, their red hair marking them as clearly as their mother's horns once had. Some of Halsin's first orphans—now grey-haired druids themselves—stood tall among their own children and grandchildren. Even the Harpers had turned out in force, their silver pins catching the morning light.

Halsin stood beside the dais, his face etched with grief but his back straight. The years hadn't bent him, though they'd weathered him like an old tree. Shadowheart kept close to him, her own face tear-stained but composed. Lae'zel stood apart, as always, but her presence spoke volumes about how far we'd all come.

No sign of Gale, of course. (Not that I'd expected him. Gods had better things to do than attend funerals, didn't they?) The thought stung less than it might have once. Immortality had its own demands—I understood that better now.

But Wyll's absence nagged at me. He should have been here, front and center, telling wildly exaggerated stories about Jaheira's exploits. I scanned the crowd again, hoping I'd somehow missed his distinctive figure among the mourners. Nothing.

"Something wrong?" Sebastian murmured.

I shook my head, forcing a smile. "Just counting heads. Old habits."

But the worry lingered, a splinter under my skin. Wyll never missed a gathering, especially not one this important. Even if he and Jaheira had butted heads more often than not, they'd respected each other. He should have been here.

I checked the sun's position again, tracking the shadows cast by the ancient oak. Sebastian remained safely shielded from direct sunlight, though I kept the scroll of Darkness ready in my vest pocket. Old habits die hard, especially when protecting someone you care for.

Sebastian cut an impressive figure in the formal wear I'd spent weeks perfecting. The deep burgundy coat emphasized his broad shoulders, while gold thread—my own handiwork—traced delicate patterns along the collar and cuffs. Like mine, the fabric was specially treated to withstand the damp conditions of our underground home.

I'd matched our outfits without making them identical—his burgundy to my midnight blue, his gold accents to my silver. His blonde hair was pulled back with a jeweled clip I'd given him, revealing the scars Cazador had left. He wore them openly now, a choice I both admired and envied in its boldness.

The morning light caught the rings on my fingers and I felt a familiar pang of guilt. I still hadn't found a second sun-protection ring. Sebastian insisted he didn't mind, that he preferred the quiet life underground, but...

I pushed away thoughts of our cozy cave-home, with its endless art projects and peaceful routines. Beautiful, yes. Safe, certainly. But sometimes, watching the bustle of the surface world, I missed the sharp-edged thrill of city life. The schemes, the parties, the delicious chaos of it all.

Sebastian caught my eye and smiled, clearly at ease despite being so far from our colony. I smiled back, shoving down my restless thoughts. After everything, I had no right to want more.

A familiar tingle of divine energy prickled my skin, and suddenly Gale materialized beside me—not in his usual dramatic flash of light, but quietly, as though he'd always been there. Sebastian's hand tightened on mine in surprise.

I stiffened at Gale's presence, though I kept my face carefully neutral. Of course he'd choose now to appear—decades of silence shattered just when I'd managed to build something resembling peace. How perfectly, irritatingly Gale of him.

"Lord of Ambition," I drawled, not looking at him. "Come to pay your respects? Or just to remind us mere mortals of your divine magnificence?"

Sebastian's hand tightened on mine. He'd heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. The great falling out between the God of Ambition and his first High Priest. Such delicious scandal—the nobles had dined on those rumors for months.

Gale looked... exactly the same. Still wearing that infuriatingly earnest expression, still radiating that subtle glow of divinity. While the rest of us changed, aged, died—he remained untouched. (Like me, a traitorous voice whispered. But at least I had the decency to look properly jaded by immortality.)

"Astarion." His voice carried the weight of centuries, yet somehow managed to sound exactly like the awkward wizard who'd once accidentally set his own robes on fire trying to impress Tav. "It's good to see you."

I wanted to be angry. I should have been angry. Instead, I just felt... tired. Tired of the politics of divinity, tired of immortality's endless dance, tired of watching everyone I loved slip away while Gale and I remained, frozen in our respective eternities.

"Is it?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. "And here I thought you'd forgotten all about your first failed experiment in worship. How many devotees do you have now? Ten? Twenty?"  (A lie, of course, the church thrived even in my absence.  I had been right about the liturgy.)

The barb lacked its usual bite. Even I could hear the hollowness in my voice. Sebastian squeezed my hand again, a gentle reminder that I wasn't alone. (When had I become someone who needed such reminders?)

Gale's presence felt like an itch under my skin, a reminder of everything I'd tried to leave behind in that gaudy cathedral. The schemes, the performances, the desperate attempt to matter to a god who'd already begun to fade from the world of mortals.

But watching him now, standing awkwardly among the mourners like he wasn't sure if he belonged (he didn't), I couldn't summon the old fury. Perhaps we'd both changed more than I'd thought.

Gale shifted uncomfortably, his form flickering slightly at the edges. "I've been... finding ways around the restrictions. Small ways. It's not easy keeping track of everything at once—"

"Oh, I'm sure it's terribly difficult, being omniscient." I examined my nails, pristine as always. "All those divine responsibilities. Hardly time to check in on old friends except when they're already dead."

"Astarion." His voice carried that familiar note of exasperation. "I've set alerts—quiet ones, hopefully too subtle for Ao to notice. I do care."

"Alerts?" I arched an eyebrow. "How thoughtful. Tell me, does your divine notification system only ping for deaths, or did you simply ignore the ones about Jaheira's declining health?"

A faint pink tinge crept across Gale's ethereal features. Fascinating—I hadn't known gods could still blush.

"I... I wanted to come sooner." He glanced toward the dais where Jaheira lay. "But the rules of divine intervention—"

"—are apparently flexible enough for you to attend a funeral, but not to say goodbye to an old friend?" The words tasted bitter. "How very convenient."

Gale's blush deepened, and I felt a familiar thrill of satisfaction. Even as a god, he was still terrible at hiding his feelings.

Sebastian cleared his throat beside me, and I realized I'd been terribly rude. How far I'd fallen from my days as the toast of Upper City society. Though perhaps watching your friends die one by one earned you the right to forget your manners now and then.

"Ah, yes. Sebastian, this is Gale, God of Ambition and Questionable Timing. Gale, this is Sebastian. My..." I paused, the word catching in my throat. "Partner."

Gale's gaze shifted between us with an intensity that made even my undead skin crawl. I recognized that look—the same one he'd worn studying ancient magical artifacts or particularly fascinating corpses.

"A pleasure," Sebastian said smoothly, covering my awkward pause. "I've heard many stories."

"All lies, I'm sure," Gale replied, still staring. His form flickered slightly, like a candle in wind.

I arched an eyebrow. "Done cataloguing us for your divine records?"

Gale startled, his ethereal form solidifying again. "Sorry, I... it's just good to see you happy." He shifted uncomfortably. "About my absences... I may have made some questionable choices in my early years of godhood. Ao wasn't pleased."

"Shocking," I drawled.

"I've been trying to do better," he continued. "Though 'better' as a god often means worse as a friend." He attempted a smile. "Occupational hazard of being the God of Ambition, I suppose. Questionable priorities come with the territory!"

His joke landed with all the grace of a drunken mind flayer. I simply stared at him, unimpressed.

Gale's smile faded. "I am sorry, Astarion. Truly."

Before I could respond, drums began to sound from the dais. The funeral service was beginning.

* * *

Gale shifted his celestial form, attempting to focus on Halsin's heartfelt words about Jaheira's dedication to the grove. The archdruid's voice cracked with emotion as he described her final moments, peaceful among the trees she'd nurtured. But Gale's attention kept drifting to the two figures beside him.

Astarion leaned against Sebastian, their fingers intertwined. The gesture was subtle, intimate - nothing like Astarion's usual theatrical displays. Sebastian whispered something, and Astarion's lips curved into a genuine smile, the kind Gale hadn't seen since...

Since Tav.

This wasn't the brittle, defensive Astarion who'd hidden behind elaborate ceremonies and sharp-edged prayers. This was Astarion as he'd been in those precious years with Tav - when he'd finally learned to trust, to love without fear of loss.

Sebastian's hand traced soothing circles on Astarion's back as Halsin described Jaheira's work with orphaned children. The tenderness of it twisted something in Gale's chest. He should be grateful, he knew. This was exactly what he'd hoped for - someone who understood Astarion's unique existence, who could share his immortality instead of leaving him to face endless centuries alone.

Yet watching them together, Gale felt an irrational surge of... something. Not quite jealousy, surely. Gods didn't feel jealous. Ok, yes he was jealous, as absurd as that was, but it was more than that. Sebastian had accomplished what none of them could, reaching past Astarion's walls of grief and rage to find the person underneath. The person Gale had missed for decades.

"She would have hated all this ceremony," Astarion murmured, and Sebastian smiled sadly in understanding.

Gale watched the simple exchange and wondered how Sebastian had done it. How had he helped Astarion heal when all of Gale's divine wisdom had failed?

The alert pierced through Gale's divine consciousness like a knife - sharp, precise, and deeply unsettling.  It was Wyll. Wyll's mortal form had just been destroyed. But Wyll was a devil, had been since Mizora had punished him for sparing Karlach. Gale's omniscient sight caught the briefest flash of their friend's essence being yanked back to Avernus, right into the heart of danger.

Astarion's head snapped toward him, those keen vampire senses picking up something amiss. "What is it?"

Gale tried to keep his face carefully neutral, though his mind raced. Wyll would have materialized exactly where he'd last stood in Hell - the same chamber where he and Karlach had stolen those infernal blueprints to fix her heart. The devils would still be furious about that theft, and Wyll was alone this time.  The service would go on for hours.  If Wyll died in the hells, that would be his final end.

Of course I'm going to have to be the one to interrupt Jaheira's service after being an absentee friend for decades.

Gale struggled to find the right words, divine knowledge tangling his tongue. Astarion's eyes narrowed, reading every micro-expression with that uncanny perception that hadn't dimmed in all these years.

"Out with it," Astarion said. "Your face is doing that thing."

"Wyll's corporeal form was just destroyed. He's back in Avernus." Gale kept his voice low, conscious of the mourners around them. "The exact chamber where you all stole those infernal blueprints."

"And?" Astarion's fingers tightened on Sebastian's hand. "Are you along for this rescue, or just the messenger?"

The weight of divine responsibility pressed down on Gale. He couldn't risk entering Hell - the consequences would ripple across planes, destabilizing... but this was Wyll. Their Wyll.

"I can't go. But I'll grant each rescuer a boon." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "I'm not supposed to, but—"

"Fuck supposed to," Astarion finished, and for a moment they were back in their adventuring days, breaking every rule that got in their way.

Sebastian tugged Astarion closer, whispering urgently. "You can't. Not now. Not after everything—"

Gale watched in disbelief as Sebastian tried to talk Astarion out of the rescue. As if Astarion would ever abandon one of their own. As if decades of immortality could erase the bonds forged in battle and blood.

Gale watched Sebastian grip Astarion's arm. "You've worked so hard to find peace. To move past violence."

The words struck a nerve Gale didn't know he still had. "Peace isn't the same as withdrawal." The divine resonance in his voice made several mourners turn. He lowered it. "There's a difference between choosing not to kill and choosing not to act."

Astarion's glare could have frozen the nine hells. "Careful."

Sebastian straightened, meeting Gale's gaze. "With respect, Lord of Ambition, do you truly understand what Astarion needs? Or are you falling back on old patterns, dragging him into danger because that's what you're used to?"

The formal title stung more than the accusation. Gale forced himself to pause, to acknowledge the truth in Sebastian's words. "You've helped him heal in ways I couldn't. You've given him something real and precious." He gestured to their linked hands. "But maybe you don't understand him as well as you think. Astarion never needed someone to protect him from a fight."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Astarion yanked his hand free. "I'm standing right here, and I can make my own choices. Neither of you gets to decide what I need based on who 'knows me better.'" He threw up air quotes with such venom that both Sebastian and Gale flinched. "This isn't about either of you. It's about Wyll."

Astarion's expression hardened into something familiar - the look he wore before every impossible fight they'd faced together. Their eyes met, and Gale saw his own helpless frustration mirrored there. If only he could go himself...

Without another word, Astarion drew out a sending stone and lifted it to his lips. Sebastian turned and set his face stubbornly toward the dias, a statue of disapproval and disappointment. Gale tried not to feel smug.  He failed.

Looking back to the dias, Gale observed the subtle shift in body language as Shadowheart received Astarion's sending and then leaned toward Halsin. Her whispered words carried urgency, and Halsin's shoulders dropped with the weight of yet another burden. Still, he nodded, his eyes reflecting understanding beyond grief.

Shadowheart wove with gracefully through the crowd to reach Lae'zel. The Githyanki warrior stood rigid in the front row, but her posture softened fractionally at Shadowheart's approach. Their brief exchange ended with a sharp nod from Lae'zel.

As the current speaker concluded their remembrance, Halsin took their place. His voice carried across the square, steady despite the emotion in his eyes.

"Jaheira always put others first. Their wellbeing, their happiness – these were her priorities above all else." He paused, a sad smile touching his lips. "She would understand that some of us must leave now. She would insist upon it."

One of his adopted children – now grown – stepped forward to take his place. Halsin descended from the dais as Shadowheart and Lae'zel fell into step beside him. They moved through the murmuring crowd with the same fluid coordination they'd shown in countless battles.

Watching them approach, Gale felt an ache in his divine chest. How natural they looked together, these old friends. Time hadn't dulled their connection – if anything, it had refined it into something precious and rare. The knowledge that he couldn't join their rescue mission stung like a physical wound.

He shouldn't grant a boon.  He was not authorized.  He knew he shouldn't break the rules (again).  But, to paraphrase his oldest friend, fuck the rules.

He raised his hand, divine power flowing through him as he blessed each of them in turn. The familiar gestures felt inadequate compared to what he wished he could offer, but it was all he could safely do.

As they hurried away, Gale remained, settling in to witness the rest of the service. He would stand for all of them, holding space for both the dead and the living who couldn't stay.

[novasintheroom]

139. Bullet

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 1.3k

♡ Warnings - reader held hostage for a brief moment

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

Part 1 ---- Part 2 (you are here!) ---- Part 3 ---- Part 4

The bullets buzz past and shatter the wood framing around the bar. Bottles explode, and you aren’t sure who’s shaking more – you or the bartender holding your midriff.

“I’m gonna die,” the bartender mutters. He’s a man in his forties, skinny build, and his desperate eyes look up at you. “We’re gonna die.”

You give him a look and shuck him off you. You have no time for that kind of talk. Not when your bodyguards are doing their best to fight off the thieves trying to get your research. On your knees, you crawl and peek around the bar counter.

The saloon’s a mess. Tables turned over for cover, people cowering in different corners or trying to make their escape. You see the red, hunched back of Vash behind one of the tables. You can’t see Mac or Don anywhere, but hear one of them call out to the thieves, “You ain’t gettin’ away with it! Not with us around!”

There’s four of them – thieves, dressed in brown and grey with bandanas around their faces to keep them anonymous. One of them is hiding nearby, ducked into a booth, and looking out with wide eyes. You wonder for a moment how young he is; if this is his first attempt at a robbery or if he just wasn’t expecting so much pushback for some pieces of paper. He spots you for a moment, the two of you staring each other down. Then, bullets fly again, and you duck back into your place.

Someone yelps, and you think it’s one of the thieves that falls to the floor. If it was Mac or Don, you’re sure the floor would have shaken more. You peek out again. Yes, one of the thieves, groaning on the floor and curled into a ball. Funny, there’s no blood. You look for Vash, and see he’s gone from where he was. Another crash and groan comes, followed by bullets hitting the ceiling. Carefully you crawl out more.

Before you can see anything, though, someone grabs you. You think it’s the bartender again, kicking out to knock him back. But then you’re hauled up, and something cold and metal is pressed to the underside of your ear. “Don’t move, and give me the papers.”

The thief from before. The young one.

Now that you’re standing, you see the full situation. The other thieves are down and out; Vash dispatches the last one with a knock to the head before he sees you. Don and Mac are hiding behind some debris, peeking out when the commotion dies down.

Vash is wide-eyed and approaches slowly. “Don’t do anything stupid, friend,” he says.

The kid behind you tightens his grip. He smells like cigarettes and sweat. His heavy breathing is loud in your ear. “Don’t move,” he growls out. You note the timber of fear in his voice; he’s scared. “Don’t move, or I shoot her!”

Vash is the first to raise his hands in placation. Don and Mac don’t lower their weapons. You feel the barrel of the gun on your neck, shaking. It brings goosebumps to your skin. One wrong move, and this trigger-happy boy will end your life.

But you haven’t been alive this long without some tricks up your sleeve.

You swing your head back hard, feeling his nose crack and break under pressure. You hear the click of his gun before it fires, and somehow, someway, you dodge the bullet. Bodily shoving yourself backward, he stumbles and falls, and you roll to your feet and bolt out the back way of the saloon. It’s all you can comprehend – escape.

It isn’t until you reach the back door of the shop next door that you hear him calling for you to wait. Vash is hot on your heels, and with the ringing in your ears from the shot, it’s hard to understand him. You put up your arms; you’re ready to fight, even as you recognize Vash.

Vash pauses, his hands once again coming up to placate. “S’alright,” he mutters, making small steps toward you. “They’re taken care of; you’re safe.”

You read his lips more than anything. The ringing in your ears is loud. But your shoulders slowly lower. Then your arms, your hands, until you’re standing there, breathing like a beast who’d outrun the hunter.

“Are you alright?” Vash starts circling you. He reaches out, touching your shoulders, your elbows, your back. “Did you get hurt?” He pauses at your left side. “There’s a bullet hole! Where are you hit?!”

Surprised, you look down. There, in your satchel, is a little hole the size of a bullet. You blink, fingering it. Then you lift your bag and look at the other side. No exit holes. Opening the bag, you look inside. There sits the bullet, having gone through several of your books and papers. You take out two of the books, the papers you’ve been working on for McDonough. A fine tunnel burrows through them ‘til nearly the end, where the bullet finally stopped. You groan. “It got my research and drawings!”

Vash pauses. Then, he huffs out something like a relieved laugh. “Is that all?”

You round on him. “This is our ticket to our paycheck! If anything gets more damaged, I’ll have to start all over!” Then his words register, and you flush with embarrassment. “I…I’m sorry. I…Yes, that’s all. I’m not hurt.” You bring a hand to your head and sigh. Then you start. “Are you hurt? Oh my lanta, are you okay?”

Vash waves you off, but lets you circle him like he did you. You’re more handsy, lifting his coat to see his back and the backs of his legs. He protests but doesn’t force you away. There’re scratches, a few close grazes from bullets, but nothing bad. You sigh and place a hand on his arm. “You’re fine.”

He gives a wide smile. “’Course I am! What kind of bodyguard would I be if I got hurt on the first shoot-out we had?”

And you don’t know why – maybe it’s the fact you just survived something traumatic, or that you’ve grown fond of this kind, gentle man in the past two weeks – but tears come to your eyes, and you’re suddenly sobbing into your hands. Your ears still hurt, and you wonder if you’ve lost some hearing in them. Why are gunshots so loud?

Hesitant arms circle your shoulders. Gently, when you don’t react, Vash pulls you to his chest and starts shushing you, rocking you on your feet. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he says. His hand moves up and down your back. You let him. Some part of you cringes that you’re letting an essential stranger comfort you right now. The other part is a hurt little kid who just got the snot scared out of them.

Vash stops and talks to someone over your shoulders. Must be Don and Mac. You try to pull yourself together, spinning around and facing your other bodyguards. Their faces are hard; they have no sympathy toward you right now. “Do y’still have the papers?” Don asks, low and gravelly.

A part of you feels bitten, their words obvious toward what they really care about. But you nod, placing a hand on your satchel. “Some of them have holes, but I can redraw and rewrite them.”

“Good. Let’s go get the sheriff. He owes us a bounty now.” Both men turn back and head toward the saloon. Probably to make off with some whiskey while the poor bartender still cowers. You assume they’ve taken care of tying up those robbers as well.

An awkward silence descends now. You rub your arm and refuse to look at Vash. “Thanks,” you mutter, scurrying after Mac and Don, cursing your social ineptitude with men.

He surprises you, though. A hand takes hold of your arm, and you look behind. Vash looks over the rim of his glasses. “Are you okay?” He asks. Genuinely, with worry. It almost makes you tear up again.

But you nod, a small smile forming. “I will be. Just shaken up is all,” you say. Then, when he finally nods, you both head toward the saloon again.

[mizuki-foreshadowing]

Secret Distance

The first post I made for Secret Distance is about the message that Mizuki's outlook of living life in the moment and making sure she's always enjoying herself, stems from her insecurity that she isn't someone who can have lifelong friends. Mizuki grapples with this no longer being true of herself, and realizes that she does want them.

This post explores the foundation that message relies on, that Mizuki keeps a secret distance from her bandmates emotionally.

The event story opens with just another day at N25. Mizuki remarks to herself that she wouldn't have things any other way. Immediately after this though, she reflects that if things do stay that way, incidents like the caged marionette triggering Mafuyu, or Ena breaking under her father's attempts to stop her from pursuing art professionally, would keep becoming crises, because they would never learn those things about them. The underlying message of Secret Distance is that Mizuki yearns to have lifelong friends, so her response is to break routine and organize a trip for everyone.

The second stop of the trip is a haunted shrine. The story goes that two sisters who were inseparable died looking for the other and curse people who visit with somebody they're close to. Mizuki asks each person if they have anyone they're so close to they might curse happy pairs out of envy, and each of them answer that they don't.

Without thinking, Mizuki says that's a wonderful thing. Ena catches her on it, and Mizuki says that she's happy because it means the four all have something in common. Mizuki's lived her life since middle school believing that she isn't somebody able to have those kind of bonds and shouldn't bother trying. It would be happy for her to hear she isn't alone in something so sad.

The story of the third haunted site is one that hits Mafuyu too close to home and Mizuki got too caught up in the fun of telling it (or of planning the trip destinations) to notice it. Mizuki realizes her mistake only after Mafuyu runs off, and she goes to SEKAI to look for her.

There, Meiko gets Mizuki to admit that she doesn't consider herself close with the other N25 members and doesn't put special emphasis on the bonds they share. To Mizuki, they're people who make music together and get along well. Mafuyu being a gifted student who almost took her own life from all the pressures she took on, is a dynamic Mizuki already knew about, but she didn't catch it in time because she keeps her friends at a distance still.

Because Meiko keeps her own distance from the others, she picked up on Mizuki hiding a burden from her friends since the beginning, and tells Rin as much. Meiko's line, that Mizuki thinks it would be nice if she could stay with her friends, sticks with her, and Mizuki flashes back to it while her stomach is turning from the dread that she does in fact want to be lifelong friends with the other N25 members, which would mean telling them that she's trans and making herself vulnerable for the first time in a long time.

Ena woke up for a moment on the train ride back and caught Mizuki having this internal dilemma. She gets the perfect opportunity to ask Mizuki about it when they're walking back from the station after Kanade and Mafuyu leave.

She doesn't let Mizuki brush off the issue since she knows for certain something is wrong, but Mizuki doesn't know how to open up yet and doubles down that she's fine, until she finally resorts to her usual response, of making up an excuse to run away.

[ya-zz]

First non overwatch post? Who'd have thought. This was started sometime at the beginning of May and completed around the 18th. Just a small thing...

You can find the full art piece over at @yore-donatsu's blog!

We can blame her for the sudden obsession with Dead Cells ANYWAY, I would highly suggest wandering down her blog to learn more about this guy, he's just too charming to resist... I mean, I know nothing of him, yet here I am...

King Conrard x Reader //Part one//

Word Count: 1210

Surely he’s used to it, no, of course he’s used to it; he has been king for how long now? I’ve lost count. It was a reoccurring thought whenever you saw him adjust the crown upon his head. A small lift to relieve the tension that had been building up before it would gradually settle back down. 

He tilts his head back against the throne he’s seated on, a groan escaping his throat as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“There is nobody around if you want to take it off.” You say quietly as to not irritate him anymore than he already was. 

“Perhaps later.” Was all he said in return with a slight smile, though the pain behind his eyes was evidence enough that he wants to remove the crown sooner rather than later. 

Another grumble escapes him as guards come and go. It was the same news each day; the Malaise was spreading, several more infected, several more dead. No matter what he tried to do to save his people, it didn’t work. 

Frustration was building and the tension around his head only seemed to make matters worse. Noticing this, you place your hand on top of his, thumb rubbing gently across his knuckles. 

He looks down at your hand, how fragile and small it was compared to his own. 

“Take a break, Conrard.” It wasn’t a suggestion as you look at him, concern laced in your tone.

Mid afternoon and there was still so much to do. Maybe a break won’t be so bad. 

He sighs, looking back towards the room. It’s quiet, until you break the silence. “Come.” When you stand and pull him up, dragging him away from his seat and down the hallways, he follows without any argument. 

The clacking of heels on tiled floor echo through the hallways as he’s dragged along by someone much smaller than him. He can’t help but grin at the notion, especially the confidence that you have. You were nowhere near his hierarchy, so below him but yet, he keeps you around; a friend, perhaps. Though, he wouldn’t admit there was something else bubbling inside of him if someone were to ask. A secret he may take to the grave should it never flourish into something else.

Of course, those around stood and stared as the two of you passed but the moment he glared at them, they went back to their duties. They knew better than to piss him off, having seen what he has done to prior ‘victims’. 

The king just wanted some privacy, some time to relax. Having been on edge the last few weeks, all the pressure and tension was beginning to seep through the cracks. He was irritated more often than not, only your words and gentle touching helped calm him. Except from your presence, he was alone the other times and it was starting to get to him, going back to that state of loneliness was something he never wanted to go through again. 

Bringing him back to his quarters catches him by surprise, though he stays silent as you open the door and pull him inside. 

As the door closes behind him, he stands there and stares at you, wondering what you had in mind.

Looking up at him, you smile softly, hoping to reassure him that your intentions were pure. “Do you trust me?” 

He nods once, eyes locking with yours. 

His chest tightens when your hands touch him, moving up to slip under the shoulderpads and collar, unbuttoning them and letting them lay limp before removing them completely. After settling them down on the cabinet, you then move your hands to unclasp the buckles on his chest piece, sliding them off and putting them beside the shoulderpads. 

The armour on his forearms were next, unclasping the buckles one by one. Gentle fingers trace over the scratches before placing them beside the other armour on the side. You slip off the belt that held the armour at his hips and he was finally free of the heavy weights. His body slowly relaxes from being so tense carrying it around all day everyday.

The man wants to move his arms, to hold you and pull you close but your hands grab his right arm, thumbs smoothing over the scars on his hand before pulling him over to the bed. 

“Your confidence is admirable.” He watches as your ears perk up and redden, a hidden smile and blush. So cute…

Sitting down on the bed, you pull him that little bit further. “Come and rest your head on my lap.” 

He waits as you shuffle backwards before he kneels down onto the mattress, turning over and letting his head rest against your thighs.

Careful hands lift the crown from his head, his hair sticking up which you brush down with your fingers. A simple and gentle motion that makes him close his eyes, a satisfied hum escaping his throat as he adjusts his position to get comfortable.

“This-”

You cut him off. “Hush. Relax, Conrard.”  Pressing your fingers against his temple and massaging his head, you feel him relax into your touch. All that pressure and tension were slowly evaporating from his body. 

His hand adjusts the collar of his shirt before resting it on his chest. 

“You work too much, you need to rest more.” 

“If only it were that easy.” The king admits sheepishly, he didn’t want to seem weak but there was something about you that makes him open up. He feels safe with you. “I am trying so hard to protect my people…”

“I know. You’re doing what you can and I’m sure they see that.” 

He sighs. “I fear they don’t.” A huff of angered amusement escapes him. “They think I’m stupid, the guards, I mean. I hear them talking about my views and my actions.” 

Your hands don’t stop massaging his scalp, fingers brushing through his hair as you listen to his words, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His brow furrows in frustration though his eyes stay closed. 

“They’re lucky that they’re still here.” He states, your movements calming him down significantly.

“I think they have a wonderful king to protect them and it would be wise of them to honour that.” You say softly, brushing out a small knot in his hair. 

“You may be the only one who thinks that.” He admits with a chuckle. 

“I will continue to believe it no matter what happens. Should the Malaise take over my body, I will be with you until I can no longer see and breathe. I will be by your side until you must discard my body.”

“Your loyalty runs deep.” Conrard finally opens his eyes, soft emerald irises looking up at you. 

“As it always will.” You smile down at him as his hand comes up to caress your cheek. A moment of intimacy.

“You have been by my side for months now.” His eyes flicker between yours. “My voice of reason when I needed it most.” 

“And I hope to always be there, even in your darkest times.”

He offers a soft smile, a warmth spreading through his chest. “I would like that.”

—

KOFI

[anony-man]

Got a little carried away with this one… nonetheless, hope you enjoy!

Chubformers drabble #40!

Character(s): Vortex (and First Aid - IDW)

Word count: 700+

Vortex’s beloved medic had been taking well to the near-constant treats and pastries pushed his way, but to the Combaticon’s surprise, his little feedee wasn’t the only one fattening up. It was a little shocking to realize at first, especially since Vortex’s focus had been on fattening First Aid—and not the other way around. However, the more time went by, the more obvious it became.

Bites of goodies snuck in here and there were fair enough, of course, and Vortex would admit to disposing of imperfect recipes the organic way (via his belly, of course). While he was so focused on lavishing First Aid’s belly in various new recipes and flavors, though, Vortex failed to realize he had begun sporting his own growing gut… and it was all thanks to his snacking.

The day was a casual afternoon inside for the two of them, and the Combaticon had been happily stirring up a mixture of creamy ganache to compliment the rich chocolate cake he’d pulled out of the oven some minutes before. First Aid had snuck in from the berthroom sometime between his frantic rush to pull the cake out of the oven while trying not to overdo his chocolatey mixture, and the pair of arms snaking around Vortex’s waist was the only signal he caught that his partner had come by to check up on his progress.

“How’s it looking?” First Aid asked, his voice muffled by Vortex’s plating as the medic nuzzled into his shoulder. “Mm… smells delicious.”

“Better,” Vortex said, pausing his stirring long enough to grab one of First Aid’s servos and give the knuckles and tender kiss. “First try didn’t fare so well, but I know how much you love this stuff. Might as well try again, right?”

“Ahh… round two, then?” First Aid asked. When Vortex stopped stirring again, First Aid couldn’t help but sigh. “The ganache, ‘Tex.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled under his breath. “Something like that.”

Gentle servos drifted down to rest against Vortex’s belly, and Vortex could feel the soft pressure of First Aid’s helm resting against his back. It was nice, he thought, and he enjoyed the sweet moment… until—

“You know, maybe I should make you take a break from all the baking,” First said giggled. “You’ve got quite the belly going for you these days, babe. It’s almost as big as mine.”

Immediately, Vortex dropped his whisk into the mixture. That was unexpected.

“What?” He spluttered, both embarrassed and alarmed.

Sure enough, First Aid’s prodding servos melted into the soft, pudgy mesh of his belly. He wasn’t huge by any means, but… well, it was certainly a belly. Vortex groaned aloud, his pitiful frown verbalized by the sound as he stared down at his middle in defeat. No wonder First Aid had suggested they take an armor-free day… he was just looking for another chance to cop a feel!

“Aww, Vortex. Don’t be like that.” Gently, First Aid tugged at Vortex’s arm and spun him around. “It’s adorable on you. Besides, I was getting a little lonely being the only chubby bot. I like seeing you enjoying yourself.”

“This is adorable,” Vortex cut with a pout, one finger poking into the soft pudge of First Aid’s own rounded belly. “This—“ he went back to pinching at his own, his servos roughly grabbing a handful of the mesh— “is not.”

“Vortex—“

“I’m a big scary bot, Aid. I’m supposed to be lean and aggressive and intimidating, not…” he shrugged, servos falling down at his side, his gut jutting out as he slumped in defeat. “Not fat.”

“You’re not fat,” First Aid said. “You’re just—well, you’re just chubby.”

When Vortex didn’t seem convinced, First Aid pressed on.

“It’s cute, ‘Tex,” he assured him, reaching out to grasp at Vortex’s servos. “I like it on you. It’s very fitting, you know.”

Vortex huffed and grumbled for a few moments, hesitant to accept the praise as his gaze settled anywhere else but on the puppy-eyed look First Aid was giving him. In the end, he eventually relented.

“Yeah,” he said, giving his poor belly another poke, “I guess you’re right.”

Content with his success, First Aid pulled him into a hug—then spun him back around to the stove.

“Enough of that,” he said, happily going back to wrapping his arms around Vortex’s middle and watching from over his shoulder. “Your ganache is gonna burn if we don’t stop talking soon. Unless…”

“No more scrapped ganache,” Vortex said with a wave of his servo. He got right back to stirring, a sheepish grin settling on his faceplates as he glanced back at his lover. “I want that cake next.”

[pacifymebby]

I think it was his ambition to break America (he mentioned it in an interview in 2022). I think a lot has changed for him since then. He initially seemed gassed up on the fame and attention - understandably as he'd been ploughing away at his music for so long with a lot of hurdles - but since then, he has experienced the downsides and the bad habits he picked up during. Plus, going through a pile on after the JD picture really affected him imo. The pendulum is great when it's swinging your way but nasty when it isn't. Once the dust wares off, fame is VERY isolating, and he clearly is haunted by it. Then add on label pressure for sales, etc. He seems to be having esteem issues with his appearance also, which is no doubt a factor in his reluctance to be front of a camera (imo he looks absolutely fine btw) so I don't think there's gonna be RS covers and the like, negative comments have also not helped with this, especially when your job involves bring public facing with a camera on you. He loves playing, but his health issues prevent him from being the touring beast he (and clearly his team) would like him to be. His team makes money from ticket sales, the label from album sales. I, for one, would think it better for him to do a Jake Bugg, mentally and physically. But his natural ego would also like to be bigger in other markets. I think it depends on this whole cycle . It will determine what happens next. The album will do v well,the concern, I guess, is how he will cope with touring, too. It's unpredictable. I'm sure he's under a lot of pressure and really worried about not disappointing people combined with not feeling comfortable in his own skin atm. I do wonder if he is actually even enjoying himself anymore? He seems happiest in the studio creating with his friends. Everything else around that seems really stressful. The new songs are not really doing it for me, but I hope he does really well and feels really well - then he will have a clearer picture how HE (not the label or his team) wants his career to look. Sorry for rambling, but I think we should cut him some slack, y'know? I can't imagine how much pressure he's under with too many voices around him pushing 'whats best' xXX

I too think we should cut him some slack for sure, I think like it's a bad day when your fans who are on Tumblr are happy to talk absolute shit about you to one another and over not v much at all haha.

I pretty much agree with all this btw, I think you're probably right about how it used to be something he wanted but that the stress and pressure is a lot to handle. It must be exhausting for him, and like such a head fuck too to come from his kinda background and have his kinda issues and then have all this thrust upon you. And imagine the guilt too of thinking "but isn't this what I always wanted aren't I being ungrateful" every time you have a bad day.

Cancelling gigs cause of his health must be rough too. I fear he's probably having a really rough time right now and like potentially not recieving much forgiveness. It's a massive shame.

I think Sam's albums/singles are always growers for me? People Watching I did love straight away, I'm not mad about Me and the Dog, and I wasn't bothered by wild long lie until one day I just got it and was like fuck actually this is good. But that was actually the case with 17 as well, didn't like much of that at first listen and then grew into it.

And yeah for sure he'll have all kinds of people telling him what he should do without considering whether that's best for him or them and it will be so hard for him to know what to do I guess xx

[wri0thesley]

nat I don't know if you've ever said ir or if it's something you find interesting it but I've been reading your alhaitham x kaveh yandere stuff and I can't stop wondering how did they take their darling? I imagine it must've been alhaitham, but how..? I've always imagined it as alhaitham brought darling to his home and kaveh just slowly fell for them but it doesn't make much sense in the long way... at least in my mind.

anyway, I really enjoy your writing, and I look forward to being able to commission you once I'm employed and your commissions are open again! <3

i do find it interesting, don't worry! i once got an ask about kaveh being the one who originally brought home darling, and panicking about it (done in a moment of passion) and alhaitham manipulating him to keep darling because 'how would you explain this?' - which, whilst not my own personal headcanon, is a thought i would like to explore more one day!

personally, with the dynamic i write where it isn't mentioned, i do imaging alhaitham bringing darling to his home. it's reasonably early into his cohabitation with kaveh, and he leaves darling in his room bound and gagged to 'get used to' the environment, rather like how one leaves a dog in a crate for the first few hours, so it grows used to the new scents and smells. alhaitham's reasons for taking darling in my fics are generally that he 1) finds them attractive, 2) finds them charming, 3) thinks they have more potential than they are currently showing, 4) thinks they are doing a horrible job of taking care of themselves and 5) thinks that they would be far better off away from the pressures and confusions of the akademiya and with him as their provider.

when kaveh finds out, of course, with his bleeding heart, he wants to confront alhaitham. he can't allow this to happen under the roof he's staying beneath! but alhaitham is ruthlessly precise. lists off the reasons he thinks darling is better off here, reminds kaveh he is the one sharing alhaitham's home, reminds kaveh that his position as scribe could prove to be a very large headache for kaveh if things started going wrong. and kaveh is forced to reluctantly accept it - and with this reluctant acceptance, and his general desire to help people, he does initially begin trying to give darling a break with only benevolent reasons in mind.

but . . . it is hard, eventually, for him to not begin to think of them like a pet. for him to fall in all of the ways that alhaitham expected him to fall - darling doesn't deserve this, darling is victim to alhaitham's personality too, darling is so soft and lovely and sympathetic to him and grateful - until kaveh falls into the kaveh that i write about, the one who is indeed torn, but also ultimately selfish. alhaitham didn't necessarily want to 'share' darling, but as long as they both remember who's the one ultimately in charge . . . well. he can let it happen. i hope this makes sense, anon! <3

[winterpinetrees]

Interrogation (The Gap Years part 31)

July 21st 2019

Project Excalibur Ruins , NV.

Sierra's a prisoner of war. Interrogation is too easy when magic is in play, but she still finds a way to be a pain.

..................

In the movies, mind control is always something epic. It never works, or if it does then the main characters break out before long. What better way to show how much the heroes care? It’s not that Sierra’s fantasized about it or anything, but it is something else to dwell on as she lies on the ground under the cot in her cell after failing to put up any fight at all. 

She expected better, honestly. Her dad always had confidence that came from being too rich to even spell the word consequences, but she thought she’d have picked up some sort of spine from her mama. She's survived twenty years married to the nation’s weirdest billionaire, after all. Not that he was ever a problem, but everyone else is. Sierra thought that learning how to argue, sneaking into lectures and doing well enough to stay, and braving the media would be enough to at least make the elf hesitate for a moment. It wasn’t. 

Maybe she was just tired, stressed, and scared out of her mind. Zerada had gotten her to the engineering booth easily enough, and then Sierra had done her part well after the elf ran. She played the message, unlocked the main doors, and sat with her gun pointed at the door to wait for rescue. There couldn’t have been more than a minute between the magic coming back and an armored guard reaching a hand out to her through a half-open door. She expected the spell to take time to grow, but it was like flipping a switch. One moment she was standing over the control terminal and trying to decipher the elvish words, and the next she was kicking her gun and speaker across the floor as she dropped to her knees. Was there a vague sense that she didn’t want to be curled up behind a cabinet when so many elves charged into the room, and most of them were shot down by the defending guards? She must have had some hesitation when they hauled the bodies away and had her walk behind to a waiting plane. 

If there was, Sierra doesn’t remember it. She remembers wondering how the nearly silent plane took off without a runway, and swinging her feet after an elf had buckled her into the seat. She remembers handing over her headphones and jacket for a scratchy uniform that smelled like bleach, and not complaining until the cell door locked and the spell broke. Then she remembers tucking herself under the cot and crying herself to sleep, but she won’t judge herself for that. There is no clock, and no natural light either. She paces the cell dozens of times and yells a whole lecture through the two-way mirror before a faceless guard delivers a meal, but it could be any time at all. (It’s actually pretty good food. Sierra doesn’t know what to make of this and she chalks it up to being a pretty important prisoner). 

She hardly recognizes herself in the huge mirror. Her headphones and wire bracelets are gone, they took her boots before she could try and kick a guard’s kneecaps in, and she doesn’t even have anything to tie her hair up. All that’s left is an eighteen year old girl, short but not that short, with loose black hair around her face, trapped in an honest-to-god alien prison. She doesn’t look like a hero. Sierra doesn’t think she looks like anything at all. 

It’s boring, mostly. It’s uncomfortable as well. The light in the ceiling is very fluorescent and audibly humming and she can feel every seam in her uniform and didn't elves have better technology than that? She eats a second meal, and then that headache she’s been living with since getting shot comes back. Usually the pressure builds behind her eyes, but now it’s everywhere. 

She holds her head in her hands. It’s an external weight, and Sierra wonders if elves have the technology or magic to increase the gravity in the room. She had been sitting on the cot, but the three feet to the ground feels like a mile.  Sierra sinks to her knees in the center of the cell. It’s a weird thing to do. This time, she realizes that it’s weird as she does it. Sierra sees her eyes glowing deep red in her reflection before she folds completely and lays her head on the hard floor. It’s so stupid. She’s already a captured, helpless, prisoner. What sort of interrogator also needs this? The door slides open, and she gets her answer. 

The last time Sierra saw Amedi Kebero, it was outside of Vya, Nevada and the elf was chasing her on a hovering speeder bike. She’d been precariously trying to shoot through the open sunroof of the Audacity when Kebero caught the bullet and shot her back with something like a magical suggestion of an arrow. Ever since, she’s had headaches, a bad arm, and maybe she’s been spied on. Now, out of combat, the elf wears a long knee-length tunic and tall laced boots instead of red-veined armor. It’s hard to see the details of their face while lying on the ground, but it’s clearly the same damn elf who’s been watching her for the past month. 

Kebero sits down on the cot with a self-conscious little smile. Sierra focuses on their right ankle instead. In the memory she saw, Kebero managed to stagger away from a fire with half of a broken dagger in her foot and at least two other flesh wounds. Her? Their? The boys have been defaulting to nonbinary pronouns, and maybe she should as well, but Marin and Zerada haven’t said anything conclusive and she has her own reasons.

“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, little artificer” they say. Kebero is maybe six inches taller than they are, depending on if Sierra counts hair. It’s not enough to brag about. It kinda rocks that the elves call her an artificer though. 

“Well behaved women, yeah?” replies Sierra inanely. If Clay were here, he’d shut up and not do anything stupid. Brian would already be yelling insults, and her mama might do the same. Instead, she makes a single reference that no elf will understand. 

Kebero’s ears tilt downwards and they say something to their noble vambrace. 

“What has Marin promised you? Did he even make promises, or were you just running because you were scared to stop?”

“Well, getting shot and cursed is a good motivator. Also we don’t want to die of smallpox,”

Kebero sighs. “So he’s offered nothing. Humans were endurance hunters, but you’ve managed to build a society that drives even your kind to exhaustion. We have something good in the elven world. Hundreds of millions of humans live here, using our technology and living long, happy, lives. You could be one of us, you will be one of us, but this way you avoid the trouble of surviving a plague first”. 

The weight on her shoulders eases and Sierra rises to her knees. She has to remind herself not to trust any offers they make to a prisoner. 

“I’m not betraying my friends, and before you say that they’ve been captured too, Clay’s briefed us all on the prisoner's dilemma and not talking to cops”. She didn’t really follow that last part. In her defense, she’d have gotten brainwashed eventually.  

Kebero stretches like a cat and taps their vambrace again. It flashes faintly, and Sierra really hopes it isn’t going to do anything harmful. “I am a councilor to the apex. Our world doesn’t even have cops, not since Lazarus restructured society thousands of years ago. It was a long and difficult process, but when the dust settled, elvenkind had a way of enforcing the law that didn’t warrant jokes from children".

Sierra can see the connection between the two ideas. She doesn’t need the voice of the boys to remind her that elves won’t treat new human subjects as well as they treat each other. She also knows that the elven noble class murder each other regularly as a result of that same Lazarus, so she's not listening. 

Sierra rises to her feet “So you’re offering me a chance to skip ‘the long and painful process’ and be what, someone’s robot-assembling pet?” 

Kebero’s dark eyes are level with hers now. She looks young enough to be a college student, but the scar by their hairline and the causal hunter’s posture makes it impossible for Sierra to imagine them in a classroom. This is a young adult from another culture, one where being twenty-one (one hundred and twenty one?) and powerful means war instead of getting to drink legally at the fundraising galas. 

“Let's ignore the Sondaica and Adust heirs for a moment, what are you now? You are the daughter of the man who fancies himself Daedalus and a strange woman who was never supposed to endure your American nobility. You code games and make trinkets. You have a handful of friends in equally as many timezones and hope to make more at the university your father just made a very large donation to. You are a pet, Sierra. One running off void knows where, but still owned”.

“I’d rather have that than stumble away from a wildfire with three stab wounds,” Sierra snaps.

“Two stab wounds and a slashing wound, actually. Betrayal bites, I won’t lie to you! But everything I have, I earned-“

She knows she must look and sound like a small dog barking at a guest. “You have the magical strength of a noble. That’s a genetic thing, or at least environmental”. 

“Where did your mechanical skills come from then? I was part of the lower nobility. Provincial types. Statistically speaking, it’s my demographic that dies the most at the Conservatory. I conquered instead”. Their eyes glow faintly, red with a core of indigo like the sunset fading at night.  “You want it too. You want to mean something, and know what everything means. This quest, this single human gap year…you could have left at any point! Instead, you stayed because you want to be one of us”. 

There is something compelling about the warrior on the cot. Sierra wants to glow, and not because she's been brainwashed either. Kebero rests their case. “This is a generous offer. My fellow councilors have made other proposals... they're worse for you”.

“I want to talk to a human first, and I want the curse gone”.

Kebero considers it for a moment, then flexes their fingers. The headache vanishes. Instead, her eyes go red in the mirror and Sierra finds herself sitting cross legged on the floor. Not again. “What did you just do to me,” she says, panicked but also fully aware. 

“The actual interrogation. The prince really hasn’t told you anything, has he? You learned about his mother from another elf, deduced his true goals alone, for Lazarus’s sake, you’ve seriously considered turning him in!”

While she reels from this, Kebero holds out her arm so the vambrace is towards Sierra. “You may speak to my seneschal, that means a secretary and personal assistant. Her name is Esther. She’s twenty-one, and I think she’s taken a liking to you”.

“I meant talk to a human privately”, Sierra mutters. “She can’t exactly be honest with you here”. 

 A voice plays from the vambrace. It sounds like it belongs to a girl, and the accent might even be a bit Russian.  

“Sierra Bracken, I am going to have to explain the entire history of ‘well behaved women seldom make history’ to Amedi after this, because of you”. 

“Good. You can distract her from conquering the world or brainwashing me more”. She’s very self-conscious about the fact that Kebero is three feet away. 

“Them. The councilor does not care for linguistics, but that is what we have decided on for the English language”.

Okay. One point for the boys. “Cool. They’re still plotting to kill our entire civilization”. 

“Not the entire civilization. The council has set a ceiling that no more than half of humans alive now can die due to any elven cause, which is still horrifying, but lower than what wild humans have done to each other in their own conquests”. 

Sierra nearly laughs. Esther's voice is so serious, but there's also humor in it. She seems nice. “Like, how are you gonna enforce that?” She can't quite imagine elves keeping track of how many people die of disease, or war, or whatever. 

“Better science and a wider perspective,” Esther replies. “The ceiling used to be even lower”.

Sierra glances at Kebero. “Great. So was it your idea to kill even more people?”

Kebero bares their teeth. “The old apex had been the sympathetic one. She set a ceiling so low that anyone who proposed a conquest would hit their heads against it, but eventually the common folk ran out of patience. You understand wanting progress, don’t you?”

Clay was right this whole time. At least she won’t ever see him again to hear him brag. “So Emer had been trying to take over the world". 

Esther speaks up. “It’s open for debate whether she was actually trying. Her Eminence openly planned a conquest during the Second World War, but seemingly changed her mind after it ended”. 

They cover their vambrace with a hand. “What my seneschal is trying to say is that the Sondaica had a bleeding heart. My Apex killed her, put a new plaguekeeper on the council, and got to work”.

“We were talking...” Sierra grumbles uselessly.

“I’m sure we’ll get to speak again soon,” the muffled voice replies, then says something else in an elven language. 

Kebero rolls their eyes, but responds in turn. Then they stand up from the cot.

“I’ll see you in a few days, artificer. For your sake, I hope you accept my offer. It might be hard to take you away from Eburos once the symptoms start”. 

“Hey! What the-”

They flash a predatory grin from the exit, and Sierra rushes the door as it closes. She doesn’t get anywhere, of course. The door locks heavily, then the cell is quiet again except for the sound of air circulating through the vents above her. She won’t be able to crawl through them this time

Symptoms. She's so screwed.

............................

Does this chapter imply Esther and Amedi created a ranked list of all the nonbinary pronouns to decide what they'd be using? Yes. It does. That's what they did. Multiple times, for each human language they need to speak.

Next chapter will be the season finale. It may not be done by next week.

@lokiwaffles @reggie246

[electricbluebutterflies]

Jess x Leto (I can already tell that you’ll make me cry with this one)

❝  you love me too much.  i know how that sounds but—  fucking hell.  you shouldn’t care that much about someone like me.  ❞

Choice-era, PG-ish, also on ao3.

She is unstable, after.

She knows this is normal, knows that what she has done – a child, born healthy with minimal complications to her own body – has a way of disturbing a woman’s mind, but the sadness she feels in her seclusion is something she never prepared for, and-

Jessica knows what is expected of her; she also knows that she intends to extend her formal seclusion until her heart quiets, however long that takes.

Some routines change; others stay the same. She expects that she will see much less of her beloved while she is weak, but instead his presence shifts. She envies how easily he loves, how openly he wants, and-

He does not touch her in this time, and she does not ask, but he sits by the windowsill with her and she wonders what’s next for them.

She has done as she was asked, fulfilled his deepest desire, and that ought to be enough. It would not be unusual if he were to distance himself from her, and she wonders if that might please her, but her own preferences have never mattered, and-

If anything, he seems to have fallen even more in love with her, and she should enjoy that but instead it worries her. Who in their right mind would-

“Does something trouble you, my storm?”

The use of a newer endearment adds to her fear, and she is tempted to say that she dislikes such blatant affection but she’s never been a good liar and he makes her so vulnerable and-

“You love me too much. I know how that sounds, but… you shouldn’t care that much about someone like me.”

She sees the wounded look bloom on his face, how many things he must be holding back, and-

“Would it be so improper?”

“Do you think that is the whole of my concern?”

“It often is with you, and-“

“I gave you a son four months ago and I will still not-“

“Do you not hear yourself? You sacrificed your body for me and you still do not think yourself worthy of-“

“I did as was expected of me. Do you truly think my decision meant anything more?”

It did, and she suspects they both know it. She did something wildly against protocol just for the love of him, and still she tries to push him away, still-

“I have never expected you to reciprocate. Your heart is yours. But don’t tell me what to do with mine.”

“And if I am unable to be as we have been? If I never again walk down the hallway in the quiet of night?”

“You are still the mother of my child, and the status that gives you…”

“Is that all you wanted?”

Her voice breaks with sadness, and under other circumstances she knows she’d be in his arms before she actually starts to cry but he won’t initiate that like this and she won’t ask and-

“It is what I will live in peace with, if it is all you will give me.”

“But is it enough? What must I do to-“

“You are too harsh on yourself, and too stubborn to see how many ways you have changed my life for the better. As long as you stay in it, I will be content, but-“

“You want more. You will always want more, and-“

“Have I ever pressured you? If there is something you seek apology for, now would be a good time to-“

“I do not know how to be what you want, and I worry-“

“You do not see what you are. How much your observations move my hand, the sharpness of your mind just as much as your warmth and… you are not a decorative object, I do see that, but that was never what I-“

“It was still what you expected. Even after I was given to you.”

He makes a low pleased sound, almost a laugh, almost-

“You were not anywhere near as convincing as you thought you were. I think I saw through you before we’d even finished the consummation.”

“And you were kind enough not to say.”

“You have been… a great many surprises, I will admit that, but all of them pleasant. Every new detail makes you more captivating, and-“

“Even now? Even in my wary seclusion?”

“Especially now. Even this is… the strength of you, to decide what you will not tolerate and make yourself clear…”

“I do not understand you, but-“

“You still allow adaptation. You still allow me to spend time in your spaces and speak to you and-“

“Is that really enough?” He is quiet for a few heartbeats longer than she expects, and there is something beautiful and calm

[lazulian-devil]

The bells of winter

I found another prompt I fucked around with and Im sure whoever wrote it meant something entirely different by it, but I dont care :p Enjoy!

Part 1 about a retiring pirate

(3K characters)

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It had been an incredibly cold winter that left the wood half frozen when you brought it in the house. The ice crawled onto the windows, the snow sat in front of the doors and your breath was like cigarette smoke, hurting all the same in your throat and lungs. I didnt quite like it, but then again, nobody did.

It was a slow kind of terror that came with the wind, but decided to stay and wander our village. We hadnt invited it but none of us knew how to make it leave. And it was followed by all its children: Fear of hunger. Of freezing. Of pain. Of being unable to repair what would inevitably break under the ice pressure. Fear of loosing someone. Of loosing everyone. No amount of mittens, coats, hats, lined trousers and shoes could safe you from a cold that would freeze your beard if you didnt cover it. Or snowblind your eyes if you went out for too long. As I said. I didnt quite like it.

But I remember vividly the small green something that had broken through the snow in february. Everything was still so white, every step making that distinct crunching noise I never quite knew to put in words, my mittens more hole than cloth. But there it was, like a wound in the snow. Vivid. Green. Alive. Surrounded on all sides by slumbering trees and bushes. And the endless, all swallowing white of the world. The small blade of green had pushed away the snow around it, piercing through the blanket with more vigor and hope than I had felt in the last weeks. I didnt want to believe it yet. I didnt want to be hopeful. I had been, a few times before. When the elders told of the feelings in their bones, when a few birds came looking for seeds in our barn, when Maria finished spinning her threads of wool and started knitting me the itchiest and yet warmest sweater yet, so I could finally make the journey to Rivan without freezing to death. But all that hope had died on me not shortly after. The bones of the elders didnt mean anything when the storm hit. The birds were eaten. And Rivan was just as barren as our village. Nobody wanted to trade except for the children. They needed new knucklebones for their games. Something I at least could provide them with.

So, looking at that green wonder growing next to my trampled paths in the snow, I closed the door again and tried to forget about it. There were always outliers. It wasnt warm enough yet. How could it be.

By the next day, there were seven of them. Tiny knives, stabbing the snow. Soon enough, the first one I had found grew another blade and another, until a small blossom stretched itself towards the sun, its head opening up to a beautiful white bell, hanging and swaying in the wind. "Snowdrops." Maria said at the door and I agreed, a stack of firewood in my hand. Then she hushered me inside. The wind shouldnt get in after all.

And then, by the day, there were more. First a handful. Then a few dozen. Then hundreds. They grew wherever we hadnt trampled the snow down, always in bundles of four or five, as if they were holding on to one another when the winds came to shake the white bells they had for heads. I wondered if the other plants could hear them chime. "Look." They were saying to all the slumbering seeds under ground. "It will be over soon."

I agreed, reluctantly. Cautiously. My trust in the sun had been shaken a little too much. But I continued on regardless. And soon, when the snow started melting, leaving a patchwork of dirt and white and grass behind, things changed again. By the time the last snow drops blossomed in March, they were accompanied by others that had followed their call.

I wish I could have preserved them. But then again, I wouldnt need to look at them in summer, when everything is still green or in autumn, when everything is color. They are, all things concidered, quite boring little flowers. But when the timing is just right, they are the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

[inkyorzo]

𝑆𝑎𝑚𝑚𝑦 𝐿𝑎𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 × 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑁𝑒𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

Chapter 1 ~ New worker

It was an early morning, way too early for how energetic everyone was. Lawrence, the music composer, was one of the few people that had no interest in talking to anyone. He walked in, clocked in, and went to his office. Not one person made an attempt to talk to him as he would most likely snap at them, not to mention he's rarely ever in a good mood. Sammy only talks to one person whenever he has the time, Norman Polk. Occasionally, he will make small talk with others but he sticks to the music department to fix any mistakes while performing. He once kicked out a member of the band to practice on their own because they kept messing up multiple lines of the song, having to make everyone restart. As the day went on Sammy spent most of his time in his sanctuary alone working on music. The deadline was coming closer and there wasn't much time left and he knew that. Everyone in the workplace was busy which left him a lot of quiet time to himself.

It wasn't too long until a knock on the office door that knocked Lawrence out of his trance. It startled him for a moment, causing him to sit back and remain calm. He finally stood up and opened the door as another knock filled the room's silence. "Afternoon Lawrence!" The man on the other side of the door says cheerfully. It was his boss, Joey Drew. Sammy was quick to change his demeanor and respond to the man, "Hello Mr. Drew, is there something you need?" His appearance was odd, the only times that Drew really talked to Sammy was when they met walking in the hallways. "Tomorrow there's going to be a new worker, they will be switching between the music and animation department." A new worker? Someone willing enough to be switching between two completely different jobs. Animation, you have to be artistic in order to even get in this department. Joey gives hard criticism to everyone in this department. Music, you must know how to at least play an instrument. What's the point if you don't know what you're doing? They better find it easy working under so much pressure.

"Lawrence" Joey spoke up after about five minutes of silence, "Meet me in my office tomorrow morning." Sammy nodded and apologized for the silence that came after he talked about the new worker. Blaming it on the music. Although, it wasn't entirely a lie, he has a lot on his plate at the moment. "I'll see you tomorrow, goodnight Lawrence." Sammy closed the door after watching Joey walk away, sitting back down at his desk now wondering about the mysterious person he was going to be working with. Only time will show who this person is, it'd be better off heading out home for the rest of the night. Morning comes, Joey is found sat in his office with the new worker. They made small talk until the Animation and Music Department leaders arrived. The worker had just now learned the names of both leaders before they came in, Lacey Harris and Sammy Lawrence. Lacey was the nicer of the two, less strict but keeps everything and everyone in check. Sammy, stern and a perfectionist, they would have to be careful with both leaders no matter what.

For the first half of their shift, they will be working in the music department. The second half is in the animation department. Sammy didn't talk to them much, after they met he went down to the music department for recording songs for the cartoons that had just come in from the animation department. Lacey had taken the worker to the animation department and had everyone meet them. It wasnt too long after until they were finally able to start working. Lacey was glad that they had enough knowledge to get started right away with no help whatsoever. Before anyone knew though, it was their break. The worker made their way to the break room they were previously shown, remembering the way they came from. Walking into the room there was another female and two males. The female looked over and walked over to the worker excitedly, "Hello! You're the new worker correct?" They jumped a tad but quickly responded, "Yes, I am." They blurted out. She apologized and told the worker her name, Susie Campbell. The voice actor for Alice Angel, she was really pretty. Her appearance had consisted of a shorter female, smooth skin with barely any acne, a little dash of makeup it also seemed was visible. "It's nice to meet you Susie, you can call me Em," Em smiled back at Susie before she decided to bring you over to meet the other two people who were in the room. Wally Franks, the janitor. He was funny and looked like someone who could bring anyone's mood up. The other male, Norman Polk. The projectionist. He helps Sammy make sure the music goes along with the animation correctly by playing it on the back wall behind the instrumentalists. Em and Wally had gotten along pretty well but Norman is still iffy about them. He doesn't mind them but they seem to shy for his liking, just hopefully they'll warm up to everyone quickly.

After break was over, Em made their way to the music department with Norman. They made small talk about the job and all before reaching the department. Norman brought Em to Sammy before heading up to his booth. "What instruments do you know how to play?" Lawrence asked Em not taking his eyes off of the music sheet to make sure there were no mistakes on this copy. "Violin and piano. I specialize in violin mainly though." Em replies. Sammy nods as he gave Em the paper and a violin from a cabinet signaling he wanted to see how well they were at it. Em quickly skimmed through the paper taking not of what were flats and sharps, bass and treble, and other small details. It wasn't too much longer till Em put the butt of the violin to her neck area and started playing the song carefully and as perfect as possible. Managing to only miss one note by the end of the song, it left Sammy quite impressed. He was grinning for once, a genuine happy grin. Finally someone who could read sheet music correct and play it almost perfectly the first time looking at it. "That was perfect!" He said flatly but in a tone of thankfulness. A few of the other musicians looked over and whispered to one another about his actions. Even Norman was surprised, sitting in confusion just staring at the man as he flipped through the music sheet holder he had. Sammy had taken out one of two pieces of music that were to be recorded today. One had been recorded before break, and now the new one that will be recorded after practice. He handed the sheet to Em as they skimmed through the paper they had just received, again taking in the small details. Playing the violin part for this song took a lot more effort and perfection to make it sound good. Em had to restart a few times from messing up certain pitches of the notes. Finally Em had gotten most of it down except for the very last page, it was extremely complicated with how much goes on. Sammy was still very happy about it, but the last page is going to make his mood fall a lot once the whole band gets together. Everyone has had trouble with getting the very last page done correctly so they're going to be practicing it for a good 20 minutes. By the end of the day, the recording was able to get published and put in the cartoon. Everyone was very glad and relieved that the newest episode had finally been broadcasted on television now. It is now time to leave, the sun barely standing above the horizon. Em walked back to their shared apartment and laid on their bed smiling. Tomorrow is going to be a great day.