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rainbowvamp · 1 year

Text

an unsent letter: 1861

Laws Change. Love Doesn't.

wc: ~1200

AO3

----

Hello Stranger.

It is no longer an offense punishable by death to have sex with another man. It’s still punishable by 10 years in prison, but at least you can’t be killed for it.

Well, I could never be killed for it, but that’s beside the point.

I don’t think often about how others would perceive my affection for you. I love a great many mortals in my life, but none of them would understand you, or the love I hold in my heart for you. I think if I tried to explain our meetings to anyone, even if I altered the truth about the frequency of our meetings, they would miss the importance of it. The monumental impact that you have had on my life cannot be overstated. I meet you and become better every time. I’m better for having known you, and I can’t explain to lawmakers the sort of harm that they are doing by criminalizing love between men.

The immorality of a society that so highly values morals is an irony not lost on me. A lack of compassion and a lack of understanding is not new to humans. I have been guilty of this same lack of compassion. I know it intimately and all the havoc it wreaks on the sense of right and wrong that we all carry. The world moves on, slowly but surely. Back and forward, again and again, not unlike myself, I’m sorry to say. I cannot lie and say I have only ever improved myself, only ever gone forward.

Maybe that’s the curse and the bitter medicine of human beings. Maybe we have to be cruel to understand the impact of that cruelty, to stop it from happening again. Only we forget, and repeat ourselves, again and again.

Would that we could stop forgetting the places we came from and the horrors we’ve committed. The atrocities that bring us closer to hell on earth when heaven should be wound into the very fabric of our memories and bound up like the most brilliant threads, shining brightly and too noticeable to ignore. Would that the light of our own horrors could be a light that shines on all the things we do each day, to stop us from hurting people, intentionally or not.

Still, a step has been taken, a good step. A better step than has been taken since the buggery act was put into place, at least. I worry that there will be more bad times before times are good again, but I have that eternal hope, shining within my heart, that eventually people do better. We become better, with time. Change is slow by it’s very nature, but with the time I have it is so much more visible.

And if I am happy to think that this change will come because I dream that I may get to take your arm in mine on a public street, the envy of every mortal man and woman in seeing distance for having such a beautiful creature at my side, that is a desire that none but I need know.

This desire, at least, hurts no one. Causes no damage. Friends might take each other’s hands. It is not so strange to show these sorts of affection to ones you hold dear, even of the same sex.

I only wish all my desires were so harmless. All my love so easily soothed away, but there is nothing to be soothed inside me. There is no grace from the torrent and toil, the raging sea of love and grief that war for my attention, casting me to and fro like a ship with no anchor point. Like a leaf in a hurricane. Like all the smallest blades of grass in torrential rain.

I’m suffocating under it. Wrenched around by it. By love that should be sweet but is made bitter by my own fears and doubts.

And maybe it’s not illegal to love you if I never act on it, but I feel so bereft for not being able to.

I only want to feel the touch of your hand against mine, but you won’t even tell me your name. If you won’t trust me with something so simple as that, why would you ever let me hold you?

I have seen the very ends of satisfaction and longing. Felt the deepest pits of hunger and highest peaks of delight.

Even the thought of having you in my arms like a lover, like a partner, like a friend, is a far higher peak.

The lack of you every day feels like a deeper pit.

I have never touched you, but I feel your absence against me like a weight, some days.

Which is ridiculous. I’m over 500 years old and I have loved hundreds of people in my life time. As friends, as family, as lovers, as my wife. And you, you who I have only every had the most scant glances from, the shortest hours of soft eyes and compassion, you fill my waking and sleeping hours with more desire for love and affection than any of those others who I’ve loved before.

Maybe I could pass it off as my own desire for constancy. Maybe I should. Maybe I’d be better served by simply trying to forget these feelings.

But you deserve my love, even if I don’t deserve yours.

Even if I am never good enough, never worthy enough, to know the touch of your hand, or the taste of your lips, or the sound of your voice whispering sweet nothings. Even if I am never enough, you already are. You have been enough for me for 200 years.

And it almost feels pathetic when I put it like that. Some sap could write stories about my long enduring love, held on to by pure hope and faith, watered only once every 100 years.

Seeing you is like the first rays of warm spring sunshine, warming me after each long century spent away from you. Thawing me like winter frost. Urging me to grow again.

Even if I have no affection from you, which I cannot believe I do not no matter how much I sometimes doubt it, you would deserve every ounce of my love. Unfathomable creature that you are. I will love you until the end of all life, until there is not life left for me to live at all. Until I finally go to heaven or hell or wherever they send immortals with nowhere else to go at the end of the universe.

And even from there. Even if I’m tortured infinitely. I will still love you.

Even if I’m given every other gift heaven has to offer, without you I would somehow be incomplete.

It’s good that England is taking a step away from hatred, towards acceptance, if not quite in its realm yet.

It’s good, and I might live long enough to see the fruits of it.

I might live long enough to be worthy of you.

After all, anything is possible with enough time.

Truly and devoutly yours,

Hob Gadling

#lore's dreamling letters

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the-most-lamentable · 1 year

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oh baby it's askin' time. 58, 66, 73, 90, and 21 for funs :)

Good evening, got booted out of my account for a moment but I am back and presently avoiding working on my writing projects ( will be working after this because my project list is ever expanding and I Still need do get done the ch3 illustration aaaaaa)

What's the last thing a fic made you Google when you were writing it?

Uhh the last thing was the bus system in the Tampa Bay area to Plant city for the immortal blade story. He starts off as a college student before having the worst night of his life brought to you by maybe a few too many Jaegerbombs.

In other research I tried an energy drink to see how it would feel as I have a scene in that Eugenia is an incredibly passive aggressive ghost wherein Keith absolutely crashes right before a show so Mickey gives him a monster thinking what's the worst that could happen? It goes poorly.

When have you felt the most confident in your writing?

Occasionally when I'm working on a project I'll have one of those moments where I realise Hey I just set up and paid off some very nice bits of theme and motif Ohoho it's all coming together, I've connected the dots. It's usually then.

Otherwise, my best writing? This line I wrote at 4 am.

"“Well- jokes on you! Both of my parents are dead!” Kevin sputtered.

Jeremy paused for a moment. Someone nearby shouted, “Her ghost is disappointed!” The crowd murmured in agreement."

How do you visualize scenes? Do you see it like a movie in your head, or do the words just flow?

So when I first start drafting a story I will be sitting there staring at a wall and there's a tiny film projector in my head playing out key beats, very visual but also vibe driven. The Great Imposter was very one to one in the scene beats and imagery I came up with initially like the imagery of the study sequence where he's stuck watching the action unable to act, or the whirring ambulance lights in sprinkling rain for Shock Blanket.

When I actually start writing it's a bit of both, my brain is multitasking to high hell. Those central images serve as a guide which is supported by insane amounts of character research and story structure. Most of the chapter illustrations are those initial clear images translated to drawing. I figure if the iconography is so effective to me, it should hopefully work on my audience too as a supplement to the vibes.

Do you notice your own voice in your writing?

Exceedingly so, yes. While I do make an effort to write within character logic and voice, it is still my writing. I have been told my usual voice is resemblant of a late 1800s British satirist, which seems fair (irony is the death of sincerity, my deepest struggle writing) however other inspirations include: Terry Pratchett, Lemony Snickett, Clue 1985, Tj Klune, David Sedaris, etc. All this to say always very dry humor, fast rhythm, and exceedingly long metaphors that are just a bit too specific.

Pick a writer to co-write a book and tell us what you'd write about.

Uhhhh I don't know but if you ever want to write a story together here's my pitches that I am coming up with on the spot (absolutely no pressure, i just dont know how else to answer this):

An AU of Homeward, Boumd where the Beans are all human, but still just as fucked up. Like Chris mentions offhand that his brother once threw him into a hole in their basement and left him for dead and everyone is just !!!??????

Celia Bean had an affair (outside of her one with Robert of course) which after an ancestry test brings James's number of suprise siblings up to 3. I just feel like him and Chris have similar vibes. Plus the chaos of introducing these two groups, particularly Cornley being perhaps a little too snooping over this (Jonathan and Dennis trying to casually hide behind a newspaper in a café only to be immediately clocked by Chris)

I've got an urban fantasy noir sorta story where magic is real and the whole thing kicks off with a spell backfiring and James's dad disappearing. Features things such as Keith and Mickey Co running a psychic shop (Keith runs the shop, Mickey is his glorified landlord, roommate, and self nominated HR department), Kevin getting up to shenanigans as a ghost, human glowsticks being abused for said glowing, werebear the ultimate bear, group sleepover (See: James and Mickey fall asleep and nobody has the heart to wake them). I believe I've mentioned this one before.

Anyways thanks for the ask, forgive me if it's A bit incomprehensible I am extremely sleep deprived from an absolute eager with my friend last night wherein we reorganized her bedroom and then discussed theology till 4 am. Best wishes, Jon, I don't know why I'm signing off like an email but it's there now

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odufee · 9 months

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Astronomy

Link to read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49026295

Word count: 2,437

Beware of the tags: #allhurtnocomfort, #angst, #sadending, #mickeyneedsahug, #yuno'sjustemotionallyconstipatedguys #don'tblamehimtoomuch #unrequitedbutrequitedlove

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“How could you, Yuno?”, he hears Mickey say. And, honestly, he doesn’t really know how to respond to that question. Yuno looks at Mickey through his helmet, while Mickey stares at him with an uncovered face, his eyes visible and raw.

“I thought we were friends, I thou—“, he chokes on his words, hanging his head and closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself. “Fuck, Yuno. Of all people, I really thought that you’d be the last one to do something like this. But fuck me for trusting someone not to betray me after everything I’ve been through,” he dryly laughs in a mixture of irony and self-loathing.

Mickey lifts his head up in thought, his face darkening with every second that goes by. He bitterly smiles, “I left my fucking gang for you, Yuno,” and practically growls, “they were the first people to give me a place in this shithole, and I threw it all away. For you.”

Yuno frowns, disagreeing with that statement. He remembers more than anyone just how much Chang Gang had always mistreated Mickey, he remembers the late night conversation that they had even better. The one where he had told Mickey that if he feels limited by the people that are supposed to let him flourish—his family—, then maybe the relationship was one-sided. Yuno had always known that Mickey would eventually leave the gang life behind, it seemed like a ticking time bomb that was simply waiting to go off. It never dawned on him that all those midnight rides that they had, all those jobs they did together, all the talks about feelings and each others’ potential…He never thought that they amounted to anything in the final explosion.

Oh, but they did.

Mickey was never one to let his pride dictate his life, which can be a good thing, but in the instance of having to stand up for oneself — that principle failed him. He never really cared for the way people treated him, probably because he didn’t personally feel any sort of affection or attachment to them.

At first, it just felt good to have a place to go back to, people that would go to war for you. Or, more specifically, their egos, which got hurt whenever someone dared to cross the path of a fellow member of the most powerful gang in the city. He didn’t love being in CG, but he didn’t despise it either.

However, after meeting the likes of Lang Buddha, Tony Corleone and, finally, Yuno Sykk, Mickey had learned what a familial relationship was. At some point before then, he must have forgotten, in his thirty-seven year long life, what that looked like. Sometimes he wonders if he had ever known, before meeting them, at all.

After confiding in Yuno about his deepest doubts regarding his life, it felt good to have someone validate his feelings and suspicions. But what felt even greater was to be told, by the person he had come to value the most, after all the time they had spent together laughing, playing around and escaping the police, that he would always have a place with him. No matter what he chose to do. In that moment, Mickey had decided, then and there, that he would follow that man to the moon and back. And Ramee telling Mickey to stab Yuno was simply the trigger that he needed, in order to take the final step.

Mickey shakes himself out of his nostalgic trance and brings his eyes back to Yuno, “Would you have even protected me? If you were there?” Mickey asked the question, that he had been agonising over, since Yuno had taken his stance on the situation.

When Yuno had gone to visit Raymond with Mr. Lang at Parsons five hours ago, he really didn’t expect it to be the reason that he would be standing opposite Mickey in the middle of the sidewalk, that they drive by on their way to a Fleeca bank, which they visited—more specifically, robbed—frequently. Yuno would only realise that much later, though.

All his brain could process right now was Mickey’s slightly shaking body and balled up fists. He faintly wonders what it was that had started this.

Was it really that he visited Ray? Or was it the fact that he had been on his side during the meeting, that the Cleanbois had in the Manor, where he had stood his ground and didn’t let Raymond take all the blame? Where he made the brave claim, that if he had been kicked out of a bank job, he’d never talk to Mickey again. Maybe it was that he had never gone to visit Mickey in the ICU, and he never asked him about his eye. ‘Did it hurt?’, it seems like such a simple question and a relevant one at that, considering the fact that Mickey had taken a bullet to his head and lost his right eye in the process. ‘Are you okay?’, an even better one, considering the part where one of his brothers had been the one who shot him. And yet, Yuno hadn’t asked him either one. And now they stood, unable to escape the situation that seemed to have enveloped them unexpectedly, unable to run away from this confrontation any longer.

Even now, Yuno couldn’t open his mouth to speak.

Mickey laughed through his nose, it sounded a little wet. “So are you going to say anything, or are you just going to fucking stand there?”

Anything would indeed be better than nothing. Hell, Yuno would even be happy with ‘something’, if he could only find it. It, what is ‘it’? Despite the mess in his head, Yuno realises that the issue lies in the fact that he doesn’t know what it is. He knows that he should, or maybe he should just move his lips and utter whatever comes to mind first despite the fact that he doesn’t know, because that would still be better than complete void. But he can’t, and he doesn’t.

A long silence passes.

Maybe it hadn’t been that long, or maybe 30 minutes had gone by without Yuno’s knowledge, since Mickey’s last attempt at having a conversation. Yuno can’t figure it out, because everything seemed to have blended together. It was as though he was floating: unable to speak, unable to move and unable to think. It were as if his brain was disassociating itself from the situation, in a last attempt to avoid reality.

Yuno’s daydreaming was broken by Mickey harshly breathing out. Yuno blinked his eyes back into focus and took Mickey’s features in. This time, he noticed something different buried deep inside; there was some kind of resolve. Something that resembled acceptance, defeat.

Mickey’s facial expression lacked any sign of emotion. There was nothing raw or genuine about it, he made sure of that. He forced himself to keep it as cold and distanced as possible, and soon after, he found that doing so wasn’t as hard as he would have thought. In many ways, it was much easier, than facing his longtime friend and the object of all of his most secret desires and affections. His Yuno. And seeing, hearing nothing, when all he wants is a simple something.

On the opposite direction of the sidewalk, Yuno’s head was still covered by his helmet. The one that he wore on his first bank heist, the one he was wearing when he first met Mickey and instantly realised that they clicked, resulting in more encounters between them, until they eventually started seeing each other everyday.

When Mickey had been dropped out of a helicopter by CG, the person that found him had been wearing that very same helmet, the man he had recognised as the one he refused to stab. He doesn’t remember ever being that happy to see someone. Not because he had been lying on scorching pavement for three hours and someone had finally found him, but because it was Yuno that did. It was the man he swore to never hurt, which had marked the first and only commitment he allowed himself to have after everything that he went through in his past life. The one, where he had a wife and a best friend that betrayed him, and a job that he was forced to leave behind.

The jet-black helmet with neon mint-blue cat ears, that had been present through all of Yuno’s greatest and most-important moments in life, was now sitting on his head once again. This time, though, its purpose wasn’t to cover the identity of the famous top hacker in the city of Los Santos. No, this time, it was hiding the grimace of pain that had overtaken Yuno’s features.

Known as the ‘Cheat-code’, Yuno’s entire occupation suggested the need to pay attention and to remember, yet, outside of it, he rarely found himself doing those things. Especially with people.

Yet somehow, he had always been good at seeing Mickey. Whether he was ready to admit that to himself, whether it was done knowingly or not, Yuno knew him best. And so, when Mickey had looked at him with that expression, he knew.

Yuno understood, that whatever was supposed to happen during this meeting? It didn’t. Mickey sought answers, hoping to find something in them? He stayed quiet and didn’t give him anything. Yuno knew then and there, that he lost. And god, it felt as though he lost everything.

Similarly to whenever Yuno fails a hack during a heist, a paralysing feeling of helplessness engulfs him. The desperate need to fix the situation makes him restless and anxious, and the understanding, that there’s nothing he can do, creates cracks on the shell of his heart, he fears will never heal.

Mickey gets rid of the space between them in three quick strides and peers into the black visor, as if it were Yuno’s eyes.

A lonely tear slides out of the corner of his left eye, getting stuck on his trembling top lip, betraying his resolve to stay emotionless. “You were never going to care as much as I did,” Mickey whispered his thought out loud. ‘I care!’, Yuno desperately thought. ‘I care, I care, I care, I care, I care, I care!’, he was screaming in his head. “Mick…”, was the only thing that came out.

Mickey physically recoils at the sound of his nickname, subconsciously shaking his head ‘no’. His fingernails dig into the skin of his hands, drawing blood. He seems to have taken back control of his mind and body, and returns to fulfil his original quest. “At least take off your helmet,” he spits out, venom leaking out of his every word.

Yuno scrunches his eyebrows in question, and as if Mickey could see through him and predict his every move without needing to see it, he steadily answers to the silent inquiry of his friend, “Take off your helmet, so I can see your face when I leave.”

Yuno’s hands grip his thighs, as if looking to find some leverage, as if pretending to be glued onto his body, in order to avoid completing Mickey’s request.

Lacking the previous viciousness, Mickey says in a barely audible voice, “Please, just let me see your face, Yuno,” it cracks at the last word. “I need to see your face.”

Yuno lets out a shaky breath, which he thinks he might have been holding in this entire time. He hesitates for a moment, once more, unable to tell how long it lasted. Mickey doesn’t disrupt it this time and waits patiently. His head hung low and his eyes closed.

Shuffle, shuffle — the sound of Yuno’s jacket cuts the crisp quietness, as he reaches to take the helmet off his head. Yuno doesn’t really remember anything that happened during this moment, acting on pure instinct with his mind blank. He lifts it off and brings it to the small amount of space that’s left between his and Mickey’s chests.

Mickey opens his eyes, blinks twice at the contrasting sight in front of him: the tips of his dress shoes pressing against the tips of Yuno’s signature glow-in-the-dark sneakers, and meets Yuno’s gaze unfalteringly. He gazes iris into iris, as if hoping to find something in the black of Yuno’s pupils. Or, perhaps, he was merely trying to engrave them into his memory.

For some reason, Yuno thought that this moment would last a lifetime and flinched, when Mickey betrayed his expectations and stepped away from him after what felt like a mere millisecond. Unable to control his expression, he stares at Mickey with his eyes wide open.

Walking backwards, slowly taking step after step, Mickey sweeps over Yuno’s entire figure before looking back up at his face. He halts his retreat, “Just so you know, this isn’t me leaving you.”

He shakes his head once more, as if to emphasise his point. “Because you left me first, Yuno,” he finishes and, in a matter of seconds, turns around, gets into the Sanchez that matches the one parked right next to it, the only difference being the pink livery that’s missing on Yuno’s, and drives away.

Yuno watches him leave, and although Mickey took the path that he always does—the quickest to the Apartments—, the one that’s open to anyone…Yuno thinks that it will forever be closed to him from this moment on.

The helmet falls to the ground with a deafening sound.

Just like their relationship, it sits on the surface of the road, as if waiting for someone to come back for it. All in vain, because Mickey never does, and Yuno never thought that the possibility of picking it up existed, after being the one that dropped it.

——————————————————————————

I've wanted to explore Mickey's ocean-dumping and how it would affect his relationships (his and Yuno's specifically, because the RP they did created a lot of possible angst) for the longest time. And, finally...Here it is, lol.

I removed the lyrics, that I had added in between paragraphs, for easier readability, so if you want to see them — check it out on ao3. :)

Have a lovely day, reader!! :))

#yuno sykk #nopixel #gtarp #mickey s #oneshot #drabble #imagine #oneshots #fanfic

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runawaymarbles · 2 years

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7, 15, and 18 for the ask meme?

Weird Writing Ask Meme

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

It's hard to narrow it down, but one of my favorite parts-- that's a genuine pure favorite and never makes me want to bang my head against a wall-- is when I find unexpected ways to bring things I'm interested in together. When I realize that a weirdly niche rabbit hole I went down a few years ago could suddenly be plot relevant, or some analogy lines up to something else I'm doing. (Getting to bring Caravaggio's Artichoke Toss into a GO fic or when I was binging Myths and Legends's Arthuria episodes and realizing it worked perfectly with an x-men fic I was struggling with, etc.)

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

It depends on the book. I don't dog-ear pages, and I don't write in hardbacks, but I've been known to underline paperbacks. I will read hardbacks in the bath if they're not too long. If I saw someone writing in an old book or a fist edition or something I might have a moment of "aaaahhh!" but I don't hold mass market books as inherently precious

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

“Our traditional design ties together the partners’ initials with the blue line of Life and the deer of Death... For where Life goes, Death always follows; and where Death goes, Life continues. Theirs is the most profound of bonds, and one we try to emulate with each marriage.”

(From The Mixtape, Or: Six Things You Learn in Thursday School)

I spent a lot of time revising the bits of "scripture" in this fic, because I was trying to walk the line between what I could imagine someone treating as sacred text-- looking for meanings, lessons, comfort, etc-- and what would be funny for the reader who knows the actual plot of Supernatural. (Especially for those reading it during the pandemic: I still think that the Council of Nicea equivalent being the "Teleconference of Lawrence" is funny. That's also why settlements are called "pods" in this fic.)

Originally, this passage was explaining how Castiel was the Angel of Death-- the joke being that he doesn't cause people to die, but that he is in the more literal sense Dean's angel. But I figured he'd need a job or purpose to be of ritual significance. And since one of his main functions in the canonical narrative was to angel ex machina Sam and Dean out of trouble and/or back to life and be a celestial badaid, the Life/healing connection seemed natural-- but I also didn't want to make it seem like he and Death were at odds, each racing to see who got to someone first. So instead they're following each other around (as they did in canon) in the ciiiiiiircle of life. Of course, something that's overlooked by the characters who came up with the wedding rituals is that if they're constantly following each other they are never actually connecting (as they didn't in canon.) .....I'm now realizing that I could have worked in a joke about Schroedinger's box: the only place Life and Death can successfully stop and rest. Alas. I tried to keep the Angel of Death as one of Life's alternate names but between the conflation of Dean/Death/Hell/Heaven/Purgatory and Cas/Life and merging John-Chuck and Sam-Jack another name was going to make me lose track of what's going on, much less the poor suckers reading this.

Anyway it's all very Deep and Symbolic except that they think Dean's impala is a literal deer, they've forgotten what neckties are, and they used the phrase "profound bond" in conversation. Also the irony that Dean and Cas's frankly deranged, unstable, and occasionally toxic friendship rife with communication issues has been warped in the historical record as something that should be emulated in a stable marriage.

This whole fic was really an exercise in what jokes I could imagine a specific priest I know saying with gravitas and full sincerity.

#writing #that last bit got.... long lmao #sorry about that #ask meme #destiel #i guess

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

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SW Suddenly-Omegaverse AU: Surrogacy, Worldbuilding, Obi-Mom

Truly the main irony of all this is that everyone considers Obi-Wan the Better Omega but Anakin is the one who's actually 👀👀👀 about pregnancy

Obi-Wan: I have the deepest respect for those who do it, but the idea of growing another person inside of me is weird and gross, no, thank you.

Meanwhile Anakin is like. Immediate baby fever. Someone actually approaches him like "hey... there are forms you can fill out to request an exception for pregnancy, and like... regulations" because he's that obvious about it.

I assume that if they've got safety nets for accidental pregnancies, then they're probably aware that there are people who want to do it on purpose? I feel like in an omegaverse where 'biological imperative to procreate' can be so much more intense, then maybe there's old precedent that stuck around even after suppressants got most of those hormones under better control.

Bit torn. Just know I want Anakin to Make Baby.

"Anakin, what are you--" "Do you think offering to be someone's surrogate would be acceptable to the council as a way to be pregnant without getting attached." "...what." "They'd probably accept that as a way to practice not getting attached, right?" "N...no, that's not... what?"

Anakin approaching Bail and Breha and being like “Do you... still want a kid? I would provide a kid. Do you want one here*?”

* in this dimension

Great way to give up the baby as a parent because he'd still be able to see them once in a while but also like... it's not HIS kid, technically. He can be a cool uncle who happened to give birth, which is distant enough to not be 'attached,' but close enough that his Tatooine-raised 'must ensure family is safe whenever possible' background doesn't flip out. It helps that 'Core World Royalty' is like... a top-tier family to be raised in.

(It would have to be post-war because he probably shouldn’t be risking his life while very pregnant. He needs to be reminded of that sometimes.)

Bail/Breha is an alpha/alpha relationship and while a pregnancy is still possible,* it’s a whole lot more difficult, and that's on top of Breha's canon medical issues that resulted in her heart and lungs getting replaced.

* AFAB alphas can get pregnant, and AMAB omegas can inseminate, but the success rate on that angle is much lower than the 'traditional' alpha/omega roles, as is any attempt at reproduction outside rut/heat. They're low-fertility overall for the non-dominant aspect of their reproductive system, which... ha, Anakin and Obi-Wan try to get explanations for why the senary system works the way it does, but it's a very longform history lesson that comes down to 'idk this got cemented so long ago that nobody really knows why anymore.'

AKA "why do you title these roles male omega and female alpha instead of intersex omega and intersex alpha since both parties have both genitals."

ANYWAY

Anakin: I want to make babies. But I don't want to get kicked out of the order. But I don't want to give up my own babies for adoption. But I can't keep my own babies if I want to stay a Jedi. So basically I want to have someone else's babies? Anakin: ...wait shit that's just surrogacy.

Anakin, calling up Obi-Wan: Hey are the Organas still struggling to have a kid? Obi-Wan: ...not really your business. Anakin: You're friends with Bail again though, right? Obi-Wan: I am, but-- Anakin: Do you think they'd want me to be a surrogate? Obi-Wan: What.

I can't decide if it's funnier for the Order to be like "I mean... technically there's no rules against this?" or if this is a precedent set by at least three omegas every generation because that's just how a/b/o manifested for omegas in a biological and cultural sense.

Bail: Wait, your former apprentice is... volunteering... to be our surrogate. Obi-Wan, exhausted: Yes. Bail: He barely knows us. Obi-Wan: He respects you and you're the closest people he knows that want a child and would be good parents. Bail: And he's just... volunteering? Obi-Wan: Yes. Also, you did say your primary worry was that a surrogate might be targeted for assassination and you couldn't ask someone to risk that, right? Anakin is very much able to avoid assassins, and would be staying primarily in the Temple anyway. Very safe, and not particularly scared of assassins in the first place. Bail: Your words say you approve, but your tone says otherwise. Obi-Wan: Anakin considers me his father. I'm not old enough to be a grandparent. Bail: Ah.

Anakin is a surrogate and enjoys it and everything is fine and then like a year later he's accidentally pregnant with his own and Rex's kid, and nobody knows how to ask if it's actually an accident.

A suggestion from @gelpenss:

OH MAN i.... have to drive home. But I just had a thought about like. I always want to poke at Betas in A/B/O like are they “normal” or different from our standard or.... but ANYWAY assuming they have a pheromonal thing I just think it would be neat if betas had the ability to be the Bucket of Cold Water. Like if caught early enough, and with the caveat it’s not permanent, a beta could arrest a rut or heat in its tracks until a more ideal time. Like. They aren’t birth control. But they are the remind me later button.

Okay done driving I am Returned to bring up why I brought up betas and it’s this: well okay 1. It plays nice with a popular but inaccurate dog breeding urban legend that female dogs will like, delay heat cycles? so that the bitches above them in pack hierarchy have first choice of mate selection. And I think in omegaverse it would be cool if that was a Bio Fact, and also historically enforced by the third designation. 2. It gives me an excuse to have betas have the Most Sensitive sense of smell because it’s their “job” to pick up on things before they go too far to be put on pause. 3. I’m just thinkin ‘bout a beta clone [...] just hovering around Obi-Wan because they found out how much stress his heat cycle causes and they’re like “okay cool I will help make sure it does Not”

I want to like a/b/o verses but betas niggle at me. I want to give them a hat and a Function that woulda helped before modern medicine.

I'm not sure how I feel about betas being able to delay heats, but I do like the idea of them having a more sensitive sense of pheromone smell than most. Most aliens assume it's omegas with the best sense of smell, and betas with the worst, but it's more complicated than that because they all specialize: Alphas are actually less attuned to pheromone smells, but more attuned to things that were useful back when humans were still a hunter-gatherer species. Omegas tend to be heightened towards danger smells like fire or aggression, and pheromones relating to children/care. Betas, as suggested above, are very sensitive to pheromone changes relating to mood and behavior of the community around them.

I like the idea that betas were historically the ones that ended up taking care children, unmated omegas, and so on during people's heats and ruts, because they kept their heads about themselves long enough to do things like cook and clean while someone was reeking of hormones. The checks and balances work out that betas may have lower fertility, but it makes them better able to support the network around them.

It works in with humanity's general collective history of thriving the most when working as a community.

Given that I decided that this is Jangobi, the clones might all subconsciously view Obi-Wan as Mom. Not intentionally, but, you know... Obi-Wan the not-evil stepmother. He doesn't know how he got into this situation, but he sure is here, and he sure as hell doesn't know how to get out.

Obi-Wan "I don't need to get pregnant, I have three million stepchildren" Kenobi

I definitely love "clones all want to make Obi-Wan's heats less stressful" but like in a different way from Whatever The Fuck Anakin's Got Going On.

Obi-Wan using the force to dull the pain in a Shiny's broken leg while the medic works on it and the Shiny just mumbles "Thanks mom" and everyone gets very embarrassed and pretends it didn't happen.

But then it happens again. And again.

Obi-Wan asks for an explanation from Cody and gets a halting response that, since Jango is technically their father, and his scent has been all over Obi-Wan recently... and Obi-Wan puts in a lot of effort to take care of them all.......

Anakin overhears the clones calling Obi-Wan "mom" and just. The most judgmental eyebrow raise.... Mostly in the sense of "You never let me call you dad" "Thought you said you weren't anyone's parent." "Hey, hey, Obi-Wan. What the fuck."

BOBA. BOBA ABSOLUTELY CALLS OBI-WAN MOM WHENEVER POSSIBLE. IT'S DEEPLY FRUSTRATING.

Obi-Wan eventually manages to admit that he's uncomfortable with it at minimum because of the gendering the word has for him, can they at least use the neutral 'buir' instead?

Word spreads like fire, takes like two days max for everyone to switch.

(Anakin demands cuddles as compensation for not getting to call Obi-Wan any true parental term for years.)

#Anakin Skywalker #Obi Wan Kenobi #Bail Organa #Rexwalker #Jangobi #Captain Rex #Commander Cody #Boba Fett #star wars #the clone wars #omegaverse #SW Suddenly Omegaverse #mpreg tw #phoenix posts

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softboyluvr · 3 years

Text

just friends

cedric diggory x female!reader

warnings: angst (ish???), intentional lower caps, that’s all tbh

very few could say they knew someone for forever, someone that knew their weaknesses and helped turn them into strengths. though they, they were the lucky ones. or unlucky ones, depending on who you asked. cedric and her had been inseparable the moment their parents introduced them when they were children.

from then on she always had someone to pick her up when she fell off the swings, a shoulder to cry on and someone who listened unconditionally when it seemed like the voices drowned her. she was lucky to have him.

she brought out the best in him. everyone expected him to be everything all the time, but with her he could be vulnerable. he felt like he could breathe when she was near. he had to see her fall in love with some of the guys in the castle, and then be there for her when it all fell through. he was just never that lucky to have her. at least not completely, she had the best of his moments. when in fourth year his friends teased him for never having had his first kiss she was the one to pull him in by his jersey after winning the first game of the quidditch season, the light drizzle sticking to their hair and making the whole thing seem like a dream to him. she had his first dance at their first ever ball. and most of all she had his heart hanging off a thread on her pinky finger, yet he was never lucky enough to have her completely.

he was resigned actually, no longer eager for the next time she came running to his arms after she realized the last guy wasn’t what she wanted, much less deserved. an eagerness that he knew was wrong and completely selfish but he couldn’t seem to deny. he liked being the guy that lit her those vanilla candles she loved so much and held her through the night.

he didn’t know what deity he had to thank for putting them together in every single class for the past six years. but there he was, letting her draw some sort of happy face kaleidoscope on his hand as he just looked at her with some stupid grin he could never wipe off when they were together. looking at how the tip of her tongue stuck out in concentration and then down to the crystal hanging around her neck. remembering how one saturday she just dragged him to the lake to look for crystals. one of the last days of the summer, the morning sun keeping them warm but not sticky with sweat. the wildflowers around them made the air sweet and the soft swishing of the water in the river filled up their comfortable silence making everything perfect. if he were asked what he thought heaven was like he would think that’s the closest it could ever get. or maybe it was all perfect because he was with her.

he wasn’t surprised when she had to bring him back from his daze and put him to work on the potion slughorn had just spent the last 10 minutes explaining. he was eager to finish brewing the concoction, amortentia was one of their biggest projects of the year. but that was not what motivated him to finish it, neither was it finding out what he was going to smell. he knew exactly what his heart desired, and was not surprised when he smelled vanilla, soft rain and wildflowers. his eagerness was to discover what she was going to describe the potion to smell like. he hoped her heart’s deepest desires pointed towards him like a compass pointing north. he was about to ask when hermione granger, somehow managing to take classes above her level, turned around and asked herself.

he pretended to write some notes on his notebook when he was really waiting for anything that would hint at her fancying him the way he wished she would.

“we must’ve fucked it up because it smells like nothing” and she snorted like it was the funniest thing ever. their conversation carried but he was no longer interested on any sort of gossip the griffindoor carried. he knew the potion had worked, so either she was sick and her nose was all messed up or just didn’t fancy anyone at all. she could’ve also been lying, was it for his sake? did she just not want to share any more fragments of her love life with him and she decided to lie about this to keep some secrecy? was it someone he knew? was it one of their friends? had he introduced her to them?

class ended and the day flew by, whenever she asked about his change in demeanor he brushed her off with a smile and assured her it was all fine, “just tired ‘s all”

he wanted to go down to his room and read, alone, as soon as the school day was over. but he had promised to go with her to this tree they always hung out in when the day was nice. she was talking about things she had noticed throughout the day and when he zoned back into the conversation their tree was closer than he realized and she was talking about potions class.

“i swear i was keeping an eye out for you. i was worried you were sick because someone had slipped some amortentia on your water or something. i mean im surprised no one did” and she sat down leaning on the trunk of the tree. “anyways you never did tell me what it was your heart’s deepest desires were. or who is it that that is for that matter” she was taking some colored pencils out and it seemed like the whole thing was humorous to her. but the question had struck him, she was lying back in class.

she had taken his silence as a cue to keep her chatter going. not paying any mind to how he still hadn’t sat down. “i heard someone say how when slughorn showed the class below us the potion just as a heads up for next year cho chang said she swore she smelled you. i didnt know you guys were that close” and she wiggled her eyebrows at him while taking out some sketch book from her bag. she was really trying to joke with him right now. “she’s really pretty-“

but he cut her off. “why would you lie?”

“i swear! hermione told me all about it after i ran onto her in the bathroom before potions class started. i mean you have been tutoring her for a while now so i don’t know how you didn’t see it coming”

he was silent for a second and she grew uncomfortable of his gaze just lingering. standing up as he started again.

“we didn’t fuck up the bloody potion. but you told granger we did, why did you lie?”

she looked at him for a couple seconds and then laughed. “come on ced, slughorn said the thing was perfect. don’t worry about the grade”

“this is not about a mark and you know it” his tone was so serious it was bordering into stern. it was like his patience was growing thin but she didn’t know what to say, so she just shrugged and looked away.

“didn’t feel like talking about it then”

“we can talk about it now”

“it looks like there’s rain clouds coming”

“what are you trying to avoid?”

she just went to pick up her book, stuffing her things back into her bag. she started the walk back to the castle making him scoff and follow her lead.

“why don’t you want to talk to me?” to her he still sounded defensive. but he was trying his best to mask his vulnerability.

“i do want to talk to you ced. just not about it right now”

“was it someone i know? was it fred? i heard he’s with angelina so that’s a dead end you know”

“cedric just drop it”

“so it was him then”

she groaned and turned to look at him, breaking her stride. her face was burning with what he saw as anger.

“why does it matter so badly to you cedric?”

the thunder quickly ate up the good weather they still had and the air turned chilly. how fitting.

“it just does and i want to know”

“it really doesn’t matter to me and it shouldn’t to you either” she was upset about it, maybe her feelings for fred were far deeper than he could guess. he was aware of their friendship, but he never knew how close they had grown to be. maybe him being a tutor pushed her to finding someone new, some new more interesting friend. “i really don’t get why you’re blowing this to be such a big deal when cho-“

“it is a big deal to me” he chuckled and he saw the drizzle before he could feel it. “it’s a big deal to me when all i could smell on the thing was wildflowers and fresh rain” he let a breath out, his voice lowering back to its usual tone. no longer exasperated but tired. “fresh rain and vanilla”

she just stood there. quiet. looking at him. a couple steps and he had broken the distance between them. placing his hands on her shoulders and running them down to her hands.

“so please, just please tell me what it was for you”

“lilacs” she looked up at him and met his gaze. the flowers his mother had planted around the swing sets were lilacs, the flowers she tucked on his suit pocket on their first dance were lilacs. but he still couldn’t let his heart jump to conclusions. she took in the silence and looked forward, staring at his chest rather than looking at him in the eyes. the blow was coming. “warm sheets and fresh rain”

she smiled at the irony of the drizzle that covered her hair at the moment and dared to peek at him from under her lashes. he was puzzled by the last one. she kept looking down at his hands holding hers.

“that was my first kiss too you know, you never really asked and i guess i never told you. but i knew you were tired of everyone teasing you for it so i guessed you wouldn’t mind as long as you got it over with” she was rambling and he smiled. the rain coating her lashes reminded him of the first time, he let go of her hand and took her chin between his pointer and thumb. tilting her head up to look at him, moving his hand to run through her hair and finally cupping her face. running his thumb over her cheek. it was like he was getting a do over, and he wanted to take his time this time around. she looked into his eyes and then glanced down to his lips. he didn’t waste more time before his other hand flew to the free side of her face and his lips were on hers. her hands on his shoulders pulling him impossibly closer to her.

he cursed his lungs for preventing him from staying there, causing him to pull away slightly. she opened her eyes to see him looking at her already. he took in how the water droplets stuck to her hair and the smile that danced on her face.

her eyebrows shot up a little “took you long enough” her teasing smile made him let out a loud laugh.

he hummed and nodded. feigning seriousness “maybe” he looked at her with a teasing smile of his own. “but not nearly as long as it took you, now did it”

her eyebrows shot up and she let out a surprised laugh. he admired her for a second more before he leaned down to kiss her again. missing how she quickly ducked and escaped his grasp. starting to sprint through the grass towards the castle. he chased behind her as they both laughed at the water splashing around their feet and starting to soak them up slowly. she looked back at him and playfully screamed, booking it through the courtyard and slipping past the few people that were still out enjoying the soft rain.

their friends quickly spotted the pair, not surprised by their behavior but intrigued as to what had caused the giant to chase after her through the rain. watching as he was catching up to her when she had almost reached the group, which was seated waiting for them next to one of the arches surrounding the courtyard. staying safe from the rain under the roof. they all playfully looked at her catching her breath, not amused at all by their games when he reached her. hair sticking to his forehead and robes drenched just like hers. she yelped as he picked her up and spun her around, their friends getting ready to listen to whatever story was behind their chase.

the story telling itself when he set her down softly and pulled her in for a quick kiss. their bubble of happiness not popping but encasing all of their friends as well. no questions were needed, the happiness just flowed and bubbled.

he swung his arm over her shoulders. pulling her into his chest as she started the conversation back up. everything had fallen into place for him, and now he could light up candles and tuck her into bed not because she had another unlucky shot at love. but because he was finally lucky enough.

#cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory #cedric diggory fluff #cedric diggory angst #cedric diggory x female reader #cedric diggory imagine #friend to lovers

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hrwinter · 3 years

Note

Lena placing a pair of glasses on a pillow and making out with it pretending it’s Kara

Lena’s not always this drunk. Well. Lena hasn’t historically imbibed this much after the age of 26, but her mother’s been arrested and her best friend is a liar, so what else is there to do other than look for an answer at the bottom of a very large bottle of scotch.

She’s been to three upscale bars and restaurants with Andrea, both of them reverting to their messy boarding school days almost instantaneously after the third glass, giggling in the corner and overtly hitting on men and women by sending them pretentious $24 cocktails.

But there’s still a dark streak in all the buffoonery. Lena can’t stop searching for blue eyes on the face of every blonde or broad shoulders under the lapels of every Armani jacket. She hates herself for it. And she hates Kara Danvers. Or Kara Zor-El, whatever the fuck.

Lena is pissed.

She takes another moody sip of scotch while some stock broker continues to shoot his shot (why do they all talk the same? why do they all feel the need to explain how money works to her, a billionaire?) and Andrea’s laughing and laughing at a woman far too loudly, her finger tips sloshing the edge of a martini she absolutely doesn’t need. While the man goes on about blue chip stocks, earnings per share, dividends (kill her), Lena’s eyeing the restroom.

No one would miss her if she ducked out. She could have a car here in minutes. Hell, Andrea would probably appreciate the attention of both parties at the same time. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d finagled a twosome into a threesome.

But that means going home. It means gazing at the dark sky from the cold enclave of her penthouse balcony. It means seeing the downturned photo frame, glass smashed, but still not thrown away.

God damn Kara. She stays.

She doesn’t go home with the man, and Andrea doesn’t go home with the woman. They don’t all go home together. But she and Andrea do go to another bar, and after that, an after hours bar. Then, by some misfortune of a higher power, they end up at a bratwurst stand at 4 AM with a horde of college kids. College children.

“Someone threw up just there,” Lena points at the pavement.

“Oh, don’t be such a snob!” Andrea shrieks into the night, grasping at Lena’s elbow and toying with a necklace Lena knows to cost more than a tricked out Vespa. Lena may be glassy-eyed, there may even be two of Andrea, but she can still spot irony.

“I’m starving. And I haven’t had one of these in yeaaarrrsss,” Andrea elongates as they move up a few paces in line. “Remember when we’d sneak into town and grift old men for drinks? That hot dog stand just outside of Hawthorne’s? I’ve been desperate for one.”

Lena wants to complain more, but it does smell good. And by the time they have bratwursts fisted in hand and are leaning against a nearby brick wall with the rest of the infants, Lena’s not feeling all that bad. It might be the best thing she’s ever tasted in her life. God, this might be the best she’s ever felt in her life. Numb, blitzed out of her mind, somewhere closer to nineteen sheets to the wind than three, she’s no longer a Luthor, no longer a simpering fool to a Super’s lies, not a CEO or a disappointment or even a person. She’s just a presence existing on this curb, eating a bratwurst.

“I’m having an out of body experience,” she tells Andrea with half her mouth full and still swallowing.

“That good, huh?” Andrea has mustard on her chin.

“I want another.”

Lena glances up, and her visions tunnels. Her existence is whittled down even further, to its basest instinct. She’s become the singular pursuit of a thousand more calories, of another bratwurst. Lena surges into the street, the stand a beacon of light in the darkness.

But several things happen at once. There’s a screech of tires, the smash of metal, what feels like getting hit with a brick wall and then being shot out of a circus canon.

Lena finds herself throwing up on the pavement on the other side of the road, and Kara fucking Danvers yelling at a motorist. The guy has gotten out of his car, hood dented and engine smoking.

“You smashed my car!”

“You almost hit a woman! You could’ve killed her!”

“She just bolted into the street, that’s not my fault!”

“PEDESTRIANS HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY!” Kara shouts back.

“Hey!” Lena slurs, having regained her dignity by wiping her mouth clean of vomit. It’s called class.

Both the guy and Kara turn to look at her, but her eyes are trained on Kara.

“I don’t need your help,” she tells her with a point of her finger.

This feels very witty. The pinnacle of sass. So what if she’s lost a heel at some point and may have missed a bit of vomit in her hair. She’s the one in control.

The guy’s eyes narrow.

“Are you blind or something? Didn’t your mom teach you to look both ways before you walk into the street?”

At the mention of Lena’s mother, her eyes narrow, she sways dangerously.

“You’re fired.”

“What?” the guy rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time for this.” He whips out his cell phone. “You’ve got insurance right?”

“Um, yeah,” Kara hands him a card, but she’s quick to come to Lena’s side, to place a steadying hand on her shoulder. Lena tries to wiggle away from it like a petulant child.

“Stop it!”

Kara ignores her.

“Lena, I didn’t want to say it around him,” Kara cups a blocking hand over her mouth and points at the guy so he can’t see.

It’s so adorable and infuriating.

She stage whispers, “But you were jaywalking! And you could’ve been hit by a car. What’re you even doing out here?”

Lena rolls her eyes so hard, she might’ve just incurred permanent damage.

“I’m an adult, Supergirl, and I don’t need an escort--”

Lena’s very mature tirade is interrupted by Andrea crossing the street, mouth still wide open and staring. The look she’s giving Kara is distinctly not platonic, and the look she’s giving Lena is one of deepest intrigue. Her eyes scan the pair of them, their body language, the way Kara’s hand is still on Lena’s shoulder (hadn’t she shaken that off?), and smirks.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Lena could kill her.

“Be quiet, Drea!”

Andrea dissolves into snorts, and Kara glances between the two of them, a look of recognition passing over her face. Now Lena wants to hurl herself into traffic for real.

Kara opens her mouth to speak, but Lena waves a hand in front of her nose.

“Just--everyone shut up and take me home.”

And the route Lena wants to be taken home is clear when she swats at Kara’s (firm) bicep (to push her away, of course), and that swat accidentally turns into a posessive squeeze.

“Oh, can I come, too?” Andrea purrs, and Kara’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No!” Lena barks at her.

“Fine, fine! Call me tomorrow!” Andrea waves, and like some sort of rich superpower, she’s already getting into the back of a sleek black car.

“Okay, Lena,” Kara hushes against her head. It’s too soft and caring, and Lena wants to push her away. But she doesn’t. (Mainly because standing is feeling like quite a complex task, and she doesn’t have the balance for it.)

“This’ll only take a second.”

Then, Lena’s wrapped in a warm and solid embrace. It’s nice... before everything blurs, and she has the distinct desire to vomit again.

She never wants another bratwurst.

In the very next moment, she’s being gingerly placed on her balcony, and Lena’s surging out of Kara’s grasp and pressing her face against the cold glass of her balcony sliding door. It feels amazing, calming her stomach down by degrees.

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh,” Lena says. Maybe she’d been doing that for a bit too long.

She runs her hands over the glass in an attempt to open the door, heavily petting various keypads and biometric scanners. Nothing happens. She scratches at the glass like a raccoon desperate to be inside.

“Um, isn’t it over there?” Kara indicates a different keypad to the left.

“I don’t need your help!” Lena shouts before following her instructions exactly. The door opens. She grumbles inside.

Unaware and uncaring, Lena starts undressing in her living room the very moment she’s crossed the threshhold, discarding her shirt, her skirt this way and that. There’s a gasp behind her and another suspicious super speeding sound, but she ignores Kara. She paces into her bedroom to strip off her bra and grab an oversized shirt. After, she spread eagles on her bed.

“I, um, brought you a glass of water.”

Lena cracks an eye open, takes in the sight of Kara standing at her bedside, nervous and uncertain, glass of water extended between them like some sort of peace offering.

She groans loudly and sits up to snatch it from her, water sloshing onto her bare legs. She doesn’t register it, draining it dry, glaring at Kara over the edge of the glass the entire time.

The Super pulls at her fingers.

“What’re you doing here?” Lena rasps, rolling the empty glass onto her exquisite and overpriced comforter.

“You were in trouble, Lena.”

“You don’t care about me.”

“Yes, I do.”

Lena scoffs, completely undignified, a sound appropriate for an elementary school playground. She does it again because it feels good. Kara’s eyebrows pinch.

Lena swivels at the waist and plucks her reading glasses off her bedside table. She places them over one of her giant, California King-sized pillows.

“Oh, Kara, there you are!” she says, squeezing it’s sides together like she’s cupping its cheeks. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you in a pair of glasses!”

Kara’s brows furrow deeper, not amused.

“How did I not see that the kindness, the sincerity, the insistence that I was not just another Luthor was a total act!” she continues to talk to it.

“It wasn’t an act--”

Lena brings the pillow close in her arms.

“Stopping by to bring me lunch, complimentary puff pieces, spin class, game nights. You’re so sweeeeeet,” she elongates, squeezing the pillow tight. “And beautiful. You know what you deserve? A kiss.”

Surely, this bit has spiraled out of Lena’s control. This entire night has. And were she sober enough to realize it, she’d catch herself before this next part. But she’s not and she’s wasted. And this pillow is the Kara she used to know, the Kara Lena used to pine for unconditionally, fantasizing what it might be like to just, lean over and...

She loses her balance as she places a wet one just under the glasses of her pillowcase and falls over on top of it. Incidentally, it’s the perfect size for snuggling, just like Kara herself, and her eyes flutter closed, warm and content.

“I’ll--I’ll go,” she hears a voice say.

“Kara?” Lena mumbles, face down in her pillow and not long for this world.

“Yeah?”

“I lo--I mean, I hate you.”

Kara sighs.

“I love you too, Lena.”

#supercorp #hr's askhole #tumblr prompt #ficlet #god i was like #thisll be short #1800 words later #pillowcorp endgame

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bubblesuga · 3 years

Text

A Match Into Water

Summary: Sometimes all Yoongi needs is a warm cabin, and you. W/C: 2,068 Warnings: mentions of smut, cussing, slight angst but mostly fluff

There’s something undeniably gorgeous about the Rocky Mountains of the western US. The sun shines brightly in the middle of the day and cloud coverage is practically non-existent, yet the snow resting on the peaks of the mountains persists like the buzzing of a bee desperately trying to find it’s hive.

At times, it becomes more of a hindrance to Min Yoongi. He doesn’t like the cold. Hell, he hates it. The brush of the cold winter breeze drags his mood down into the deepest depths of a sinking black hole that he just can’t seem to pull himself away from. This vacation was supposed to help him, bring his mood up and inspire his creativity. Unfortunately it seems to have had the opposite affect.

“Oh come on,” the girl who followed him on this company appointed vacation is cute, she knows English and helps Yoongi get around, “you’re supposed to be having fun.”

“You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?” Yoongi drawls, sipping his warm coffee and sitting in front of the wide window of the rented cabin. American coffee sucks.

“I’m insufferable? Min Yoongi, you have not left this cabin once since we arrived. You’re like a fucking cat that doesn’t want to move from the one spot of sun inside the house.” her voice is loud, confident. Her lips curl downward and for a moment, Yoongi feels disappointment rush through his veins. He prefers her smile more than he’d be willing to admit.

He shrugs, taking a long sip, “I like the sun.”

She groans, falling back onto the well decorated couch, “Can you at least try skiing?”

“Skiing involves the cold.”

“Yeah, Yoongi. It’s winter.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to come here! Maybe I wanted to stay in Korea, I wanted to write the album, and I wanted to move on!” Yoongi bites back, setting down his cup and turning to her. Her face is red, but she stares up at the ceiling as if she’s alone in the room. Yoongi resists the urge to lay beside her, to stroke her hair and ask if she’ll kiss him.

She huffs, pulling herself up and meeting Yoongi’s eyes, “I’m sorry you didn’t get that opportunity. You’ve been in a rut and your company thought it’d be best for you to get away.”

“Ah, and why’d they bring you here with me then?”

“I’m your assistant, you dick.” she stands again and walks away momentarily. For a moment Yoongi thinks he went too far, sometimes the venom at the tip of is tongue moves too fast for him to catch with his lips. It’s not even true, he wants her here more than anyone else.

When she reemerges from Yoongi’s room, she holds a jacket and warm sweats.

“Change into these, we’re going down the mountain and shopping.” she’s demanding, maybe Yoongi should listen to her.

“Why? If you’re my assistant, shouldn’t you be listening to what I want?” not without a little fight, though.

“Now, Min Yoongi.”

He chuckles, downing the rest of his coffee and slipping off the hoodie he already wore for the warmer jacket you brought out. She tries not to let her eyes linger on his briefly exposed abdomen when his shirt slides up with his hoodie. Instead, she opts for a nice look at the scenery outside.

Yoongi’s legs briefly feel the cold of the cabin on his bare legs as he slips on the warm sweats. He’s let himself become comfortable with his assistant, more so than the past women who followed him around and listened to his every wish. This one is different. She’s feisty, opinionated, determined. He likes that a lot. Especially when she crosses her arms and pouts when he tries to fight her decisions.

He glances at her, the sun reflecting off the snow and shining in her gorgeous eyes. He knows he shouldn’t feel the things he feels for her, but she makes it so damn difficult not to. How was he not supposed to fall for the pretty girl who smiles big and tells him when he’s being an asshole? Everything about her was exactly what he wanted in a woman. So, maybe listening to her wasn’t such a bad thing.

~*~*~

“When I graduated college, I traveled throughout the world for a year. It made learning English pretty easy.” she shrugs, twirling the pasta around her fork. After shopping for a few hours, Yoongi insisted on stopping at the one Italian restaurant in the small valley at the bottom of the mountains. He only insisted because he knows it’s her favorite.

“Ah, without you here I would be screwed.” Yoongi shrugs, reaching his fork across the table and digging it into a piece of chicken on her plate. She doesn’t make the effort to slap his hand away, instead reaching for his sangria and taking a sip.

“I think that in a lot of aspects in your life. Where would you be if I didn’t pick out your outfits for the day?” she giggles as she speaks, already knowing the answer to her ridiculous question.

“Hm,” he hums, slurping up some of his own food and pausing to swallow, “struggling to tell my right from my left sock.”

Yoongi grins from ear to ear the moment her laughter leaves her lips.

This is how their days together were usually spent in Korea, so the fact that the slush covered streets didn’t deter the two of them made moments like these even more special.

“Why don’t you date?” she asks suddenly, stacking their plates as they were cleared off.

Yoongi nearly chokes on his drink, taking a deep breath through his nose before swallowing the liquid in his mouth. He clears his throat, “what makes you ask that?”

“Well,” her face turns slightly red, “I’ve seen all the other members dating. Bring people home. I’ve just never seen you do that so I was just curious as to why.”

He can tell that she feels like she’s over stepping a boundary. Maybe she is. Of course it’s not appropriate for an assistant to ask her boss why he isn’t so keen on finding a woman to date. Yet, Yoongi isn’t upset by the question. Shocked? Possibly, but he doesn’t feel the need to deny her of an answer.

“I have my eye on someone, I’m just not sure if she knows that I like her yet.” his words fall off his lips unstirred, landing into a pile on the table that Yoongi suddenly feels desperate to wipe away. Why even give her the notion that he may be interested in her?

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite brighten up her face like her usual ones, “Who’s the lucky guy or gal?”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, “Lucky, eh?”

“Well, yeah,” she laughs nervously, as though she didn’t mean to say what she said, “you’re a catch, Min Yoongi. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

He chuckles, that same breathy chuckle that seems to have an affect on women he meets. It comes across as careless, unwavering in his attempt to pull off his cool persona, yet it’s really just a ruse to hide the fact that he wants nothing more than to take this woman home and fall asleep with her between his arms. Yoongi meets her eyes momentarily, catching a shine in her shaking pupil. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth while his eyes drag to his assistants lips. They’re cherry red, stained with the remnants of his cherry sangria. He bets they’d taste amazing.

Nodding, he speaks, “Would you feel lucky to have me?”

Her breath stutters as her eyes go wide. She seems to contemplate for a moment before she opens her mouth, “U- uhm, I’ll go get the bill.”

Abruptly, she turns away and walks towards the front counter. Yoongi sighs, waiting for a moment before placing a 20 on the table and collecting both of their things. Multiple bags from various stores around the valley fill his arms and he quietly follows her back out into the street.

In an almost unspoken decision, the two of them begin their trek back to the car and Yoongi drives them back into the mountains just as the sun is about to set.

Though silent, Yoongi could tell his assistant was nervous. Her fingers fiddled in her lap while she stared out of the window into the dark wooded road.

Perhaps he had been to abrupt. Perhaps he should have broke his interest to her a little slower. Or not at all. It probably would have been better for anyone if he didn’t say anything at all.

~*~*~

His usual night routine began with a shower. Afterward, he brushed his teeth and blow dried his hair. Then, he turned on the bedside lamp and opened a book Namjoon had suggested to him ages ago. ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ has become some sort of sick irony to him now. Minus the mistress, living awkwardly with a woman and not being able to leave quite yet was how he lived his life.

It’s only been 2 days since he said anything to her, yet it felt like an eternity. There wasn’t anymore jokes, nor did he feel like he could speak to her as an equal. She called him Mr. Min, and it hurt.

Suddenly, he hears a knock on his door frame. He glances up, and she stands in his doorway in her sleep wear. An oversized T-shirt and shorts that hid subtly beneath.

“Hello.” he greets, closing his book and setting it on the night stand. Sliding his glasses off his face, he turns his attention to her. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, swallowing nervously.

“When you asked if I would feel lucky to be with you, what did you mean?”

Oh, so we’re getting right into it.

Despite only being a couple years younger than Yoongi, she seemed nearly child-like as she asked the question. Her eyes stay glued to her feet while she sways gently.

“Just that. Would you feel lucky to be with me?”

She nearly scoffs, “What kind of a question is that?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, “Answer the question.”

With a huff, she walks into the room and sits at the foot of Yoongi’s bed, “Of course I would be lucky to be with you, dumbass. You’re Min Yoongi.”

“No,” Yoongi isn’t satisfied with that answer, “would you be satisfied with just being with Yoongi. Not Suga of BTS, not Agust D. Just... Yoongi.”

She tilts her head adorably, her forehead creasing with concern, “That’s what I mean. You’re Yoongi, I’d be the luckiest girl in the world.”

He smiles, crossing his legs and leaning forward, “That’s what sets you apart from other people. They don’t want just Yoongi. They want the identity I’ve created for the public.”

“So that’s why you don’t want to date?”

“I do,” he sighs, “I just want to with you.”

She swallows, “Are you asking me out?”

Yoongi shrugs, “If that’s what you want this to be, then yes.”

As though the heavens had opened up and an angel had descended right in front of Yoongi, her face is bright with delight. She leans forward, crashing her lips onto Yoongi’s.

He’s quick to wrap his arms around her, bringing her as close to him as possible. Her frame fits against his perfectly, just as he had imagined so many times before. Yoongi feels his abdomen ignite with butterflies while her hands move to cup his cheeks. She rests her forehead gently against his, her breathing ragged.

“Maybe this vacation wasn’t so bad.” Yoongi jokes, kissing each of her cheeks.

Her eyes flutter close, “I’ve been telling you that from the beginning.”

He grins, “I wanted you to prove it to me.”

“Well, did I?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond, he simply brings his lips back to hers.

He gently lays her onto the bed, careful not to break the kiss. Her hands grip the back of his shirt as if he could disappear in her arms. It takes everything in him not to begin kissing down her neck, the last thing he wants is to scare her off. Yet, she encourages him.

“I’m on the pill.” She whispers against his lips, and Yoongi grins. This was going to be a very fun night.

#hope y'all enjoyyyy #min yoongi #bts #yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader fluff #yoongi x reader smut #min yoongi x yn #yoongi x yn #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #bts x reader

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ohmyasmodeus · 4 years

Text

𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 ☼

first of all, @smolomon, i hope you know that i would die for you. effective now. if you want me to take a bullet for you i seriously will, thank you so much !! and thank you for your patience, i know this request has been sitting in the drafts for a hot minute, but i really wanted to make sure my writing was top notch because this is one of the best requests i’ve received thus far. i hope you love this imagine as much as i do ♡

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

♡ 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘳

✧ You never believe people when they say that heaven is a place on earth, but standing with Lucifer on a deserted train platform waiting for the train home, bathed in golden light… you think you finally understand. You can’t help but laugh softly at the irony. Lucifer had visited you in the human world and spent the entire day with you, and the date couldn’t have ended in a better way.

✧ “What is it, love?” Lucifer murmurs as he pulls you close with his arms around your waist. Here, neither of you have to worry about affecting his reputation, and he showers you in affection freely. The sunset’s light illuminates his face brilliantly, falling on his strong cheekbones and making his lashes appear golden.

“I’m going to miss you...” you sigh. You gently bring your hands up to cradle his face, watching as his eyes gleam a vibrant scarlet as the light hits them.

“I’ll be back before you know it. I promised to take you to that museum this weekend, didn’t I?” The smile Lucifer gives you— the overwhelming love and all the sweet promises behind that smile make your heart ache, and he starts to sway the both of you gently as he talks. “But… I’m going to miss you too, _______.”

And you know he will. Despite the distance between the both of you, despite the dignified front that he has to put on around people, Lucifer is just as obsessed with you as you are with him. You know it and you feel it in the way his breath catches in his throat when he marvels at how gorgeous you look in the light; the way he holds you close while watching the sun set past the city’s skyline, slowly casting the both of you in brilliant crimson and golden light. There is nothing that needs to be said between the both of you. Your train rushes into the platform, and the moment is over in the blink of an eye, but Lucifer hugs you tight one last time before letting you leave. His gloved hand runs down the length of your arm as he lets you go.

You want to watch him watch your train drive by, but the wistful look he gives you as you leave is too much to leave everything simply unsaid. You find yourself rushing back to him and nearly tackling him as you fall into his arms almost desperately, looking up at him as you clutch the front of his coat to say, “Kiss me, Lucifer.”

And he kisses you without hesitation; without consideration for the people around you, without the need to hide just how in love he is with you. His hands are on your hips, pulling you closer, wanting everyone on the platform to know that he is eternally yours.

Heaven is a place on earth; any place at all with Lucifer.

♡ 𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘯

✧ hey, come over [received, 6:45pm]

✧ like rn [received, 6:46pm]

✧ Mammon seems disgruntled as you pull him onto the roof of your apartment building, and you have to hold in a laugh. You know your sudden text might’ve made him expect something completely different from being hustled onto a roof while holding a small stack of tupperware boxes.

“Oi, what am I! A slave?” Mammon whines as you direct him to set the boxes down on the floor. Crossing his arms, he pouts as he watches you set the picnic cloth down with a flourish, close to the barred railings of the rooftop. “Ya can’t just call me up and expect me to be at your every damn beck and call!”

“We have a pact, so I kind of can. Now shush and eat.” You pinch his cheek with a laugh, before pulling him down to have a seat with you. It’s obvious how much he missed you and continues to miss you every moment the two of you are apart, so even with his whining, you have to show him some love and lean your head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist instinctively to keep you as close as he possibly can, even as he rolls his eyes and grumbles.

Like a painting, the pale blue sky slowly shifts to gentle hues of rose quartz and dandelion yellow, and Mammon is completely enraptured. Completely thrilled in his silence, he grins as he watches the sun sink behind the hills that frame your city. If it wasn’t for you bringing the spoon up to his lips every so often, he would’ve let his food go cold in its lonely tupperware box. You find yourself enraptured as well, enchanted by the way his eyes light up and eventually flick to gaze at you.

“Ya never get to see anything like this in the Devildom… Never thought I’d call humans lucky, but shit.” Mammon’s voice is quiet, as if speaking any louder would frighten the sunset off and make the moment disappear. “It’s beautiful.”

Your heart can’t contain itself, and you laugh softly as you lean into his side and feed him another spoonful. “Just like you.”

“That’s my line…” Mammon grumbles, but there isn’t a hint of heat behind his words. Instead, he takes off his jacket and drapes it across the both of you, settling into your warmth as the evening chill starts to set in. Eventually, you’ll manage to wiggle into his lap and talk about the deepest parts of yourselves while trying to count the stars, completely unafraid to be true; but for now, you give him a kiss and quietly watch the greatest sunset of your life with your favourite person in the world.

♡ 𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯

✧ Littered with reminders of him, your car is Leviathan’s favourite place to be. On days where you manage to wrangle him out of his room, he loves following you around as you run your errands in the human world and, much like a satisfied puppy, ends up waiting in the car with his Nintendo switch. (It makes you get the urge to place a sign on the door telling everyone that your snake of a boyfriend has the air conditioning turned on and has the window cracked open.)

✧ “Hey, look!” you say, trying to catch Levi’s attention. Aside from a noncommittal murmur from the demon that lays his head on your chest while the both of you snuggle in the backseat, your comment receives pretty much no acknowledgement whatsoever. You end up having to knee Levi to get him to look. “Babe, look out the window!”

Levi sighs, and sets his switch down on his chest. He shivers slightly in pleasure when you run a hand through his hair. “The sky’s just purple.”

“Just keep watching,” you tell him as you continue stroking his hair. Shades of lilac dominate the sky, fading off into a deeper royal shade struck through with bolts of gold that scatter throughout the clouds that pass. It all reminds you of him, the amount of charming personality he hides in the comfortable obscurity of his bedroom, the amount of secrets he reveals only to you. Levi watches in quiet contemplation that swiftly turns into fascination, especially when the stars start glimmering through the pale clouds.

“Woah!” he exclaims. “That’s so unreal! You guys get to watch stuff like this every day?”

“Most people don’t bother looking away from their screens for long enough to!” With a teasing laugh, you pinch his cheek and wrap your arms around his waist to snuggle closer into him.

“H-hey! Leave me alone!”

“I didn’t say I was talking about you! Are you admitting to something?” As Levi struggles in your grasp, you bury your face in his neck to blow raspberries that have him giggling, cheeks turning red as he tries to tickle you in return. You want to do this with him every night, you want to see him blush as you tease him… You want to give him all the affection you can, cuddled up in the backseat of your car for as long as he can stay in your arms.

♡ 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘯

✧ Soft grass tickles your skin and makes you smile, but what makes you smile the most is the way Satan tries to hide his blush with his book as you guide him to lay his head in your lap. The grass patch the pair of you settle into is a great change of pace from spending time trapped in the tomb-like library that Satan’s bedroom had become, and it’s all too easy to accidentally end up spending the entire day there together.

✧ “This is nice,” you hum, running your hand through Satan’s silky blond hair, ruffling it gently like the breeze ruffles the greenery that surrounds you. “I can actually breathe.”

“But at what cost…” Satan mumbles with a half-baked attempt at sounding dissatisfied. He blows away a cute bug that had found its way onto his leather bound book, which flits away, catching your eye with the way the fading sunlight catches on its gossamer wings. You fully know that Satan enjoys the setting as much as you do, and you kiss his forehead as you chuckle.

The time you spend with him is wonderful in its tranquility. The both of you understand each other, and understand that not all time needs to be spent talking. You revel in the quiet moments where his unspoken love washes over you with the way he holds your hand, or gazes at you quietly with a loving softness before returning to what he had been doing before. You love the way he loves you. You love the way he blushes when you show him any kind of affection, as if unused to the vulnerability of receiving genuine outspoken love.

The gilded light falls perfectly on Satan’s face, making his pale lashes look almost delicate while the sun sets before you. The sun slowly dips behind the rolling hills, and Satan gasps softly as he watches the shades of red set the sky ablaze behind sparse mist-like clouds.

“I’ve read about plenty of sunsets… but there are no words in any language that could capture something like this.” Satan’s voice is full of an innocent kind of wonder as he speaks, one that you have rarely heard him express. The many kinds of happiness that Satan expresses daily, though seemingly real, are all nuanced masks that the cynical demon skilfully applies— but the adorable crinkles under his eyes and the shamelessly wide grin makes it obvious that this is genuine happiness. He notices your silence and reaches a hand up to caress your cheek. “What are you thinking about, ______?”

“Just how I want to be like this forever with you.” You lean into his touch and lean down to kiss him with a radiant smile that matches his.

Satan manages to laugh softly this time, relaxing into the soft displays of affection with you, though his faint blush refuses to fade. “I think I’d like that.”

♡ 𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘴

✧ Dates in the human world aren’t dates if they don’t include having dessert at the most stylish bistros in the city. Not to Asmodeus, at least, and you can understand. They might be expensive at times, but these cafes offer the best food for the both of you to feed each other over the table, and are perfect for a million different photo opportunities that help Asmodeus let everyone who follows him know that his life is so much better than theirs.

✧ Which is why you’re surprised to notice that not once has Asmo demanded your help in taking photos after the sun had begun to set. Through the wide windows of the bistro that you sit beside, the sunlight filters through in a mix of pale golds and pinks. It’s the perfect opportunity for yet another set of pictures, but Asmo just sits happily, chattering on and asking you questions about yourself while he sips his milkshake.

“But it’s so tacky, isn’t it! Like, stop involving yourself in drama and get a life!” Asmodeus huffs, and you could laugh at his hypocrisy.

“Ugh, you’re so cute.”

“I know.” Asmo winks and slides his hand over the one you rest on the table to gently hold it, resting his chin on his free hand as he gazes at the way the sunlight paints your skin in gorgeous crystalline shades. His amber eyes are akin to those of churchgoers that gaze up at stained glass depictions of the saints in their adoration. It makes you blush, the way he smiles at you like you are his entire world, and quietly takes in your beauty.

You laugh bashfully. “You feeling okay? You haven’t asked me to take pictures of you at all today.”

“We have all of eternity to keep taking pictures of me. I just wanted to focus on you today, ______.” Asmo’s voice softens as he says that, and he takes your hand to kiss your knuckles with complete devotion. “You’re beautiful.”

“Ah… you really think so?”

“I’ve never seen a sunset before, but as stunning as it is, it’s still nothing compared to you, love.” Asmo’s smile is as gentle as the warmth the sunlight makes you feel as it falls upon your skin, and the love he showers you with is so familiar in its all-encompassing glow. Despite his sin, you never have to fear not being enough for him. He reminds you of it in so many ways every single day, and it makes you blush and return his gentle smile. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You can’t believe it either, and it makes you laugh quietly as you pull him by the collar into a sweet kiss over the cafe table, tasting the sugary sweet strawberry milkshake on his lips. It’s so him, and every little thing about Asmo just makes you crazier for him.

♡ 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘻𝘦𝘣𝘶𝘣

✧ The neon lights of the carnival are blinding, the laughter from having so much fun around your favourite person in the world making your stomach hurt, but you simply can’t stop. Especially not when Beelzebub carries you on his shoulders while running around the place and through the funhouses with childish glee. Your hands tangle themselves in his hair as you giggle and kiss his head, watching the sun slowly sink from the top of the world.

✧ Beel is trying to fix your hair at the end of it, sticking his tongue out in concentration while the both of you stand on the boardwalk, cooled by the seaside wind. It makes you giggle at him even more as you hold the cotton candy that you had bought to share.

“Where does your parting go again?” Beel mutters. “Left or right?”

“It’s fine, baby,” you chuckle, and tiptoe to kiss the tip of his tongue, resting your hand on his chest. It makes him give you a goofy smile around his tongue before he pulls it back in. You swear you feel your heart melt. “But thanks for trying.”

Under your hand, you feel Beel’s heart still wildly beating, and you’re not quite sure if it’s from the adrenaline of winning so many games and riding the rollercoasters, or if it’s from something else. You know that your heart is definitely still racing, but mostly because of the proximity between the both of you. The sun is setting past the horizon at this point, and you see it clearly slip halfway below the waves. The waves almost bleed crimson with the sky, and gold scatters across the waves as they crest over the horizon.

“______…” Beel’s voice is quiet in its awe. You feel his hand hold yours as he watches.

“Right?” You say, leaning into him. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” He’s almost too distracted by the sight to take a nibble of the cotton candy, but of course he does, and you smile at his courtesy. He always saves some of his food to share with you no matter how hungry he can be. “It’s just like you… You’re so different from anyone I’ve ever met before. Special. And you’re really beautiful, too.”

“Even with my hair like this?” You can’t help but giggle some more. He always does this to you, makes you feel a lightness and a warmth that you’ve never felt before around anyone else.

Beel kisses your head, and then leans down to kiss you, smiling against your lips. You feel the sticky sugar of the cotton candy on his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling into the kiss too.

“Even with your hair. No matter what you look like, I want to be yours.”

♡ 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘳

✧ You don’t know exactly what makes Belphegor visit you so much, considering the fact that he does the same thing in the human world that he does in the Devildom— sleep so much that he hardly pays attention to you.

✧ Complaining is easy, but you know that he can’t help it. Belphie tries to stay awake and do fun things with you when he can, and when he can’t, he’s always pulling you into bed so he can cuddle up with you and still dote on you in his own quiet way. You like that about him.

Belphie’s silky hair reflects the light that streams in through the windows, the faint orange and lilac hues dancing across him and casting shadows on the sheets, and you can’t help but press the softest kiss to his forehead.

“Wake up, Belphie,” you whisper. “Dinnertime.”

“Mm.” He shifts in the sheets and reluctantly opens his eyes with slow, sleepy blinks that make you want to shower him in all your love. Giving you a squeeze, he sighs and buries his face in your neck to hide from the light. With a bit of coaxing, you get him to sit up in bed with you, the both of you still swaddled in the comfortable covers as you lean into each other drowsily. Even in his sleepy state, you’re irresistible to Belphie. His hands wander slowly across your skin as he pulls you into him, the both of you quietly watching through the window as the sky turns brilliant shades of violet, the sun setting behind the buildings in the distance.

Belphie moves languidly. He rests his chin on your shoulder while mumbling, “Would you look at that.”

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” you sigh. “You’d get to see stuff like this more often if we actually went out when you visit.”

“Mm, but why would I go out if I could keep you all to myself here in bed?” Belphie’s voice is accompanied by his chuckling, and you can’t help but blush and nudge him with your elbow.

“You sound so gross.”

“You love it. You love me.” Belphie laughs and finds your hand to hold underneath the covers, and he holds you as close as he possibly can, nuzzling his face into your neck once more. You feel him leave the softest kisses on your skin as he intertwines your fingers in his. “...I love you, ______.”

Complaining is easy, until you’re reminded of moments like these with him, where life is simply too perfect to be real.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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okay-victoria · 3 years

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Random Personal Rant

For anyone somehow here not from the original thread, this started off me getting asked what finishing school is and me getting shit off my chest that is only mildly relevant about how I could both be of the social class that gets sent to finishing school and grows up on welfare.

With an understanding that in many parts of the world it wouldn't qualify as so, as far as the US goes, my dad is from what counts as a very old money family from Baltimore & Philadelphia. Both his siblings went to college and one now owns a major hedge fund, and his sister is married to a C-level executive at a huge conglomerate. His parents went to college. His grandparents went to college. All eight of his great grandparents went to college. My dad...did not go to college. He was not about that life, and while I don't mean it as an insult, when I say his primary occupation until I was ~5 was a drummer in a mediocre band I mean that he opened for a lot of great acts, and if you lived in the Boston to Atlanta area in the 80s you may have heard him play, but he was never a huge national name. But he wasn't an amateur band playing for free at some random local gig either.

My mom grew up on a chicken farm in a Mennonite family in Pennsylvania but also completely rejected her heritage and became a model, sort of like my father, of mediocre status. Not Giselle Bundchen, but had national contracts and if you have a Graco ad/box from 1990-1993 you might see both me and her on it. They met because my mom's friends placed bets, one each, on who could sleep with a member of their favorite local band first and my mom picked my dad and...my mom was actually supposed to go be a model in Tokyo and found out she was pregnant with me and couldn't go 😂

So, after my parents had two kids back to back with a third on the way and determined they needed lifestyles more in line with having three children, they became much poorer than they originally were because my mom stopped working and my dad, with a barely-passed-high-school education but needing a true "day job" worked day labor in construction. My dad's father was too proud to give us money/help if my dad didn't beg for it; despite having eventually four young children my dad never did so we ended up on all the state assistance programs one could imagine. My grandma jokes that dinners at my parents house were BYOC - bring your own chair, because we didn't own any.

My mother and paternal grandmother had no such pride issues and I live in eternal gratitude that my welfare childhood was not as crappy as it should have been because my grandmother would have my mom accompany her on grocery runs and buy us food without my father or grandfather knowing, and every Christmas and birthday my grandparents/godparents could give us the one big ticket gift all the kids wanted that year. But, on the other side, I once got stung by a bee inside my mouth because my brother threw a hairbrush through a cracked window at me and broke it and we couldn't afford to fix it for about two years and a hornet got in one day and rested himself in my coke can (my parents were the very American type that fed me coca-cola in baby bottles at age 8 when I was jealous of my younger siblings lol).

It is hard not to believe in "toxic masculinity" when two men warring over dumbass pride issues would rather their children/grandchildren go without food than suck it up and decide 'help' isn't the worst word in the English language, and you know you've only been saved by two women who came from totally different backgrounds and entirely disapproved of each other but reached out the hand to shake when it came down to toddlers getting the short end of the don't-bend-the-knee stick. It wasn't that either of the men were bad people, I loved them both and got along great with both, but on a societal level I feel they were socialized in a very fucked up way if that was the end result, as both claimed "male pride" in these instances [my dad took multiple thousands of dollars I'd saved from working during college from me during the 2008-2010 financial crisis and didn't tell me and that was the reason I was given for why I hadn't been informed/asked, because it would be too emotionally difficult for an adult man to ask a young woman. My graduation present was them repaying me 1/3 of the money they'd taken from me without asking because I'd like, trusted them when it had been in a joint account that was a holdover from when I was <18 and couldn't have my own bank account].

While in some ways my parents on the surface achieved the American dream of going from nothing to a bunch of money, the real factor in play was that my dad's father was the bank. My parents had no credit and couldn't get real loans. My dad worked construction and during the two major periods that flipping houses was very lucrative, he never had to get an actual loan or pay actual interest, he just had to ask his father to pay out cash and then repay him at a flat 2% interest rate that didn't even accrue over time, just...whenever you are ready, repay the value of the loan + 2%. Because my father was doing something productive, in these instances, my grandfather was happy to pay, because it wasn't giving away money, it was loaning it. I had a very weird situation of mostly being poor but like also getting taken to the "big donors" events at the Kennedy Center and my grandparents regularly buying me a dress as a child worth more than my mom's wedding dress and also needing to pretend I fit in with these people.

And look. When I say "these people"...honestly, by and large, most wealthy people, whether inherited or not, are not the assholes you want to imagine. Most of them are extremely nice. Most of them are generous when it comes to the less fortunate who are in their personal sphere of being. Most of them are just really out of touch. The 100% kindest of all of them that I know once relayed to me that she thought people would be happier if once a year they did what she did...go to the airport with a purse packed full of absolute necessities, buy a one way ticket to the most appealing destination on the flight board, buy your clothes and book your accommodations after you'd arrived, and come back after you felt you'd 'centered' yourself. She didn't understand why there were so many unhappy people who weren't taking this very obvious route to being happier. I didn't quite know how to explain that saying "most" people couldn't afford to do that either financially or from a job/career angle didn't even cover it, as "most" sounds like 70% instead of 99.7%.

I was both my parents eldest son and eldest daughter in the worst combination possible. I was the eldest son because I was the most stereotypically male of all my siblings, in everything from desire to physically fight the battles I was given to dislike of shopping/fashion to lack of emotional connection to my relationships, so I can now fix your average household plumbing/drywall/electrical issue better than most "city" guys I interact with and remain less clingy to them in the process. I was also very much the oldest daughter from a responsibility perspective, I managed our household and from age 10 - 24 managed the finances of our family business, my mom almost died giving birth to my youngest brother after a ruptured uterus that should never have happened in the first place if we had adequate insurance to get her a non-emergency C-section (I was just past 9 years old at the time) and I was informally withdrawn from school for two years to take care of the family when she couldn't because there is no paid parental leave in the US and we got double-fucked by the medical industry because she got a bad "mesh" put in and then had to have a further surgery to repair that which we also had to pay for and didn't have the money to win a lawsuit over.

I don't know quite how to put this, but in the deepest fuck you of the universe, my rich-immigrant-ggggg grandfather's money led to him owning banks, insurance companies, etc, and the family cashed out in a big way when their ownership was bought by and merged with what is now Cigna, one of the biggest US healthcare insurers, and my nuclear family specifically got screwed by the American health insurance industry, but anyway, we were the people selected for that karmic comeuppance so if you want to feel schadenfreude at my expense, I'll allow it without begrudging the sentiment, my family might have fucked up your family’s life too, not just their own.

I got up twice a night to feed my brother because my dad had to sleep unmolested in my room to get to work and my mom was too weak to carry my brother or even hold him against her while she nursed so I had to hold him up to her. Adjusting to living in a city and hearing lots of random noises all the time was not easy when I'd had mom sound instincts from age 9.

I learned to drive the fall my youngest bro was born because my mom couldn't and I had to get my middle brother to preschool and go the grocery store on my own. While I hold absolutely no ill will towards my father or grandfather for this and given that about 1/3 of my paternal family either has an autism diagnosis or should, I fully feel the struggles they both went through to be communicated with, my father wouldn't ask for help, and my grandmother that lived 20 minutes away couldn't give enough help because my grandfather refused to do a single dish on his own as that was outside their "marriage contract" type agreement and she couldn't ever stay with us overnight when there wasn't a clearly-communicated need, so they let the burden fall on a 9 - 11 year old child and that really shaped a lot of my life in both good and bad ways. My youngest brother is 22, and we have only just climbed out of the medical debt his birth left us with between my dad's life insurance and my oldest brother and I paying for the extra cost of out-of-state college tuition.

The irony of all of this is that because my father died before his father, when my grandmother dies, my siblings and I will all inherit enough money (as a non-blood relative my mom, despite keeping her vows to part at death and not having remarried in eight years, is cut out entirely) to make this a non-issue, but my grandfather couldn't conscience spotting his unluckiest child some money in the end of days to pay for my youngest two brothers' education and take that worry off my father as he was dying. The day before he died I had to hold him down in bed to keep him from trying to climb in his truck to go to work because he was so anxious about trying to provide for us in spite of his father having fuck you money, because his father didn't think it was fair to the other siblings (who, at the time, still owned a major hedge fund and were married to a C-level executive of a huge conglomerate). A day and a half later I went back to my job because at the time I was then the sole provider for the family and didn't want to risk asking for the standard week's bereavement leave when I knew I was capable of showing up at work the next day and was fresh out of college so hadn't built up a reputation yet.

My father worked the day each of us was born, so I suppose it is only fair and he smiled at the choice. In spite of what it may seem, I gave a baller and very heartfelt speech at his funeral to all his rich friends that over and above everything, he'd taught us how to be happy with our own lives no matter what, and multiple of them emailed my mom in the aftermath to say they'd reassessed their relationship with their children in light of it, although...tbh I kind of doubt that lasted and they probably changed nothing 😅. The last good talk I had with him, two weeks before he died [his liver was going and it sent toxins to his brain that de-personed him after that and he no longer recognized me as his daughter, but as his sister], I reassured him that though we would all be sad he'd gone, we'd live on just fine without him because that's how he'd raised us, and according to my mom that was what gave him the final bit of peace he needed. Although honestly, I don't think I will ever see the strength in another human again that it took my grandmother to sit next to him and stroke his hand and tell him to close his eyes and imagine he was happy on a beach and die, for God's sake, because he was unaware and in pain and just prolonging it for our sake by then.

That type of obsession my grandfather had with assessing his children and grandchildren on the basis of economic productivity and a very black and white idea of "fair" is one you don't easily forget, I promise you. My hedge fund uncle is currently positioning himself to screw us out of our inheritance because of janky writing in the will and I'm doing my fuck all best to gain the wherewithal to go toe-to-toe with this cold motherfucker in court as the oldest and representative member of my happily much nicer and softer younger brothers who I want to remain that way not because I even care that much about the money, I know what bills affect your credit first and what you can put off paying and all of us have good enough career prospects to do our own thing, but just because I want to give the middle finger to a man that was a multi-millionaire and drew lines on his milk and orange juice bottles when I came over so he knew if I drank what my parents couldn't afford when I was approximately six. Anyway, ask me why I support major reforms in wealth taxation. I don't care who it goes to, just not that guy, you feel?

Having expendable income was very exciting for a bit after I started working but once I got to the hateable point of assessing my annual bonus and internally complaining that I'd spent the money I should have spent on a Sauternes cellar to drop five digits on bedset materials (to be fair they are drop dead gorgeous, very comfy and the factory pays a living wage for people to handmake the sheets/duvets/pillows to people in San Francisco, which is not cheap, so maybe I did more good than harm with that), I two seconds later nodded to myself and went "the government needs to confiscate more money from me". The narrative is always that the "undeserving" will use it for dumb things they don't need like iPhones or refrigerators...?...but like...I could also have gone to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a very nice sheet/comforter set for at most a tenth of what I paid so am I really spending it responsibly either....?....who is going to get more joy out of this misspent money....?....not me, that is for sure, I probably would have had more fun going to BBB and laying on all the demo beds and buying something there.

My lifelong dream, which may become possible if/when I do have something of an inheritance, is to provide food security for one of the many towns in the US were most residents don't have it. It's the thing I remember the most distinctly over the years. I never could quite believe it when I got to the point that I could just...pay to eat at a restaurant. One of the most disappointed my mother has ever been in me is when I was twenty five and confessed I actually had no idea how much a gallon of milk cost in a city grocery store besides that it was probably between $1 and $5, because I didn't have to know. For now I make a weekly drop off of my excess produce to a mom group I met under somewhat weird circumstances but I was walking through the cut-through that went through the low-income housing back to my apartment at like 2 AM on a Saturday and these moms were out there partying and smoking weed with their kids all strapped in strollers around or the older ones watched by a rotating member of the group and I felt very safe and like these moms had a very good vibe of both living their own lives [seriously for mental health parents but in most cases specifically mothers need to be able to keep up relationships with people their age] but keeping their children safe and accounted for while doing so and trying their fuckin' best against all the odds to figure out how to make that happen when life had dealt them a shit hand.

...anyway, looping way back to the original question of what finishing school is, when I was almost done with middle school my dad had built a legit construction business that then very quickly took off because we lived in a commutable zip code to the now-rich-in-their-own-right people he went to high school with who trusted him to redo their homes. We eventually moved to that zip code but I stayed and commuted back to my old high school. But, i was a pretty wild kid which my father appreciated for a long while because I would follow him around on jobs and enjoy doing physical labor, but once I was mid-puberty and also he had to maybe show me to his high school friends that did not fly.

I snapped - not broke, snapped - my left thumb and my parents had to trap me like a wild animal to get me to go the hospital. Then I got a deep cut that partially injured a tendon in my leg and at eleven I tried to beat the shit out of my dad to prevent him from picking me up to strap me in the car and go to the hopsital. Next I got a deep splinter due to my eternal-barefoot tendencies and it wouldn't come out so got infected and I refused to go to the doctor [another weird back story but I was minorly sexually assaulted [[to be clear, not raped or anything big traumatic]] when I was eight and had to stay in hospital for a week and my parents couldn't be with me all the time so I have a permanent heebie-jeebie about going to the hospital, not true anxiety, I will go if I know I need to and I don't breathe heavy or anything, and I'm actually not permanently weirded out by sex or anything, just doctors in hospitals specifically I kind of unconsciously try to justify not needing to the extent I can rationalize it] and my dad was tired of my antics so he was like "fine if you don't go I will slice your foot in half with a Swiss Army knife to get it out" and I called his bluff and laid down on the floor, stuck my foot on his lap, and he didn't really know what to do when a barely fourteen year old girl called his bluff so my brothers watched in fascinated but horrified awe as I got my foot sliced open spectacularly so that the infection/splinter could come out and I didn't even make a sound out of spite despite it being quite painful to my recollection almost twenty years later.

They saw me cry from pain exactly one time when while trying to break up a fight between all three of them (it was over ice cream) I got pushed and my ankle got dislocated and what actually made me cry was snapping it back in place and they realized it was not a joke. These dumb assholes that I love have ragged on me for "skipping" chores the day after I was in the hospital because the day before that I had to spend 18 hours running Thanksgiving as a good sub-hostess like I didn't have a serious infection that needed treating and couldn't rest because none of them were up to any task beyond peeling potatoes.

After the Swiss Army knife incident, my dad's discussion of sending me to finishing school became real, which I knew when my mom made me take a walk with her and talked about it. Finishing school is like...etiquette school....? In ye olden day when finishing high school was not the norm for anyone, wealthy men finished high school and wealthy women often went to "finishing" school to have a combined education on being a proper lady but also being able to hold a decent conversation with your presumably-educated husband, so it wasn't entirely etiquette non-academic. It was more just like "what a rich man wants in a wife" school, which was sort of household management and knowing enough about cleaning/cooking to correct the staff if they fucked up, how to be a polite hostess, and how to not entirely bore him when you were alone together and had done your five minutes of sex or whatever so actually had to have a conversation. In modern times it has obviously expanded to be less bleak.

I said miss me with that, I can be a girl on my own, so I went full throttle into the girliest sport they offer in high school and ever since have gained the inestimable advantage of knowing how to also use femininity to my advantage, which I am very grateful to my parents for making me learn. It would be great if we lived in a world where that didn't count, but it did/still does, and they really set me up to operate in all the worlds.

It is weird for me to tell the story to Internet strangers because it's one of those things that makes your parents sound terrible and abusive in the general tone of the Internet nowadays, and while I support gender nonconforming children I don't remember my childhood or parents that way. But, I feel like the bits and pieces of my life I've given don't always make a ton of sense together without the context, so here it is, and in the end, I think a number of parts of it are areas where you can probably understand where it makes me have the opinions I do when I write.

Anyhoo, this makes my life sound far worse than it is, I actually have a great life and I am not unhappy with it at all and feel I was on the whole blessed with many more turns of luck than unluck, so, please, do not take this as a depressed artist rant, it is more like a rant of a very energetic person who rants about a lot of things all the time and didn’t need to come out but just did because the question was asked and the time was right with my life being in a bit of flux to think about how I got where I am and where I want to go and why.

Always remember no matter what problems it seems like I have, if I didn’t solve them on my 2 year round the world traveling hiatus I took from working, it’s my own fault, I definitely had the time and money to solve them and just chose not to.

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obiwanobi · 4 years

Note

In the Sith Senator au, I imagine that sheev introduces them either at a dinner party or maybe at a gala? anakin is in his robes as always and obiwan is super dressed up because he's a respectable senator thank you very much and he calls anakin darling and sweet thing and stuff like that and within an hour he has anakin wrapped around his finger

Okay, so WHY NOT BOTH? The last long post about this AU was painful, so have some “hate at first sight” and “0.2 sec for Obi-Wan to fix it and learn that banter and endearments can turn Anakin into a very charming mess”

The first time they met, Obi-Wan has just been elected Senator after working in politics on Stewjon for years, making enough important friends and empty promises to be re-elected even without showing his face on Stewjon until the next decade. It’s his first month back on Coruscant, close to Sidious after years on his own. He needs to show him that his presence here, so close to his Master, is right, and can only benefit their plans. Even when everything isn’t… great.

The committee of small planets of the mid rim is pestering him to join their sad little club of useless dustballs, he has dozens of demands of various needy mayors, dignitaries and even ministers from Stewjon to reply to, the Senate security staff are a bunch of lazy bastards who still haven’t given him his pass and badge to enter and exit the building whenever he wants to and keep pretending not to recognize him even though they force him to go through a full security check every morning, and he can’t find a decent assistant to hire.

You could say that Senator Kenobi is a bit on edge.

He really, really doesn’t need to be late to his first real, private meeting with Sidious, especially because his only excuse is ‘I forgot how busy traffic was on Coruscant in the morning, don’t blame me I’m used to the countryside and seeing more sheep than ships on my way to work”. That would probably not go too well.

Looking at his chrono every twenty seconds, he doesn’t pay enough attention to where he’s going and doesn’t notice the man turning at a corner on his side, running fast enough to come crashing against him without having the chance to do anything about it.

One second, a sharp cry, a flurry of dark robes and a cup of tea flying, and they’re both on the ground.

Obi-Wan isn’t pleased. You could say he’s even a bit exasperated, lying on his back, a stranger’s elbow digging in his stomach. And then he turns his head to see who’s stupid enough to run in the Senate’s corridors on a Monday morning and almost curses out loud when he recognises Jedi robes and a stupid Padawan’s braid.

It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s used to suppressing his Force-presence so no one can feel him and he’s not going to make a scene to attract more attention. He’s going to inhale and exhale slowly, accept the deepest of apologies from the stupid Jedi with a benevolent smile, repress his need to do something harsh, and be on his way.

But then the Padawan groans, rubs his head and asks reproachfully why Obi-Wan didn’t watch where he was going.

It’s eight am, half of his (expensive and only sold on Stewjon) tea on the floor, and Obi-Wan already wants to strangle a Jedi.

So, there is a shouting match.

Words like “pathetic life form” and “karking useless politician” are thrown, and it takes almost half a minute for Obi-Wan to realise that he’s arguing with a dumb teenager and that they’re still on the floor, half on top of each other. He, very politely, asks the Padawan to get the kriff up, doesn’t take the time to even look at the remains of his cup of tea after salvaging his wet datapad from the puddle on the ground, and leaves with one last silent death glare.

“You’re not even going to clean that?” the Padawan yells in his back, sounding revolted.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. What are droids for these days?

“You’re late,” Palpatine says flatly the instant the door of his office closes behind Obi-Wan. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Call me Chancellor for now. I want you to meet someone and he should be here soon. He could become important, maybe even crucial for our plans.”

“Oh? Another Senator or representative to charm?”

“Even better,” Palpatine smiles. And that’s what gets Obi-Wan interested. He knows this is the reason he’s here and the reason Sidious wants him in the Senate. Obi-Wan is a smooth talker, a nice face and a warm smile all in one. Someone who, with enough time and efforts, could make anyone believes in anything.

Palpatine always said that he was made for politics.

“He could be a decisive piece in this game. It will take a lot of careful manipulation and dedication to bring him to our side and I don’t have this kind of time to waste, so you’ll do. With enough care and patience, I think he could be the most loyal and useful… support, we could have.”

“Who is he? What do you want me to say and how far am I allowed to go?”

A knock at the door interrupts them. “For now,” Palpatine says in a low voice, sitting behind his desk, joining his hands together above it, the picture of old and trusted wisdom, “I just need you to make him like you.”

That’s not going to be a problem, Obi-Wan thinks, as the doors open. He straightens up, gets ready to put on his most radiant smile and displays an inviting openness and friendliness that few can resist.

The Padawan enters.

This is going to be a problem.

“Ah! My favourite Jedi!” Sidious exclaims loud enough to be heard over the music and raising his cocktail above their heads. Anakin Skywalker smiles as he sees him, and dutifully comes closer. The Chancellor makes a point of clapping his hand twice on his shoulder once Skywalker is in front of him, and leaves it there as he introduces him to his new chief of staff. If anyone is wondering what a Padawan is doing at a Senate party that should only include political staffers and a few dignitaries, no one breaths a word of it.

It gives Obi-Wan time to gauge, assess and appraise Skywalker, his reactions, body language, and anything he can learn from a simple conversation between Sidious and him. It would be his turn to do it soon. Relieve me from the burden of having to stroke the boy’s ego regularly so I can take care of more pressing issues, his master had snarled disdainfully. Right now, he’s playing the part of the dotting and proud fatherly figure to perfection, Obi-Wan has to give him that.

Attention, approval and respect, Sidious had told me. That’s all you need to be in Skywalker’s good graces. The boy will soak every bit of kindness you can spare, as long as he considers you someone worth his own devotion.

It didn’t stop Obi-Wan from learning absolutely everything he could about him, from his lightsaber technique to his favourite food because Obi-Wan is and will always be a very thorough man who doesn’t rely on luck or unprecise sciences like basic psychology. Especially from his Master, who probably never encountered an emotion or feeling he couldn’t twist to fuel his ambition.

Admittedly, Obi-Wan doesn’t share his Master enthusiasm for charming the brat and make him fall. He’s all for turning him against the Jedi, sure, that he can get behind and happily endorse, but having to deal with a moody teenager on a regular basis for the foreseeable future? It would be painful for everyone. Especially for Obi-Wan’s nerves.

Anakin Skywalker, reckless, volatile and troublesome former slave and actual Padawan, wasn’t the type of Sith candidate Obi-Wan would have chosen. Not at all. Too many variables, too many chances to go wrong, a wild card that he would never risk.

But Sidious is adamant. Doesn’t care for any of his arguments. He wants Skywalker, and Obi-Wan has started to realise why when he learnt all about the prophecy. Stealing the Jedi Chosen One and turning him against them in a last-second betrayal was the kind of symbolic irony Sidious loved and would gloat about for years to come. And when Sidious decides that he needs something, there is no going back.

But this time, Obi-Wan has to do all the hard work himself. He calculates that getting close to Skywalker, especially after their more than tense official introduction, is going to take months, maybe even (and Obi-Wan shudders at the thought) a year. Trapped at playing nice with an overgrown child who hates being told no and likes to think he’s above the rules. For no direct and personal benefit but the approval of his own Master.

Obi-Wan really, really hates it.

But that’s not going to stop him from completing his mission perfectly, as he has always done.

“I’m glad to see you, Chancellor,” Skywalker says softly, his quiet tone already at odd with what Obi-Wan expected. He grew taller than the last he saw him, and Obi-Wan hates it. His braid is a bit longer and his robes are a shade darker than a few months ago. Something passes in his eyes when the Padawan notices Obi-Wan’s presence next to the Chancellor and his head snaps up defiantly. “Senator Kenobi,” he grits out like the words pain him.

Obi-Wan needs to change this right now before Sidious deems him inapt for this mission.

He hates this a bit more.

The opportunity is given quicker than he thought when Sidious excuses himself and leaves their little group to mingle with other demanding sycophants. Obi-Wan gets stuck with Skywalker, Sidious’ chief of state who’s apparently only here for the free drinks, and Keneg, the senator of… Corulag? Barl’leth? One of those rich Core planets that hate anyone who isn’t them but need to be kept around for their credits, who always seems to suck years of his life every time Obi-Wan is forced to speak to him. It takes thirty seconds for all of them to grow bored of Keneg incessant complaints about how the lower levels of his planet are “ruining its reputation” and that the problem resides in their too lenient immigration policy, especially concerning poor and uneducated races.

Skywalker’s face is a journey. At least twelve different emotions play through his eyes, the twists of his mouth and raised eyebrows like a theatre actor in a dramatic scene at each careless word coming out of the Senator’s mouth, and Obi-Wan wonders if anyone has ever told him that Jedi are supposed to be masters of their own emotions first and foremost. Especially around politicians.

But it doesn’t matter right now, because that’s the opening he was waiting for.

“Excuse me Senator Keneg,” He cuts him off politely before another endless tirade. “I’m afraid I have to go, I see the Senator of Botor and I’ve been trying to talk to him for months. Surely you understand. Padawan Skywalker, may I ask for your assistance? We could use some Jedi wisdom in our debate, if you don’t mind.”

Skywalker looks torn between being relieved to be offered an out from an awful conversation, but also have no desire to spend more time with Obi-Wan.

“Sure,” he ends up mumbling, apparently judging that he was the lesser of two evils.

“Wonderful.” Obi-Wan doesn’t pay any attention to the betrayed look Sidious’ chief of state sends him after being left alone with Keneg.

“So,” Skywalker says, resigned, following Obi-Wan who’s making a beeline for the bar. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The senator of Botor? And what’s your deal with him?”

“I don’t even know what he looks like,” Obi-Wan replies, trying to ignore the casual tone Skywalker shouldn’t take with a Senator, even one he dislikes.

“What? Then why did you ask me to come with you?”

“Aren’t you relieved that I saved you from dreadful hours of xenophobic discussions about how poor people should be banned from showing their face in public because it doesn’t please Senator Keneg?”

“You didn’t save me,” Skywalker grimaces, but still seats beside him. “Is it… Is it always like that? I mean, I know Core worlds politicians can be a little…”

Obi-Wan weighs his options, and decides that Skywalker would probably appreciate truth more than carefully chosen words and subtle hypocrisy. Pretending to be the last nice man in politics is out of the question with the way they met, so Obi-Wan opts for sincerity.

To a degree.

“Snobbish? Disconnected from reality? Shameless bastards with no souls?” Obi-Wan says while signalling the bartender for Trandoshan ale and a cocktail.

“Well, yes.”

“Welcome to politics.”

Skywalker opens his mouth like he’s going to protest. He puts his hands in his sleeves, probably hoping to pass for a wise Jedi Master, but his pouty lips and frowned eyebrows make him look like a sulking youngling. “You’re part of it, you know. You can talk about it like you’re not one of them, but I remember you insulting me and leaving without caring about your tea and cup all over the floor.”

What a brat.

“My tea- My dear, do I have to remind you that you barreled into me at full stupid and made me spill my tea everywhere? Some Senators would have made a diplomatic incident out of it,” he huffs, a bit more irritable than he wanted to.

“You said I was a brainless child!”

“Because you ar—” Their drinks arrive at that moment, and it gives Obi-Wan precious seconds to compose himself.

This isn’t how he’s supposed to play it. He didn’t expect Skywalker to be this whiny and petulant, despite Sidious’ warning, and was planning on letting him think he was the one in control of the situation. He’s supposed to be a Jedi for Force sake, not someone who can’t control their tongue and get into pointless fights with politicians!

No, no. Grin and bear it. Obi-Wan should recall the last remnant of Jedi philosophy still in him.

“Padawan Skywalker, I’m sorry if my words offended you,” Obi-Wan says with the voice he normally uses for debates where he wants to appear as the most sincere and reasonable party. He holds a glass of ale to Skywalker, as a peace offering. “I admit I wasn’t in the most pleasant of disposition at that time, and I may have been harsher than I realised. I hope you can forgive me.”

This seems to mollify Skywalker a bit. He doesn’t look like he’s going to forget it, but does take the offered glass. “At least the Chancellor is different,” he sighs and Obi-Wan represses the urge to burst into laughter.

Oh, Skywalker is truly the most naïve boy around. Perhaps twisting his mind will turn out to be fun.

“Wait,” Obi-Wan exclaims suddenly as the Padawan holds the glass to his lips, “are you even old enough to drink?”

“Oh come on, I’m 19! I can handle a beer and I’m a Jedi, don’t forget,” he brags, like being Force-sensitive changes anything about his (probably low) alcohol tolerance. To be fair, a regular politician wouldn’t know anything about what the Force could and couldn’t do. Skywalker’s probably relying on lack of awareness about the magic and mysterious abilities of the Jedi to get away with it. It’s almost endearing.

“I don’t know, Padawan, you did look like an adorable sulking youngling just a minute ago.”

“Ador- I’m not adorable!” He yelps as his cheeks turn into an interesting shade of pink.

“But you don’t deny the youngling comment,” Obi-Wan teases good-naturedly between two sips of his cocktail. He can’t help it: It is way more intriguing to follow the colours on his face spreading to his neck than being on the receiving end of his frowns and accusing words.

Unduly flustered for such an innocent comment, Skywalker stutters a few syllables, huffs, and narrows his eyes at his glass, Obi-Wan’s playful smile, and his glass again. He downs the whole thing with his head thrown back before Obi-Wan can say anything, surprised by the sudden motion and too busy watching his throat moving until the empty glass is back on the table with a resounding clank. Still wiping his mouth, he calls the bartender and asks for another. Obi-Wan doesn’t miss the ‘don’t you dare stop me’ glare.

This isn’t how he imagined befriending him, but Skywalker is still seating next to him and getting into a rant about how he’s a capable man, thank you very much, and yesterday his Master even said so, well, not in these words, but he’s not a youngling, and absolutely not adorable, he’s a warrior, a protector, but he doesn’t suppose a politician can understand, and if Obi-Wan wants to know, his sabre technique is exceptional, really, it is!

His whole speech is supported by hands flying around to illustrate his words and mouthfuls of ale, because he is a man and not a kid, remember that, Senator Kenobi. It doesn’t prevent him from flushing a bit deeper and spluttering even more when Obi-Wan, listening attentively with a smile on his face, throws an indulgent of course you are, darling.

Skywalker turns his face away from him, desperate to hide his embarrassment, and orders another ale.

Adorable.

Obi-Wan can work with that.

Hours later, once Skywalker is happily sloshed and dangerously leaning toward crashing against his shoulder, Obi-Wan calls him a hover cab.

“Thanks, Senator Kenobi!” Skywalker exclaims as he climbs into the cab, like Obi-Wan is now his favourite person to be around. His cheerful and warm demeanour has stopped being surprising after his second ale. “You’re not as awful as I thought!”

Obi-Wan can’t help it, he laughs, truly laughs at that. It’s probably the most sincere compliment he’s gotten since he arrived at the Senate. “I’m glad you consider me a slightly better man than Senator Keneg,” he says, leaning forward toward Skywalker, hands on the cab.

Skywaker grins and raises an eyebrow at him. “And more handsome too!”

For once, it’s Obi-Wan who must look baffled. Despite his careful planning, all his diverse estimations and assessments about the different ways he could charm Skywalker, he didn’t consider actually seducing him. That’s… a whole new point of view.

Interrupting his thoughts, Skywalker yawns and starts hugging his robe around himself, smiling contently like he’s in the best place in the galaxy, barely trying to blink away sleep from his eyes. Adorable.

On an impulse, Obi-Wan leans closer to him and tugs on his braid. The reaction is worth it: Skywalker makes a small surprised noise, eyes suddenly wide, and the slight flush on his cheeks worsen in an instant.

Obi-Wan almost considers touching his face, just to see how warm his skin is. And maybe even brushing his parted lips with his thumb, just to see how warm it can still get.

But Obi-Wan feels merciful.

For tonight.

“Sleep well, Padawan,” he purrs, winding the thin braid around his finger one last time. Skywalker looks like he’s going to melt.

Obi-Wan can work with that too.

Two months later, Sidious tells him that he’s going to be the victim of an assassination attempt right before the Military Act vote. It would be acceptable for the Chancellor to be concerned about the protection and security of all Senators, of course, so he will push for Jedi protection and is certain to convince the Council to send one particular Padawan as a bodyguard.

Obi-Wan doesn’t hate the idea.

#these two asks were in my inbox for like... 2 months #I'm very slow but I don't forget!#sith senator kenobi au #anon #asks #obikin

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

To Weigh The Odds

Was I supposed to be writing Hotchniss fluff? Yes. Don’t ask me how I got here because I don’t honestly know.

Warning: suicide

David Rossi wants to beat the sense into him but he can’t stand the sight of the blood on Aaron’s swollen lips and heavily bandaged hands rubbing frantically at his bloodshot eyes. He wants to know who writes the tragedies he is forced to watch take place but he covets religion, it’s all he has, and right now he’s too fragile for those sort of doubts. “Aaron,” he begs, pleading for some semblance of life or attempt to get a rise from the man he’s grown to love so dearly. “Please, you--”

Aaron wants them to see through his mask, to see him as his father had. A coward. Let them say what they please and draw their own conclusion. Just, please, as they shut that iron door on his life and career throw away the key. Leave him so that he may rot in the reprieve of knowing he can’t hurt anyone else. So that Jessica can raise Jack away from his influence and the doubts and pains he causes that poor boy. No more weekends waiting for him to come home, no more disappointment.

Maybe then Reid will stop looking at him like he has the answers and Emily will stop calling, begging him to hold on just a little longer. Morgan can do the job, better than he ever has, and the team will move on. They won’t even remember him.

“They’re going to twist what happened with Foyet against you.”

Will it hurt to die? He’d read the Illiad so many times as a child the words are inscribed along his ribs, wedged between the bones that never healed from the years of abuse he suffered from his father. X-rays always betray this fact, betray him to anyone who can read them. Brittle ribs chipped away. The doctors warned him that he might need surgeries to fix the ribs Foyet broke in their fight.

He doesn’t know how to tell them that he doesn’t plan on living long enough to find out.

He imagines death will be like what Achilles felt just as Paris’ arrow pierced his flesh. The warmth of being swallowed whole and the misery to melt away. Pain, yes, but no more than he has now. (Is that what he’s doing now? Dragging Hector’s body through the city and wallowing in the pain. Having allowed his pride, his ego to get the only good thing about him to die and for what? To prove a point?)

“They’re going to call you a murderer. They’re gonna crucify you.”

He looks up at Dave, wincing as he feels another chip of his sternum break away. The carnage his life brings, thick with the stench of death… all his doing. “I did kill him,” he rasps. His eyes fall back to the old stained carpet beneath his feet. “I am a murderer.” He’d beaten Foyet badly, caved his skull in with his fists. They had to make the I.D. off of dental records. His nerve-damaged, broken hands are proof enough of that.

Pulling himself upright, he watches Dave take in his words. Forming one of his arguments. “What I did was wrong,” he admits readily because he believes that. Truly, he knows there was a better way for things to turn out. Maybe… Maybe if he’d done his job Haley would still be alive. “The difference is that I had a badge to back me.”

Had. The subtle implication, the meaning isn’t lost. “Aaron--” Dave bites his tongue. Mostly because he’s not sure what he wants to know. “What happened is not that simple.”

Hotch nods and then shrugs, “but it wasn’t that complicated, either.” Standing, body aching and the deepest moans of his body popping and cracking as he does so. “I’m going to go lay down,” he informs Dave softly, neither waiting nor looking back as he limps down the hall. Knowing that Dave won’t call after him, won’t push on, and for that, he’s so grateful.

“Take care of your son.” That’s all Morgan had found the strength to say to him at Haley’s funeral and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about those words. Then Strauss came with the retirement forms, a handsome sum of his life right there at his fingertips but it doesn’t end like that. It can’t end like this and he knows it.

The Bureau will give Jack everything. His will has specific instructions, to the last cent. His funeral will be minimal. He’ll be cremated because he doesn’t deserve the plot he bought beside Haley and it’s better they just dump him somewhere rather than leave behind a tombstone. There will be no mourning anyways… just momentary shock and then they’ll be free of him.

Taking care of Jack is pulling out the pain medications he was given after the stabbing. A handful of oxycodone in his large palm but he can’t knock them back like they always do with such ease in the movies. Slowly, sipping water he downs them two at a time. The irony is the bliss he feels as they start to take effect. How many times had he writhed in pain? How many times had he denied himself those pills because he hated the way they made him feel?

“Aaron?” Dave knocks at his closed bedroom door but he doesn’t try to come in. If he did, he’d find the door locked.

His stomach is empty, the pills work so overwhelmingly fast. He feels sick.

“Aaron--” Dave doesn’t know what to say.

Aaron crawls into his bed, sighing as he curls into his side. Wrapping his heated blanket around his shoulders, he sighs with the relief that washes over him.

“We love you.” Dave reasons. “I love you, Aaron. This is… We can take care of this.”

Closing his eyes, Aaron hums. Yes. He knows all this can be taken care of… and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Taking care of this mess.

#criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #tw suicide

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bxllafanficc · 3 years

Text

A world without heroes

Summary: Loki is imprisoned after the sudden attack on New York and with that, rest of the earth. And while you always thought you would have your lover's back, you find yourself unable to forgive this one. It's time for you to decide when enough's enough.

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x reader

Sidenote: This was inspired by the song "A world without heroes" from KISS. I just immediately though about a moment where reader would be thrown into a deep sea of darkness after finding out the major betrayal lingering beneath many layers of Loki Laufeyson's charismatic persona.

The cold surface of the bulletproof glass is supposed to have a large impact on your wrist as the two objects collide. It's supposed to hurt but it doesn't. The glass is meant to stand and for you to give up. You're meant to lay off and calm down; meaning, stop slamming your fist into the cell like if it was going to break if you just willed your way through.

They say that if you want something enough, you possess the power to do anything. But what do you want to such an extent? More importantly, what does he want? What did he really want? Has he ever wanted any more than a throne to sit on? Or was there something more to it? Did he even know what it really meant? And if so, did he realize the consequences of his actions; not just by the billions of lives he would have destroyed, but his family, yours and especially his own as well.

A part of you wants to believe that he was under some kind of control; that he wasn't really conscious these past days. All the lives he already stole, you want to think that if he had a choice, he would've spared them. You want to believe it all so badly. You want to throw all your common sense away and just collapse into his arms. Give him a tender kiss and gaze into his eyes with lingering warmth like you used to. To forgive and forget.

But the common sense stays where it should be. You can't. Because the past days he's been imprisoned, he's confirmed every action. He doesn't even defend anything; thinks he doesn't need to. Rock-hard believing his decision was the right one to make when he really had no right.

And your eyes are no more tender and soft; but clouded and swollen, piercing through the pair of eyes on the other side of the glass. And your mouth is not tasting the sensetion of sweet lips. Only the salty wetness of your tears pooling like mad rivers.

Your chest feels heavy and about to explode. You need to scream; feel like that's the only solution to relieve the pressure. You almost feel like you're being choked. Choked on love, choked on hope, air, trust, literally everything your life has contained so far.

And the man in front of you doesn't seem to understand how your world is seemingly falling apart before him. The pure confusion in his eyes is twisting your stomach and your feel like throwing up.

"I thought I knew you."

Your sobs has quieted down. Before, you weren't able to speak very well. You just had to wait the storm out until it came rushing back ten times worse next time.

"You do, darling. You always have."

Calm as a snake and laid back. He doesn't even seem to realize that every word spoken will matter in the following moments of actions where you will decide both your fates for him.

"Did I, really? How can you look me in the eyes and say that with your disgusting pride!" You spit at the glass; aim at his feet but it doesn't seem to faze him a tiny bit. You want to bring out a reaction from him, cause maybe then, you would get some sense of honesty out of him.

"My disgusting pride? The world we're living in is disgusting and twisted. How can you even compare midgardians brutality and greediness to Asgards prosperity and beauty?"

You don't want to hear this talk again. Only a couple of years ago, you would have ignored it as just one of his endless bitter rants and thought nothing more of it, not knowing that he was actually planning to find an end to his irritation.

"(Y/n), darling, You have agreed with me on this! We agreed that humans are short minded, only good for the cause of starting a war between their own race and assassinate each other. Their petty little lives are doomed anyway."

You can't even process the amount of irony and hypocrisy seeping through his sentences. You want to scream at him. You want to hold him. You want to cry, give him a piece of your mind. But you want to fall asleep in his arms. You miss his embrace so much. Endless tiredness since he vanished, only to find he's become a monster.

Your fists attempts to break the glass once again, aiming at his perfect eyes. Those damn eyes. The same eyes you used to adore. You still do. Torn between what you want and what you should do.

"You had no right! Who are you to choose who gets to live and who doesn't?! Why should you be any different from the humans?"

Your words are no longer contained into normal conversation. Only now, Loki seems to actually start realizing the weight behind your rage.

"I did it for us, love! For you. How am I supposed to give you everything if I'm just a mere god, son of a bastard and feared of my own people. Is that the man to give you everything? Is it?"

You don't even know where the thought process of this has sparked in his mind. Never have you asked anything unusual from him, just endless trust and honesty. You have always supported him when no one else would and when nobody wanted anything to do with him. A shoulder to cry on or an ear for venting. You've heated him up with your warmth when he was feeling cold and kissed him back to health countless of times. You used to be his. In return you only asked for trust and honesty. And the funny thing? In the end, you got none of that.

"I never wanted the world, Loki! I wanted you! Couldn't you see that you were enough?"

"Why do you care about the midgardians so much? What have they done for you? Have they given you flowers when you were sad? Have they kept you company at nights where you were haunted by nightmares? Did they do any of those? Because I recall it was me who stood by you all those years!"

Why is he suddenly so angry? It makes no sense to you. When he for once speaks from his real thoughts, anger and frustration is still the feeling behind it. Even if he got his plan to destroy earth through, it wouldn't stop his burning hate.

"You speak like they are nothing but soulless objects, pawns for you to manipulate when you feel like it!"

"They need a group of unstable mutants to protect them from dangers! A bunch of heroes that they don't even really like sometimes. The heroes gets the blame of the catastrophe happening even if they are the one fighting it! Is that a society worth fighting for? Their beloved little heroes are nothing but fools."

"Everything is worth fighting for. You don't know these people, do you? And as for the people, the heroes are a beacon of hope; a sign to stand strong and come together!"

You stand quiet for a second. Your fist lowers itself against the hard surface.

"Against people like you."

You don't want to see him anymore. Heard enough. Ready to go. You've made you decision. Because how could there ever be a change to this man? When he's been hiding his true nature behind your back for so long? Did you even know who you loved? Could you even call it love?

"Did you ever love me? Or was I just being fooled this entire time?"

Concern is now displaying on him for real. Maybe he's realize where you're going; what you're about to say.

"Why would you ask that? I love you more than anything! (Y/n), please understand this! I'd do anything for you!"

"Then tell me one single moment, just one, where you've spent time with me and thought 'I could be satisfied with this. I don't need power. I'm good with what I have'."

You heart is aching with anticipation. It's almost fatal. You don't want to know but he must realize it himself before you can finish.

And you can really see how he's trying. He's trying so hard for you, he thinks. He probably thinks he's tried doing everything for you; when he really just needed not to do anything at all. And just like you guessed, there comes no words. He knows you'll see if he's lying and knows you're right. But you don't ever think he will ever regret his attack for the right reasons. Nor for you, to get you back. No, you'll never accept that.

"I can't live like this, Loki. Can't you see you're breaking my heart?"

"I didn't mean to-"

"No. You didn't mean to do it, right? That's what you're gonna say... But I've heard enough. You have made a decision. And it's about time that I make mine as well."

The realization hits him almost instantly. And all the traces of his usually calm manner were gone in an instant. He's no longer standing with hands clasped behind his back. But they're clawing and pawning at the glass keeping the two of you apart. Loneliness is the one fatal emotion he hasn't dared himself to feel for years with you by his side. But now when it all might be taken away from him in a matter of seconds? How is he supposed to react?

He's begging, pleading, punching and screaming. Sobbing and begging even more. His silvertounge can't save him now. Nothing can save him now from the unruly fate. A path he himself had laid out beneath his feet.

"Please, (Y/n) I love you! I don't want to be here alone!"

...

"Please... It's cold and dark. I can't breathe without your warmth! Just.. Please!"

You can't stand to hear any more. His pleading is too much and you've stayed enough.

Your heart feels like it's being torn in half by your own hands as you turn around, the cold of your back hitting him in the deepest depths of his despair. And it sets him off.

You're going to leave him. The only purely good thing in his life is going to leave him. Where is he going to get his hugs? It doesn't matter because they won't be from you. Is he even going to remember your face when time has passed? Will he even remember your laugh, smile or your goofy little moments together? Will you find somebody else? Forget about him and move on.

Loki doesn't want you to move on; doesn't want you to move at all. He's ready to do whatever it takes to get you to stay.

And he would, if there wasn't a thick wall between you, keeping him from you no matter how hard he slammed it or how loudly he screamed at you.

Pleading became despair and despair led to threats; the only solution left to try.

He knew it was wrong. Wrong to threaten a loved one, especially you. But he would never accept his fate knowing that he hadn't tried anything in his power to make the only thing left for him to love slip past his hands.

But a tiny part of him knows that you won't hear him. Won't listen to him like those late summer nights under the moon on a cozy blanket, you tightly wrapped into his embrace with a content smile on your face.

Or the time when a sudden attack of sorrow and anxiety hit him in the middle of the night and you held him close to your chest while whispering sweet assurances for him to fall asleep to.

You had been his anchor to the real world.

You were the only thing to keep him sane enough.

But it wasn't enough in the end.

You had been his hero.

But not even a hero could save someone's world sometimes.

Especially when he was the one ruining it.

His love.

(Y/n)

#inspiration #marvel #marvel imagine #art #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki of asgard #loki x y/n #loki series #loki friggason #loki x you #loki angst #marvel fanfiction #marvel angst #thor odinson #thor x reader

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clintbartonswife · 4 years

Text

i’d trade my life for yours

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier Summary: Jaskier will be loyal to Geralt until his last breath, this he swears. Notes: im sorry. descriptions of torture. mentions rape (not graphic in the slightest, more like an allusion, but tagged it just to be safe), major character death. This is the bad ending, for a nicer ending read the series below :) masterlist || nicer ending (p2)

Jaskier had always felt too much, falling a little bit in love with almost everyone he meets. The seamstress from Beauclair with the deepest green eyes he had ever seen, the knight from Kerack who had muscles the size of Jaskier’s head, the innkeeper and his wife from Rinde who had the warmest smiles he had ever seen.

All loves that he treasured, yet let go after a night or two, the heartache keeping him company until he found another gorgeous person to fall for.

When he finds Geralt at the ripe age of 18 it’s different, for once the bard doesn’t want to leave, a nagging feeling pulling him along the path by the Witcher’s side.

His love grows easily, from that of shallow appreciation of his honey golden eyes to a fierce want to protect his love from those that scorn him in every village they visit, a need to nurture the fragile relationship they were building.

It’s only Jaskier’s luck that the only person to ever intrigue him enough to stay seems to want him to leave, impenetrable walls built around his heart.

So, Jaskier writes songs of their travels, being respectful of Geralt’s boundaries whilst still trying to provide as much tender love and care as he could without scaring the Witcher, all the while falling deeper and deeper in love.

Everything starts to go wrong after the djiin.

He watches through the window as his heart breaks with every thrust of Geralt’s hips, the Witchers disinterest (which he had assumed was general Witchery distance) suddenly making more sense - he just didn’t like Jaskier.

Still the bard stayed, sewing his heart back together with every step he took beside the Witcher. His affectionate touches didn’t falter, not allowing his own personal hurt to affect his Geralt negatively. He still deserved as much softness as he could bring himself to provide - Melitele knows Yennefer wasn’t providing that.

Jaskier funnelled all of his creative energy in to his songs, more and more of them staying in his private notebook, too personal to be sung in front of Geralt, let alone the general public.

After each time they met with Yennefer, Jaskier was there to pick up the broken pieces the Witch left behind, baring the brunt of Geralt’s bad mood for a week after she had gone, heart chipping a little more each time as his hatred for the woman grows.

The last straw was the dragon hunt. The whistling winds whipping Jaskier’s hair in his eyes as Geralt’s words lashed out at him, vicious and hateful.

In the following two weeks, Jaskier drank to forget, falling back into old habits and into strangers beds with a new desperation.

The young farmer with hazel eyes - not as beautiful as Geralt’s. The miller’s daughter with blonde hair - not light enough.

The people begin to blend together, yet it doesn’t work. The heartbreak still radiates through his body, numbing him from any other emotion.

He’s too drunk to register that Cintra has fallen.

Too drunk to hear the rumours of the bounty on his head.

Too drunk to notice the Nilfgaardian soldiers entering the tavern.

Too drunk to defend himself against their arms that steal him away that night.

When he awakens the next morning, head throbbing with the familiar pain of a hangover, Jaskier is hit with a wave of nausea.

Turning his head to the side, he reaches for the bed-side table, blanching when he finds his arms restrained. It takes a few seconds to register that he’s in unfamiliar surroundings: the distinctly tavern smell (of weak ale and piss) gone, the slightly scratchy linens of the bed replaced with a hard wood surface.

Unrestrained panic swelled up in the bard’s chest, his instincts kicking in as he tried to mimic sleep.

‘Just breathe slowly, keep your eyes closed and stay calm’ repeated through his brain, sounding suspiciously like Geralt’s voice.

“-the bastard up yet?”

“He wasn’t the last time I checked, no sir”

“And no sign from the Witcher?”

“None sir”

Jaskier heard a scoff as the door opened, two sets of feet stopping at the side of the chair. Unnerving silence fell for a few seconds, before a heavy kick was given to his ribs, punching the air from his lungs in a loud exhale.

“Now listen here, bard” the bigger of the two men all-but-growled, looming over Jaskier as the singer blinked heavily to clear the daze that had settled over him, “We’re going to make this real simple. You tell us what we need to know, and maybe we wont kill you”

Scrunching his nose in disgust, Jaskier considered his options, “What is it that you want to know?”

Another scoff.

“Maybe he’s not so useless after all” the tall man sneered, exchanging an amused glance with the man stood in the corner, “Tell us where the Butcher of Blaviken is”

Self preservation was forgotten as the nickname stirred up anger deep inside Jaskier, the unfairness choking him, “I’m afraid I don’t know any butchers, not the biggest fan of hanging around long enough in towns long enough to befriend anyone in that profession I’m afraid”

That earnt him a sharp slap, the sting helping to ground him.

“Don’t try to be smart. Where is the Witcher - Geralt of Rivia?”

“Oh, I do know him” Jaskier answered, tone kept light and conversational, “Of course I haven’t seen him in months so I’m afraid I’m really of no use to you gentlemen”

Another slap.

“Now that must be a lie. Why would the Witcher leave his little whore behind?”

Now that one stung, the frown forming on Jaskier’s face before he could stop it.

“Aw, struck a chord with that, did I? He found someone else I assume - though Melitele knows how anyone can lay with a monster like -”

Rage finally overflowing, Jaskier spat in the man’s face, “How dare you call him a monster. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be”

A bitter chuckle, followed by a punch that left the bard tasting copper.

“I think you might actually be in love with that thing” he said, amused, “That just makes this all the more fun”

Jaskier held eye contact with the man, glowering as he slowly spat out the pooled blood onto the floor.

“Tell me where he is”

“No”

Two punches to his stomach, and a hard kick to his shin.

“My sister hurt me worse than that for stealing her brush when we were seven” Jaskier sneered.

“Where is he”

A backhand across the face, followed by three hard kicks to his ribs.

“Toss a coin to your-”

Another heavy kick to his stomach, winding him slightly as he keeled forward, a burning pain spreading over his chest.

“Oh valley of plenty” he wheezed, forcing his head back up to stare at his captor’s face.

The day carried on very much the same, Jaskier working through his repertoire of songs as he was beaten black and blue, the lyrics keeping him focused and alert.

The man in the corner just stood and watched, his silent presence looming over the beating.

“I must say” Jaskier eventually huffed, directing his words at the man in the corner, “Your indifference to this situation is highly annoying. Are you not enjoying the performance?”

His question was met with another heavy hit to his stomach, the skin there surely covered in a patchwork quilt of forming bruises.

“You bore me”

The voice was cold, cutting through the pain like a knife and replacing all feeling in his body with the need to flee, an innate wrongness surrounding the man.

He stepped forward into the light, pink eyes flashing at him, “I think it’s high time we shut you up”

The taller man grinned, a shark-like expression that just added to the bard’s discomfort, moving behind him to grab him by the sides of the head, tilting him so that his neck was bared to the room.

They’re going to slit my throat, Jaskier thought absently, half delirious with pain, this is it.

The slimy tendrils of magic prodding at his mind made Jaskier’s eyes widen in panic, struggling against the bonds in a fruitless effort to get away from the unsettling sensation.

No. No this was so much worse.

He could handle pain. He could handle taunting words and harsh treatment. The one thing Jaskier couldn’t handle was fucking mages.

“No - “ he gasped, voice distorted by the angle of his head, “please-”

Yellow eyes. Lips curled in to a snarl.

The mountain.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

No. No no no no no no no. Not this. Anything but this.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, its you, shoveling it?”

White hair. Curled fists.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands”

Wet eyes. Shattered heart. A wasted life.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

And it looped. Again, and again, and again,

“Ready to talk, bard?”

His eyes fluttered open, eyelids heavy, fighting to remain closed.

“Fuck. You” he hissed, words mangled through gritted teeth.

The mage smirked, fingers reaching for his temple again, “Very well. It seems like one hour wasn’t enough”

The last thought Jaskier had before being pulled back to the mountain was one of horror, that one hour had felt like an entire day.

When he came to once more, Geralt’s voice still ringing in his ears, Jaskier realised there was a new man in the otherwise empty room.

“Going to talk yet little birdy?” the man asked, voice far too light for the circumstances, his posture reminiscent of those that approached him in taverns with hopes of charming him into bed that night.

The realisation occurred to him as he noticed his hands were free, a rusty cot added to the corner of the room.

“No” he whispered, the horror palpable in his tone.

“Well that’s too bad” the man sneered, his too-rough hands dragging him out of the chair and towards the cot.

The irony was that in that moment Jaskier would’ve given anything to have been back on that mountain, Geralt blaming him for everything, rather than be faced with his current reality.

Of course, the mage wasn’t kind enough for that.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how many days had passed since his capture.

What he did know was this: his throat was too sore to speak, ruined from both abuse and lack of water; his body was so mottled that it looked like he had begun rotting, greenish-yellow marks covering almost every inch of his skin; his back shredded by the impromptu whipping session earlier that morning; and he wasn’t sure he could muster a smile, even if informed of the untimely and gruesome death of Valdo Marx.

But, no matter what they threw at him, he would not betray Geralt.

He had made this vow to himself during a quiet moment on (what he guessed was) the second day, that no matter what faced him - be it further torture, mutilation and eventually death - he would not speak a word of the little information he knew.

He may have ruined Geralt’s life, may have annoyed him with his incessant and unwelcome company, but one thing Jaskier could give him now was his undying loyalty, the one thing that no one could take away from him.

They wouldn’t take away his love.

So he breathed steadily as he looked as his hands, tied down firmly to the arms of the chair, taking in every detail of the calloused fingers that made him the famous bard that he was today.

“Last chance. Where is the Witcher”

Jaskier just grinned, the smile bloody and insincere.

“Fucking your mother I would imagine” he croaked, withholding the wince of pain from the strain on his throat, instead widening his grin at the look of anger on the man’s face.

With a growl, the man brought the hammer down heavily on Jaskier’s left ring finger, smiling sickeningly at the bard’s agonised scream.

“Where is he?”

Head fuzzy with pain, Jaskier scowled and spat his blood in the man’s eyes.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed around the small room, Jaskier’s scream ringing out as another two fingers were smashed.

The line of questioning continued until all of his fingers were unrecognisable, the bard humming ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ through tears as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

“What a shame” the captor said, fake sympathy swimming in his cold eyes, “Looks like you’re worth even less than you were when we found you. What worth is a bard if he cant play anymore?”

The man pretended to think, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Of course! A brothel worker!” He paused, tutting again and shaking his head, “No you cant even be that, we’ve made you far too ugly”

Jaskier tried to ignore his words, focusing on his rattling lungs instead, forcing them to inhale and exhale.

Unconsciousness crept forward, the pain finally overwhelming him, Jaskier falling into it’s open arms gladly.

“-cher isn’t coming for him. We’ve had the word out for two weeks and got nothing”

The words drifted in to Jaskier’s cell, the conversation prying him from sleep.

“So what do we do? The bard’s not talking”

“We were meant to give a destination by yesterday”

“So we make one up, blame the bard when it comes back empty”

“… That could work”

“Then I’m guessing we kill him afterwards?”

“Theres no reason to keep him”

“Well-”

“You’re not using army funds to feed just so he can be your personal whore, Cahir would skin you alive if he found out”

Jaskier huffed a laugh at that - the realisation that his worth had finally been reduced to what his father had called him all those decades ago, ‘a worthless whore’, ‘useless to polite society’.

The conversation carried on, though Jaskier’s mind drifted, thoughts racing yet head surprisingly clear. He shifted in his seat, only slightly to the left, wincing as the healing whip wounds on his back pulled open again, the stinging pain keeping him tethered to consciousness.

Not for the first time, he wondered where Geralt was. Safe, that he was sure of, hidden from the greedy eyes of the Nilfgaardian army if their unhappiness was anything to go off of.

Had he found Cirilla yet?

Was Roach okay?

Was he taking proper care of himself?

And - in even his lowest moments - he found himself wondering how Yennefer was.

If she was handling the break-up better than he did.

If she was safe, happy, looked after.

Or maybe, perhaps even back with Geralt. The three of them playing happy families while Jaskier rotted in a cell and waited for a hapless death.

Being on your deathbed gave you a lot of perspective, Jaskier had realised, and he found it hard to even hate Valdo on occasion (until he regained some energy from a piece of stale bread thrown at him and immediately felt disgusted that the thought had even crossed his mind).

As the fog in his brain seemed to seep into his dimming vision, his thoughts returned to Geralt’s eyes.

“Goodnight my love”

The news reached Geralt as they were passing a backwater town.

“The bard Jaskier - I swear it was! They dragged him out t’wards the Nilfgaard base”

“Tom stop jabbering, they would’a been shouting that from the rooftops if they got ‘im”

Coldness seeped into the Witcher’s bones as the words registered in his brain, his eyes flying to Yennefer. The sorceress was looking at him with pity in her eyes.

“I can try scrying-”

“Please”

Ciri watched in awe as Yennefer set up her equipment that night in their camp, bouncing with barely restrained curiosity at all the new instruments that the mage seemed to summon from nowhere.

The young princess’ enthusiasm calmed Geralt slightly, focusing on her youthful movements instead of the dread that settled over him at the thought of Jaskier’s current situation, guilt hitting him every few minutes as he replayed their last conversation.

‘If life could give me one blessing-’

“He’s in Neunreuth” Yennefer said, looking up with a solemn expression, “in a Nilfgaardian fortress”

“They were right” the Witcher breathed, utterly defeated.

“So we’re going to get him right?” Ciri asked, enthusiasm now dampened by the morose mood emanating from the two adults.

“Of course”

Yennefer quirked her eyebrow at his firm reply, before nodding in agreement, “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow”

Geralt knew the second he stepped out of the portal that something was wrong.

“He cant be here” he thought aloud, “It’s been abandoned”

Yennefer frowned, her expression telling him everything she refused to say out loud, “He’s here”

“No”

Striding forwards, the Witcher advanced on the old manor house, nose picking up on the scent of Jaskier’s blood the second he reached the front door.

“No!”

Strides turned in to a sprint as he chased the scent, denial still swirling through his brain as he got closer and closer to the muted wildflower scent.

“Jaskier”

The name fell from his lips as his knees gave out from under him, the sight of his bard’s limp body hanging from the chair punching all the breath from him. The smell of rusted blood was overwhelming, a pool in the corner dating back months.

Geralt sat there, disgusted by himself as he imagined how long Jaskier had waited for him to come and rescue him, how long he had stayed faithful to a monster.

He wasn't worth Jaskier’s life.

He wasn't aware he was crying until Yennefer laid a hand on his shoulder, “Geralt-”

“No” he hissed, struggling to his feet and moving over to the bard, “he cant be dead - he -”

Eyes wild, he turned around to face the sorceress, rising to his full height, “Fix him. I know you can - you did it last time”

“Geralt-”

Anger overtaking him, he pulled Jaskier’s limp body into his arms, unaware of how much his own hands were shaking.

“FIX HIM. YOU NEED TO FIX HIM NOW”

“Geralt stop”

“YOU NEED TO FIX HIM” he shouted, falling to his knees again, cradling the cold body in his arms as he sobbed, “Please fix him, Yen I need - I need you to fix him please”

The woman sighed, brushing a hand over Jaskier’s temple, looking for any sign of life.

“He’s gone"

Geralt’s cries could be heard in the next village over, lasting well into the night.

Not long after, tales of the White Wolf, Princess of Cintra and the Raven Sorceress were spread far and wide, the image of Cahir’s head on a stick engraved in the public’s minds.

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imtryingthisout · 4 years

Text

Of Flames and Fire: Prologue

[If you hate me for writing this, just remember I hate myself more and that this began because of a joke.]

Warnings: Ask to Tag

Word Count: 3627

Fandom: Disney Descendants

*************************************************

Dirt clung to the fringes of Maleficent’s robes as she descended deeper into the cavernous warren. Once upon a time her presence would have struck such fear that not even the dust mites would have dared come near her, but such a time was over now, and now the endings of her black cloak grew more and more soiled with every step she took.

She held a twisted candelabra in one hand and her faithful staff in the other. The small flame burned a deep rouge color, more red than yellow, with how thick and low the air had become. Maleficent was surprised it still burned at all. She was thankful for the candle’s valiant effort. Gone were the days where she could summon a ball of hellfire to illuminate the room, and with all the dust and filth in the air she wasn't sure her darkvision would be of any use.

A drop of hot wax struck her fingers.

Maleficent continued onwards.

As she ventured closer and closer to her destination, the sound of barking began to ring in her ears. Viscous growls, the sound of teeth hitting teeth, shrieks and yelps and oh so much barking. Were she a lesser soul it might have frightened her, or at the very least given her a pause, but she knew that no dog (three headed or otherwise) lived down here, just a lonely master trying to cope with the sound of silence.

(Out of everything her new prison tormented her with, Maleficent never thought she would grow to loathe the quiet. The silence. Even on the Forbidden Mountain she would hear the rustling of wind, the roaring cacophony of her minion’s delight, the sound of Diablo’s deep cawing. But here, even with the tumult of the budding city of thieves and villains, her thoughts screamed louder than any noise. Here she felt more alone than she ever did atop her ruined castle.)

No door was mounted to the cave’s wall, it would be far too impractical to do so, so Maleficent raised a curved fist and knocked thrice on a wooden post instead. “Who is it?” a voice called out from lower in the room, it sounded irritated and gruff, good. Maleficent smiled “Just a passing visitor Lord Hades”.

Quicker than she thought possible, the exiled Monarch of the Underworld stood leaning against the doorframe, one arm draped over the rotten wood and his head tilted with a school boy smile (if a school boy had eyes of glowing brimstone and thorny rows of sharp teeth protruding from his gums). “Why Miss Maleficent, what brings you to my little.. home away from home?”

She took a moment to drink in his sight, he looked more or less the same as he did when they first met, a little more tired, maybe, a little less put together, thick silver-colored cuffs bound round his wrists to drain his godly might. Still something about him seemed different, she couldn't quite place her finger on it, then she met his gaze. “Kohl around the eyes, Lord Hades? I do hope you aren't going Egyptain on me”

He snorted and rolled his- yes, black lined- eyes “Nah those guys are great, but they sure as Me don’t need another Death God. Besides- Blue Hair? Blue Skin? It’s already confusing enough for mortals to get us mixed up at parties, and don't even get me started on the Ptolemaic Pantheon menagerie, cultural syncretism is fun and all but all that rewriting and re-rewriting and who’s who even got my head more turned around than the gordian knot!”

Here Hades stood taller than Maleficent, even with his slumped posture and hunched back. The slope of the floor was curved in his favor. Her horns were a brandished crown growing, twisting, above her head and barely scraping the stone above her.

She let the humor linger in the air for a breath before speaking. “I have a proposition for you, my lord” she said while dismissing the candle and setting it down on a rock ledge. The light from Hades’ hair and lair would suffice to brighten her vision. Maleficent raised a free arm “Shall we continue our conversation inside? I feel it would be awfully rude to lurk in doorways.” Hades’ smile grew wider, almost splitting his face in two.

“My dearest disgrace to all things dignified, it would be my pleasure” He said, taking her arm and leading her inside. Despite herself she snorted. “My lord I am always dignified, it is deferential which I am not”

Hades’s new domain lay deep underground in the heart of the Isle. Despite his many years of hatred of being saddled with the burden of the Underworld, the room appeared very similar to his old home. ‘Perhaps that is the point’, Maleficent thought, wondering if his new dwelling was really of Hades’ choosing, or did he simply wake up on the Isle in a room modeled after his old kingdom, swapping an old prison for a new one. She wasn’t sure if Zeus had it in him...but Zeus wasn't the only one hurt by Hades’ failed machinations, and she knew that Hera certainitly did, fondness for her older brother or not- the Queen of Gods would not have hesitated to rub salt in any wounds of her child’s stealer. Especially when such irony would have been involved.

In another life, perhaps it would have been Hera who Maleficent would be conversing with, she did always have a healthy respect for the Golden Throned Goddess,like draws to like afterall, and there is nothing more similar yet individual than women with power.

Then again, in another life she wouldn't need to bargain, in another life she would have crushed Prince Phillip’s sword between her teeth and swallowed him whole, in another life she would have blessed the infant Princess with a gift of her own, something clever and far more powerful than any of the Three Sisters trivial delights. In another life---

Hades leads her to a sitting area, long tatham benches set interlocking with one another, made of dark ebony wood. Maleficent gathers the excess of her robe in her grip and takes a seat, then slowly lets the fabric flow down and unfurl on the clean gray floor. The Lord of the Dead seats himself next to her, and after a moment’s pause, she allows him to wrap one of his hands around her waist.

“I have come to reclaim my debt, Your Majesty” she begins, he laughs and jokes “I’m not a accountant dollface, you’ll have to be more specific. I think I still got some styx-water sloshing around in my skull” but she can see the tightness around his eyes, the stiffness in his fingers as he cleans his ear and flicks a droplet of water over his shoulder, he knows exactly what she is referring to. He also knows that his newfound lack of power might have put him in a very precarious situation. Maleficent smiles sharply.

The grip on her waist tightens.

“Then let me help to restart your memory, years ago you needed an elixir that would turn anything, even a God, mortal. I concocted such a potion on the clause that you would… how did you say it? ‘Owe me one bigtime mama '’” she said drolling her words and making air quotations with her slender fingers. The God of The Dead had the decency to look sheepish, a bright blue blush blooming under his siltstone skin. “Okay yeah might’ve been a bit drunk on success when I said that…”

“Mmhmm” Maleficent hummed, raising a single eyebrow.

“....sorry”

“In any case, a deal is a deal, and now I see to collect my end of our bargain”

“It would be my pleasure my lovely lady of labilzation--” “that one was better” “Thank you I do try, --- however I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that, unlike before, I no longer have the Underworld and all its resources at my disposal to grant your dark heart’s deepest desire-- “Lord Hades are you implying I ever had a heart to begin with?” “ Ha ha no. But you do have desires that our current predicament might limit me from fulfilling”

“And you do hate to leave your women unfulfilled, don’t you Hades?”

“Yes I- HEY” Hades began with his usual smooth inflection, not even really looking at her, before cutting himself on and standing up in outrage. Face pinched and flushed. He started pacing back and forth in front of her while Maleficent looked on in cruel delight. He was yammering about something, going on about respect and proper dues and getting wonderfully worked up about himself. It almost made her nostalgic.

“I mean I know I’m no roving casanova like dear little Zeus-y, Persphone would gut me for even trying that and--”

Then his body stilled and he turned to face her, running his hands through his hair to gather his thoughts. Pity, she was enjoying she show. “Alright I get it, playtimes over. What do you want Maleficent? What under this damned barrier could be so important that you need to cash in on?”

“You and I both know Lord Hades that there are forces far older and far more powerful than this Godmother’s little trick. Deals, oaths, dept, magic sworn by magic will be repaid in turn. ” Maleficent raised herself slowly, taking small measured steps to where Hades stood shadowed by the cavern’s light. “As for what I want? That's simple, I want your name”

Name, she hissed out the word, the word that had churned and boiled somewhere deeper than her stomach and rose up her throat, that fell down her tongue and turned sharp and low against her teeth. The word that made her eyes flash with a power that no well intentioned Godmother or once cursed King could contain.

The word that made the Lord of the Dead, Hades himself, fall stumbling backwards to his knees. The shadow wrenched away from him in haste, revealing his wide eyes and- oh how she missed this- positively wreaked expression. If she was someone else she would say he was nervous, his face too numb to be fearful, but Maleficent knew better. He was terrified.

Pleas spilt from his lips like ambrosia in a clumsy hand. He was almost begging her now, with more fervor than he ever begged before--

( In times of old when the earth was freshly taken and the sky still red with titan’s blood, three brothers gathered to divide the cosmos between themselves. The youngest made his claim to the sky and took it’s child, the mighty thunderbolt, as his symbol. He gifted the sea to the middle brother who accepted it glady, but to the oldest he gave no pearl-rich land or magnificent heaven, but the burden of the damned and dead. The darkest corners of the world, where no light reached and the wild souls wandered aimlessly in the eternal darkness. His older brother objected, of course, and perhaps he even set aside his pride to grovel, but the youngest was unyielding. )

“Please Mali, don’t, not that I’ll do anything--”

( Once Ra fell sick from a clay snake bite, and called a council of every man and women and God to come and aid him, but they could do nothing. Then he called for Isis, for surely she would have the answers to his prayers. “What ever you need, I will provide” And so Isis said to the sun god Ra, ‘Great king of The Heavens and all we hold dear, the venom in your blood is much too strong, the only way I can heal you is with the knowledge of your Name’. So Ra listed off all of his titles and epithets, of which he had many, but Isis was not deterred. ‘My Lord and King, though those names are as grand and great as you are, they are not the one of which I refer to. If you wish to continue as yourself, ruler of the Gods, I will need your Rem to cure you’ said Isis and Ra knew she spoke the truth. Banishing the other medicine men and healers from the room he took Isis into his wings and bared to her the fifth of his soul, the name in which all his power sprang from. Isis took the name and healed Ra, feeling the universe realign with her at its helm, Goddess above Gods, of life and moon and medicine and magic. The fruits of her cunning rewarded hundredfold. And she smiled.)

“-- you don't want that old thing, I mean, what would you even do with my name anyway? It’s not like it would be of any use to you here”

“That, Your Majesty, is where you are wrong.” Maleficent slammed the end of her staff on top of the end of Hades’ robe, catching him in place as he tried to flinch backwards. She knelt before him, his back arched so completely he resembled more of a semicircle than a fallen God, his body so small here compared to hers. The long tendrils of her cloak sprawled themselves across the floor, their edges slithering like snakes, writhing and engulfing them, Hades was a cold star trapped amidst a sea of dark fabric.

“You asked me what could be so important to me that I would risk claiming my due of our agreement here, under this hell forsaken barrier. Why would I step into the limelight after years of isolation to rule an island of filth and trash” she pressed a single nail to his face tilting it up, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Because here is where my child will be born, and no blood of mine will be powerless while I still live to conquer and provide”

Her child, who was barely an weight in her arms, hungry for magic where there was none, hungry for food unrotten and drink unspoiled. If Maleficent was kinder she would crush it’s skull beneath her feet and spare it from a life full of pain and longing. Years of torment and clawing at it’s own skin spared in a moment’s decision.

(Her child, who could one day release their Mother from her prison, if they had will to do so.)

Maleficent had never been a kind person.

She did, however, on the seldom occlusion, know mercy and how to manipulate the unwilling. She could just rip his name from his chest, leave him broken and shivering on the cold stone floor. The thought was tempting, it really had been too long since she last had the chance to destroy someone so thoroughly, but she knew it would be better in the long run if she could get Hades to cooperate. Never let it be said she wasn’t a patient Mistress.

Leaning her weight forward she gingerly took one of Hades’ wrists in her hand, turning it over and carefully inspecting the thick band that now encircled it . This close she could feel the way it softly vibrated under her touch, the binding sigils carved so delicately and deep into the metal.

Her skin burned on contact, but you would never tell by her expression, eyes trained on the way Hades’ life force flowed. Faint traces of his magic traveling down his veins and funneling into the band, which would pulse slightly and constrict, the sigils would glow and hold, before loosening its too tight grip on its host. Then the cycle would continue anew.

It was one of the most brilliantly constructed and horrid devices Maleficent had ever laid her eyes on.

It was a work of art.

And as she read the runes she began to recognize what artist could have made such a beautiful thing.

“Do you know just how luck you are Lord Hades? While the rest of us villains must serve a penance that will span the rest of our days, you sit here with shackles holding only until you meet their requirements. I always wondered why Auradon would risk the order of the world just to fulfill their pallid sense of morality, and here my questions are answered. It seems the true nature of your punishment is far more poetic than a measly imprisonment, no, the true keys to your freedom lay in siring a child,”

A cold sense of realization dawned on Hades, “Hera” he whispered.

“How does the saying go again? An eye for an eye.” Maleficent pushed her nail deeper into the skin of his arm “A lost babe for a lost babe.”

Something inside Hades’ eyes broke at her words, and he begun laughing, freely, manic not maniacal, the laugh of a man who knew the entire cosmos was a joke and now he finally got the punchline. “Oh Hera!” He cried out, gathering the shattered pieces of himself and pulling them together.

He stood up from underneath her, fluid as smoke escaping from her grasp, as if his body was still atmos and ichor- not confined to rigid flesh and blood. ( A distant part of Maleficent imagines Hades, stumbling and impaling his head against a stalagmite as he has to relearn how to walk again, learn how to live in a body so forign yet familiar.) He did not offer to help her, and she made no move to rise, instead she remained sitting, her back ramrod straight and hands folded across her staff which rested on her lap.

Over the sounds of running water and the everpresent barking, Maleficent could hear the sounds of his brain work. Spinning gears within gears furiously trying to take in the new information and generate a more beneficial outcome for himself. “Alright, you want my name, you want power, you want little Maleficent Junior to grow up with magic, which I can’t blame you for. I want to get out of here and I want my wife not to kill me on my arrival, so I propose a solution that just might work for us both”

“Go on”

“ gift part of my name to the little tyke, giving them- and by extension you- power that not even this blasted barrier can suppress. That means that in the eyes of magic, I’m basically your baby’s daddy”

“And are you willing to uphold that responsibility? I have no need for a husband nor a housekeeper, but both dragons and fae are known for their possessiveness and of them I am both”

Hades didn't miss a blink, shark toothed smiled fixed back in place on his face “My magnificent Mistress of Misery from now until my chains are unfettered and I am called away to return to my Iron throne, I do swear to treat your little demonspawn as if they were born from the rotten fruit of my loins. Now, do we have an agreement?” Now he looked down at her, hand extended for her to shake. “Going once… going twice..”

Maleficent leapt forward, her hand digging deep into the weak flesh of his arm, she used to movementum to pull herself close to him, nose to nose, sharpened teeth to sharpened teeth, her horns haloing her head- two blackened crests protruding from her skull that reflected the dull blue light of the room. “Its a deal” she declared. Smiling viscously as she felt her eyes flare, not gold, but green, green as burning hellflame, fire in its purest form.

If this were anywhere else but The Isle of The Lost, thunder would crack at their declaration, a ring of light would maifest around their grip sealing their oath in color and magic. The air would ignite at their words. However, this was The Isle, and so the only illumination of fate’s rearrangement came from the flicker of light on Hades’ wrists as the runes surged, the taste of copper under Maleficent’s tongue, and the deep bone-seated feeling that something big will come. This was the stone whose ripple will cause the wave years down the line.

Maleficent hoped it would rise and drown the whole world.

She almost smiled at the thought.

---------------------------------------

“Huh”

“What?”

“You know when you said you had a baby, I kinda pictured- you know- a baby”

“I do hope you aren't talking bad about our child, it hasn't even hatched yet”

“Maleficent thats not a child, thats an egg”

“You think I would birth a infant mammal? Don’t be so crude, egg laying is a much more civilized method of reproduction”

“Wait does that make you a reptile? Oh sweet Zeus don’t tell me you are? What can you unhinge your jaw? Do you have a hemi--”

“Silence your tongue Lord Hades before I cut it out myself”

“Sorry sweetcheeks I couldn't resist”

“....”

“...sorry”

“Now traditionally Mother and Daughter would pass on a portion of their name until the time came where the Daughter earned to full title of Maleficent, usually by slaying their Mother and taking her name for herself. Until that day a middle name would serve as a placeholder to help differentiate them, a Mal Bertha or Mal Lamia or something of the sort. If you are giving up one of your titles, perhaps Mal Aidoneus would suffice?”

“Yeah, no”

“No?”

“Listen, Fairy G’s little parasite pocket is going to hone in on quote the name of the “The Mistress of All Evil” like a cyclopes at a half-off everything sunglass sale. You want this kid to have even a smidgen of a chance we gotta change it up a bit.”

“Well then Your Majesty I don’t suppose you have any better Ideas”

“........Malenthea”

“Hm?”

“Her name, it will be Malenthea”

“Then so mote it be”

“....”

“HOLY RHEA YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THE EGG WOULD EXPLODE--”

#disney descendants #descendants #fic #writing #my writing #maleficent #hades #Disney Hades #OC: Malenthea #Of Flame and Fire Au #descendants rewrite #descendants fic #Mal Bertha #mal descendants #fae Mal #dragon mal

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