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mrsnancywheeler · 4 months

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the lakes (11) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: it's supposed to be over, you and Finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss.

previous chapter/next chapter

midnight rain

4.2k words

warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, gore/violence/death, poisonous fog, mental illness, paranoia, self-hate, terms of endearment, manipulation of someone's feelings, unedited, no use of Y/N

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Although his hands were sweaty and the last thing you needed was extra body heat, when Finnick’s fingers played with the ends of your hair and rubbed your shoulder you refused to let out a complaint. You would have rather died of heat stroke than rid yourself of his comforting touch. Especially since he'd insisted you needed to rest and this was helping you, even if the paranoia was going to keep you on edge. Your eyes stayed glued shut in an attempt to just listen to what he said, but it was too hot, and your thoughts were too loud.

The pain in your head had pretty much ceased, but the threat of infection was extreme. What would Finnick do if you died that way? Would he let himself die to protect Katniss, the rebellion? Even if in the hypothetical you would be dead, the thought made your heart still with guilt. It has consumed you more recently, the idea that like how you couldn't live without Finnick, he couldn't live without you. Of course, it didn't make any sense to you. He was him, so much to give, to offer, so beloved that there was so much more out there for him. Yet, the way he talked increased your fright that that's not how he saw himself. When his burning hand pulled its contact away from you, it snapped your head back into reality. Eyes opened as you watched Finnick walking away and heard the ringing sound of a sponsor gift.

Your hands, equally covered in perspiration, went to wipe your face of it, all in vain. “I think it's a spile." Katniss finally said, grabbing whatever item had arrived and walking to a nearby tree. You hadn't a clue what she was talking about. Were you losing it already? What was a spile?

“A what?" Finnick asked, following her. It was good at least to know you weren't delusional. Whatever it was must not be something of use back home if you both had no idea what it was. Peeta had raised from wherever he'd been laying to follow to accompany them as Katniss tapped the item into the tree. She looked at it expectantly and you weren't sure what had happened at first when they all gasped excitedly. Then Finnick was in front of you again, “Let’s get you up, angel, there's water.” Maybe that's what all this confusion was, dehydration. Without effort he had pulled you to your feet.

It was like a miracle to see clean water pouring out of the spile and Peeta pulled away to let you have your turn. The moment it hit your tongue it was so refreshing, you'd gone so long without a drink your body had almost tricked itself into forgetting how dry your mouth had been. But the water brought instant relief, you splashed some on your face before pulling yourself away to make room for Finnick.

Unexpectedly being hydrated and having the ability to drink more whenever needed calmed you more then you'd anticipated. Regardless of how exhausted your body was when Finnick urged you to lay down and try to rest once again, you were reluctant. Even if it was unlikely, part of you asked, what if you fell asleep and it was the last time you saw him?

“Finnick, I'm fine! I'll keep lookout too, you've been taking care of everything all day, you've got to be exhausted." He sighed at your refusal.

"You're so sweet, that it's infuriating. Please, angel, you need to rest. I will be less tired knowing you're not.” His ocean eyes begged yours, hand stroking your cheek softly.

“That's not how that works." He deserved rest, to lay down. You were perfectly capable of staying there with Katniss. The darkest depths of your paranoia asked you why he wasn't comfortable letting you watch over, if didn't trust you. However, the thought was gone as soon as it made its appearance, if there was one thing you knew it was that you trusted him.

“Please." He whispered and you sighed before mumbling an agreement, there was no way you'd win this argument.

“Will you lay by me?"

He stared at you for a second like he was contemplating, “I’ll just be a few feet away, just on watch.”

You wanted to ask him why he couldn't just do that while laying with you, but you knew he wouldn't say no if there wasn't a reason. Maybe he planned on trying to gain more of Katniss’ trust by staying up with her. Regardless it's not like you would be able to fall asleep if he wasn't there anyways, you couldn't remember the last time you had. It was as if the moment he was away you lost all body heat and couldn't rest unless he was there.

The idea of even verbalizing that made you feel guilty, so you just rolled your eyes and began walking in the other direction to lay down. "Fine."

You could sense his own eye roll at your dramatics and you found yourself a spot between the roots in one of the trees. Staring at the sky through the tree branches when Finnick’s voice reached you through the still air, “Your eyes are still open." You turned your head his way to throw him a glare which he simply laughed at before turning to walk closer by Katniss. It was easy to get lost in your thoughts, the sounds of insects chirping and buzzing somewhere. It was almost peaceful, if there hadn't been the looming fear of death.

This was interrupted when a banging noise cracked through the arena, you shot up, but there didn't seem to be any actual danger. You could see Katniss and Finnick looking up at the sky which quickly ceased. With no threat at hand you cautiously laid back down. Not long had passed before you heard footsteps coming in your direction, you turned your head to the noise.

“You're supposed to be resting." Finnick remarked, laying down by you.

“I'm trying." You scoffed and he raised his eyebrows with a knowing look in his eyes, “Aren't you supposed to be keeping watch, or did you feel guilty for refusing to comfort your wife?"

“If she's going to stay up and keep watch then I might as well sleep. Shows her I trust her too.” His warm arms wrapped around you as he gazed at you. The paranoid voice was back, gnawing in your brain, asking why he wouldn't let you keep a lookout with them. “You okay?" He asked, brows furrowed.

“Yeah." You muttered, shaking away the intrusions. “Well that's good because I couldn't have slept without you anyways." Snuggling deeper into his arms as your noses touched.

“Glad I could be of service then, Mrs. Odair." Finnick pressed a kiss to your lips. Tucked into his arms you were finally able to push away most of the fears, to act like it was just you in Finnick’s arms, falling asleep under the stars. Like you were at home, just the two of you in love. Maybe if you thought about that long enough you'd find the few and far between relief of a sweet dream about the two of you. You tried to convince yourself that you were on the beach with him, that he was keeping you warm as the salt air grazed your face. That the moonlight would shine on the ethereal waters and brighten your face. Eventually you were able to drift into sleep thinking about those fantasies, or maybe they were memories, who knew your brain felt like it had been on overdrive. However, your comfortable rest was interrupted when Katniss was screaming in pain and urging you all, desperately, to run.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“We should start staking out the Careers, find a plan of attack." This was the beginning of the end, you told yourself, once they were gone the four of you would have to do the same to each other. But Marlowe was still right, as a team you needed to get rid of the biggest threat.

"How are we supposed to find them?” Birch asked, looking around incredulously.

"The arena can't go on forever, plus they'll be confident enough to start fires and be louder.” You sat on the muddy ground, throwing your knife into random spots. The arena had begun to warm up on day 5 and the rain had become progressively warmer until day 7. Although the lack of pouring rain was a blessing, it was also a curse since it made finding water a priority once again, and there wasn't much iodine left.

Besides natural causes you'd assumed the other tributes who's faces you'd seen in the sky at night probably died at their hands. It was almost harrowing to think about how you could very soon die at their hands as well, but you had to trust that your group could overtake their’s.

“They're probably at the Cornucopia, that'd be typical." Conway’s arm was resting lazily on one of your shoulders. Marlowe nodded her head in agreement. “We should eat and then head that way."

You pulled a backpack closer to you, “I'll get the net."

“Marlowe and I will go check on the snares if you guys try and get fish." Birch and Marlowe headed off as you pulled the net out of the bag. Rising off the ground to find the nearest body of water.

You listened to the birds chirping before Conway broke the silence, “I don't know if I can do it." His admission was quiet, like he was nervous to say something.

“Do what?" You turned your face to look at him, his eyes glued to the ground.

“Kill them, the Career pack."

“You had a higher score than some of them and you're plenty strong, I'm sure you'll be fine."

Conway exhaled, he looked at you incredulously, "Not like that. I mean I don't think I can kill them, let myself kill them.”

"You killed in the Bloodbath."

"Only once and it's eating me up inside."

You stared at him in silence for what felt like an eternity, but was really just a few seconds. Before you tore your eyes away from him to look at the scenery around you, "Then don't, I’ll do it.”

"You've changed a lot, you know.” This caught you somewhat off guard, but you kept a straight face as you walked.

"I don't think I have, really.” Except in matters of paranoia and distrust which had greatly expanded, it really felt like at your core you were still you.

"With respect, princess, I don't think you would be as willing.”

"At home we weren't in these circumstances.”

"Seems there's a lot about you I don't know then.” The sound of his footsteps had stopped, so you turned to look at him. The two of your stared at each other, he seemed to be coming to terms with something and that made you nervous.

“I'm not saying I want to, just that sometimes you have to do what it takes to survive. Even if it's difficult or-”

"Untrue?” Conway finished, your stomach knotted. What was he getting at?

You sighed," Yeah, I guess.” He stared at you longer before he nodded his head and walked forwards. His aura was all off and it made you somewhat panic. “I'm sorry if that upsets you that I'm doing what it takes to go home." Your voice was more frustrated as you followed him. Finnick would have understood, the longer you went without him the more you longed to be with him, to be with someone who really got you.

He stopped walking and grabbed your arms, “It's okay, I understand. It's just hard to come to terms with when you remember that this is all designed to bring that out in us. To see the other side, not through rose colored glasses.” It was like he was having a different conversation that you weren't being let in on. An echo in your voice told you were done with your facade, that he'd figured it out, but you quiteted it. You'd done everything you could think of, why wouldn't he believe you?

Conway leaned in and kissed you, it was soft, sweet, like he'd never be able to kiss you again. He pulled away and gave a small frown as he looked at you longer, “We should go, we’ll probably find a pond of something soon." He began walking off and you stood still for a few seconds, mind trying to grasp what was going on. But you followed and he fell back into conversation about home as you netted for fish.

Eventually you'd all returned with your goods to eat before setting off towards where you'd assumed the Cornucopia must be and therefore, the Careers. It was a long, boring, pain seeking them out, observing their moves, planning your attack.

“Maybe if we wait them out they'll just turn on each other." Birch was crouched down in the long grass. “We could hit them when they're already untrusting." His thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream. Your heads all snapped to look across the opening where the noise had come from. One of the Career’s was running towards the two waiting, as she ran a cannon went off. You couldn't hear what she was saying, but she looked frazzled, like she'd been running for her life.

“Looks like our window now, then." Marlowe muttered as she began trudging through the mud. You weren't sure that would be a great plan, that any of this was, but everybody else seemed to agree. Hiding the bags in the grass as they followed her. This wasn't well thought out enough. You tried to appear as though you agreed as you walked behind.

“Come to kick us when we're down?" One of the boy’s, Otto, yelled out. You cursed everyone for not trying to be more sly, not waiting until they were more off guard.

“What happened?" Birch asked, hatchet firmly in his hand. He nodded his head to the girl from District 1, Satin, who was shaking, legs covered in mud.

“There's these horrible crocodile creatures in the swamps." Satin's voice was shaky, she was forgetting herself, that she could die, and you pitied her. You recalled seeing her volunteer, but here she was struggling to maintain composure due to some Capitol mutants, it was gut wrenching to think about the shift between the glory and terror that must have occurred. Finnick had ensured that any Capitol propaganda about the Games and their respect was uprooted from your brain the moment he could.

“They got Aulus." Arria, you believed her name was, the female tribute from 2, said. Her voice didn't even quiver, but you could see some sadness in her eyes, that would've been her last connection to home.

“I'm sorry." Conway was so sincere and everyone stared at him for a second. You didn't know what it was in, respect for his kindness, disbelief because he was just another obstacle in winning, anger because he was a threat.

“Thanks for not just attacking us though, I’ll remember to say how compassionate you all were when I'm on my Victory tour." Otto’s scalpel chain was lunging forward, and unassuming Birch who'd stepped too close by got nicked across his arm as he tried to move out of the way. Hissing as he threw the hatchet at Otto, who turned to miss the weapon. Regretfully all you could think about was how much of a coward the boy was when he made a run for it as Birch scrambled to gather his weapon back.

“Get him Birch!" Marlowe screeched out as he followed. Then Conway was groaning as Arria slashed at him with her sword. Insticinually pushing his spear forward which caused her to shriek as it planted itself into her leg. You hated how slow everything felt like it was going, usually the climax of a Game's felt more rushed to watch, maybe this wasn't the real climax though. She slipped a bit as she tried to pull the spear out and stab at him with her sword. He had the clear upperhand now, to kill her, but he wasn't taking it. Just staring at her with pity.

‘I’ll just have to do it,’ you told yourself and threw the knife into her head. Conway’s face was hit with the splatter of blood and he stared at her body with shock as the cannon went off. Looking at you as you pulled the knife out of her head. You were disgusted with yourself, but desperate time called for desperate measures and you were so close to being able to go back home, see Finnick, feel the ocean, give to your family, to let that all pass up because he didn't want to kill her.

“Somebody had to do it." You muttered out numbly and then looked away at the yells of Marlowe and Satin. A pitchfork had been used to create a nasty hole in Marlowe’s leg and there was a bleeding gash in Satin’s side. Marlowe was able to plug the machete in just deep enough before Satin had gone back to her with the pitchfork and there was that terrible canon again.

“Come on." Conway’s hand tugged at yours and before you could ask questions he was pulling you along as he ran.

“What are you doing?" You asked when you finally gained comprehension.

“We have to go, Birch is gonna kill Otto and then it's just us left." You were back in the long grass, “We'll prolong this if we go hide, here, put the knives in the bag and we'll go find a new place to camp." Conway said breathlessly.

“It would be more fair for us, too all just fight it out now, all together."

“I heard them talking, they were gonna gang up on us and they're so strong, especially together." Your heart was starting to race, maybe he was right this surely was starting to feel climactic. You couldn't help that you were looking at him with suspicion though.

He must have sensed this though because he kissed you, “Trust me." Conway whispered out, hands taking the knives from you to place them in the bag. You nodded, if he was still kissing you he must believe you, and the Conway you knew wouldn't kill someone he loved. Then another cannon went off, either Otto or Birch, “Let's go." His explanation still didn't feel right but you nodded and followed. Blindly following your childhood best friend, the man who loves you and you could love back that way, into the marshes to try and keep you both alive for just a little bit longer.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The screams of pain were instantly enough to stop you from being any sort of tired when you awoke.

“The fog is poison!" Katniss screeched and ran forwards. You could see the cloud of it rolling down towards you all and Finnick was immediately pulling you up, urging you forward.

You were all sprinting as fast as you could, eyes desperately searching for somewhere new to aim for. The fog seemed to be everywhere, like it was getting faster and surrounding any place you could have thought to sprint. You could feel your heart pounding in your skull as you scrambled. Willing yourself not to pause when you heard Katniss cry out quickly followed by Peeta. Your blurry vision is still able to make out their figures though which helps you keep going. Suddenly Finnick had tripped on one of the many vines and was yelling.

“Finnick!" You were screaming, trying to pull him forward out of the fog threatening to completely engulf him. He stumbled forward.

"Come on, angel.” Despite the searing pain he must have been in he grabbed you and then the fog hit one of your calves. You nearly fell forward as you howled out at the harsh, burning that blistered into your skin, enough pain to make you feel like you were going to throw up. Finnick yelled your name and forced you to keep running in any direction away from the fog which seemed to be in any direction you turned.

“Peeta!" You ran towards Katniss, Peeta was on the ground. Motionless besides the twitching muscles around the areas where the boils had taken over. “I can't carry him." Her voice was broken.

Finnick nodded, “Keep up." He looked at you somewhat sternly, but it was more coughing it out. Katniss and Finnick supported Peets and began moving forward as the looming cloud of death crept up. It was hard to move forward, your legs felt like they were going to melt off into a burning sludge. You felt guilty when you arm gripped onto Finnick's free one, trying to keep balance. Then the agonizing pain took over again, unbearable and shooting across your back. You swore that you could hear your skin sizzling in the fog, it was hard to keep your eyes from falling shut, from letting yourself collapse into the ground. Until you were rolling down a hill, the feeling was so harrowing that you let yourself tumble down and then lay dejected, waiting for the fog to consume you.

Katniss’ cries didn't even make you move, the fog must have got her, and this was all for nothing. We'll all die in the arena and the Games will go on next year and every year after that without incident. “The water, it helps!” She called out and you finally pried your eyes open, wincing at the excruciating feeling when you tried to move. Eyes trying to adjust as you crawled forward, trying to silence your whimpers, the pain felt nearly unendurable.

“Finnick." You croaked out, searching for him amongst the roots. Peeta and Katniss’ exhales of relief signaled to you where the water could be, but it wouldn't have felt right to help yourself before you could find him. Your eyes adjusted enough to see a figure laying not far in front of you, “Finnick!" Fingers clawing into the dirt as you pulled forwards not even wanting to think about what it would be like to try and stand again. Hands eventually landing on his chest, trying to shake him awake, he wasn't responding, and whatever pain you'd felt physically was somehow overwhelmed by the harrowing panic settling in. “Come on, Finnick, we have to go.” You tried to drag him towards the water, gasping out in pain as you tried to pull your own scorching body across the ground with his. “I can't get him." Your voice was hoarse and Katniss and Peeta was by you.

“Go wash yourself off, it gets rid of everything and Katniss and I will grab him." Peeta tried to reassure, crouching down. You tried to shake your head, nothing felt reasonable right now, you were too panicked, gripping onto Finnick tighter.

“Finn, you have to wake up. Please, I need you, please wake up." Hands were trying to grab your arms and you weakly tried to stop them. "I can't leave him.”

"You're not, we need to get you washed off and then we'll get him too.” Peeta said, pulling you up to lead you to the water.

“Get him first." You choked out, the physical pain, the emotional pain, all of it compounded was too much.

Then Katniss was pulling you forward from where Peeta had gotten you, she cupped her hands in the water, not dragging you in. She poured some of the water onto your arm and you could have sworn you saw steam leaving your skin as you nearly yelled at the increased pain before the relief.

“Come on, this is good, you can help grab him once you're better." She reassured, helping you pull yourself the rest of the way in. You nodded now and shrieked when the water overwhelmed each blister, the wisps of the poison leaving your body.

“Thank you." You stuttered out, but she was gone and Finnick was being dragged in by her and Peeta. He was screaming when he hit the water and you grabbed his shoulders as he tried to fight against it. “It's okay, it'll feel better, it's getting rid of it." You tried to reassure as he kept fighting back. “Finnick, Finnick, you're okay, this is helping.”

“We need to get our weapons." Katniss said to Peeta who ran off as you kept holding Finnick in the water. Finally Finnick’s eyes fully opened and you signed, letting yourself smile.

“I thought you were gonna die." You stopped holding down his shoulders to wipe away all the tears that had fallen from everything and the water itself.

He stood up, laughing, “Don't be too disappointed, I am in fact, still breathing."

You laughed in disbelief before wrapping your arms around him as tightly as you could, terrified that in a moment this could all melt away into a reality where he hadn't woken up. “Good.” Finnick kissed the top of your head and didn't think you'd ever be able to tear yourself away.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

thank you so much for reading, I'm so sorry this took so long to get out I've been swamped recently. all the support has been appreciated so, so much and I love you all 💕 feedback, likes, comments, reblogs are all greatly appreciated, my ask box is opens and I'll be getting to some of them soon to branch the time between the next chapter. thank you all so much and I hope you enjoyed this chapter 💋

taglist: @coriolanussnowswife @avoxrising @artsyaquarium @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @thatonegayloser616 @libertyybellls @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @ravensinthedaylight @innercreationflower @uhnanix @aesthetic0cherryblossom @yourdailymemedelivery @ang3lflor @maxinehufflepuffprincess @prettybiching @miserablebl00d @wowzabowza69 @nomorespahgetti @problematicpastry @abaker74 @nj01 @whens-naptime @sarcasticbooknerd12 @cakes-hq

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oweninadaydream · 2 months

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𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇 || 𝐂𝐇.𝟏

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Hangman is the certified ladies' man and everyone thinks they can read him like a book, but what neither the Dagger Squad nor anyone else can even begin to imagine is where the hell Jake has been going every Saturday night for the last few months…

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x male!character

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 : mentions of alcohol, some making out but nothing too smutty, emotional distress lmao, age gap relationship (27-35), some religious trauma, self-deprecating thoughts, post Top Gun : Maverick, the Dagger squad is stationed together.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 2k

𝐚/𝐧 : Gif by @tay-swifts , M/N (Male Name). Hello beautiful people!!! I'm so exited about posting this project I've been working on for a while. I just wanted to say that since it's my first time writing for Jake this might be a bit OC Jake but I do hope I got it right hehe. Enjoy the fic and stay tuned for the next parts!!!

It was well after midnight when Jake arrived at the club’s entrance. The throbbing bass emanating from inside made the whole building shake, making his mind wonder what it would be like to live on top of such an obnoxiously loud place, contrasting with the quietness of the accommodations the Navy offered. The reflection of the neon sign reading “Mon Ange” turned his natural olive-toned skin into a vivid dark azure that matched perfectly with the baby blue in his eyes. The smokers (all with stamps on their hands) were all gathered some feet away from the door to get back in after dragging a final puff from their cigarettes. The queue was not very long, mainly because everyone who was meant to be there had arrived way earlier than him. He reprimanded himself for getting there so late ; in less than two hours the nightclub would shut its doors and Jake would feel like he wasted four hours of his life for nothing. Well, his journey would not be in vain if he caught a glimpse of-

“Jake”

This was L.A, a city 118 miles away from the Marine Corps Air Station located in Miramar, which is a two-hour long drive away from everything he knows. He had to remind himself of those facts to avoid spiraling at the sound of his name in such a place; he hated how his body kept reacting to these kinds of situations, but not even a skilled lieutenant like himself could take the reins of these unnamed emotions that coursed through his entire being.

"What are you doing here by the door? I was worrying about you not showing up today, I was just about to send a search party. C'mon , let's grab a drink. Perhaps I can even convince you to dance this time" A wide playful smirk accompanied the flirty comment exquisitely and, even though Jake was more than used to these antics, his heart skipped a beat. Trying to compose himself, he answered while staring at the concrete floor.

"I don't belong on that dance floor and y'know it, darlin' "

“Oh don’t say that, the 30s are the new 20s! … Even if you’re not planning to dance, you must’ve driven all the way over here for something, right?”

The damn question hit him like a truck. He could try to think of the right answer, but putting something into words made it terrifyingly real, and that was exactly what he'd been avoiding for months. The breeze made them both shiver, as the party outfits didn’t properly protect them from the chilly weather.

“You're right” he muttered “Okay, lead the way. Make it worth the while, mh?" he teasingly replied. Even if what he was doing was definitely outside of his comfort zone, something about the constant banter between them calmed him.

"Don't you always have an amazing time with me? I thought that was why you only talk to me" a fake pout appeared on the face which Seresin couldn't help but to stare intensely in awe. Their hands intertwined and the pilot quickly melted into that comforting touch. His companion briefly exchanged some words with the bouncer and the doors opened for them.

"Thankfully it was Joseph working tonight, I don't think Marcus would have let you in for free just like that" “I’m sure you would've charmed him into doing whatever you wanted anyway”

The thick air of the room embraced him as soon as the doors closed and the familiar feeling appeared in the pit of his stomach almost instantly; it seems like it was yesterday when he first stepped into the nightclub he now knows like the back of his hand, but in reality, that day was what it feels like ages ago. Still, the contradictions that manifested within him every time he returned persisted and only grew each day.

“I’ll go to the bar while you stay here and look pretty, okay? Same drink as always?”

It was because of moments like these that Hangman felt comfortable enough to let his guard down and be his usual extroverted self. Grabbing his wrist to stop him from going any further, he raised his voice so his words could be heard even though the music was top volume. “ Don’t you even dare to try to pay for those drinks, they’re on me.”

“Here it is, the Texan charm of Jake Seresin. I didn’t know you could apply those rules to this situation. Are you trying to imply I’m the girl in this whole affair? Shouldn't we at least draw lots for it?”

"Very funny, M/N'' the hostility that emanated from his rolling eyes made the other man realize his comment had affected Jake on a deeper level than intended. “Hey I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t hav- I know it’s a touchy subject and I’m extremely sorry, please forgive me” the regret was visible in his expression and it also could be detected in the stuttering caused by the words rushing their way out of his mouth trying to obtain his forgiveness as fast as possible. Jake took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second.

Hangman was no saint, he didn’t go to church every Sunday or tried to look for a good christian wife to have kids with like his father did in his day. He knew God was not exactly pleased with the way he was running his life but he used to think that when the time came, He would welcome him with open arms (after having apologized profusely, that is). But now that he had fallen for the most vile trick in the book, he couldn't trust that previous statement anymore. Lust was a capital sin, pretty serious if you asked any priest from the church the Seresin family attended back in Texas, but sodomy? Say goodbye to eternal salvation, son. If Jake was being honest, the promise of heaven or the threat of hell didn't scare him. It was the destruction of all the life lessons that made him act the way he acted, of his purpose as a son, as a man. The thing that truly haunted him at night was the thought of a deity (and his father) designing him to be this flawless individual with a very clear life path , only to end up as a filthy, disgusting f-

“Hey, are you okay? Would you like me to leave you alone for a bit?”

The thought of M/N walking away while he sank deeper and deeper in the sea of guilt and fury frightened him. “Please don’t” he begged “everything’s fine, I promise. Let’s down a couple shots and , who knows, maybe I’ll be in the mood to dance for a bit” the last comment was a futile attempt to hide the everlasting agony that clouded his mind. M/N moved so they were a few inches away and raised his hand to caress his cheek. His next step consisted in resting his arms around his shoulders and starting kissing him delicately in the neck and in the whole face in general, in hopes to kiss the discomfort away.

How could something so delicate and sweet be so dirty? Was it even dirty to begin with? What about the women he had dated? He was attracted to them but now he- Too many questions Jake was not willing to answer that night. He only wanted one thing, and he was about to claim it.

After regaining control of himself, Jake put his right hand on the younger male’s back to guide him to the counter where people were piling up fighting to get the barman’s attention. Being as attractive and well-built as he was, he obtained the alcoholic beverages rather quickly. After the last drop of tequila had made its way down their throats, Hangman took control and led him onto the dance floor. His mind was only filled of the smell of M/N’s cologne mixed with his natural scent enhanced by their bodies crashing against each other while swaying to the 2000s pop remixes, his eyes fixed on his partner’s hypnotizing movements and his hands focused on feeling what they can reach, testing if they can go further in their journey through M/N’s body. Jake was simply standing close and moving according to the song's beat but in a subtle way, just like he would do at the locals he frequented with his coworkers ; manly enough to keep his dignity intact but provocative enough to awake that lustful hunger in the other person’s soul.

‘Mon Ange’ had finally closed down and the two men were still all over each other on the angelino streets. The tingle settling in his chest could only be compared with the adrenaline rush he had previously experienced on those wild nights spent in college, the farewell by the porch of the first girl he had taken on a date or the night out after his first deployment; if he closed his eyes he could swear he was 20 again, but reality made sure to remind him of those fifteen more years that had passed.

M/N had this juvenile thing about him, Jake couldn’t guess confidently his age from afar and his curiosity was finally satiated after befriending him and asking him about it directly ; he was 27, even though he looked some years younger. His bold character combined with his kindness and humor made M/N resemble a butterfly flying around collecting the pollen from every flower in the garden and making it seem effortless. That was one of the many things that hooked Jake on him as if he were the most addicting drug out there, making him throw away his plan of not getting attached and limiting this experience with sporadic hookups that would end then and there, never with the same person twice. That was the problem, he appeared and started moving his hips to some song, making the whole room turn around him and ever since then (even if Jake was still in denial), he was a goner.

The next thing he knew, he was laying down on M/N’s bed, a king size mattress close to a very big window that allowed him to take in the beautiful sight of the sleeping city. He had only been to the apartment twice, but he had always left before the sun had made its appearance in the sky, moved by remorse and skepticism. This time though, he had stayed the whole night that was filled with passionate sex and heart to heart conversations and finally some cuddling that lured him to rest for a while. Now he was wide awake, sitting against the headboard, resting his eyes on the sunrise and on the slumbering figure facing him. He looked so calm, so peaceful. In that moment, turning his gaze away, he tried to repress a sob that came with a single tear falling through his left cheek.

M/N had always known he was queer, embracing his bisexuality in childhood. Jake had never had any problems with people who were not straight, even if the people around him growing up did, but everything was different when it came to himself. For fuck’s sake, he was closer to being 40 than from his teenage years, what was he doing? He could only paralyze at the idea of anyone seeing what he was doing. It was definitely too late for him. Risking his life everyday up in the sky felt like a minor burden compared to the endurance of the dilemmas he carried with him everywhere, just like Christ had carried the cross all the way to Calvary.

He could feel himself falling for the person right next to him, and that was the worst thing that had ever happened to Lieutenant Jacob Seresin. His calloused hand cupped M/N’s soft face, making the other man lean in closer in search of that delightful warmth. Jake’s lips burned in desperate need to say something out loud. His heart started palpitating at a dangerous speed, as he knew the thing trying to escape from his mind was a cruel thing to say and that he was a horrible being just by thinking that. It was no one’s fault and it had no solution, yet the idea popped up in his mind like an unwanted ad appearing on your phone. His chest ached at the possibility of M/N hearing the words, so he tried to whisper as quietly as it was humanly possible.

“I wish you were a girl”

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oddballwriter · 9 months

Text

Lady Problems

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Summary: The boys were happy to have you move in. They made it known that they wanted you to make a home with them as soon as you had gotten used to and seen everything about each other, both in the good, strange, ugly, and vulnerable. And there where no actual problems with you at all. But you did come with something that Marc didn't fancy too well.

Warnings: None that I actually know of. There's a literal cat involved, and it does cat things.

Author’s Snip: Yet another silly idea from my silly brain.

Notes: This isn't proof read. I wrote this last night in some weird type of "awake but the body's getting ready for sleep" like state and I just don't feel like proof reading so if there errors then suck it up /lh.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

The boys were happy to have you move in. They made it known that they wanted you to make a home with them as soon as you had gotten used to and seen everything about each other, both in the good, strange, ugly, and vulnerable. And there where no actual problems with you at all. But you did come with something that Marc didn't fancy too well.

Her name is Lady, and she was your pet cat.

Now, Marc doesn't hate cats. Even though he was more of a dog person, be it a big dog type of person. But a cat was fine. You fill their bowl, clean a box, maybe throw a toy around, and have them come to you when they want. It's not like he had a say anyways. You've had lady since you started living on your own. Plus, to tell you she had to go was like telling Steven he could have the Gus' anymore. Though, it seemed like Lady was the one to have a problem with Marc.

Marc doesn't know what he did to her since she always had this seeming distaste for him. And he knew that it was only him because Lady would let Steven and Jake pet her just fine and even purr while they did it. But anytime Marc touched her she'd either smack his hand, get up and leave, or let out a disapproving noise. There was one time he manage to pet her for a second but once he stopped he looked at him before cleaning off the spot he touched.

No. He did not need approval from a cat. But it seems like she was very opinionated on him and Marc felt a bit salty about it deep down.

That's why he dreaded it a little when you would be leaving town for a few days and leaving the boys and Lady to themselves. It wasn't a bad thing. You usually left them in charge of checking up on Lady before you moved in with them. But this was their first time actually being cat dad.

It was the second night of you being gone. Marc was laying in bed and about to actually fall asleep when he heard the jostle of a tiny bell. He turned his head to the side, opening his eyes and managed to make out the silhouette of something with pointed ears on the top of its head on the bed. It was dark and he could barely see through it but Marc knew that it was Lady staring right at him on your side of the bed. The cat let out a meow as she moved her footing and looking around the bed.

"Yeah. They're not home yet." Marc muttered, sleep having turned out some of his vocals. Lady let out another meow, almost like an acknowledgement to what he said. She turned her attention back towards him and moved a bit closer. Marc slowly moved his hand up towards one of her front paws and touched it, which she reacted to by pulling her paw away. "Yeah. It's me. I know you." he sympathized. "I'm probably the last person you want to wait for them to come back with." he chuckled.

Marc would have turned over to try and go back to sleep, till Lady pawed at his cheek. "What?" Marc groaned, "You were fed dinner already. And I don't want to see what happens when I feed you after midnight." he joked. Just then Lady plops down onto the bed where her head is against Marc's hand. Marc looks at her confused for a minute since she's never given any type of straight forward signs that she wanted him to pet her causing him to give a faint "What?" out of confusion.

After a moment of Marc just looking at Lady, and Lady rolling around in her spot a few times, he tested his luck and gave her little head a scratch. And to his surprise, she didn't do anything. "Oh, so you're just cool now? You're letting me do this now?" he said as he continued to pet her and watch for her reaction, to which there was none except her closing her eyes in approval.

The next morning was like the others. After eating breakfast Marc liked to lounge on the couch with his coffee for a bit to wait for the caffeine to kick in. Lady had made it to the couch and laid down next to Marc.

Marc reached over to pet Lady on her stomach but quickly got his hand smacked by her and she turned to a position that didn't leave her stomach exposed anymore. "Okay. We aren't at belly rub level yet. Got it." he remarked.

#moonknight #moon knight #moonknight x reader #moon knight x reader #marc spector #marc spector x reader

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thevestigeofvanillaan · 1 year

Note

oh my gosh i luv ur stan hatefucking post 😭😭 i felt butterflies ITS SO GOOD

no bc hear me out i feel like cartman would totally do that... IMAGINE HE WOULD TOTALLY SNEAK IN CAUSE THE READERS PARENT HATE HIM

i love the idea u made and im asking if you could do it but with eric? :D if ya want to of coursee!!

- 🏩 anon :3

hi cutie!! thank you sm im really happy you enjoyed it :] !!!

cartman 10,000% would have to sneak in because he was such an asshole and your parents hate him.

like at midnight, here's eric cartman throwing rocks at your window. you'd open it and he'd accidentally hit you with a rock before laughing hysterically and climbing up.

"you're gonna wake up my dad, he'd kill you if he found you here." you roll your eyes and rub where the rock had hit you.

"your fault you talk so much shit on me to them"

"it's actually your fault you're such an asshole.." you mutter.

"'ey! what'd you say?" eric shouts and you smack his shoulder softly, shushing him loudly. "shut up!" you whisper shout. "why're you here?"

eric laughs, "i wouldn't be here for any reason other than to get my dick wet."

scoffing and rolling your eyes you lay down on your stomach, loudly sighing before he smacks your ass "ow, asshole!" you wince and he laughs.

too lazy and too tired to get up, you lie there and let eric strip you of your clothing. he kisses your back and whispers degrading comments at you.

eric brings his hand to your hips, pulling them up to leave you chest down and ass up in the air where he'd bring his hands to your wet cunt, teasing it before sliding his middle and ring fingers in, scissoring his way inside you. this pulls sweet moans from your mouth.

"shshsh, quiet slut." eric whispers out to you in a soft chuckle. but you couldn't help yourself. "such a loud little bitch, huh? yeah? need me to cover your mouth, huh? yeah?" he taunts in a baby voice with little nods as he slides his fingers out of you.

soon that hand is brought to your face where he pulls your head up by your jaw and eric shoves the two fingers that were just in your cunt into your mouth, soon sliding his cock into you.

the moans you attempted to let out were muffled by eric's fingers as his cock moves in and out of you, accelerating to a faster pace each thrust.

his other hand smacks your ass not too hard so it doesn't wake your parents, if they hadn't already awaken by the loud screeching of the bed.

the both of you were bound to get caught, just bound. and if you were, you feared not only cartman would be dead, but you would be too.

you'd known just how much your parents hated cartman, rightfully so. he was a jerk who'd bullied you your entire life ever since you were five years old.

"you're so stupid!" he'd laugh every time you'd get a question in class wrong. "slut!" he'd yell every time he'd seen you with a boyfriend. no matter what you did, eric was yelling or laughing at you for it.

you told your parents about everything he'd done, they also saw it. they hated him, so much.

it was fairly recently when you'd added a sexual aspect to your hateful relationship. ever since its gotten better with cartman, but not with your parents..

they still hated him, and that likely wouldn't stop.

"fu-ck–!" cartman groans quietly. "gonna cum.. cum with me precious."

when he said that you felt yourself growing closer to the edge. "cum with me, cum with me," he continued to repeat himself over and over again, every time he said it he thrusted harder.

and there that knot came undone and you came, feeling that warm liquid fill you up from cartman.

he'd lay beside you on his back, breathe heavily and softly chuckling. "can i stay the night, it's dark out."

"i guess so." you smile as he wraps his arms around you. "just be gone by morning."

#vanillaan #eric cartman #eric cartman x reader #eric cartman smut #eric cartman south park #south park smut #south park x reader #south park

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gingerbreadmonsters · 5 days

Text

glass jaw

or: bruised, the apple of my black eye.

graphic blood, violence, and injury warnings, cutesy gory found vampire family shenanigans. i went to the haunted theme park in the middle of the woods at midnight, and all i got was this candy apple of temptation. what's up with that? alexis being the world’s best big sister in just over 8600 words.

warnings for gratuitous blood, violence and gore, graphic descriptions of injury and intent to grievously harm, and, like, one teeny tiny moment of cannibalism. i strongly encourage you to mind the warnings, and to stop reading at ANY point if you feel uncomfortable. reader discretion is advised. minors dni, 18+ only. please consider yourself warned.

longtime readers may be aware of my sinophone!solaires hc, so ENGLISH SPEAKING READERS - for the love of GOD please check this pronunciation guide i made for the mandarin you're about to see. i PROMISE it'll help!! 💕💕💕

There’s blood everywhere.

It’s a shame. The room was quite tidy when they started – ugh, don’t say it’s got onto the upholstery again. Vampiric blood is impossible to get out of silk, and it costs a fortune to get it professionally cleaned. At least the wooden panelling in here is dark enough to hide most of the spatter.

(Thankfully, baba’s off entertaining the little ankle biters at the moment – and something about a meeting with an old friend, later on? He didn’t say when he was coming back, but it can’t be soon. Hopefully they’ll be able to deal with most of the mess before he gets back. Damned old man never wants them to have any fun.)

How long has it been? Seconds? Hours? It’s difficult to tell. She’d only come in here to sit down, feet hurting from her patrol at Wonderworld, wanting to just lie across the sofa and scroll mindlessly on her phone for an hour or two. She'd almost succeeded, too – until the furious pacing from the other side of the house had got closer and closer.

Vincent had spotted her through the doorway, carelessly cracked open, and… well. He must have had a pretty horrible day.

He’d surprised her, hurling the glass of water in his hands at her head with a sudden hiss. She’d only barely caught it in her peripheral vision, jerking back against the sofa just in time to let it whistle past her face and shatter against the far wall.

No words necessary. Vincent had snarled at her, slamming the door shut behind him, and she’d known exactly what he wanted.

It’s a habit of theirs. A bad one, maybe, but knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to break.

Heavy bodies hitting the floor, skin and spit and bone, this time it might be different. Her shin slamming into his ribs, his elbow smashing into her jaw. Blood clots underneath elegantly manicured nails, and the splinters of what used to be a wisdom tooth are spat onto the side table. It’ll grow back.

Gravity. The inescapable pull. Space bends and folds at the mercy of an impossibly strong grip, worlds and stars and planets collide, and the precious children of William Solaire once again destroy each other.

You might think that it’s madness. That it’s like some crazed, bloodthirsty, animal state that descends upon them, that it’s like they’re totally different people. You’d be wrong. Both of them are perfectly, boringly sane when it happens. There’s no madness here, no delusion – just a brother and a sister who hate and hate and hate.

She’s entirely rational when she tries to sever his spinal column with her teeth, he’s not confused about why he’s trying to rip her arm from its socket. It's never an accident. Tearing each other apart comes naturally.

Cruel spikes of broken glass glitter in Vincent's hair, the smashed mirror above the mantelpiece reflecting the thousand shallow cuts that now litter his scalp, leaking bright, scarlet blood down the back of his neck. Her forearm aches from the impact, the force of a vampiric skull smashing through the glass and into the bricks behind having radiating up through her hand, where her fingers were twisted into Vincent's hair – mostly for grip, but also to keep him from biting them off completely.

It hadn't quite worked, but whatever. She glances down at the ragged chunk of her wrist that isn't there any more, shredded fibres hanging loose, and glares at Vincent as he finishes chewing his mouthful of skin and veins and raw, twitching muscle.

He grins, wide and pretty, fangs slick and gums stained with her blood. “New perfume?”

Bastard. Like he didn't steal it off her vanity this morning, like she couldn’t fucking smell it on him when he came downstairs for breakfast.

“Depends,” she replies, and lets the fistful of dark, meticulously-conditioned and carefully-styled hair still in her hand fall to the floor. “New haircut?”

Vincent's eyes narrow, black and predatory, and, as always, she feels her mouth start to water. He's imagining what it’ll feel like to kick her through the picture window and watch her impact the paved surface of the driveway below, and she's imagining what it'll be like to dig her fingernails inside his stomach and claw out all of the softness she can find.

It’s so easy to get lost in it, the cleansing rage. Nothing but fury, white-hot and shameful as it roars alive under her skin, until she's scraped raw inside and out. The same manic look paints itself across their faces, the same sadistic glee that only comes with doing something you know you shouldn’t.

Well, they're both just as bad as each other. Perhaps it runs in the family.

She lunges, teeth bared, grabbing his shirt to try and slam him back into the brickwork – but like lightning, he lurches to the side and uses her momentum to grab her waist and hurl her bodily into the wall. Wood splinters and flecks of glass go flying as they claw at each other, blood spatter dripping down the window panes and soaking into the finely-patterned carpet.

Her ears ring when Vincent seizes the back of her head and slams her face-first into the doorframe, but she gets her own back as her broken nose puts itself back together, watching the side of Vincent’s chest collapse when she clubs him hard in the side with a metal candelabra. Sweet revenge.

Gasping for breath, he dodges out of the way of her fist and grabs her arm, pulling her painfully into the front of the heavy, wooden console table. She manages to catch his ankle with her foot as she goes, though, hooking it out from under him and shoving him down to the floor. His other hand is still locked around her wrist, so he yanks on her arm to twist himself around, landing heavily on his back instead of his front.

Luckily, she manages to keep her balance, but he can see it coming now – instead of the satisfying crunch she was hoping for, he barely manages to jerk his head out of the way so the sole of her slipper impacts the carpet instead of his eye socket. It sends a spike of pain up her shin, but she ignores it in favour of shielding her head, so the impact of him kicking her backwards into the bookcases doesn't stun her too much.

It’s kind of hilarious, when you think about it. Other families don’t cause thousands of dollars of property damage trying to violently maim and murder each other when they get bored, do they?

In hindsight, it seems almost inevitable they’d turn out like this. For a long time after Vincent’s turning, they’d fought almost constantly, and nobody had ever been able to quite understand why.

It used to be unbearable, having them in the same room together. Bitter glares and cutting remarks, sniping and biting at each other from across the table. Ba always complained about how they gave him headaches – the static whine of furious, mutual hatred, the pressure of all that blinding intensity in one place, with nowhere else to go but him.

He never took sides, and it stung every time. In her head, she knows he was right to. There aren’t the words to describe how much worse that would have made it. But deep inside, she couldn’t help the sick, dizzy feeling of her Maker abandoning her, leaving her – a necessary, instinctive fear of being cast out from the safety of his world and the shelter of his presence.

She’s his blood, she’s his, she’s his. They’re a family.

You can’t say that either of the two of them is entirely innocent. Alexis knows that there are parts of her that Vincent’s right to hate, and there are parts of him that she’s right to hate, too. They’ve both done terrible, awful things, too many to name, to other people and each other alike. Anyone else would say that one is just as awful as the other, and that with the way they’re carrying on, neither of them is making it any better whatsoever.

A boring answer, in short.

Because it’s not actually about that, is it? There’s something else too, something too tender and complicated for them to ever really unravel, the sugary decay of undeath that turns their spit to venom and their hunger to thirst. Vincent’s all the things she left behind, and she’s all the things he never had, and it’s all bundled up with the howling wasteland of the world that neither of them should ever have left.

Everyone regrets their Turning, whether they say so or not. Some regret it more than others, it’s true, but nobody gets away unscathed. The only reason it’s ever been a problem is because the House of Solaire tend to take their regrets out on each other.

(She rakes her nails across Vincent’s pretty face, deep, intentional gouges that would surely scar if he couldn’t sew himself back together so fast. He drives his foot into her knee in return, forcing the joint to fold in on itself the wrong way, and the world goes white with agony for the split second before it begins to heal.)

Sometimes, people wonder how they fixed it. How they get along so much better now, like a real brother and sister should. They never actually ask, and nobody will ever tell, but she isn’t stupid enough not to know what they’re thinking.

It shouldn’t be real. They bicker and pinch and steal each other’s clothes – she takes his keys from the drawer and drives his car instead of hers because it’s nicer, and she deliberately won’t leave him any money for petrol. He plays his music far too loudly in the room next door when he knows she’s got work to do, and eats her snacks out of the fridge without remorse, even if they’re labelled. Annoying, yes, but hardly the curse-yelling, death-threatening carnage their house used to be.

In fact, you could almost say they’re too well-behaved. They stay up late together in the living room, surrounded by every phone and laptop and tablet they can find, refreshing and refreshing the stupid ticket lottery website for the concert Vincent wants to go to of the band that she hates. They wear as many layers as they can stand and bring those UV umbrellas that block out the sunlight, so they can go out in the daytime and queue up for that pop-up event downtown that she’s been dying to go to.

Even the endless, complicated trappings of polite vampiric society are standard fare for them now. Vincent doesn’t complain when he has to stand by her vanity for twenty minutes passing her hairpin after hairpin, and Alexis waits by the front door to do his tie for him, because she’s better at doing the complicated knots that go in and out of fashion. They dress up nicely for every society ball, kissing each other on the cheek and fetching each other drinks and dancing the volta just like everybody else.

She lends him whatever jewellery he wants out of her jewellery box because it’s prettier than his. He pesters their father into letting them go to Disneyland in the evening when it’s dark and they won’t get sunburnt, three days in a row when they should be working because it’s her birthday and she wants to take pictures in front of the castle and eat the special coloured candyfloss they always have at this time of year. They proofread each other’s work documents and curl up under the same blanket on the sofa and leave their shoes next to each other by the door every day.

Shiny, red, and utterly forbidden – a devil’s deal is a wonderful thing. The apple seed of temptation took root in her sour, bloated stomach, and a shallow grave blossomed into a beautiful family tree.

It makes baba so happy that they get along now, and that makes them happy too. They’re never going to tell anyone how they do it. Isn’t there some saying about magic and secrets?

(Her arm isn’t quite back in its socket yet, shoulder screaming in pain, but it won’t stop her trying to choke Vincent unconscious against the bookcase. He spits a warm mouthful of blood and venom into her face in thanks, and knees her hard in the stomach.)

Vampiric houses are famously secretive, especially the older ones. It pretty much comes with the territory – the diet alone tends to be rather off-putting for outsiders, to say nothing of the other… well, the other habits that vampirism bestows. Generally, vampires prefer to keep the company of their own kind, and the intrinsic bond between maker and progeny is a rather powerful reason to stay.

Clans have always been compared to families in that way, and the House of Solaire takes it very seriously indeed. More so than most, although it’s not an uncommon thing. Turnings tend to isolate a person from their human friends and family. It would be remiss of their new clan, surely, not to step in and fill that void however they can?

As different as some things are, there’s no escaping human nature. If William’s taught them anything about surviving in this world, about protecting their family, it’s that nothing is off-limits. Whatever is necessary, they do without question. Knowledge, money, sex, power. Blood is blood, always. How else would the Solaire name have prospered for so long? How else will it continue?

Perhaps it’s cliche, but it’s true. Old blood means old money, and it doesn’t get much older than vampiric blood. Her world is a world of private invitations, expensive dresses, and strategic gossip – whatever you could imagine about the secretive lives of a shadowy vampiric aristocracy, it’s probably true. Champagne was made to be whispered over, after all. Long lives mean plenty of time to develop some rather particular tastes, and an instinctive thirst for blood does lend itself well to a certain nonchalance about the insides of a human body.

She’d been surprised at first, an uncomfortable revulsion that she’d had to unlearn, but she’d got used to it eventually. Vincent had too, and although it took him a little longer, he’s almost as good at playing this game as she is. Say what you will about the House of Solaire, but they are very, very good at what they do.

Nothing breeds rumours like success, and William Solaire is truly blessed. A golden name, a golden fortune, and two golden children to match.

There were always going to be rumours, certainly. Of what they might be doing behind closed doors, their ambitions for the future of their house, the secrets that lie at the heart of it. Of fresh scars in strange places, the truth of their allegiance to their father, of brothers and sisters doing things that brothers and sisters shouldn’t be doing.

You couldn’t prove any of it, obviously, and nobody ever says the words out loud. But she hears them all the same, ringing in her ears as she kisses her father on the cheek at breakfast, filling up her mind as she steals Vincent’s jacket out of his room to go shopping, and she smiles wider than ever before – because if they really knew what was happening behind the gates of Wonderworld, they’d have much more to talk about than wondering what William could possibly be holding over their heads to make them finally behave.

(In all honesty, it’s somehow more and less than you’d think. That’s not the point she’s trying to make right now, but it’s worth saying, all the same.)

They’re never, ever going to let it slip. Nobody’s ever going to know about the way she forces her brother back down onto the floor, driving her elbow into his face, feeling cartilage crack and splinter as he falls backwards in a spray of blood. He tries to scramble away, one hand reflexively covering his face, but he’s too slow - her foot comes down hard on his shin, and the scream he lets out isn’t quite loud enough to cover the sound of bone shattering under her slipper.

Vincent tries to drag himself away, fingernails tearing at the carpet, and she plants her foot on his chest to keep him in place. The break in his nose is almost fixed, crimson blood splattered all over his face, but it seems like his attention has… shifted.

That can’t be right.

He’s not that stupid, surely. What else could he be thinking of, when she could so easily crush his heart in a split second? He’s focusing on something else, but it doesn’t seem to be her – is it behind her? Is there something she can’t see? Why isn’t he paying attention?

And then, for some unknowable reason, apropos of apparently nothing… he smiles.

“What?” she spits, pressing down harder and feeling his ribs creak under the ball of her foot. “What is it?”

Infuriatingly, he chokes on a laugh, thick blood bubbling in his throat as it heals, and gestures weakly up at the wall behind her. His eyes are fixed on something there too – no, not the wall, it’s the—

“You little – fucking hell!”

She barely manages to dodge the chandelier as it comes crashing down on her head, feeling the room spin as Vincent yanks on the ceiling chain hard with a burst of psychokinesis. He manages to throw himself in the opposite direction, hand shielding his eyes as the metal hits the floor and the room fills with the deafening sound of shattering crystal.

Both of them hiss as they’re pelted with broken crystal, slicing tiny, stinging ribbons into their skin that seal up almost as soon as they appear. Shit, that hurts.

“Zhidi!”

She glares at her stupid little brother, half-crouched behind the arm of the sofa. “You’re fucking fixing that.”

“Why?” he snickers, pretending to pout, and she’s so tempted to just drag him out into the hallway by the hair and sling him down the stairs before he can finish the thought. “You’re so much better at magic than me, lili…”

“Yeah,” she grumbles, crossing her arms in the face of his unapologetic grin, “which means you need the practice more.”

Vincent groans, downcast. “But he’ll be so mad if I do it wrong!”

He huffs when she just sticks her tongue out at him in return, tossing his head to get his hair out of his eyes. “Can’t you just do half, and I’ll copy?”

Narrowing her eyes, she shakes the debris from her slippers and picks her way over to the window. It takes some concentration, but she runs a hand over the splintered mess of the frame, watching as it sews itself back together. “This is my half.”

“But it’s so hard!” he whines, little brat that he is, and she hates how the obvious manipulation still tugs at her heartstrings. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of the sofa now, hands extended over the sparkling rubble of the chandelier. “You make it look so easy, jiejie…”

Alexis sighs, and begrudgingly reaches down to ruffle his hair. Tiny flakes of mirrored glass fall onto the carpet around him as she does it, slicing little papercuts into the tips of her fingers.

“You do all the light fixtures and the mirror, and I’ll do the rest.”

He looks up at her, suspicious. “Half the mirror.”

“Two thirds.”

“Three fifths.”

“Two thirds, and I don’t tell ba you dropped the chandelier.”

“Deal,” he graciously concedes, and they pinkie promise.

She rolls her eyes and pretends she can’t see him grin, knowing full well she’s being far too soft on him. “If he blames it on me, I swear I’ll key your goddamn Volante and make you watch.”

“What? No!” Vincent gasps, looking betrayed. “Don’t you know how much that cost?”

“Yeah, I do,” she says sweetly, “which is why you’re not going to fuck it up, are you?”

He mutters something unflattering in French under his breath, and she snaps her fingers accusingly in his direction. “What was that, didi?”

“Nothing.”

She smiles winningly, before waving her hand and dragging all the books up off the floor and back into the bookcase. “That’s what I thought.”

They clean up in silence for a little while, their earlier animosity dissolving unnoticed into dust. It’s slow going – neither of them are especially gifted with magic, or have very much of it at their disposal, so they have to keep stopping every few minutes or so to recover.

Before long, they’re both out of breath and exhausted, smashed crystal still crunching beneath their feet and coughing up white plumes of plaster dust.

“When’s he even coming back, anyway?” Vincent asks, peering at the tall jade vase he’s trying to coax back together. “Tonight?”

She nods over her shoulder, trying to stitch the long gash in the sofa cushion closed and failing miserably at getting the complicated pattern to match up again. “He didn’t say when, but it can’t b—”

“Fuck.”

Vincent cuts her off, staring down at his phone as it buzzes, before looking up at her with a grimace and turning the screen to face her.

I’ll be home in ten minutes. I’m sure nothing will be broken or out of place when I get back.

Of course he’s coming home earlier than they thought. Of course. Why wouldn’t he?

“What should we do?”

Christ, he’ll be furious once he sees what they’ve done to this room. If they really, really hurry, they might be able to get away with at least a little bit of it, right?

With a huff of exertion, magic builds beneath her palms, and all the fragments of mirrored glass scattered across the room start to shiver as she prepares to sew them all back together. The mantelpiece needs to be fixed, and there’s a whole section of the doorframe that’s almost totally gone, and she doesn’t even want to think about the horrible, gaping wounds in the wooden panelling that need to be repaired and relacquered…

“Come here,” she mutters to Vincent, beckoning him over to her and pressing her palms flat to his chest. He closes his eyes and nods, resting the tips of his fingers at her temples, and they slowly, carefully, start to reach out to each other.

Her threads brush clumsily against his, once then twice then three times, the connection weak and fluttering as they try to concentrate. She stretches as far as she can, searching for that familiar feeling, anticipating the sickening lurch in her stomach that she knows is surely going to come any second, the momentary freefall as her core latches on to his.

When it happens, it takes her by surprise – her knees buckle for just a moment, and she sways slightly from side to side. Vincent rests his forehead against hers to try and keep upright, and she feels his wordless reassurance through the fledgling bond.

How does he do it? Vincent’s only a few inches taller than her, even less so when she’s in heels, and yet he always seems to tower over her – the looming shadow in the corner of her eye, the impossible weight of his gaze on her through the crowd.

The perfect height for dancing, their father had said, laughing gently as they stumbled through a clumsy waltz around the living room. She’d stepped on Vincent’s toes almost as many times as he’d tripped over the hem of her long dress, a poor stand-in for the real one she’d be wearing at the summer ball in a few months’ time. Elbows up, xiaozhi. They will not be so forgiving in Marseille as I am, you know.

Magic pools beneath her skin as she siphons it greedily through the bond, flooding her core with Vincent’s stolen power, and she luxuriates in the sensation for a long, languid moment. Then, she grits her teeth, and focuses.

With the extra rush of his magic, it’s almost laughable how fast she manages to race through most of the remaining cleanup – the blood dripping down the windowpane vanishes, the claw marks in the carpet disappear, and even the mirror above the mantelpiece clicks neatly back together as if it were never broken. The slashes across the back of Vincent’s shirt close up, and all the little chunks of bloody cartilage stuck in her hair vanish without a trace.

Her brother staggers in her arms as she keeps pulling on their bond, and she manages to ease them both down onto the sofa without too much fuss, still trying to get as much of the chandelier fixed as she can. About half of the crystal is back in place, but the chain just won’t – she can’t quite—

“Enough!”

Vincent breaks away from her with a sharp, sudden breath, slumping backwards onto the newly-repaired cushions and clutching weakly at his skull. “Too much, lijie, too much…”

He gestures vaguely towards the door with one hand in what she thinks might be thirst, and she runs out into the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen as fast as she can to get some blood out of the fridge. There’s already a glass on the counter that he must have got out earlier, so she fills it up with the half-empty bottle of O positive.

Sharing their magic always does this, but once he gets enough blood in him, he should be fine in about twenty minutes or so. It’s a lot like bridging, that way. Their cores will be synchronised for a little while, and they’ll be more keenly aware of each other’s magic, but that doesn’t really mean much when their senses are already so sharp.

A vampire’s core isn’t magically rich enough to do a huge amount all at once, so sharing magic like this is generally their best bet for doing things quickly. It lets them make the most of their limited reserves – rather than working individually, one of them can keep feeding the other magic as they concentrate on the whole picture.

Her steps are quiet but urgent as she runs back upstairs with the blood, slippered feet sliding a little on the kitchen tile. How much longer have they got until ba gets back, again?

When she pushes the door open, Vincent hasn’t moved, still sprawled across the sofa with a hand pressed over his eyes. Gently, she folds the fingers of his other hand around the glass, and he mumbles out a slurred thanks as he gulps the whole thing down in almost one swallow.

She’s just about to try the chandelier again, threads uncomfortably sore and stretched, when there’s a sudden sound from downstairs. The faintest jangling of keys, the scrape of tiny metal pins in the cylinder as the lock turns, and all of a sudden—

“Hui jia le.”

Downstairs in the foyer, he doesn’t have to shout. He already knows they can hear him.

Vincent curses silently, staggering up off the sofa and disappearing off to his room as she flings whatever magic she can at the chandelier chain. If she can just get it to stay together until he goes out again, they can probably recover enough magic between them to be able to fix it properly, right?

“Lili?” Ba’s voice is soft yet confused, the quiet sounds of him taking his shoes off and hanging up his overcoat, wondering why they’re not saying anything. “Xiaozhi, where are you?”

The question is entirely redundant – they all know that he can feel exactly where in the house they are. Vincent isn’t saying anything, so should she keep quiet as well…?

No, it’ll be too suspicious if neither of them goes and sees him, so she throws one last worried glance at the chandelier and hurries out of the room. When she gets to the top of the stairs, he’s just putting his slippers on, and she does her best to keep her heart slow and her smile easy when he looks up and notices her.

“There you are,” murmurs baba, and holds out his arms for her.

Is it embarrassing, how quickly she scrambles down the stairs and throws herself at him? He laughs, strong hands catching her waist and lifting her clear off the floor in a brief, joyful circle. “Ah, I have missed you, chérie.”

“Missed you too,” she says into his shirt, curling happily into his chest as he wraps his arms around her, fondly kissing the top of her head. The Maker’s bond between them sings at their closeness, warm and comforting as it bubbles in her chest, and she feels him smile even though she can’t see it.

“Vincent is upstairs?”

“He, um…”

The words freeze on her tongue as she tries to figure out a half-truth that she’ll actually be able to say – she can’t lie outright, but she can say something that’s technically true, even if it’s not the whole story.

“Headache,” she mumbles noncommittally, and crosses her fingers that he won’t push it.

Ba hums quietly in acknowledgement, seemingly in acceptance. “I see. Was the patrol alright?”

He smooths his hand over her back in wide, slow circles, just the right amount of pressure. “No trouble, I hope.”

She shakes her head, and tries her best to relax. “Just some unempowered kids, looking for somewhere to have a bonfire. It was easy.”

There’d been about six or seven of them piled into some beaten-up old thing, driving down the abandoned road that leads to the gates of Wonderworld, clearly not sure where they were going. Even if she hadn’t spotted the dim headlights through the trees, or heard that god-awful music from the speakers inside, she probably could have smelt them coming – whatever they were drinking, it seemed less like moonshine and more like rubbing alcohol. If they go blind, it’s not her fault.

They’d stopped just before the gates, about to get out when she’d suddenly appeared by the driver’s-side window. He’d been surprised to see her, tapping at the glass until he rolled it down, and she’d taken the opportunity to have a little fun with it before she’d have to trance them.

Mm, you boys are out late, she’d drawled, leaning forwards and resting her arms along the edge of the window. Can I… help you, with anything?

She’s not stupid – she knows exactly what she looks like, and she knows exactly what to do with it. There’s always college students from the nearby towns sneaking into the woods at night, and they fall for it every single time.

Ah, it really had been cute. She’d had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the way all of their eyes suddenly couldn’t stay on her face, conspicuously flicking back up to her eyes whenever she moved.

Just, uh…

The one driving had really, really tried, shifting awkwardly in his seat as she tilted her head to look down at him. Just lookin’ around, ma’am, nothin’ serious…

Nothing serious? She’d smirked at that, careful not to let them see the sharp tips of her fangs as she reached out to gently brush a stray lock of blonde hair out of his face. Honey, you’ll break my heart, with talk like that.

His friend in the passenger seat still hadn’t stopped staring, slack-jawed, and she’d pushed herself up on her tiptoes to stretch her arm out towards him, pressing the tip of her fingernail under his chin to snap his mouth shut. Oh, it was like something out of a movie! She’d always wanted to do that in real life.

I can think of somewhere you’ll like.

Foolishly, they’d all been very liberal with their eye contact – trancing them had been as easy as anything.

As soon as I stop talking, you’re going to turn this car around and drive all the way back to the freeway, and you’re going to drive all the way to the next city before looking for somewhere to have your little party. You won’t remember this conversation at all, you won’t remember ever meeting anyone here, and you won’t remember anything about me.

She’d smiled nice and wide, scarlet eyes burning into each of them in turn, listening to their terrified hearts race at the monstrous sight of her. Isn’t that right, hm?

They’d nodded in unison, the driver’s hands already back to the wheel, and she’d blown them a kiss as they drove away and disappeared back into the trees. Ah, humans.

“Well, that’s good.”

Ba’s voice shakes her from the memory, slowly guiding her away from the door and towards the kitchen. “That reminds me – you should have heard the little ones tonight, my goodness…”

“Really?” She’s curious, not having met them before. “What did they say?”

Deft fingers pull the carafe of A positive out of the fridge door, and he blinks down at the bare countertop for a second before reaching up and taking a glass out of the cupboard.

“The Aguilars are… they are unchanged, shall we say.”

It makes sense. He’d been over at the Aguilar estate tonight to meet their new blood informally, before the Summit in a few months’ time when they’ll be properly introduced. The family is always very friendly, and she gets on very well with the aunties there.

Poor Vincent doesn’t like them as much as she does, but that’s mostly to do with that god-awful girl – a cousin from one of the branching bloodlines, she’s fairly sure – who’s had a crush on him ever since he was Turned, and who follows him around incessantly whenever they’re at the same parties. It’s hilarious to watch him try to shake her off, and the look of relief on his face when she finally steps in and makes up some lie about how he promised to dance with her is well worth the hour of complaining he’ll do later in the car on the way home.

The only thing is that it’s a big family. Much bigger than theirs, and it can be rather overwhelming when it gets loud. Obviously, ba doesn’t like to say anything about it, but she can feel his headaches building in the back of her own skull – his stronger senses mean he’s a lot more sensitive to the noise than she and Vincent are.

Still, they’re far more pleasant company than the House of Bennett. The only one who can make that family bearable to be around is cousin Porter, and that’s only because he likes to add a little of his own blood to the drinks so that they actually feel like they’re alcoholic.

She nods, leaning back against the sink. “Chatty, I take it.”

“Little… ah, what is it?” Sipping his glass of blood as he leans against the kitchen table, he gestures vaguely in the air with one hand. “Little pitchers that have big ears.”

It really shouldn’t be a surprise. Big houses mean more gossip, and freshly Turned vampires do love to put their shiny new senses to use.

She shrugs. “As long as they’re not spilling state secrets yet, it’ll be fine.”

“If the state tells its secrets to the House of Aguilar, we are already doomed, mon ange.”

They both laugh, washed in the pale light streaming through the windows, and baba closes his eyes as he reaches up to gently pull the fa zan from his hair.

He likes to tie it back when he goes out, partly to stop the wind from tangling it, and partly because it’s the way he says gentlemen used to be when he was young. Over the years, he’s amassed an almost staggering collection of little clips and ribbons and pins – a not insignificant number as gifts from her and Vincent – that he likes, but he generally just wears it down when he’s at home and there aren’t guests.

The moonlight turns the edges of his black hair to silver as he shakes his head with a relieved sigh, running his fingers through it quickly to smooth it out before flicking it back behind him. He likes to keep it long, at least several inches below his shoulder, and she’s always been so jealous of how he seems to make every hairstyle he tries seem so effortlessly elegant.

“Still,” he continues with a wicked smile, “you will see for yourself when we see them next. I think they will have many things to discuss with you, perhaps.”

He tips his head languidly to the side as he pushes his phone across the table, the screen lit up with a photo of Vincent from last summer. If she remembers correctly, it’s from when they were taking a break at the summer house down by the coast – he’s shirtless, knee deep in the water, turning back to the camera with a rakish grin, dark hair already wet from the splash fight they’d been having and fangs glittering in the moonlight from above.

In short, he looks painfully, achingly handsome. Scandalised, she smacks her father in the shoulder and gasps theatrically, like she can’t believe what he’s done.

“You didn’t!”

“I certainly did.”

“He’ll die!” she whisper-shouts, trying desperately not to laugh too hard. “He’s already having trouble outrunning marriage proposals from one of them, and you’re setting the new blood on him too?”

Ba just shakes his head, imperious, looking down his nose at her like he’s imparting some grave wisdom. “They asked to see a picture of my progenies.”

“So it had to be that picture?”

“I showed your picture as well.”

Resigned, she buries her face in her hands. “I dread to think.”

“Oh, you are so dramatic, chérie,” he laments, and he even has the gall to click his tongue in faux-disapproval when she narrows her eyes at him. “See? The picture is nice!”

It takes him a second to find it, but it’s just as bad as she feared – it’s from the same holiday as Vincent’s photo, probably taken later that night. She’s wearing that nice floaty sundress she bought in Singapore, barefoot in the sand as she blows a kiss to the camera, lips still stained with blood from whatever scarlet cocktail she’s holding in her other hand.

This was exactly his plan, in other words, and she’s going to fucking murder him in his sleep. If any of those upstart little ankle biters tries to chat her up, it won’t be pretty – the last one got a cake fork stabbed straight through his hand and several inches into the table beneath it, and the one before that still visibly trembles at the sound of her stilettos clicking softly against the floor.

“If I kill an Aguilar new blood at the summer ball, it’s your fault,” she mutters threateningly, hissing and baring her fangs at him when he reaches out to take her face in his hands and draw her closer. “I mean it!”

“Of course you do, xiao gong zhu,” he murmurs indulgently, and kisses her forehead. “You are telling me, so it must be true.”

Upstairs, the sound of floorboards creaking, fabric rustling. Vincent.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” ba adds nonchalantly, “about broken things.”

Shit. She blinks, innocent as anything as she beats back the guilty urge inside her that yearns to spill the truth. “What’s broken?”

“Lili.”

He raises an eyebrow, discreetly tapping the shell of his ear, and she strains to figure out what he’s hearing. “I am old, baobei. Not stupid.”

If she listens, really listens, she can just about make something out. Another noise, something much quieter – a sort of stiff, metallic creaking from upstairs, on the other side of the house to Vincent’s bedroom…

Her smile wavers as ba swans serenely past her, disappearing out into the hallway, deft fingers picking up his fa zan from the table as he goes past. “It is nothing, surely. Perhaps you will bring Vincent something for his head while I am changing?”

God fucking damn it – she might be able to fix the chandelier without him noticing, but what are the odds? He’s meeting that friend tonight, and if he’s going to change now then it probably won't be long until he goes out, but there’s no way of knowing if it’ll hold until then.

Scowling, she pours another glass of blood for Vincent, and one more for herself, before reluctantly trudging upstairs.

It's a fact of life, or at least a fact of vampirism: you can’t really have any secrets from your Maker, and that’s even without the whole truth-compulsion thing. No matter what you do, your Maker is always aware of what you’re feeling, when you’re feeling it.

The emotional bond never goes away, though the strength of its effects ebbs and flows. Sometimes it’s so faint as to be almost nonexistent, a tiny shiver down the spine – and sometimes it’s almost overwhelming in its intensity, foreign emotions bursting out of nowhere like fireworks, blindingly bright and terrifyingly loud.

For young vampires, it’s a lot to get used to. Some take years to become accustomed to the bond, while others are oddly comforted by it. New Makers are often surprised by the strength of as well – it goes both ways, but generally the Maker feels more of their progeny’s emotions than the other way around. Nobody's really sure why.

More complicated feelings don’t come through especially clearly, apparently a little bit difficult for the bond to transmit, or perhaps for the other body to decipher. But simpler, more basic emotions are very, very easy. You might even say they’re too easy, in fact. Things like fear, sadness, joy – and, well…

He must already know what they’ve been up to. That sort of anger, the instinctive viciousness that comes so easily to them. They all know from experience how quickly that can wash over the bond, twisting and curling as it spreads like dark ink through water. After a while, it stops being so intrusive – it’s just how it works, and it’s not as though they can stop it. It’s possible to tune it out, and before long it generally goes away.

But a Maker with two progenies, both of whom are busy winding each other up at the same time? Who never seem to know when to quit, chasing that addictive, acidic feedback loop of rage that only ever seems to push them higher?

Ba doesn’t mind what they get up to, per se, as long as they keep it discreet and clean up after themselves. But even so, it’s not difficult to see how it could be… distracting.

He definitely knows what they were doing, is the point. And he clearly knows that there’s something they broke that she hasn’t been able to fix yet. She just needs to make sure it’s all neat and tidy by the time he gets back later, and hopefully they can all pretend that it never happened.

“What.”

Vincent glares at her from under his duvet when she pushes the door open with her foot, crimson eyes staring out from the blackness as she gets closer and closer. The lights are off and the blackout curtains are closed, so it’s almost entirely dark, but she can make out the shape of the bed well enough.

“Blood.”

She holds out one of the glasses, not breaking eye contact until a single hand slithers out from under the duvet and takes it from her.

He doesn’t seem to have thought about how he’s going to drink it, lying flat on his stomach and sprawled sideways across the bed, and she snickers under her breath as he blinks stupidly at the glass. With a flourish, she takes the second straw out of her own glass and drops it into his, sticking her tongue out gleefully at him when he mumbles something unintelligible into the mattress beneath him.

She shrugs – it’s close enough. “You’re welcome.”

Perching herself on the edge of the bed, she watches in amusement as he drags himself forwards under the duvet so he can get the straw in his mouth without having to lift his head, occasionally poking the mound of blankets that claims to be her brother in the side to see if he can feel it or not.

(He can. She knows. It’s just funny.)

Because she’s very generous, she gets up to grab a few of the books off his desk, stacking them up by the side of the bed, level with where his face is. He complains when she takes the glass back out of his hand, but acquiesces as soon as she puts it back down on the books, army crawling towards the end of the straw that’s now level with the top of the mattress and haughtily sticking it in his mouth.

“Better?”

The Vincent-shaped duvet creature next to her slurps loudly at his glass of blood, and doesn’t say anything.

She’d use telepathy, but she needs to save all the magic she can get. Quickly, she pulls her phone out of her pocket, turning the brightness down all the way and typing a message in her notes app to show him.

He knows something’s broken, and the chandelier chain isn’t going to last long if I don’t go and fix it. Do you have enough magic to help yet?

“No,” Vincent grumbles, and coughs pointedly.

Great. How much longer?

He coughs again, baleful red eyes turning to look witheringly up at her from his blanket nest, and she doesn’t have to be able to see his hands to know the gesture he’s making at her.

Fine, she types, as sarcastically as it’s possible to be when you can’t say anything out loud, but if he hears, I’m blaming you. Distract him.

Obediently, he starts moving around again, making sure the sound of mattress springs and sheets rustling is loud enough for her to slip out of the door and towards the drawing room they ruined earlier. Luckily, it’s in the opposite direction to baba’s room, but she still holds her breath and tiptoes as quietly as she can in case he—

“Lili?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

She whips around, totally innocently, to see her father beckoning her down the stairs as several sets of cufflinks rattle in his palm. “Come and help me choose.”

Helpless to protest, she’s forced to follow him down into the foyer, umming and ahhing over which cufflinks she thinks will suit his outfit the best. In her head, though, she can’t stop worrying about that damned chandelier, the creaking sound from upstairs that she’s sure is getting louder, the increasing amount of magic she’ll need to fix it as it surely gets worse and worse…

“A good choice as always, mon ange.”

She startles slightly as baba nods approvingly, smoothly taking the silver pair she’d mindlessly chosen and putting them on, before leaving the rest in the dish on the low console table. “I won’t be back until the morning, so you will look after Vincent, won’t you?”

Hastily, she nods. “Yeah, I will, I will.”

“Alright.” He rests his hands gently on her upper arms as he kisses both her cheeks, before taking his car keys out of his pocket and heading out of the front door. “See you later, chérie. I love you very much.”

“Love you too!”

She waits the agonisingly long half-second it takes for the door to close behind him before racing back upstairs, and she hears Vincent, still clutching his half-empty glass, scrambling out of his room at the same time. They nearly crash face-first into each other in their haste, yanking the drawing room door open and tumbling through it as fast as they can.

“I thought your head still hurt?” she says quizzically to Vincent, watching his hands trembling faintly around his glass, but he just makes a face.

“The alternative’s worse,” he replies, and she nods. He’s right.

She reaches for her core, willing the magic to come – it’s slow and it’s weak, but she yanks on her threads as hard as she can to try and summon it to her fingertips. The chandelier sways ominously above them as she screws her eyes shut to concentrate, and she can feel Vincent’s aura flicker next to her as he does the same thing. Come on, come on…

She’s nearly there, power surging under her skin and ready to be channelled outwards, when there’s a sudden—

“Shit!”

The magic fizzles uselessly away as her eyes fly open to see Vincent, clutching his head in pain, cursing as the front of his shirt is drenched in blood. There’s shattered glass all over the floor from where he’s dropped his drink, and she chokes down the irritated vampiric growl that rises in her throat. “Fucking hell, xiaodi!”

“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it!” he moans, slightly unsteady on his feet, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “Look, at least it’s not the—”

Something moves, just at the very edge of her vision.

Above her head, the room plunges into blackout as something snaps.

“Move–!!”

She barely manages to shove Vincent away from her before the heavy metal body of the chandelier comes crashing down on her head. It’s not heavy enough to knock her out, but the surprise is enough that all she can do is stand there as 15 kilos of brass and crystal and electrics falls directly on top of her and shatters.

He skitters backwards, recoiling from the spray of tiny crystal shards that covers the floor for the second time today, nearly tripping over the leg of the side table as he goes. A thousand stinging papercuts split their skin, sealing themselves up and leaving tiny droplets of crimson blood dripping down their arms and faces.

Without even noticing, she instinctively catches one of the twisted metal arms of the chandelier that must have been sheared off when it impacted her skull, raw edge snagged painfully in her hair as it slides neatly down into her arms.

They’re so fucked.

They both freeze guiltily as a floorboard creaks outside in the hallway, far too close to be a coincidence, and she winces as there’s a polite knock, knock, knock at the door.

“We—” She chokes, breathing in a hacking lungful of debris, voice cracking slightly from her dry throat. “We’re in so much trouble.”

Vincent stares wide-eyed at her through the sudden dark, blood dripping slowly from his chin and soaking into the carpet..

“Yeah,” he mumbles distantly, “probably.”

The drawing room door swings open, and both their heads snap towards the open doorway so fast it would give a human whiplash. There, silhouetted against the light, car keys still jangling in his palm and running an exasperated hand through his long hair—

“What,” hisses William Solaire, raising an irate eyebrow at his children, covered in glittering crystal dust and leaking blood into a very expensive carpet, “did I say about breaking things again?”

The clan always sticks together. Family comes first – nothing and nobody could make them betray each other, and they’d rather die than leave one of their own behind. It’s the central tenet of their existence, the core fact of their messy, gory lives.

Some things are just… true. The earth is round, the sky is blue, and there is no power known to men or gods that could turn the House of Solaire against itself.

Baba shifts his weight slightly, eyes narrowing accusingly.

And very, very slowly, Alexis and Vincent both point at each other.

link to the glass jaw pronunciation guide

main masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted vincent #redacted william #redacted alexis #redacted solaire clan #redacted porter #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

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mariposa-writes · 1 year

Text

Good Sleep - LaMelo Ball

Summary: hate writing these, so just read and find out.

A/N: This man is the love of my life (and his brothers).

It was hard, dating an NBA player. Not that it was Melo's fault. He tried to make things as easy as possible. He called whenever he could, making sure to at least check in on me once a day.

It wasn't like I made things any easier. I took a lot of pride in my job and it felt like a lot of the time when he was home, I was busy working.

Which is what I am currently doing. Its around midnight, when I hear the garage open, I know it's Melo. His team was supposed to get back earlier tonight, but their flight got delayed due to weather.

After a few minutes he enters our room. I moved in with him a 6 months ago, since I practically lived there full time anyways. We both also thought it would be a good way to spend more time together.

"Hey, babe." He says walking over to me and giving me a quick kiss on the lips. He heads into our bathroom, getting ready to shower. He hates how he feels after plane rides, always complaining about being dirty. "What are you working on?" He calls from the bathroom.

"Just work stuff." I respond, not having the time to explain. I have to have these reports ready by Monday. I'm a CFO for a major clothing company in the US. We are currently working on expanding to European countries.

Melo showers while I work and before I know it he's climbing into bed. "Babe," He whines, "when are you going to bed?"

"I don't know, soon." I answer, dismissively. He frowns, looking up at me from where he's laying.

"You work to hard. Your not even 22 and your the CFO for a major company. I worry you're gonna work yourself to death." Melo's always hated how hard I work. We've been dating since we were both 19.

I was getting ready to graduate college, when he was getting drafted into the NBA. Being born a genius helped me fast track my schooling and career.

I started interning with the company I currently work at when I was 17, the summer after my junior year. I started working with them when they were just a start up, but in the past four years they have rapidly grown and I've been a part of the process the whole way.

This company is like my baby and I'm the one that has to track everything to make sure we are achieving our goals. I never intended on working here this long, but I love the people I work with (the pay isn't bad either).

They promoted me to CFO when their old one left to work for a bigger company. What an idiot, they didn't have believe in the company and soon ours will be bigger than the one they are working for.

Three hours later and I'm still working, Melo's passed out. After he fell asleep I headed to the office he set up for me, not wanting to wake him.

I have a blanket wrapped around me, with my headphones in and a cup of hot chocolate sitting on the desk. Once I get this done, I'll be on Monday and present to our investors I will be on vacation for the next 9 days.

I haven't told Melo yet, wanting to surprise him since our schedules rarely line up.

I look up from my computer, when I see the hallway light turn on. I take my headphones out, knowing it's Melo. He walks into my office, frowning. "Babe, go to bed." He groans.

"Ok, just give me a few minutes."

"Nope, you always say that and then a few minutes turn into another hour or two and then you're only getting like 2 hours of sleep before you head into the office." He walks over and shuts my laptop, before pulling me out of the chair.

I whine and protest the whole way back to our bed, but he doesn't seem to care. He makes me lay down and tucks me in like I'm a little kid, before climbing in bed next to me.

Once he's in bed his, arm wraps around my waist as he pulls me closer resting his head on my stomach. "Finally, I can sleep now."

"You've been asleep this whole time." I argue.

"Yea, but now I'll get good sleep. I only get good sleep when you're with me." I smile, even though he can't see me. I continue playing with his hair, before we both drift of to sleep in each other's arms.

#lamelo ball #melo #nba #lamelo ball x reader #lamelo ball one shot #nba players #lamelo ball imagine #LaMelo Ball #Melo ball #basketball #charlotte hornets #lamelo x reader #lamelo ball fanfics #lamelo ball fanfiction #melo x reader #melo ball x reader #ball brothers

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that-angry-noldo · 10 months

Text

(cw: panic attack)

"I hate tea."

"Mmm."

I hate you, too, Orodreth wanted to say, but just pursed his lips and curled into his blanket, warming his hands with the steaming mug. Finarfin was busy; Orodreth watched, dispassionately, as he carefully put away small bags of dried herbs that he used to brew Orodreth's tea with, as he closed and hid the jar of honey and then patiently washed his hands. His face did not change its polite-calm expression through the process even once.

Orodreth did not mean to be here. He did not mean to wake up from the nightmare, from the feeling of fire-ice-cold-fear that gripped him and wouldn't let go, did not mean his screams to be as loud as to wake up his own father; did not mean to sit here, scrunching his nose at the smell of herbs and honey.

Why couldn't it be Finrod or Amil? Why couldn't it be anyone else but Arafinwë, whom Orodreth still, after all this time out of the Halls, could not see without memories of cold and fear creeping up his spine?

He brought the mug closer to his mouth. It was warm against his lips.

Finarfin's eyes skimmed over Orodreth once more, the slightest bit of worry passing over his face; as if Orodreth could be wounded and conceal the injury, as if Finarfin's falcon-sharp gaze could miss anything before, when he had grabbed him by his shoulders, when Orodreth could feel nothing but fear and pain and panic.

He noticed with a strange detachment that his father's hands were shaking as he wiped them; Finarfin rubbed his face and took a breath - and finally, finally, sat down on the chair. His frame looked exhausted. Orodreth felt - almost sorry.

"You scared me," his father finally said, softly, as if reading his thoughts. "I thought-"

He cut himself off, and Orodreth shivered beneath his blanket, looking away. He took a tentative sip. The tea was both bitter and sweet; an unpleasant mix on his tongue.

"I am sorry," he said, and the words came out colder than intended. Or maybe just as cold as intended; Orodreth could hardly care about the difference. "I did not mean to wake you up."

Or maybe, he did. Maybe, if given the chance, he would disrupt Finarfin's sleep as often as possible, for reasons as petty as possible. He wondered just how many nights it would take for Finarfin to snap, to abandon this pretense of a loving father that he surely was not, for how could have a loving father ever abandoned-

He took another sip of tea.

"It's alright," Finarfin sighed. "I would have likely woken up nonetheless. Describe me how do you feel. Any pains, or complaints?"

Only you, Orodreth wanted to answer. One horrible, massive pain.

"No," he shrugged. "But I hate the tea."

Finarfin allowed himself a little smile. "I know. But I cannot let you drink coffee at midnight."

Orodreth pursed his lips.

I hate you and I hate your stupid tea, he wanted to say. I hate your worried eyes and your careful hands. I want to smash this cup and I hope you cut yourself on the splinters, too.

He did not actually mean that. Or maybe, he did.

No.

He did not.

He felt a knot tying in his throat. His hands trembled. He took another sip, and set the mug aside.

He was crying, he realized, as his shoulders started to shake. He put a trembling hand to his mouth, trying to stiffen the sobs that he could not control, to even the breath that beat wildly inside his chest - all futile, all making him shake even more and scattering his thoughts in different directions; Arafinwë was by his side, kneeling before him, his falcon eyes sharp again, and he was talking, telling him to breathe; and with each breath another thought would hammer inside Orodreth's brain.

I hate you. A breath.

I hope you die. Another. The rhythm was unsteady. He sobbed as blood rushes through his brain.

You left me. Finarfin's voice was steady. Orodreth shut his eyes, focused on his father's words. They were a blur.

You left me. He was crying.

I thought I would die.

I died.

I missed you. I miss you. Please-

A hesitation, then an answer - regret, hurt, apology; Finarfin took his hands, squeezed his fingers, counted, voice calm and leveled.

He heared him.

"Breathe."

Inhale. One, two, three, four. Exhale. Five, six, seven, eight.

Again.

And again.

Finarfin counted, whispered, and Orodreth felt the fog of his state slowly fall back. He still shuddered. He squeezed his father's hands.

He was trembling.

There was fire, he wanted to say. We could not run, and-

-you left. You left. You left us. Left me.

"I know," Finarfin answered. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Orodreth, my Artaresto, my-" he took a breath. His own hands were trembling, Orodreth noted, detached. When he looked at his face, Finarfin's eyes were no longer sharp; they were pained, and afraid, and tears welled up in their corners.

"I'm sorry," Finarfin repeated. His voice was barely a whisper. "I will not leave. Not again."

Not again?

Finarfin took a breath. Never again.

#finarfin #orodreth #silm fic #silmarillion #tolkien #an orodreth for the orodreth mutual #cw panic attack

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stainedstardom · 1 year

Note

My girl quinn needs more love. So here I am here again with a idea but it's also like a Ethan x reader ( I'm sorry i love both of these siblings)

So the Reader is a person who keeps to theirselves not really bothering anybody, so its like probably midnight ( 2:30) the reader is trying to sleep so then like Ethan and Quinn show up as Gf then like the reader is like " what the fuck.. " so the two siblings started fighting over something that reader don't know about then Quinn said "you have to fucking chose one of us" like the reader is confused until they finally take off the Gf mask the reader is refusing because like it would hurt the reader to make a choice

And the reader is crying because like their don't want to choose

I don't know 😭 I'm sorry I can't think of a ending to this

i love this idea

CHOOSE

quinn bailey x fem!reader (endgame) , ethan bailey x fem!reader

theyre siblings but your best friends. your only two best friends, you don't talk to the others, they don't fit you or the way you act or think. you don't hate them, you just tend to like to be on your own and keep to yourself.

its 2:30 in the morning, you were trying to sleep but you physically couldn't, however your eyes were closed, your breathing was shallow and to anyone who walked in it would like you were asleep.

next thing you knew the door slammed and you hummed as you turned to see quinn and ethan in their ghostface costume

"what the fuck?" you said and quinn sighed

"fuck look you woke her up ethan" she said and ethan scoffed

"me? youre the one who slammed the door open" he retorted

"well if you didnt shove me into the door I wouldn't have slammed it open" she replied

"if you wouldnt have pissed me off, I wouldn't have shoved you" he said and next thing you knew, there was a jumble of words

"okay what the fuck is going on?" you interrupted and quinn turned to you as she took off her mask and ethan did the same, there were their faces staring at you as you stared at them.

"you need to choose" she stated and you froze

"im sorry, what?" you asked

"god damn it quinn, youre confusing her" ethan exclaimed

"shut up ethan, look you need to choose y/n. me or ethan?" she said and you sighed

"what is going on?" you asked

"we both love you like more then we should, we both like you more then a friend and you need to choose. me or ethan" she stated

"where is this coming from?" you questioned

"its been a thing for a while now but I think we're both tired of waiting" ethan stated and you nodded. you loved them both, sure one of them more then the other and you loved one of them in the friend way and the other in the other way.

"im sorry ethan but i dont like you like that" you told him and he nodded, it hurt him

"can we still be friends?" he asked

"oh e of course we can, i wouldn't want anything else" you exclaimed and he nodded as he walked out of your dorm and quinn turned to you

"you chose me?" she asked and you nodded as you got up from your bed and walked over to her

"I chose you" you told her and she leaned in and kissed you as you kissed her back softly. she walked you to your bed and pushed you down onto it as she climbed onto you.

you had to choose and you did.

A/N: i had to do quinn because she deserves more love and i have too much of ethan. i couldn't write the crying part but more because I feel like if its x reader and a specific character then it should be easier for the reader to choose instead of crying

#quinn bailey #quinn bailey x reader #quinn bailey x you #quinn bailey x y/n #liana liberato #scream 6 #scream fanfic #scream #scream 6 x reader #scream 6 smut

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doodlegirl1998 · 7 months

Note

Also...I may be the only one here but I do think Midnight was meant to be way worse. Look she is a walking talking fetish but sense this is a shonen " hot mady shows boobs" is the norm.

Except...they arent set in a new planet. This is the real world...why Midnight parade herself like that? Why she even works as a hero?

Yes. There Hc she is ace but I dont buy it. She keeps saying inappropriate shit to teens and its not as if she is well loved, her friends dont call much for her.

1) yes. We can blame hori

2) but no one else ever calls for her. Could be she is not well like as Aizawa?

Actually...Aizawa while should be dispised...Midnight is not miss popularity either.

Hi @mikeellee 👋,

Hori clearly wrote Midnight as a walking talking bondage fetish. She's fanservice for the "Hot teacher / bondage mummy" fetish havers out there.

Hori didn't give Midnight much thought beyond that. Then he just killed her off for shock value in the war arc to take her out of the narrative (that death was awfully written btw).

Mina and Momo she is meant to have had a close bond with but...this wasn't written beforehand and why include it right when Midnight is about to die rather than building it up?

Sure, the argument could be made that Mina is outgoing like Midnight so they could get on 'in theory' (because that is never shown) but Momo?

The Midnight and Momo bond makes no sense for Momo especially as Momo is regularly sexually harassed so I don't see her liking the teacher who makes inappropriate comments at things she and her class do.

Realistically, (I'm not saying this to be a hater) she wouldn't be popular as a teacher. Actually, quite a large majority of the class would be uncomfortable with her considering her act of saying that she's getting turned on by the things they do.

Then there's her friends. Mic, she seems to get on with and he is visibly upset by her death. Aizawa seems done by her act and presence 99% of the time they talk so him shutting Mic up instead of talking through that the loss of Midnight meant to both of them undermines the deep loss of another friend that they've both gone through.

To add on to this, Aizawa is shown to be more deeply impacted by Shirakumo's death (who has been dead for longer than he's been alive to him at this point) than Midnight's (that happened fairly recently in canon time.) That only serves to undermine their bond (and Hori doesn't bother to explore her and Mic's that much at all.)

There's also the question: Why is she a hero?

Three interpretations that could be taken here.

the innocent interpretation - she was told her quirk was great for heroics, put through the misogynistic hero machine and used her sex appeal as a massive and unique act "the R Rated hero" to get ahead. Everything is an act, she's really completely different as a person (most of the time Ace/Asexual too), basically the interpretation you see in nearly every fanfic.

The slightly darker interpretation - A exploration of point 1) above Midnight's own skewed experiences and possible past SA through childhood / going through heroics have thoroughly skewed her idea of what is acceptable around others hence why she has no problem acting the way she does.

'Dark Midnight interpretation' - *sigh* I'm going to get hate for this. And this obviously isn't the angle Hori is going but... An angle that could be seen is Midnight being a hero to be a predator and get away with it. Heroes are obviously idolised like celebrities in this universe so this would be the perfect profession to be abusive and get away with it (just like Endeav did.) And despite Endeav being a pillar of red flags he gets away with abusing his family for decades. Similarly, Midnight appears as a pillar of red flags in her act yet it's all waved off as "just a persona" (yes in canon it is but what if it wasn't? Imagine Midnight as a guy teacher for a second... There would be so so much outrage from the fandom at 'his' R rated behaviour especially if it were directed at the female students.)

TLDR: Midnight could have been a great and interesting character to explore the flaws of hero society in whatever angle Hori could have taken with her character. Yet Hori wasted this opportunity to trot her out as a "sexy teacher/bondage mummy" fetish whenever she was onscreen until he got bored and killed her off.

#mha critical #bnha critical #anti aizawa shota #aizawa critical #Midnight critical #Nemuri Kayama Critical

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nrc-research-club · 2 years

Text

oh, the horror!

↬ Summary: Watching a horror movie before sleeping is always, always a bad idea. Good thing you have someone else to suffer with you (or maybe not.)

↬ Tags: fluff

↬ Characters: Ace Trappola, Cater Diamond

↬ Note: i’ve recovered well enough to start writing again, but i’ll still rest a lot and not accept requests yet. and dear lord, cater’s part is longer than ace’s. i’m so sorry ace.

Ace Trappola

↬ Ace does not find horror movies scary. Seriously, you live with ghosts that could sneak up on you any moment, but movies about them are where you draw the line? He teases you before and after accepting your offer to watch a movie with him, asking if you need someone to hide behind when the ghost is on screen.

↬ However, the amount of effort put in the movie starts to pay off in the middle of the movie. Ace’s quips and laughs become shakier as the lighting gets darker and the music shifts into something more haunting. Then he slides closer to you, sharing the pillow with you before the ghost comes out of nowhere. The two of you scream, and one of your voices is suspiciously higher than the other.

↬ “Back off, Ace, this is my pillow! I thought you weren’t scared?” you say as you duck behind it to shield your eyes from another jumpscare. He hides at the last minute, his forehead bumping with yours as he seeks refuge from the movie. Someone in the movie screams and distracts you, and he takes it as an opportunity to steal the pillow from you.

↬ “Ha, this is mine now!” he teases before leaning on the opposite end of the couch. The music in the movie starts to get tense, and you’re left to fend for yourself without the pillow. Ace sticks his tongue out at you. “So are you going to hide—gaaah!”

↬ Just as the music reaches its peak, one of the Ramshackle ghosts sneaks up on Ace and passes right through him. A high-pitched scream escapes from him as he quite literally jumps onto you, clambering to your end of the couch with the pillow as a shield. The ghosts laugh as both of you cling to each other, trembling in fear. It takes a few moments before the two of you settle down again. The movie credits are rolling in when you calm down and realize that you don’t even mind the incriminating position you’re in.

↬ “So who’s the scaredy-cat now?” you squint, giggling when he takes a minute to shuffle away from you. Your giggling turns into full-blown laughter, and you wheeze your words out. “You—do you need to sleep with—hah—me tonight? Huh?”

↬ “Shut it!” Ace says before chucking a pillow at you. He’s red in the face, but it doesn’t hinder him from making up a retort. “How about you, huh? Do you need someone to comfort you after screaming like a little kid?”

↬ Right as he yells at you, the door creaks and both of you shriek in surprise. The two of you cling to each other in a tight grip, staring at the unmoving door before glancing towards each other.

↬ Neither of you slept alone that night.

Cater Diamond

↬ Cater doesn't believe in ghosts beyond the normal ones he sees, but he's always up to date with all the new horror movies he can't help but be interested in. He's gotta use all those streaming subscriptions for what they're worth, right? And so, your movie night dates include horror and thriller among other things, even when you watch at midnight.

↬ Now, you, on the other hand, are deathly afraid of ghosts. Never mind the fact that you live with them, but back where you came from, they weren't as tangible as the ones in Twisted Wonderland. You are a scaredy-cat through and through—but that makes watching horror movies with you even way more fun! At least, that's what your boyfriend thinks. You hate him for it, but it's more than worth it when he lets you hide in his arms for 90% of the time.

↬ He loves snapping pictures of you and your cute pout before reassuring you that you won't ever encounter a ghost as scary as the one on screen. The ghosts in Ramshackle may be kind of mean, but at least they won't maim you in the middle of the night. Afterwards, he posts the photos on Magicam with a teasing little remark. Don't worry, he makes sure you're cute in them! (Though he does find you cute in every photo.)

↬ Putting you to sleep isn't so hard, especially when Cater agrees to cuddle with you right after. He’ll tell you about the funny or interesting stuff he saw during that day, or even share some juicy gossip that would definitely distract you. On some days, you don’t even need any talking—just being spooned by him would cause you to fall asleep instantly.

↬ Tonight, though, he’s taking just a little while longer before coming to bed with you. While you’re already in your pajamas, your boyfriend is busy with something about the latest ‘skincare routine’ or something. He did promise he won’t be long, but you can’t help but wonder where he is. Just as you were going to tuck yourself in bed without him, the floorboards creak beneath you and a chill goes down your spine.

↬ “Cater?” you call out for him, your words wobbly as you try your best to not sound scared. There isn’t any response from outside, and the door slightly opens to reveal… nothing. Only pitch black darkness greets you back, and now you’re really, really scared. “Cater, this isn’t funny…”

↬ Silence. Your heart races as you sit up, keeping the blanket wrapped around you like some sort of protection. Seriously, where is Cater? The mirror on the wall is looking a bit too creepy now, and you swear you hear footsteps coming from somewhere you can’t pinpoint. Maybe if you focus on anywhere but the empty void in your doorway, you could just stop worrying…

↬ “Boo.”

↬ A voice whispers in your ear. Your mind doesn’t even decide between fight-or-flight anymore; you grab a pillow and repeatedly whack whoever gave you a heart attack. You only start to hear the small ‘ow!’s and ‘hey!’s when you calm down, yet you still give them one last smack to the face before giving up. As expected, it’s Cater—looking smug yet pained.

↬ “I didn’t know you were that strong!” he teases, but he’s patting his cheeks as though your pillows had done actual damage to him. “So? How did I do? Did Cay-kun’s acting skills amaze you?”

↬ “Go sleep on the couch,” you mutter and roll your eyes when he laughs. The fear that had your heart in a grip before ebbs away as he sidles up to you, wrapping an arm around your waist before he presses a kiss to your forehead. You push him away, albeit weakly, but he doesn’t budge.

↬ “Aww, did I scare you?” he says. You huff and whine, turning away from his affections and wriggling out of his grasp. The farthest side of the bed welcomes you as you settle away from him, bringing the blanket up to your cheek to hide from him. Of course, he follows suit, but you remain steadfast in your endeavor to ignore him.

↬ He makes it up to you with at least fifty kisses, free lunches, and a bunch of pampering afterward. Or maybe even more than that (because earning your forgiveness is never easy.)

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst fluff #ace trappola x reader #cater diamond x reader #ace trappola fluff #cater diamond fluff #ace trappola #cater diamond

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snowdrrops · 2 years

Text

MASTERPIECE

ABOUT ! pairings: haino / cytham includes: mentions of wounds, blood notes: if im going to be 100% honest, i hate this oneshot so much but i want to post it before version 3.1 drops so 😭 i'll probably write a second version after im done with my finals :)

Three consecutive knocks on the door startled Alhaitham awake, almost falling off the couch he was sleeping on.

Kaveh had brought home a friend and they were occupying the guestroom. As a result, the couch was the only option left for him.

Still half conscious, he rubbed his eyes and headed towards the door.

Who would come knocking on his apartment door at midnight? Because of the state he was in, these thoughts failed to cross Alhaitham's mind.

What the scribe did not expect was for the spear of the General Mahamatra to be pointed directly at him, a stern look on plastered on his face.

There was an open wound on his head, blood oozing out of it and multiple fresh cuts littered his entire being. His face was as pale as a sheet of paper.

Alhaitham blinked several times, registering the sight before him. He felt his heart drop into his stomach; General Mahamatra was an undeniably skilled fighter and yet, he was so gravely injured.

“Eremites.. Sumeru city..” Cyno huffed, seemingly out of breath, as if he had just ran a mile, “Can't do this without you.”

Alhaitham's eyes widened, heartrate picking up. Did Cyno really deem him worthy of fighting by his side?

He gently held onto the end of the spear that was pointed at him and lowered it, “You're injured, General.”

Cyno's expression stiffened, “If such a trivial matter bothered me, I would not be here.”

Alhaitham shot him a look of resignation. Cyno would not be Cyno without his stubbornness.

“Let me bring you to-” Alhaitham paused when Cyno gripped onto the door for support, letting go of his spear. A thud sound pierced through the night air.

“Just a little dizzy,” the shorter male murmured, his gaze on the ground, as if he was ashamed. One thing both of them had in common was the amount of pride they carried, always inflated and heavy.

“With all dued respect, General, are you aware of the effects of an open, untreated wound?” Alhaitham questioned, forcing himself to not reach out to touch Cyno's face.

The few seconds that followed seemed to go by in slow motion, Cyno's eyes slowly screwing shut and falling forward into Alhaitham's arms.

Alhaitham shook him slightly, “Cyno?”

The blood stained Alhaitham's hands and he pondered for a moment if Cyno was dead.

Alhaitham quickly dismissed the thought, ignoring the dread he felt in his stomach. Cyno was strong, death would not reach him that easily.

He led Cyno to the couch, carrying him bridal style. After setting him down comfortably, Alhaitham pressed gently onto the wound with a clean cloth.

Even while sleeping, Cyno was frowning; the stress of being General Mahamatra could never be relieved: one of the reasons why Alhaitham turned down the offer. However, it was a mere contributing factor.

The Grand Scribe knew of someone who had worked much, much harder for the position and gave it up for his sake.

Constellations of stars were twinkling in the sky beneath the clouds, Alhaitham marveled at the sight despite having the opportunity to chance upon it every time the sun sets.

He stroked Cyno's cheek while muttering softly, ”Why aren't you taking better care of yourself?”

The sound of a door clicking open surprised Alhaitham, he looked up to find a shocked Kaveh staring at him.

“Is that General Mahamatra? What- why is he bleeding?!” he gasped. “Did you two fight?”

“Keep your voice down. He came here seeking my help but unfortunately, passed out,” Alhaitham replied.

The two remained silent before Kaveh spoke up.

“Oh, Alhaitham. You're in too deep,” a smirk made its way onto his way, a suggestive look in his eyes.

Alhaitham furrowed his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

Kaveh yawned and waved him off. “Nothing, nothing. Going back to sleep now.”

Just like an artist treating a treasured painting with the utmost importance, Alhaitham treated each and every one of Cyno's wounds meticulously.

Alhaitham decided that Cyno might just be his masterpiece.

–

Beams of sunlight poured in through the apartment windows. Pain was surging through Cyno's head, his entire being ached, as if he had been in a vigorous fight. The apartment around him was unfamiliar, but had a homely feel to it.

He tried to sit up but found that there was an obstruction. Alhaitham laid by his side, head leaning on his crossed arms. He was still asleep, a few strands of his hair partially covering his eyes.

With the help of the sunlight, the man looked almost.. angelic. Cyno almost laughed out loud as he thought to himself, appearances can certainly lead one astray.

Cyno felt his breath being taken away without warning, as if Alhaitham had stolen it from him. How did he not realise this before?

It was then that Cyno noticed all the bandages that littered his body, feeling a blush warm his cheeks as there was a heart drawn on one of them near his ankle.

Alhaitham had taken care of him.

Cyno felt immense gratitude for him, they were not on the best terms but he'd still help him nonetheless. Who knows what could have happened if Alhaitham had shut the door on him last night?

Without thinking, he leaned forward to press a kiss on the sleeping male's forehead, “Thank you, Alhaitham.”

#haino #cytham #genshin impact #cyno #kaveh #alhaitham #fluff #sumeru

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xunkun · 5 months

Text

Rei/Kaoru Headcanons

insanity and mental unwellness illustrated by local tumblr user vex

i hate them. i hope they die.

the longer I write this, the more self indulgent htis gets.

i dont recommend reading all of it...............................................

rei fell first, kaoru fell harder

but theyre both insufferable about each other

clingy!!! they're very cligny!! I think rei moreso

which is why I think one of their love languages is physical touch

when at work they're a little more decent and professional

hand holding/squeezing, hugs

if no one else is in the vicinity, little pecks on the cheek

the occasional slap of the ass, of course

rei's winning by 4 slaps

this is somehow about to get even more self indulgent

reikao bisexuality hear me out below**

kaoru keeping rei in line when in public yeah

surprisignly rei would be the one best at handling their relationship on more professional matters

i think they wouldnt really publicly state their relationship

keeping it ambiguous yk partially for privacy

so when they get asked about their relationship in public like during interviews, rei would always handle answering those questions best

!! Kaoru —

bisexual king obviously**

as much as i love whimpering-pathetic-blushing-mess kaoru,

i think kaoru is better at holding himself together (in public) if rei's teasing him, the only tell would be his face flushing.

i think he wouldve at least learned/picked something up from his casanova days and be able to play it cool??????

please get your act together kaoru

reminder this guy could pull like. a bunch of girls??? like way too many.. like how did they not tell each other about him....

but like there's a reason as to why he was able to right?? right??

sassy kaoru pleasee

jealous/possessive kaoru would be so cute like im just picturing like a furry cat (or fox. cuz...) with it's tail all poofy and sticking up

or like he gets pouty

ohh rei would definitely find that adorable

vex shutting the fuck up challenege (impossible)

maybe he would get moody and even more sassier with rei... and try getting his attention more.. yeah..

what if he got insecure though. and vice versa rei gets insecure and starts doubting himself.

the other would definitely reassure him and give little kisses and snuggles hell yeah

problem solved

love wins

!! Rei —

i think rei would really like. nibbling/biting

gotta put those incisors to good use right

bisexual rei hc**

2nd year rei just wanted to find anything he could get a kick out of

i like to think he started out more straight leaning but he decided to give boys a try

whats more exciting than that right

its like midnight on a weekday as i write this

more about ore rei bc im very normal about him

i geniunely think that man has game despite *vaguely gestures* his chronic baby girl syndrome. same thing as kaoru

going to incorporate the motorcycle in the anime rei had

that was hot as fuck

who wouldnt be attracted

jealous/possessive rei

insert screencap of that one line where rei goes dont get too chummy with kaoru cuz hes mine

i think hed also be even more attention seeking and clingier

definitely would be pouty

i know one of rei’s love languages is giving affirmations

ok thats it i need to post this before this gets even more out of hand im sorry if you actually read up to here

#reikao posting #to further prove the point that i am not normal and cant have a single regular thought about these men #reikao #kaorei #i literally can not shut the fuck up about them its c(oncerning)razy #wxplosion sounds #bullshit ft vex #literally none of what i typed makes sense except to myself i think #exclusive inside peek into the mind of an iregfular individual!!!!

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heygerald · 2 years

Text

OLD HABITS DIE HARD - PART 5/8

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x oc

Storms totally fucking suck. But some people make them a little bit better.

Catch up here: part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / *bonus chapter* / part 4 / ... / *bonus chapter* / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / *say yes*

Wind and rain howled outside the window, smattering the tarmac with pools of puddles that the crew would have to avoid come morning if the storm really did last until then like the weather reports predicted. A few palm trees swayed in the distance, illuminated by a sparse shock of lightning every twenty minutes or so. Zoe imagined that the lawn would be extra green come sunrise. Though, knowing the California coast, it would burnt a golden brown before the weekend.

Before she would get to enjoy it.

The lamp in the corner flickered with a rumble of thunder.

She settled her head onto the couch cushion to eye it listlessly. It barely lit anything in the room up as is, and so part of her hoped that it would stay on just so she didn’t bang her shins when she finally convinced herself to get up off the couch, but part of her also selfishly wanted to be swathed in darkness so she could just sleep in the common room instead of her own bed.

Another shock of lightning, another rumble of thunder.

The lamp stayed on.

She sighed, settling deeper onto the couch cushions, eyes drifting over the memorabilia as if that would miraculously lull her to sleep. It was a pointless endeavor, she knew, but still better than admitting that she likely wouldn’t sleep at all tonight.

Zoe was too amped up to do much of anything other than stare at the ceiling in misery, wishing that the storm would pass before too long, hoping to forget about the upcoming mission but knowing that was an impossible ask given how close it was now.

Blerg.

She hated nights like this; when she was stuck with nothing but her thoughts.

As if hearing her silent cries, someone flicked on the overhead lights, startling her upright. She groaned and threw her arms over her face. Almost just as quickly the person realized that the room wasn’t empty, and shut them off.

“Oh, shit, sorry.”

Darkness swallowed them both whole, and with nothing but the dull corner lamp, Zoe had to squint to make out any features. She saw blonde hair, green eyes, and a square jawline; all she would recognize even in her sleep.

“Jake?” she asked.

“Oh,” he ambled a little closer, squinting down at her. “Zoe? What are you doing?”

“Enjoying the calming sounds of the roof being ripped off its hinges, obviously,” she quipped in a ragged, sleep deprived voice. The joke didn’t quite land like she had hoped it would, and Jake scrubbed a hand over his features as if trying to rid himself of his sleepiness. Clearing her throat, she frowned. “What are you doing? It’s, like, midnight.”

“It’s almost two am,” he gave her an odd look.

Not having expected that much time to have passed, Zoe glanced at the clock on the wall. Big, blurry red letters blinked down at her with something that felt awfully judgmental for an inanimate object. She sighed realizing he was right, before depressing back onto the stuffy couch cushion.

“Oh. I didn’t even realize that… what are you doing?”

Jake grunted. Not quite awake but not quite asleep either, and bumbled through the darkness towards the fridge. With an ineptness that she wasn’t used to seeing in him, he managed to hit his shin on the counter.

He cursed, hopping a little on his other foot, before opening the fridge.

“I was hungry,” he told her while blearily riffling through its contents. He was quick to pull out a water bottle and only after gulping down half of it, did his voice sound a little less sleep-ragged; smoother, like she was used to. “The storm woke me up. You want something?”

Her stomach twisted in knots. “No,” she told him wisely.

“There’s not anything in here, anyways,” he sighed, sounding eerily annoyed for having just woken up a few minutes earlier. Eventually, he settled on a bowl of grapes. Shutting the fridge, she could barely make out his bright eyes peering over across the room. They squinted a little, discerning, and she was suddenly happy for the darkness. “Have you slept at all yet, tonight?”

Zoe blushed, glancing out at the storm.

“Not really.”

“Oh... do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s just one of those nights, I guess.”

“Aw, c’mon, Buzz,” he said, sounding more and more like his flagrant, smug self with every minute that he was with her even though his voice still had that croaky twang to it from just waking up. He nudged her legs aside with the back of his hand before promptly plopping down onto the opposite end of the couch. Zoe didn’t even bother protest; just let him stretch out, socked feet bumping her bare knees, shoulders wiggling as he adjusted into a more comfortable position. “I know you better than you think. It’s two am and you sound exhausted. And, if I remember correctly, you like your sleep.”

“Who doesn’t like sleep?”

“You like your sleep like a mother bear likes its cubs. Aggressive enough that everyone knows not to get between you and your bed.”

“You sure do know how to flatter a girl, Seresin.”

There was a gleam of light that she figured was him rolling his eyes, before something bounced off of her forehead. Zoe plucked a grape out of her bra.

“Did you just chuck a grape at me?”

“No,” he said. Then did it again.

“Will you—stop!”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he simpered, popping a handful of grapes into his mouth to punctuate the point. Zoe might have punched him if she had more energy, but being angry this early in the morning took more effort than was worth the outcome. So, instead, she rolled her eyes at him before eating the grapes she had in hand. Jake watched her for another moment before softly nudging her with his foot. “You can talk about it, if you want. That always helped back during school.”

It did.

And, in some ways, it didn’t.

Especially when she didn’t know who he was right now; didn’t know what sort of shoulder he was offering to be, if it was just a ploy to get into her pants or something more. They definitely weren’t enemies, and ever since he had apologized to her on the beach they had fallen back into old patterns from when they were friends. He would save her a seat at lunch, she would offer him some water after a hot run on the tarmac. There was laughing and jokes like there used to be, but there was also something that there didn’t used to be.

Side eyeing and gentle touches and, dare she say, almost intimate conversations where he actually seemed interested in what she had to say. But she definitely wouldn’t say that they were more than friends because he was still him and she was still her and Zoe wasn’t about to throw herself back into that situation just yet.

Not that there was a situation to begin with because Jake was quieter now, stared at her more, frowned a little bit tighter when she joked around with Rooster but he didn’t flirt or make sexual innuendoes or ask her to bed. So there wasn’t exactly anything to think about except the fact itself that she was thinking about him constantly.

Which left her feeling like her stomach was in her throat. Like she was dive bombing in her jet. Like she wanted to punch him just as much as she wanted to kiss him.

“You’re gonna get picked, you know,” he said quietly, mistaking her moment of overwhelming thoughts as hesitation. Zoe furrowed her brows at him all the same. He looked at his hands, fiddling with a stem of grapes, before continuing. “For the mission. You and Stitch are shoe-ins. I’d bet that you’re Mav’s first choice for a wingman on this thing.”

She shook her head, eyes darting to the window where she watched raindrops streak down the pane. “Phoenix and Bob did way better in the timed exercise this week.”

“He takes two teams.”

“There’s still Fanboy and Payback. They had a better record than us today.”

“Maybe,” Jake shrugged. He was wearing nothing but a loose fitting tank top and a pair of gray sweatpants, and if she didn’t know him better, she might have thought that he was the epitome of comfort right now. But his smile was small and his eyebrows were pinched in the middle. “But Payback can’t handle the G’s that it takes to climb the hill. He’s passed out once already. And Fanboy has been struggling with getting a lock on the target.”

“Hm,” she pulled her sweatshirt tighter around herself. “Maybe.”

“You will,” he reaffirmed.

It was nice to hear that he had so much confidence in her; maybe more confidence than she had in herself, and not wanting the moment to be unbalanced, she nudged him with her pink toes. “You’re gonna get picked too.”

For once in his life, Zoe would have described his smile as bashful.

“Maybe,” he said.

She smiled softly at him, liking the way that he was quiet and shy in the dark when there was no one else to see, but also not liking the way it felt so familiar to all those years ago. It had been easy to fall in love with Jake. So easy that she cursed herself for it in the time that followed, wondering why she hadn’t seen the red flag, why she hadn’t caught on, why she had been so stupid.

But here, now, she realized that she wasn’t stupid.

Jake Seresin was just someone that was easy to love, even when you knew that you shouldn’t.

Zoe turned away before she could think about it anymore, roving her gaze to the ceiling where she watched lightning streak across the shadows every couple minutes. Jake didn’t say anything else, either. In fact, he fell so silent and still that she thought he might have actually fallen back asleep. But, when she glanced at him, he was just munching on his grapes with a thoughtful look on his face.

She pulled a lip between her teeth, chewed on it, then started, “hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—”

A clap of thunder shook the entire building to the point that Zoe wondered if the foundation hadn’t splintered in two, and she jolted upright on the couch with a mangled squeal. Luckily, it wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the storm still raging outside, but the opposite end of the couch shook from Jake’s incredulous laughter.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “What even was that noise?”

“Shut up,” she kicked him.

“No, seriously, is your throat alright? Because I know you’re scared of storms, but I think you might have just permanently damaged a vocal chord or something, Preston.”

“Oh, shove it,” she chucked a pillow at him. It hit his face with an indelicate thud, but did nothing to wipe the smile off of his features. Huffing, Zoe wrapped her arms around herself and tried to lie back down. Though, her gaze flickered to the window before she could stop herself when another flash of lightning peeled across the stormy sky. “I’m not scared of storms. I just… don’t, you know, enjoy them. No one does.”

“I don’t mind them.”

“No one with a brain then,” she harrumphed.

“I thought you liked the rain.”

“I do,” she said. Then, momentarily paused to glance at Jake. “How do you know that?”

“Seriously? Anytime it was raining back during training you always get this cute little smile on your face. You would drag me to sit with you outside on the porch so you could listen to it. I even went running with you one day during a fucking monsoon.”

“It wasn’t a monsoon,” she rolled her eyes.

“I had a cold for, like, a week.”

Zoe frowned, considering the memory. “I forgot about that.”

Really, what she meant was, she was surprised that he had remembered that in the first place. Or the fact that she liked listening to the rain. Their relationship hadn’t ended well, and Zoe had done everything she could in her power to forget about the days they spent talking to one another about nothing, wrapped up in bed, sharing their hopes and dreams with each other. Memories like that were too painful to consider when she lingered on how Jake had broken things off between them as if it were nothing.

But, if it were nothing, would he still cling to those memories?

Deciding she didn’t want to linger on that particular thought, Zoe nudged him with her toes, amending, “oh, yeah, I do remember. You complained about it for the next month. Something about how you thought you were gonna die.”

Indignation swept the smile right off his face. “I had a fever, Preston. People die of the flu every year, you know.”

“Not in April.”

“My bones were cracking every time I moved,” he popped another grape into his mouth, chewing through it while still arguing, “I was pretty sure there was fluid in my lung. You could have killed me. Maybe that was your plan all along.”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have by now,” she huffed.

“There’s still tomorrow.”

She almost laughed. At him, at his humor, at how easy it was to fall into an intimate atmosphere when around Jake. But another clap of thunder boomed in the sky, effectively ruining the moment before he might have said something stupid enough to ruin it himself. With wide eyes, she glanced through the window nervously.

“The storm’s passing, Zoe. It’s gonna be fine.”

“It doesn’t sound like it’s passing.”

“The thunder is getting further apart,” he pointed out, all rough voice and tired eyes as he watched her. Still, that did little to quell the queasiness in her chest. She felt his weighted stare for another, long moment. Then, Jake set his empty bowl aside before waving a hand to her with a sigh. “Alright, come on.”

She glanced away from the window, furrowing her brows at him. “What?”

“You’re practically shaking the entire damn couch.”

“Okay, well, I was here first,” she said, nose in the air, if only to help her ignore the fact that she was shaking as much as he said she was. “But, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna cuddle you. Go bug Payback if you want someone to spoon.”

“I don’t wanna spoon anyone,” he said. Then added with a look, “and if I did, it definitely wouldn’t be him. Coyote is more my kinda guy. Or Bob, maybe.”

“Seriously?”

Jake shrugged harmlessly. “What can I say? The kid’s cute. Something about the glasses I think. Maybe the accent too.”

Zoe thought about how weird that sounded coming from someone like Jake. Someone that screamed masculinity and bro-code when he was strutting down the beach with sun-kissed shoulders because he refused to use sunscreen. Then again, he was an easy going guy who liked to joke around more than anything else. And he actually cared about his friends; despite what he said that might prove the opposite.

The oddness of his comment distorted with another crack of thunder.

“Seriously, Preston,” he waved at her. Almost impatiently. Almost because his tone was soft and encouraging, rather than annoyed or bored. His eyes gleamed in the darkness with something she couldn’t quite place, but that she selfishly hoped to remember come morning. “It’s not a big deal. I cuddle my friends all the time. But it is almost three am and we both need to sleep at some point.”

“You don’t have to wait around for me,” she argued, voice weak at best. “Plus, it’ll be... weird.”

“It won’t be weird,” he stated with a sigh. There was something vulnerable in his voice, though. Tomorrow, she would wonder if he did it reflexively or if he was trying to cover up something else. “Come on.”

Zoe bit her lip and looked at the storm outside, considering how much she did want to crawl into his arms despite everything. He had always made her feel safe, his arms tight around her, his breath hot on her throat as a reminder that he was real. And with her nerves fried from weeks of training and stress, she considered the possibility that doing so might actually get her to relax.

Sighing, she relented. “Okay. Just until the storm passes, though.”

"Just until the storm passes,” he said quietly.

He smiled a little when she looked at him, but it was tight at the corners. It matched the stress ringing his eyes, the slight furrowing of his brows. An odd thought; she rarely saw Jake stressed about anything, let alone something as trivial as asking a girl to cuddle.

“Okay,” she said again, this time more to herself as she tried not to linger on the look or the sound of his voice, the couch creaking beneath her as she moved.

It was a little awkward at first; bumbling.

Zoe tried to remain as small as possible as she fell into the space between him and the back couch cushion; him trying not to move her too much as he tried to put an arm beneath her shoulders; both of them struggling to remember the last time they had done something as intimate as this.

“I told you,” she muttered. “Weird.”

“So weird,” he replied. “It’s like we’ve never seen each other naked before.”

They blinked at each other. Him almost in disbelief that he had just said that and her stunned that she didn’t really mind the joke all that much. And when Zoe shook her head with a laugh, Jake did too. Something washed over them in the next moment. Something, not quite familiar, but peaceful. Not quite understood, but wanted.

Together, their bodies seemed to mold to one another like muscle memory.

Jake pulled her a little further onto his chest. She settled a knee between his legs while draping her free arm over his torso. His fingers skimmed where her sweatshirt had ridden up, shocks of warmth tingling along her spine from the simple touch. When she hitched her hip into a more comfortable position Jake settled his other hand onto the smooth indent of her leg. And when they were finally comfortable, they let out a deep, long breath in unison.

Suddenly, the storm didn’t feel so near.

“See?” he mumbled into her hair. His tone was breathy, and lacking the normal smugness that she had grown to hate over the years. “Better, right?”

There was a crack of thunder.

Zoe held her breath until she realized that it was, in fact, getting further away, and as Jake pulled her a little tighter against his chest, she nodded.

“Yeah,” her own tone was breathy. “Better.”

They fell into a comfortable silence like that. The storm growing further and further away, their eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room, the rain playing a staccato pitter-patter on the window pane. Somewhere behind them the clock ticked away. However, for the first time that night, Zoe didn’t seem to mind.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” his chest rumbled underneath her ear. “You have that look on your face.”

“Look?” she frowned up at him.

Jake said nothing though, gave nothing away about which particular look he was talking about or how he could recognize it in such a poorly lit room. Maybe that was a question she didn’t want answered anyway.

He arched a brow and she relented.

It never did take much prompting from him. Sometimes, when it came to Jake Seresin, she wondered if there was anything that she wouldn’t give up should he ask.

“I’m thinking about how I hope it’s still raining in the morning so I can go for a run. Even if the tarmac is wet, I still like to run in the rain,” she told him, only the barest sliver of joking in her voice. She would like to go for a run in the rain. But, seeing as how they still needed to perfect their flight maneuvers, rain was not something that she wanted to deal with slowing her down. That thought alone had the humor leaching from her voice. “And… I’m thinking about the mission.”

“Are you scared?”

She frowned. Was she?

“No,” she told him after a moment had passed, shaking her head against his shoulder. His breath hitched at the movement, and she forced herself to stop, assuming that her hair was tickling him. Instead, she cleared her throat while toying with the strings on her sweatshirt. “Not for myself, anyways. I guess I’m more worried about everyone else.”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she admitted. Maybe everyone would be totally fine and they could all go out for drinks afterwards. Or maybe something would go wrong that would result in the loss of a teammate. Or maybe everything would go wrong resulting in no one making it home. “Do you think that…”

He shifted, peering down at her through the darkness. “What?”

“What do you think is gonna happen when the mission is over? I mean, everyone is gonna get new stations; we’ll all get scattered. Probably around the world. Which sucks.”

Jake’s eyes tightened for a moment before his gaze darted to the window. “Rooster will visit you anywhere, you know. He’s made that fairly clear. He never stops talking about you when you’re in a training exercise without him.”

“I know. But it’s not just him. It’s Phoenix and Bob and Yale and…”

You.

The word caught in the back of her throat. Unsaid, unspoken, but somehow still floating in the air between them before she was able to stop it. She felt Jake go stiff beneath her, and suddenly Zoe wanted to disappear into the couch cushions so that she wouldn’t have to face what was coming next.

The flirty grin or sexual innuendo. The snarky comment. The rude rejection.

Eyes shut, she didn’t notice the way that Jake’s gaze darted over every inch of her features in shock, or the way that he licked his lips nervously, or the way that his hand tightened ever so slightly on her hip.

When he finally did speak, he said none of those things.

“You and Phoenix have been friends for years. She’s pretty committed to keeping you around, so she’s not just gonna forget about you. And neither will Bob. He’s a Southern gentleman, afterall. He’s probably been raised to write thank-you letters to every person he meets. Yale is an idiot, but he’s always on his phone. And as for…” Jake paused, licking his lips once more, before settling on, “the rest of us, we’re gonna miss hanging out with you. Miss the way that you get so fucking competitive at darts or sing completely off-key during workouts or obsessively knock your hand three times on the table before leaving for good luck.”

Zoe frowned. Did she do that? She didn’t even know.

“I’ll, ahem, we’ll miss you more than you could probably even realize. It’s not gonna be the same without you around. So don’t worry, you know. We’ll keep in touch.”

“Yeah?” she blinked up at him.

“Yeah,” he smiled. Toothy, but just a little bit cautious. “Definitely. Plus, everyone comes back to see Penny a couple times a year and she’s not even a pilot. You’re definitely better than her.”

“Then Penny?” Zoe shook her head with an uncharacteristic giggle. She blamed it on the sleepless nights and the passing storm. “Not so sure about that. She gives you beer.”

“A close second then.”

She snorted. Jake winked.

They didn’t argue it any further. Perhaps the only time in their history that she had let him call her second best without Zoe really minding all that much.

And as the storm moved off into the distance, the pair found themselves enjoying each other’s company on the stuffy, common room couch more than they ever thought possible. Zoe liked that he was warm; the hothead took the nickname a little too literally, she thought, and seemed to radiate heat no matter what he was wearing. She also liked to listen to the steady beat of his heart. It played a different rhythm than the rain outside. One that was somehow more soothing to her in the darkness. And she liked the way that his hand seemed to subconsciously smooth circles on her leg.

Maybe, she thought in a lucid state, she just liked Jake.

Before she could dwell on that thought, he nudged her in the side.

“Hm?”

“The storms past,” he told her.

She didn’t see why that mattered all that much. “And?”

“You can’t fall asleep here,” he whispered. She realized that he was right and pried her eyes open—not having realized she closed them in the first place—to find him looking at her with soft eyes and an even softer smile. “Stitch will dump a bucket of water on you if he finds you in the morning.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t he?”

Ugh. He definitely would.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “I’m coming.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he laughed.

Zoe waved him off as Jake sat up. He was careful not to give her an accidental elbow to the face, and while she pawed at her heavy eyes, he put his bowl into the sink. He returned a moment later to pry her hands away from her eyes. She swore his skin was burning rings around her wrists.

“Don’t make me carry you to your room,” he said, fixing her with a mischievous look.

She batted his hand away, actually afraid that he might.

When Zoe stood, Jake was right there; firm chest pressed into hers, head tilted down as hers was tilted up, eyes gentle as they roved over her exhausted features. She had been thankful for the darkness a lot tonight; it hid her blushes and her screams and her worried looks. But right now, as they stood inches apart, Zoe wished it was a little bit brighter inside so that she might catch a glimpse of what he was thinking.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

She licked her lips, poked her cheek with her tongue, and finally decided the best thing to say was the easiest. “Thanks for… being a friend. This helped a lot.”

Something indiscernible muddled his face.

“Yeah, of course. Anything for a, uh, you know… friend,” he said, as if it had been the obvious thing to do, but his voice cracked a little at the end, and his eyes were a little too wide for him to blame it on sleep. Noticing, he cleared his throat. “Now seriously, come on, let’s get you to bed before it starts storming again.”

He made for the door.

Zoe frowned at the sudden absence of his warmth, not having even noticed how much she had been leaning towards him until he was gone. Her body almost ached at the loss; a reminder that, no matter how many times she promised herself that she was over him, there were some memories that would forever be ingrained into her muscles.

Then, she thought about what he said.

Gaze nervously flickering outside, her frown deepened, as she quickly followed.

“But… it’s not going to, though, right?”

* taglist (thanks for asking!) @luckyladycreator2 @rosiahills22 @the-winter-marvel33 @chaoticassidy @ashleyzhu0514 @fulla02 @puriini

#jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x oc #jake hangman seresin x oc #hangman imagine #hangman x oc #top gun maverick #top gun maverick imagine #fluff #more to come #i tried?

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sophieinwonderland · 8 months

Note

We have so many thoughts on the "imitative DID" bs

We agree with everything you said. We have DID, we're pretty sure we're diagnosed.

Seeing it is filled with ableism about cluster B disorders is fucking awful. And this whole idea that having headmates alleviates the blame magically just demonstrates how unaware people are. System accountability is a massive thing!

And like different systems may have different levels of amnesia or amnesia for different things. Yeah sometimes we don't remember doing X bad thing! Genuineally. Based on who's fronting. Because usually those "bad things" are done in joint with a reaction to a trigger and us blowing up + going overboard. Who knew that alters with severe reactions because of not being well adjusted and understanding they're no longer in a trauma environment might have more barriers than others.

People also love for some reason to use documented symptoms of having trauma or even documented symptoms of DID as somehow being symptoms of... not having it.

And gods the way they treated that poor woman...

---------------- Now onto the "hysterical group" as they called it which I know they'd lump us under

We have a shit ton of amnesia. We are usually ambivalent to it. Often we both find it amusing and will sob and cry and get angry and feel nothing and laugh. Because with our multiple issues comes no emotional regulation. Shocker we have autism as well which makes us in our case collectively not be capable of comprehending emotions. We feel them but we literally with our form of the disability and how it affects us- are incapable of understanding emotions.

We also have excessive and extreme amnesia- we're one of the very extreme cases. And because we're an extreme case- these people would've shut us down. Somehow being so amnesic you have score "too high" is a red flag for these people?

And yeah we're happy with each other. Which our therapist AGREES with being a good thing. Some alters hate each other too but like eh it happens sometimes. (We're a massive system). And yeah we do actually state who's fronting if asked. Our therapist asks every session. And though we do have a mostly covert form of switching she can pick them out because she's a therapist who has seen this many times before. We when somewhat masking as we tend to irl even in her office have similar voices and unless it's a jump from one alter archetype to another- similar posture. But she can pick up on us dropping off and re-adjustng and asking to go over what was said or the lies of "zoning out" and "oh sorry I got distracted" that we're used to having to do.

We also tend to have our autism cause us to use very big words. And this is in all contexts as well. So I can definitely back that one up.

And then of course the addition sexism, sexualization, mockery, claiming of lying about trauma (because people love to ignore reality- we literally sobbed when our therapist first told us she believed us because that is the first time anyone irl has said that to our face- it is the only time we have felt safe in almost 2 decades).

And not even touching on the false memories topic. Literally earlier today (or yesterday its around midnight as I write this) we told our therapist about how people have claimed this to be real and she got genuineally mad. Incredibly upset and was very helpful in making sure we weren't slipping back into denial and going to spiral because of it again. It's something that is not and never has been a real scientific theory and all "evidence" of it does not meet the criteria to be considered viable.

A lot of people with trauma struggle to accept they have it. And especially in this case where the example they used was a MCSA (mother csa)- it really plays into sexism again. Part of sexism is also the idea women can't be abusers. This is something that has plauged trauma spaces for a while and driven out a lot of survivors. People think it's weird when a survivor is just as scared of women as men. Or is only scared of women and not men. people assume men are seen as scary and women are safe and docile as default. And that just is genuine sexism.

(sorry this was so long lol)

☝️👏

Agreed on all points. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and experiences, and for this incredibly detailed and well-written addition! 💖

#syscourse #multiplicity #sysblr #psychiatry #psych critical #mental health #plural #pro endo #pro endogenic #endogenic #system #systems #system stuff #psychology #imitated did #plurality #actually plural #actually endogenic #actually a system

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ladycatryx · 9 months

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In Defense of Harry Potter

If you or someone you love is a trans person in crisis: The Trevor Project‘s 24/7/365 Lifeline [US]: 866-488-7386 Trans Lifeline [US]: 877-565-8860 TrevorChat, (online instant messaging option) International Support: TrevorSpace

I minored in Gender Studies for both my Bachelor's and Master's. I have a bookshelf full of queer theory. I have several trans friends.

And I went to a Harry Potter themed party the other day.

Like many of my fellow 90s kids, I grew up reading Harry Potter. It was an era-defining feature of my adolescence, eagerly anticipating book releases and midnight movie theatre screenings. But unlike many of my peers, it is not merely a feature of my past. I still regularly read and write Harry Potter fanfiction. I have beautiful art books and unofficial compendiums chock-full of lore and behind-the-scenes details. I am a HP trivia wizard---or witch, as the case may be. I have so much investment into the lore and the world of Harry Potter, and I often find myself in Hogwarts and the surrounding Highlands in my dreams---even moreso now that Hogwarts Legacy has given us a first-person and 3D experience of the layout and landscape of the Wizarding World. So I relished the chance to don my Slytherin robes and get all dressed up in character. The pictures turned out great. But I couldn't post them on any of my social media. I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that anyone who continues to support or engage with the Harry Potter franchise is a TERF and a fascist. Full stop. To quote one of my friends, "I don't interact with Harry Potter media anymore. And frankly I treat any interest in it as a sign of transphobia for my own safety. So I really don't care to know much about the [Hogwarts Legacy] game aside from the disgusting blood libel it chose to use in it's narrative. It's a hard line for me as a trans person."

It's a controversial topic, to be sure. Now I absolutely hate cancel culture's tendency to drag something someone said 10 years ago into the spotlight and blow it out of proportion, even sometimes taking it out of its original context to spin it as a bad actor with bad intentions, and then to deny people the ability to apologize or acknowledge personal growth (see: what happened to Lindsay Ellis. Thanks, I hate it). But let's be clear: that's not the case here. JKR has only dug herself deeper into the hole, being belligerently and purposefully ignorant and cruel despite a PR team probably begging her to shut up, and despite an entire world of people who have attempted to teach her better. She has acted, and continues to act, in bad faith, even writing trans and queer-coded villains and serial killers into her latest books. This is not a person who has attempted to apologize and make right her wrongs when they've been pointed out. This is someone who has been given every opportunity to not be an awful person and instead has doubled down on her hurtful and hateful views.

So, now that we know JKR's true colors, clearly the entire world of Harry Potter is suspect, as is anyone who continues to enjoy it....right? Sure, maybe not everyone who still rocks their House Pride merch is a TERF, but, like the sandwich-eaters of Chick-fil-A who just need their chicken fix, they certainly can't be counted as allies....right?

I've struggled with this.

And maybe this entire blog post will be read as nothing more than a selfish person defending their right to enjoy a thing guilt-free in order to conveniently overlook or dismiss the harm they're doing by persisting in centering their nostalgia over the real-life danger JKR's views presents to trans people. You can be the judge of that, I suppose.

My impulse since all of this has been to lean into "death of the author," an argument that says, essentially, it is not authorial intent that matters for meaning, but the text itself that is authoritative. In theory, the text can speak for itself, and the way readers engage with it and interpret it can stand in isolation from whatever meaning was meant by the author. (For an excellent video on this subject, click here, and here for a JKR-specific one). But I'd like to expand on that here, because 1) as the links above point out, engaging with the work of a living author still empowers them and gives them a platform and 2) is usually just an emotional response to silo oneself from the guilt of consuming the content of a problematic creator. In other words, it's a cop-out.

But I'm a sociologist. I'm currently an ABD Ph.D. student. I specialize in theory, gender, religion, and culture---the latter is just an elaborate system of signs and symbols that we are embedded in and have to make meaning out of. And meaning-making is a messy business. Interpretation is a vital and integral part of meaning-making. Messages aren't just handed down from the heavens and absorbed---social actors are actively engaged in the process of receiving them. Sometimes there are interferences, misunderstandings, and mixed signals that scramble the meaning. Intent does not equal impact, and so the messages we receive and understand do not always correspond to the meaning that was meant. (Again, not saying JKR is misunderstood or that we're misreading her intentions here---she's pretty unequivocally awful. But I am saying that in a world where meaning is what we make it, a trash person can still produce something of value, since beauty is in the eye of the beholder.)

Sometimes reading a meaning other than that which was meant into something can have humorous consequences. Sometimes the results are disastrous. Sometimes it means that we humans, as pattern-seeking creatures, see the face of Jesus on a slice of toast, or a baby-shaped cloud in the sky the same week we find out a loved one is pregnant. I think the fact that we can make meaning where there is none and make beauty out of nothing is spectacular, miraculous. In this age of disenchantment, many people are looking for ways to reconnect and reenchant their lives, to create sacred rituals out of their mundane routines. We are meaning-seeking creatures, and with many people feeling burned by, disillusioned with, or distrustful of traditional religion, we are turning to nontraditional sources of wisdom and inspiration. For literal millions of people, the Harry Potter books have been one such source. And I think there is value to them still, despite what has come to light about their author.

In college, I was heavily involved in interfaith activism. I no longer identify as Christian, but I was raised Christian. And I started to feel the parallels from my own experience.

If a person has been hurt by a Christian, feels Christianity is toxic, identifies passages in the Bible that have been used to oppress or were the product of a time that was openly endorsing of slavery, homophobia, misogyny, etc...their experience is valid. They have a right to say "Hey, I was raised with this thing and at one point it meant a lot to me (or maybe not, maybe it was always forced) but it hurt me and I no longer feel comfortable there and I choose not to engage with Christianity anymore." They have a right to be wary if they hear someone is Christian and they don't know anything else about that person.

But no religion is a monolith. The Bible is not a monolith. For every passage that may be hurtful or harmful or be interpreted in bad faith to support a particular agenda, there are dozens more about love, kindness, and compassion. Religion has been the driving force behind so many wars and evils...but it has inspired countless good as well. The Bible has been wielded as a weapon to cause suffering as well as been looked to as a resource of hope and peace.

I'm not saying that cancelling someone for resonating deeply with the Harry Potter series and not wanting to give it up because of what it means to them is like asking someone to not be a Christian or to give up their faith so as not to offend others. Of course, the comparison seems flippant. Religion is religion! We give it special legal protections because of its literally sacred status. It concerns matters of ultimate importance. The other is...fiction.

But what is sacred is a social construction. I'm going to bracket here any discussion about the existence or nonexistence of deities, an afterlife, and etc. What does religion actually do for people? What does it mean in the lives of the faithful? It is a source of comfort. Of hope. Of inspiration. Of answers. It can be a moral guide, with lessons and instruction and a guide for how to live that others can model their own lives on.

Casper ter Kuile, cofounder of the podcast Harry Potter and the Sacred Text, (check out their values statement if you want to know where they stand---spoiler alert, they're as progressive as it gets) would not find the comparison ridiculous. In fact, ter Kuile (who is, by the way, a gay man) founded the project with a fellow student while at Harvard Divinity School. In his book The Power of Ritual (2020) he talks about how the HP books have been a source of solace and inspiration and sacred reflection for him---and not just for him, but for thousands. Millions.

"Millions of readers already treated the Potter books as sacred in their own way. Therapists and counselors report young people using Hogwarts as their psychological safe space to go to in times of struggle and pain. And it isn't simply a refuge from the world. The Harry Potter Alliance, founded in 2005, has mobilized thousands around the country to act on marriage equality, fair-trade chocolate, and other progressive issues, using the narratives and rituals from the books to motivate and shape winning campaigns. Just as social justice movements have reinterpreted biblical narratives like the Exodus story and quoted the psalms, so too the Harry Potter Alliance references characters and plotlines from the wizarding world to motivate readers into action" (2020:44-45).

The HP books have helped people (and kids) cope with the loss of loved ones, understand privilege, learn that adults, authority figures, and even the government that makes the laws can lie and be corrupted and may not always have one's best interests at heart. That what is legal is not necessarily right or just. That evil doesn't just look like pale, snake-faced men who attempt to murder babies---sometimes it's enough for people in power to do nothing, to care more about maintaining their own relative privilege, power, and comfort. That often bullies lash out because they too have been hurt, and that hate can be easier to speak than love when it's all that you know...but that in the end, it is our choices that matter, not our abilities or the circumstances of our birth. The books have powerful messages, and they have nuance.

Take, for example, Petunia Dursley. As ter Kuile points out, universally disliked. But:

"As Vanessa and I reread that first chapter, we saw a young woman, unsupported in motherhood, suddenly given a second infant to care for after the death of her sister. Imposed on by a world she has always envied and feared, with no explanation, she feels vulnerable to a society that can only spell danger. No doubt, Petunia is abusive to Harry. She neglects him in the most foundational years of his life. But this sacred reading illustrated that narratives of good and evil nearly always are more complex when we risk our hearts to explore a sacred reading. It not only gave me a new lens for understanding a character, but it challenged me to realize I'd let the polarizing news narratives construct simplistic binaries of innocence and guilt" (2020:49).

The books aren't perfect. Even the messages JKR wrote into the books aren't all good, even if many are. Many people despise Dumbledore despite the twinkle in his eye and his many wise sayings for the way he used Harry like a pawn, like a tool---keeping him in the dark and just getting him to survive long enough to get him to die at the right time. By putting him in danger year after year, putting responsibility on his shoulders that no child should ever have to bear. For thinking that there would ever be an acceptable reason to leave him in the care of abusers, blood or no, magical love ward or no. And I love fanfiction because this messiness is explored and unpacked.

And yet, in canon, this jock who married his high school girlfriend and became a cop named his son after that guy and the incel who lusted after his mom man who tormented him and his schoolmates for years (I do love Snape as a literary character though, speaking of nuance...) instead of, oh, Remus, Rubeus, Arthur...y'know, any of the other men that were actually decent father figures to him in his life.

And yes, there are some heinous things in the book, like giving the Asian character the name Cho Chang and the Black man the name Shacklebolt. The antisemitism of the way goblins are portrayed: big-nosed, greedy, and money-hungry. And don't get me started on the fucking shofar. It has become trendy to shit on the books and other related IP, even to the point of ridiculousness. (Case in point: the uproar over the inclusion of a trans character in Hogwarts Legacy. And not from TERFs, but from the progressive community. At first I didn't understand---performative allyship? Surely her inclusion, and the ability to make trans characters in the character create, is better than the alternative, right? Apparently, it's her name that's the issue: Sirona Ryan. I had to actually look up why people were mad because again, I didn't get it. Evidently, people took issue with the "Sir" and the "Ryan," arguing that two such masculine-sounding elements on a trans woman's name was the equivalent of naming her "Penis McMan." Yes, really. Guess we better tell Serena Williams she's canceled too for perpetuating the "Black women athletes are too muscular and masculinized" stereotype). Anyway, it's been a dogpile lately to point out the plot holes and the poor world-building. And I admit, fanfiction authors often wield some amazing transformative alchemy, building on some of the half-assed parts of the lore and magic system and turning it into something far superior to what is canon. Nevertheless, it is reductive and revisionist history to portray the books as something other than the international bestsellers that they are. They are not the most amazing, brilliant things ever written, and yes, there are series out there that deserve the fame and attention and accolades that the Harry Potter series got. But nor are the HP books terrible derivative drivel that suddenly everyone wants to portray them as. In reality, they're a mixed bag.

What they undeniably are is important to people.

People read sacred texts because:

"the thousands of years in which generations have engaged these texts is something we need to pay attention to; and that we can step into a continuous stream of conversation between the text and human beings that has lasted centuries" (The Power of Ritual 2020:38).

There are nuggets of wisdom and timeless truths to be found, even in fiction. There is nostalgia for those of us who literally grew up with these characters, being of a similar age to Harry, Ron, and Hermione as we first read the books. The HP series is fairly unique in being both culturally relevant---a pop culture touchstone (I can't recall ever attending themed midnight release parties at a bookstore for any other series)---and possessing of longevity. The HP generation is passing the books along to their kids now. It connects generations in a way not many other franchises do. Star Wars and Lord of the Rings are the only other ones that come to my mind at the moment.

JKR is a TERF (which is not a slur, incidentally). Unapologetic. An awful person, certainly.

But I've seen people call her evil.

We can debate the meaning of the term, certainly. Evil itself is not black and white---her own books taught me that. If someone is evil, can anything they produce contain some good? Or is it irreparably tainted? Can someone be evil and still donate millions of pounds to charities for the homeless and victims of domestic violence? Could an evil person be capable of writing such emotionally deep and nuanced characters?

I think we are all capable of great evil and great good. Again, I'm not advocating for forgiveness or redemption here---she's done nothing to earn such goodwill. I don't support her.

But I think there are ethical ways to continue to engage in and enjoy the franchise. Don't buy officially licensed merch---but the fan-made stuff on Etsy labeled "Red House" or "Magical School Badger House" I find fair game. Buy your copy of Hogwarts Legacy used, or borrow from a friend. (Personally, I'm pessimistic enough to think that there's nothing I personally can or can't do that will financially impact her in any meaningful way...throwing away all my HP merch and not buying the $7 Slytherin slipper socks at BoxLunch isn't going to make a dent. It's up to the major companies and corporations that have partnered with her in the past to license Harry Potter-themed merch to roll back their association, and for production studios and actors to refuse to associate with the franchise. That's what she'll notice and care about. But I digress.)

On a personal level, I find deep psychological satisfaction from identifying as a Slytherin. (I'm also that bitch who is way too into her MBTI archetype and knows her rising sign and other obscure details of her natal chart, so sue me.) Just the other day, I got into an argument with my partner, who accused me of employing leading questions to get information about his mental state and plans for the day---he prefers directness, I find subtlety to be much more polite. We speak different languages. That's not the point. The point is, he felt manipulated, and even though he knows me well enough to know it wasn't out of any malicious intent, it felt slimy to him. From my perspective, my approach comes from a history of emotional abuse from my father, who has Borderline Personality Disorder and a host of other mental illnesses I inherited (yay, trauma!) In other words, it's a survival tactic. (Self-preservation: also a Slytherin trait.) I had to learn to prioritize myself from a very young age to avoid being taken advantage of. To some, that may sound selfish. For me, it was survival. And the word "manipulation" gets a bad rap, but it literally means "to handle or control (a tool, mechanism, etc.), typically in a skillful manner." That isn't necessarily sinister or done with bad intentions. It's strategic. It's smart. It's what emotionally aware humans have evolved to do as social animals. We don't talk about manipulating tools as shady behavior. It's an asset, this ability.

Maybe that's my ambition speaking. But I wouldn't be where I am today---working hard to earn my Ph.D., having already earned a Master's Degree from a highly prestigious institution, having graduated summa cum laude with research honors at my previous university---without ambition. But I do understand that people distrust sly, slippery, cunning people. But Coyote is a culture hero, I don't abide by the maligning of snakes and serpents, and I'm a Prometheus/Lucifer apologist. People may not find their methods entirely honorable, but you can't argue with the results being for the greatest good. Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends. It all fits, and it's a label that allows me to understand myself and my motivations and priorities better.

If you've been hurt and betrayed by JKR and can no longer find solace in a world that was once a source of comfort for you, I grieve that with you. I understand, and I'm sorry. No one should be forced to engage with something they find tainted and harmful, and everyone must draw that line for themselves. But I think there are ethical ways to continue to enjoy and engage with a franchise that has been a source of joy and inspiration for so many, including those within the LGB+TGNC community. The text even lends itself to queer, subversive, progressive, and action-oriented readings, which is the sweetest form of reclaiming and empowerment, and which the queer community has a long history of---appropriating the hurtful and harmful and transforming it into something playful and prideful. Queer folx are the original alchemists.

It's an egregore now, especially the fanon version of the Wizarding World. It's the collective product of millions of people loving and investing in these characters and their world. It has taken on a life of its own, independent of its creator. And like Lucifer, like humankind, it can defy the will and designs of its master and break away. It's expanded beyond her. She may have built the framework of the house, but we grew up there. We furnished it. And we can return to move things around and play in it from time to time. Some of us never left. I won't give that up because I've been made to feel I have to.

Oh, and that Harry Potter themed party? It was held at a business that is an unofficial hub for the local queer community. A portion of the proceeds went to a local LGBTQ charity, and there were several trans people in attendance. And we all had a fabulous time.

#harry potter #jk rowling #fuck jkr #harry potter and the sacred text #casper ter kuile #sacred texts #hogwarts legacy #controversial #death of the author #sociology #religion

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