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thefrogdalorian · 20 days

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Exile

Din Djarin & GN!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of losing Grogu, a distraught Din Djarin has vanished on a planet covered in oceans. You frantically track down your Mandalorian companion and remind him of his many attributes.

Word Count: 2.3k ✯ Rating: General ✯ Content Warnings: Din is going through it, but other than that, fluff! ✯ Author's Note: Set post season 2, slightly AU (TBoBF never happened!) I wanted to make to be read either platonically or romantically and explore emotions through weather. Hope you enjoyed!

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

The wind whistles around you with such ferocity that you momentarily fear it might sweep you away into the frigid ocean below. You would rather avoid taking a plunge into the choppy ocean that crashes on either side of the jetty you are taking tentative steps along.

Of course, a Mandalorian would never make it easy for you to catch up to him. The hours you have already spent searching for him today are a testament to that. It was early morning when you first noticed he was missing. Now, sunset appears imminent as occasional golden beams break through the thick, grey clouds.

Your companion cuts a lonely figure at the edge of the wooden structure. His helmet rests by his side, glinting ever-so-slightly in the low light. The sight of him helmetless still surprises you, even though it perhaps should be one you should be accustomed to by now.

Since he broke his Creed to say farewell to The Child you never even met but whose absence casts a long shadow over the man you adore, Din has relaxed a little concerning matters of the helmet.

Still, the sight of his damp dark brown curls fluttering slightly in the wind catches you off-guard. It feels so thrilling and new each time you see him like this, no matter how many times you have seen him freed from the confines of his helmet.

As you approach the jetty, you understand why he has chosen such a destination. It is secluded, soundtracked only by the waves crashing against the side of the jetty, with only the endless ocean and sky for company.

The risk of being spotted by anyone else is slim. He faces nothing but the ocean until it disappears beyond the horizon; a self-imposed exile.

You come to a halt a few paces away, taking in the sight before you and planning your next move. He sits on the jetty's edge, his long legs dangling down towards the ocean below. You suck in a tense breath, wondering whether it is safe. What if an errant wave from the storm, which threatens to break at any moment, surges up over the side of the jetty and washes you both away?

You shake your head at the stubborn man, momentarily resenting him for putting you in this position. Then, you crouch down to join him. Your devotion to him is absolute.

When you finally sit beside him, it is plain to see that a storm of equal strength to the one brewing over the coast rages in the dark brown eyes you love so much.

“Talk to me, Din,” you say gently, imploring him to open up.

You wish that he would tilt his head to meet your gaze. Instead, his eyes remain firmly fixed on the horizon.

From this angle, his profile is in full view. You are unsure whether your sudden bout of breathlessness is caused by his appearance or the anxiety of sitting in such a precarious position.

You take a moment to appreciate his handsome face.

Your eyes trail across the curve of his striking nose. A feature you are certain that was sculpted by the Maker. It stands out on his face, untouched by his anguish; a strong, constant attribute, unaltered by his heartbreak.

Elsewhere, his devastation is evident as he stares towards the ocean; a haunted, vacant look in his eyes. Each wrinkle which lines his handsome face seems more pronounced, and his plush lips are curved downwards into a slight pout. The smattering of grey hairs, which have slowly appeared at his temples and in his patchy facial hair and neatly trimmed moustache, already make him look older than the man you first encountered mere months ago.

Back then, you had never intended to catch a glimpse of his face. When you promised him passage on your ship, he explained that he would never remove his helmet in front of you.

Seeing his face had been a complete accident. You had assumed Din was secluded in his bunk. Instead, he was so engrossed in inspecting dust on the blaster that he was meticulously polishing on the workbench in the ship's hull that he did not hear you approaching. You were mortified at the misunderstanding, an emotion replaced by devastation when he did not speak to you for several days.

Such a transgression occurring only a few weeks into your travels together had certainly not helped to thaw the somewhat frosty nature of your dynamic, at least not in the short term.

With the benefit of hindsight, you can see that it was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to you. It caused Din to slowly but surely open up to you. To reveal aspects of his life he had previously kept hidden. He told you of the loss of his parents and his subsequent adoption by Mandalorians. He spoke fondly of Grogu, of their travels together until it was cruelly cut short by the arrival of a Jedi. He revealed that he had not removed his helmet for so many years until he encountered the kid. He told you how he loved him, how he lost him. And of how he wished to begin living a new Way, by baring his face to you.

Naturally, you believed your increasing closeness meant you had gotten past the point of Din hiding his emotions from you. His absence on the ship this morning and forlorn appearance on the end of the jetty indicates otherwise.

Realising that Din has not responded to you, you supply the words you know he cannot bear to utter.

“You miss Grogu,” you finally offer.

Din simply nods, his lip quivering at the mere mention of the boy’s name.

“I know. It’s hard,” you sigh, wishing that there was something you could do to alleviate his pain.

Din Djarin is a good man. He does not deserve to feel this way.

Unfortunately, it is all too easy for him to forget that fact. There is a certain darkness that follows him, which pervades his being.

It surprises you, given the selflessness he shows towards you and has throughout your travels together. Din is always intent on ensuring your comfort before his own. He allows you to nap first after a long hunt and gives you the freshest ration packs. When you are too tired to pilot, he takes control of the navigation systems and steering. Your ease is his priority.

It makes the tales of his past life that he has occasionally shared difficult to reconcile with the gentle and kind man you know.

“You will grow around this, Din,” you remind him, “The pain will never lessen, but you will simply expand enough to accommodate it.

Din shakes his head. He does not believe your words. But you are not going to accept such negative thinking from him. You silently vow not to leave here until he is aware of his attributes.

“You have so much to offer to the galaxy. I wish you could see that,” you sigh, somewhat exasperated that he cannot see himself in the same way you adore him.

Din momentarily looks like he might burst into tears before he closes his eyes and scowls slightly. The wrinkle above his nose becomes more prominent. You ache to reach out to smooth it beneath your fingertips. But that would be overstepping an invisible line the two of you wordlessly tread.

To lighten the mood slightly, you decide to gently tease him. The playful ribbing is a defining feature of your dynamic. Something familiar and comfortable to fall back upon.

“I was worried about you, you know. When you didn't wake me up with a steaming mug of caf this morning… I had to make my own. I was rather grumpy, calling you all sorts of names,” you inform him, “I’ve been looking for you all day, you buckethead.”

Your light reading has the opposite effect to what you intended. The affectionate usage of a derogatory nickname for Mandalorians causes Din’s bottom lip to tremble. The few tears which glistened on his waterline since your arrival finally spill over, trailing hot paths down his cheeks. You wish you could wipe them away, but that would surely be a transgression.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Din finally chokes out.

“You don’t have to exile yourself whenever you feel this way. You don’t have to pretend everything is alright in front of me, Din,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft, “You don’t have to hide your emotions.”

Din despondently shakes his head, “I feel so weak,” he admits.

You feel rage bubbling up within you, that he would ever think such a thing of himself.

“Din Djarin, you are the furthest thing from weak. You are the strongest man I know. You lost your boy, and you did not let it define you,” you remind him, “You carried on. For him.”

“Carried on hunting people,” Din scoffs.

You are stunned by his response. He has never shown any disillusionment with his line of work...

... until now.

You scan his face, desperate for the faintest tell as to his emotions. But it is as though he has placed the helmet on his head once again. Din is utterly unreadable, his brown eyes intently focused on his gloved hands as he nervously fiddles with the stitching. He is avoiding your gaze.

“Do you want to stop collecting bounties?” you question.

“How can I?!” Din exclaims, “Fighting is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“That isn’t true, Din,” you shake your head, frustrated at this negative pattern of thinking he is trapped in, “Even though I have only known you for a short time, you have already proved you possess many commendable qualities.”

He finally meets your gaze, raising an inquisitive eyebrow as he seems keen for you to continue.

“You’re a deeply caring and considerate man, that counts for something for a start,” you insist, “Plus, you can fix a blaster or repair a ship better than anyone I’ve ever encountered in all of my years of travelling. You’re great at working with strangers, embracing their cultures and differences even if they are alien to you. You have so many talents, Din. There is an entire galaxy of possibilities out there. Starting fresh is daunting, turning your back on all you have ever known. But if anyone can do it, you can, Din Djarin.”

Din nods slowly, then turns to you with a pained expression, “Will you stay by my side?” he questions.

“Always,” you whisper, without missing a beat.

Din reaches out and takes your hand in his. The gloves are surprisingly soft, the stitching slightly rough and frayed against your skin, thanks to the way he has been fidgeting with them. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb and softly smiles at you, a demonstration of his appreciation.

“No more running, or hiding,” you nod, “No more exile.”

“No more exile,” Din confirms.

You sit there for a few moments in companionable silence before you lean your head on Din’s shoulder. The beskar of his pauldron is cool beneath your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine both from its frigidity and at the thrill of being so close to him.

The gesture strays dangerously close to crossing a line you have never defined, but when Din does not recoil, you settle into this newfound closeness. The anxiety of before is replaced by tranquillity. Especially as the waves calm down and the clouds begin to part, revealing the sun, which has been attempting to permeate the dense greyness for most of the day.

The sky glows, bronzed by streaks of reddish-orange and amber as the sun begins to disappear beyond the horizon. It is breathtaking. You lean away from his shoulder, glancing at him as if to confirm that he can also see the sight before you, that it is not a figment of your overactive imagination.

You are awestruck by the sight of him. When you happened upon him, brooding and moody as he sat on the edge of the jetty, you thought your Mandalorian companion could not be more magnificent. You are pleased to discover that you were wrong.

Din is bathed in soft, golden light; his tanned skin coppered by the beauty of nature. The deep wrinkles in his face have lessened now, and his lips no longer pouty as they almost threaten to curve into a smile. He is mesmerising.

He catches you red-handed, drinking in his beauty. Din smirks at you, raising an eyebrow as he shakes his head at you. No doubt you will take the heat in the form of plenty of teasing later. For now, his expression grows serious and sentimental and he opens his mouth to address you.

“Thank you,” Din whispers.

“You’re welcome,” you smile.

You would be content to stay in this moment for a while longer, but with darkness rapidly approaching, you need to return to your ship.

As you stand, you reach out and offer your hand to Din, “Come on, we have the rest of our lives to begin.”

Din nods and smiles as you pull him to his feet. He bends down and carefully replaces his helmet before taking your hand once more.

The two of you walk hand-in-hand along the jetty, the waves no longer ferociously crashing at the sides in the fading light. The storm has abated for now, and you reckon you will at least be able to make it back to the ship before another one approaches.

With a smile, you glance at the impressively armoured man by your side. Overwhelmed by relief and gratitude that you could break down those hard emotional walls of his, almost as solid as his beskar’gam, and reach the man below.

As you reach the beach, Din squeezes your hand softly. You are certain that he is returning your smile beneath his helmet. Buoyed by the promise of a future together.

With you to stand by his side and pull him back from the abyss, Din Djarin has returned from exile.

#din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fluff #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #my fics #poor DINNNNNNNN

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jasonsmirrorball · 9 months

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DAYDREAM LOOK IN YOUR EYE JASON TODD

↳ you get caught in the rain, and it's like something out of a movie scene

The world is awash and you are caught beneath an awning when your class lets out, a dreary 5 PM that paints the skies in miserable greys. You long for the warmth of your bed as you reach a hand out to catch a raindrop in the palm of your hand. You gather more than just one, water splattering into the makeshift basin and rolling down your wrist. You draw back, eyeing the skies.

Only that morning, you’d eyed your umbrella and forgotten it in your haste to leave on time. You can see the clear plastic cover of it in your mind, hanging off your coat rack beneath the soft cashmere of your boyfriend’s sweater.

A bitter wind bites your exposed neck, and you long for that sweater, too, suddenly aware of how poorly prepared you are for the onslaught of rain and air. Around you, everybody else hurries into the storm, running the short distance to the nearby bus stops.

You pout, making to turn and head back into the building and–a flash of white draws your attention.

Jason, a vision in pale cashmere and dark denim.

You feel your mouth turn up at the corners at the very sight of him, striding towards you. The umbrella in his hand shields from the elements, and you feel as though your life has somehow become not your own. This couldn’t be your life, could it? Ordinary, and simple?

There is nothing plain about the man that walks towards you, and to you it seems the grandest gesture of all. The both of you are storybook lovers, now. It hardly feels real, and such a mundane gesture, too. You, standing on the steps and him, come to sweep you away. It seems silly, that a boy and an umbrella should be so elevated in your eyes, but you can’t help the giddy grin, or the laugh that bubbles out when he approaches.

“Hi, you,” you breathe out, and he grins at you, ushering you out from under the awning and catching you as you stumble into him in your haste to remain dry. It’s in vain, but you care little about the water gathering on your brow when you look up and teal eyes are blinking down at you. “What are you doing?”

“You forgot your umbrella, kid,” Jason laughs. You aren’t the only one affected. He looks at you as though you’ve reunited after an age apart–it’s been only an afternoon, he’d been asleep in your bed when you’d left. But the weather does little to dampen either his spirit or yours.

You can’t help but to reach up and press your mouth to his cheek.

“Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?” he laughs.

“You’re a dream,” you murmur, slipping your hand into his. “Home?”

He regards you a moment longer, eyes softening into a pale sea. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly, drawing you close. “Let’s get you home.”

this was so tender and sweet but i have to confess...i could not stop thinking about stsg in jjk2 and gojo with the umbrella...i have an edit of him to the opening of style by taylor swift in that scene and i will not lie...i was watching that while writing this

#jay my heart #jasonsmirrorball #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd reader insert #jason todd fanfiction #x reader

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chronosdawn · 9 months

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Finally back with some writing and it's a little drabble inspired by this post which had me in chokehold as soon as I read it.

Zhongli x GN!Reader, Soulmate AU

Word count: ~1.5k

Liyue harbor was just as beautiful as your grandmother had always described, with its layers of orange and green-roofed buildings overlooking the shimmering blue water that lapped gently against the rocky foundations. You had no idea how your grandfather had ever talked her into leaving it all behind for the snow-covered wastes that made up most of the scenery around your tiny hometown in Snezhnaya. Even the mere memory of the bitter wind that used to sweep over the plains was enough to make you shudder despite the balmy temperature of Yujing Terrace, sheltered as it was by a mountain your grandmother claimed to have been raised by the Geo Archon himself.

Currently the space was bustling with locals and travelers alike, all anxiously counting down the seconds until this year’s Rite of Descension. The Yuheng of the Qixing, a young woman with long purple hair done up in twintails, was doing one final check over the large stone table laden with items that you couldn’t quite make out from your position towards the back of the crowd. While it might have been nice to have a better view for your first time attending the ceremony, unlike the business owners clustered around the front, the source of your income didn’t depend on the events of today so you were content to take a backseat to the proceedings.

A hush fell over the crowd and you peered over the shoulder of the man in front of you to see that the Qixing member and the two attendants standing either side of her had ceased fussing over the layout of items on the table and were now stood with their hands folded in front of them. A moment of stillness before the spectacle that was to come.

The Yuheng appeared to take a breath before raising her hand in some sort of sign as the air around the terrace began to crackle and spark with power. A set of precisely executed gestures had the energy surrounding the table start to coalesce, gathering into patterns and symbols that flickered in and out of existence too fast for you to make sense of them. The Yuheng turned, directing the energy towards the stone table where it then shot into the sky in a great beam of golden light.

The heads of all present lifted skyward, watching as a mass of clouds formed around the beam, twisting in on themselves until they resembled a swirling vortex—a gateway to the heavens.

Moments after, a speck of bronze appeared amid the churning whites and grays and a murmur of excitement ran through the crowd as the majestic serpentine body of Rex Lapis began to emerge. You felt as though the breath had been knocked from you—your grandmother had described the grandeur of the Geo Archon’s dragon-qilin form from the time she’d attended the rite as a youth, but no mere words could do justice to the subject of legend gracefully descending through the sky, sunlight catching on the golden fur at the tip of his tail. But despite the magnificence of the god, your eyes couldn’t help but catch on the long claws at the ends of his limbs and the sharp, jagged spines that ran along his back, a faint shudder running through you as you imagined what they could do if turned upon human flesh.

You looked away as you forced the images from your mind, wondering where they’d even come from in the first place. It was as you did so that you became aware of a tingling warmth spreading its way across your left forearm, right where your soulmate mark was hidden beneath your long sleeves. But if it was reacting like this then that meant—

A mixture of anxiety and excitement curled in your gut as you swept your gaze over the crowd, the fact you were in the presence of a god momentarily forgotten with the knowledge that your soulmate was somewhere here amongst these all these people.

But no matter how hard you searched through the sea of faces, all of them were still staring at the archon who’d just descended from the heavens with awe on their features. Okay, perhaps your soulmate was just caught up in the excitement of the rite. You just had to wait for them to notice and then they’d look through the crowd, as you were now, and your eyes would meet like in the stories your mother used to tell you as a child.

It was as you were running through how you were planning on introducing yourself when you became aware of someone’s gaze on you, the heavy weight of it urging you to duck behind the bodies in front of you.

You didn’t however, instead steeling yourself as you turned your attention towards its source and met a pair of blazing amber eyes set in a decidedly inhuman face.

Why was Rex Lapis staring at you? Was he offended that you weren’t paying as much attention to the rite as everyone else? Or had he somehow been able to sense your connection with your soulmate flaring up?

It was then a crackle of lightning shot up your arm—all of the heat with none of the pain—and just like that you knew.

No. No, it couldn’t be, there was no way—

Yet no matter how much the logical part of you tried to deny it, the truth had just been burned into you and now sang through your veins. You were Rex Lapis’s soulmate. And judging from how intensely he was staring at you, he knew it too.

You couldn’t breathe, could barely think under the sudden weight of it all. Would he reveal the truth? Have you dragged out and paraded in front of all these people? What if someone had already noticed something?

Please, you silently begged the deity in front of you and anyone else who would listen, please don’t say anything.

After what felt like an eternity, the pressure on your shoulders vanished as the god turned his attention away from you and addressed the assembled crowd before launching into some financial forecast you were far too frazzled to pay any notice to. Sagging where you stood, you took deep gulping breaths as you scanned over the throng. Everyone’s focus was firmly on Rex Lapis and whatever divine wisdom he was currently dispensing—it didn’t look like anyone had noticed anything, thank the gods. Or rather god, you supposed, daring to glance at him once more. Whether he’d heard your pleas or chosen not to reveal anything to his own ends, you had no way of knowing.

The only thing you did know was that you had to get the hell out of this nation. Half the reason you’d left Snezhnaya in the first place had been to avoid becoming shackled to a god during the increasingly frequent Fatui recruitment drives, you certainly hadn’t come all the way to Liyue just to end up bound to a different one.

This was all wrong, your soulmate was supposed to be some merchant or moderately skilled adventurer—someone normal you could settle down and enjoy the simple pleasures with. No part of the plan you’d made for yourself when you came to the decision to leave your hometown featured being soulmates with a six thousand year old god. One the Seven at that, Celestia above.

No this—it was too much. Far, far too much for someone like you to deal with.

While a part of you wanted to bolt right then and there, you forced yourself to stay until the end of the rite, certain that even if that ancient gaze was no longer bearing down on you, he’d notice the second you started to sneak away. You had no idea how the archon whose soul was bound to yours would react to you attempting to run for the hills right in front of him but you decided you didn’t particularly want to find out.

Time dragged on and on, the deep voice of Rex Lapis filling the air as sweat pooled in your palms and your heart tried viciously to beat its way out of your chest. Finally the rite came to a close and you watched warily as the massive scaled form of the Geo Archon rose back towards the sky without so much as a glance at you.

The second the golden fur of his tail vanished into the clouds, you turned and sped away from the offering table as quickly as your legs could carry you without breaking into a run. Perhaps, had you been a little less panicked, your legs would have carried you south towards your meager apartment to shove as many of your possessions you could fit into a bag before leaving for good. Right now, however, you didn’t want to stay here a moment longer than absolutely necessary so you took the path north instead, the quickest route away from the harbor. You had no idea how long you had before your soulmate might come calling and it wasn’t a gamble you were willing to take, not when you were already questioning the absurdity of attempting to run from a god. At least you had enough mora on you to cover the essentials until you reached the Stone Gate and could flee to Mondstadt—after that you could work things out from there.

Now deprived of the immediate presence of your soulmate, the marking hidden under your sleeve had begun to ache—an invisible hand tugging you back to where some divine tapestry felt you were meant to be.

You ignored it, dutifully forging onward without once looking back, completely unaware of the amber gaze watching you go.

#Zhongli x reader #Genshin Impact x reader #soulmate AU #genshin x reader #Rex Lapis x reader #I don't think this one requires any warnings except for age difference maybe?#but I mean with Zhongli when is an age difference not going to come into it #I haven't posted any writing in months and I am nervous #my writing #please forgive any errors it currently one in the morning

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dadbodbuck · 15 days

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i wanted to post something and its tuesday

snippet from my ecologist!buck au:

Eddie’s fresh off a 24 when he sees him for the first time. He’s clocked out, picked Christopher up, and stopped by the bank to drop off a check. He’s dead on his feet, and Chris is always hangry and overtired after school, so Eddie is also, to put it politely, at his fucking limit.

He turns into his driveway and sees it. “It” being two positively massive piles of wood chips spilling out from his neighbor’s yard onto his own. It’s completely overtaken a good chunk of Eddie’s yard, including part of Christopher’s ramp, which pushes up against the border between the properties.

And, okay, it’s not like Christopher can’t just move around the wood chips, but it’s a principle of the thing. If his neighbor thinks it’s okay to block part of the ramp, they might think it’s okay to block the whole ramp, that Christopher might not need the ramp, or they might think it’s okay to block Christopher’s concrete path to his ramp. It’s a slippery slope, and most people don’t understand accommodations. He can’t just explain to everyone that his barely-in-code steps are too steep for an eight-year-old with balance issues, but some stairs and some obstacles are okay. That’s at least a five minute conversation if he’s lucky.

When he was first learning to make accommodations for Christopher, there were a few over thirty minute, endless back and forth conversations that Eddie had with a particularly nosy “HOA board member” who was convinced Eddie was building a meth lab instead of an accessible shower.

So, Eddie unlocks the door and tells Christopher to go on inside and get himself changed and started on his homework, and he goes over to his neighbor’s house to assert himself. Assertively. He can do that. He was in the army.

Assertive and polite, Eddie reminds himself, steeling himself to knock on the door. Right when he goes to knock, though, the door opens and Eddie’s hand winds up swinging forward—

Right into someone’s face.

“Ow! Fuck!” The person says, dropping some cardboard and cradling their face in their hands, “What was that for?”

And Eddie should reply, but the only thing he can really take note of is that the person in front of him is fucking hot. He’s a few inches taller than Eddie, with broad shoulders and biceps that look like they’re about to pop out of his stained t-shirt. He’s in plain shorts that stop above the knee—where his absolutely gigantic thighs peek out—and tennis shoes that look like they’re falling apart.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, through the driest mouth he’s probably ever had, “I was trying to knock.”

Eddie prays that the man’s face is ugly, or that he’s going to be a dick, but when he moves his hand, Eddie can see baby blue (albeit watery) eyes, soft, curly blond hair, plush lips, and a birthmark just above his eye. This guy is a fucking smoke show from head to toe, and instead of looking pissed off, he relaxes and huffs out a laugh. “Were you trying to break my door down or something?”

“You got woodchips on my son’s ramp,” Eddie says, instead of answering.

“I did?” The man blinks, “Sorry! Oh God, sorry, I didn’t notice, I’ve been so busy with the shipment. I promise I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, sighing and feeling all the fight leave him. Of course his new neighbor wasn’t trying to be an ableist asshole, it was just an accident, and Eddie assumed the worst.

“Sorry, uh, can I squeeze past you?” The man asks, and that’s when Eddie realizes he’s gone somewhere and come back with a broom. Eddie follows him back over to the ramp, where he starts sweeping off the wood.

“This is a little uneven,” The man mentions, “Does your son use a wheelchair? I could redo this for you.”

Eddie bristles at that—the familiar urge rises in the back of his throat. He’s just about to bite back something harsher than his neighbor probably deserves, something about how he doesn’t need help, when Christopher pops his head out the front door.

“Daddy?” Chris asks, “Who’s that?”

“Hey, buddy,” Buck says, before Eddie can introduce him, “I’m Evan Buckley, your new neighbor. Everyone calls me Buck.”

Buck sticks his hand out for Christopher to shake, and if Eddie weren’t so busy trying to give this guy the chance he deserved, he’d be pissed at Buck for ignoring him. Or maybe embarrassed that he forgot to ask Buck for his name. Or that he forgot to introduce himself when he knocked on his door.

Chris introduces himself as, “Christopher Diaz, but everyone calls me Chris,” and gleefully shakes Buck’s hand, jerking it up and down so hard Eddie’s worried he might dislodge it from the socket. And then he’d have to give his sort-of asshole neighbor medical treatment. Whatever.

“What do you even need all these wood chips for, anyway?” Eddie asks, trying not to sound bitter or sarcastic. He’s only mostly sure it works.

“Oh, I’m redoing the lawn,” Buck says, “I’m working to create a few different microfarms in LA. This one’s kind of my first big project. I’m going to be doing an herb garden out here in front, and then in the back I plan on doing some compost and raising some chickens. Maybe some ducks, rabbits—”

“Oh,” Eddie says, because it’s—okay. He understands that his food has to come from somewhere, but he’s hesitant about all this. It sounds like a lot. “So, what, your yard is just gonna be covered in wood chips?”

“Only for the first season,” Buck explains, “To kill the grass.”

“Why would you kill the grass?” Eddie blinks, taken aback.

Buck smiles in a way that, quite frankly, makes Eddie feel condescended to. (If he weren’t so irritated, he might notice the way Buck’s eyes light up and his hands do half the talking for him, adorably excited.) “Lawn grass isn’t actually native to the United States. It was a status symbol in Europe, because only royalty could afford to have their lawns tended to. And here in California, it’s actually detrimental to the local environment to have one. Non-native grass takes a lot of water to maintain, and we just don’t have those resources here. I’m culling the grass in the front yard and the backyard, and doing some water retention gardening to save on the rain that happens our way.”

Eddie’s head hurts. Unfortunately, when he opens his eyes, he sees Christopher’s own, wide and bright with stars.

Oh no.

“That’s so cool!” Chris gasps, “How do you reten—retent?—the water?”

“Chris, why don’t we go inside and stop bothering Buck?” Eddie urges, because if Chris ends up actually liking this man Eddie will move again. He’ll go to Alaska. He’ll take Chris to fucking Mexico if it means never seeing Evan Buckley, his neighbor who he punched and immediately developed a low-simmering irritation for, ever again.

#911 fic #buddie #fic tag: kitchen table ecology

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fleet-of-fiction · 5 months

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Jake Kiszka // Female Narrator

Part Five

After a blinding light eradicates mankind, you're left in a desolate and empty world. A year of solitude eliminates all belief that anyone else was left behind. Until a chance encounter on the side of the road. Jake is injured and fighting for his life, but his presence brings a renewed sense of hope. Touch starved and lonely, you need him. And undoubtedly, he needs you too.

"It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

Explicit sexual content Sex (penetrative & oral) /Foreplay /Blood / Injury / Hunting. / Intense emotions / Death.

Day 469 ~ Jake

The house sat at the top of a steep incline, up a winding driveway that had begun to be reclaimed by nature. Cracks in the cement where little shrubs had started to grow and leaves that were never blown away. Neglected and abandoned.

It reminded me a little of Josh's house. With pristine edges and white walls, coveted by obscure works of art. Book shelves that were gathering dust and kitchen utensils left out on the surfaces as if the owners had just stepped out of the room.

Amelia seemed to know where she was going. "I found this place a couple of months after I moved into Grandma's cabin."

She led me down a narrow corridor, flanked by a bank of full length windows overlooking a sweeping back yard that was shrouded by trees. Photo's of the family who once lived there sitting on the wall opposite, happy faces forever immortalised for no one else to ever see.

"I hit every house within a 10 mile radius. Looking for supplies, anything that I could use. Food, toiletries. And I was about to leave when I noticed this..."

She stopped at the end of the corridor, leaning against a nondescript door. Her face sincere as she ran hands up my arms, coming to rest around my shoulders.

"We have to take whatever joy we can find in this world." She said, "And if we're lucky, we'll take back some of the joys we had before."

I'd known nothing but joy since I'd almost died. There wasn't a single moment I'd had with her that hadn't made me question whether I would take any of it back to have the world filled with every other person I'd ever loved again.

It was something I'd wrestled with. The notion that I could happily exist in a world I'd come to hate simply because she was in it with me. I was thinking about Josh again when she opened the door, simply because I'd been reminded of him. And the certainty within which I knew I wouldn't take any of it back, even if it meant having him back, drew a conflict within the likes of which I'd never known before.

But it was all for nothing. As I stepped into the room she'd been eager to show me, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved her enough to never want the old world back.

"Amelia..." I gasped. "What in the...fuck."

Mounted on an oak panelled wall were an array of vintage guitars. A brazilian board 1959 Gibson Les Paul. Shining in the last rays of the afternoon sun. I reached out and touched it, trembling as my fingers remembered what it felt like to know strings. A custom Fender strat in dark red with a black mottled pattern that looked like spilled paint if you looked too closely. A plain red stratocaster and an acoustic Martin dreadnought with a mahogany neck.

"I know that you said you didn't play anymore. Not without your brothers. But I think you should play again. For them. To them. And maybe somehow, I don't know how insane it might be, but maybe they'll hear you. Wherever they are..."

She was nervous. Biting her lip and wringing her hands in the sleeves of her sweater. Anticipating that I'd reject the sweetness of her idea, of this perfect gift.

"You brought me here because you knew that I would love it, didn't you?" I asked, although it wasn't really a question.

"Is that so bad?" She replied, opening her arms as if I would somehow be mad at her.

The room was decked out with framed vinyls. Some were so old I'd never seen them before. There were a few more guitars leaned up against the opposite wall and a beaten up drum kit in the window. It looked as if it had been played to death, with the cymbals hanging off and the kick drum looked as if one more pound on it would tear it right in half.

"It's not bad at all, why would you think that?" I pulled her into me, her little body slotting into my embrace like it had always meant to be there. "Just because I said I didn't play anymore doesn't mean I wouldn't love this."

She rested her head against my shoulder. Let me sway her back and forth a little. Everything was so eerily quiet. Up here the wind howled a little more than it did around the cabin. It sounded like ghosts were singing to us, begging me to pick up one of those fine old ladies.

"Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I just wanted to hear you for myself." She looked up at me, resting her lips on my jawline.

"Plenty have paid for the privilege." I replied, "What will you pay me for a private show?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I saved your life. This is you paying me, sweet thing."

She laughed and buried her face into my neck, kissing me there and holding me tight around my waist. Familiar and wholesome. Like she hadn't tried to push me away at all in the beginning.

She was the most incredible woman I had ever known. Her fears were like shadows now, she had this uncanny ability to turn them into her most beloved passions. Once she had been afraid to love me. And now, the ways in which she loved me were making me feel unworthy of it.

"Sometimes I don't think you realise how much you saved me." I told her, casting my eye on the acoustic. "Not just from that car wreck. But from a life of misery."

Of course I would play for her. If not her, then nobody. She made herself comfortable on a shaggy looking bean bag, folding herself into it and resting her head against her curled fist as she regarded me. I pulled the mahogany acoustic down from the wall, not wanting to tend to wires and amps just yet.

I considered coming up with something on the fly, but it had been so long since I had tinkered with strings that my mind began to wander so far away I couldn't make them work. I strummed a little, hearing the notes play out and something weird happened. I thought I'd never feel this ever again, this visceral wave that washed over me to the point of almost growing hard as I felt the back of the guitar against my groin.

Her eyes widened. She wasn't prepared.

"How does it make you feel, to have an audience again?" She asked softly, seductively.

The strings needed tuning a little. I turned the keys at the top of the neck, plucking out chords until they sounded pitch perfect.

"Sexy." I replied, "I always felt sexy whenever I went out on stage. They made me feel sexy. Kinda the same way you are now. Knowing they want to fuck you every time you play for them."

I didn't realise how much I missed the adrenaline. The feral cries of a crowd. Their voices rising in unison. Lights and screaming and the feeling that I might ascend with their love. I'd been someone in my life before. I'd known what it felt like to open my eyes and know I was doing something I loved completely. I hadn't felt like this in what felt like a life time.

"This is who you are, Jake." She uttered, sliding her hand down the curve of her hips. "You can't run from who you are forever."

I felt as if I didn't deserve her. For all she had done for me, for how incredible she was. There was no crowd that could ever compare to the way I felt in that moment playing for her.

"I can't sing our songs like Josh could." I confessed, "I'd be a poor imitation. But I'll try."

I couldn't hold the same power with my voice that my brother could. The part of me that had promised never to play again still sat in the shadows whispering to me that it would never be the same. But louder than that was Amelia's face watching me strum out the first chords of a song that meant everything to me.

"What's it called?" She asked.

Day 469 ~ Amelia

I knew he would love it. I'd all but forgotten about the little music room at the back of the big house on the corner of the road that led into Lafayette. It had meant nothing to me the first time I'd ventured in there. There was nothing in there that was of any use to me.

But today, it was like seeing the sun peek out from a grey cloud. I'd gone from doing everything in my power to ensure that he was never necessary to me, to doing everything in my power just to see him smile.

"It's called Broken Bells." He replied, "Josh used to say that it was about seeing that when things sometimes feel broken most of the time they're just lessons sent to help us see that everything will be alright in the end. I really wish he could be here to see that he was so fucking right."

What would I have done if he hadn't felt the same? I could feel myself dying a little inside at the melancholy way he played. His face expressing his grief. He played so hauntingly beautifully, in a way I hadn't really been prepared for. He closed his eyes and didn't even need to look at the way his fingers moved across the strings. He knew them, and they responded to him so lovingly. Almost as if they were an entity all of their own, able to come when he called.

If he hadn't have loved me in return I'd have been driven mad by it. Every rational bone in my body broken if I'd been forced to live beside him unrequited. I began to understand how lucky and fortunate I was as he began to sing. That he and I were somehow fated. And it wasn't just a coincidence that he was driving past me that day. He was creation and I was necessity. He'd made music for a world that needed to hear it and I'd treated them when they were sick. And for some unfathomable reason, we'd been left behind to exist together in this empty world.

But empty didn't have to mean broken. There was nothing but love in the world again. Nothing but this painful song that made tears spill from my eyes as I watched him and listened. What if this song was the only one being played? And the only one being listened to? I had hope that if anyone else had been left behind that they had somehow managed to find each other and find love within it.

"That was...beautiful." I sobbed, laughing at myself for crying at it.

He put down the guitar and came to me. Launching himself into the bean bag, the scrunchy sound of tiny styrofoam balls moving around as he wiggled into the space beside me.

"It always got an emotional reaction whenever we played it." He sighed, trailing soft palms down the side of my face. "It felt like people resonated with our songs for all different kinds of reasons. But with Broken Bells it always felt we were all on the same page. All of us feeling the same thing at the same time."

How could I have ever doubted him? This beautiful man with his beautiful music?

"I was just thinking, while you were playing it, that I hoped that somewhere out there that other people were listening to songs for the first time. That they'd found each other and found love, even in a world seemingly broken." I countered, feeling the heat of that familiar rush when I knew he was about to make love to me.

"If they aren't, then we have to love for all of those who can't." He said, trailing kisses down my jaw line.

Sometimes it felt silly. The things we said to each other. Things in the dead of night. In the cold light of day. In the middle of the afternoon when he was at his most sleepy, when he would linger in the kitchen looking to score a bowl of stew or soup before curling up on the couch with a book before he would fall asleep.

Even now, I could feel him nuzzle in. Our bodies entwined on the bean bag lazily tracing his thumb over my nipple as he sucked the flesh on my neck into perfect little shapes of his mouth.

"So, you really do like it?" I checked, just wanting to hear him say it one more time.

"Oh, yeah." He yawned, "That Les Paul is coming home with us for sure. And maybe I'll come back for the Strat, too."

I was wearing the black yoga pants I saved for hiking. The ones that I wore to collect fire wood. To muck out the horses and clear out the chicken coop. I never felt particularly sexy in them, or desirable. It felt almost like we'd become accustomed to seeing each other in our most desolate states.

But when he slipped them down around the curve of my ass and hitched me around so I was facing away from him, I was glad that I'd worn them. The way he pressed his hard on into my back and continued to roll my nipple around between his fingers as he breathed harder into my ear was the blessing I'd needed to know that I'd done the right thing.

We were both tired from the hike. Our bodies crying out for rest. The afternoon sun began to slip away, making room for cloud and darkness. I was acutely aware that there was no power in this house. No electricity. No running water. No heat. It was in my mind to interrupt his ministrations with these facts, but as his hand slipped below, coming up into my entrance from behind, I lost all manner of speech.

"You gonna let me thank you properly?" He asked, slaking two fingers inside me slowly. "Be my good girl and let me show you how much I love you?"

I was in no mood to protest. I watched the light outside fade as he ran stripes up my slit and into my clit. Whispering obscenities and freeing himself one handedly as he played with me. Letting his cock rest between his stomach and the curve of my ass, leaking a little against our flesh.

"Can you feel it?" He breathed, "How much I love you?"

It was all I could feel. There was no house. No darkness. No eerie silence as the wind rushed through the trees. Howling like there was someone out there to hear it. Only Jakes breath, the bean bag as it shuffled beneath us, and the sound of my untamed scream as he penetrated me.

He didn't try to quieten me. Buffeting my wild moans with deep thrusts that came like chasms to break me in half. Each time he bottomed out, he savoured it. Taking the briefest of moments to feel me clenched around him before pulling back slowly. The need to fuck and the need to sleep battling it out for supremacy.

"Pretty fucking grateful, aren't you?" I replied, leaning my head back into his waiting mouth.

When he was like this, all in need and eager to satisfy any way that he could, I often thought back to how it had been that first time. On the ground in the mud, knees caked in it and the earth beating in time with us. And how in the time since, we'd leisurely made love on the kitchen floor some mornings. In the shower, just stroking each other to pass the time. Him, on top of me, in the bed we now shared. And me, arms around the trunk of a tree whilst he fucked me from behind out in the woods even though it was still a little cold out there.

"For this pussy? Always." He purred into my ear, like he was serenading me.

I knew that I'd never tire of it. The way he felt inside me. The way he fit so perfectly. I never felt so full, like something had been made just for me. He wasn't just rhythm and blues, he was equipped to make me quiver with the mere mention that he might take me right there and then.

I'd lament it later on. How all my lovers before him had been lacking. How I'd swiped left and right, attended blind dates and settled when I shouldn't have. For men that couldn't make me cum or men who couldn't text me back.

"Mmmmm..." I murmured softly, arching against his quickening pace. "It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

The gentle laughter that expelled from his mouth against the shell of my ear was like summer rain. Teasing my senses, touch taste and scent. His hair was sweat drenched at his temples, as it often was when he fucked me, and I could taste the salt of it in his kiss.

"She speaks so highly of me." He breathed, "Now let her know no other man will ever have her..."

He would claim me. Over and over again. Even when there was no other to counter his claim. I let his hand wrap around my throat, edging me to the distance it would take to push me over the edge of the world. Thrusting into me so hard my entire body shook. I knew the bean bag had ripped at some point, sending the tiny little white foam balls scattered across the room. But I didn't care.

I'd keep finding them in strange places for weeks afterwards. As he rolled me onto the floor and continued to pound me, vicious and unrelenting. He'd never silenced my mewling cries before, content to let them ring out into the ether.

But not this time. It was like his gratitude couldn't be satisfied until he could hear the one sound he desired. His body raged on top of mine, our clothes half on and half off. His sweaty palm came to rest over my open mouth. Muffling my cries to a dull humm. His eyes silently pleading with me to let them die. And to just listen...

"Hush." He encouraged, resting his mouth against the back of his hand as he continued.

There it was. Against the backdrop of the breeze outside. The sound of how wet I was. His cock hitting my satiated pussy. Moist flesh against moist flesh. The most inconceivable feeling washed over me. This man, the only man that ever was, wanted to silence my mouth only to better hear the sound of my pussy being fucked.

And the drop of his eyelids as he listened had me in another state of being. Half closed and fucked with desire for the way it slipped in and out, wet and completely his.

"Thankyou, my love." He whispered, before he allowed himself to cum.

I was never certain if it was for the music, or the way I let him fuck me. I didn't really care. I let my own orgasm rise moments later, the two of us breathless and spent on the gutted belly of that old bean bag.

Day 470 ~ Amelia

We hunkered down for the night. Choosing to make our way back at first light, gathering all the blankets we could find and sleeping on the couches that were, quite simply, more luxurious than any couch we could have gotten in the cabin.

Jake took the one opposite me, falling asleep first. His gentle snores lulling me into my own dreams. It felt like no time had passed at all before my eyes sprang open, the red of morning creeping in.

I rubbed my eyes and stretched. Taking a moment to recall where I was. This place was eerie, even in daylight. And I wished that there were something, anything...that would remind me that people had once lived here. The ticking of a clock, perhaps. Or the grass being cut outside. I could have laid there a little longer, still tired and drowsy, but I was eager to be gone.

I kicked off the blankets and expected Jake to be laying there, ever the one to wake up last, but my heart fell into my stomach at the sight of the empty couch. Blankets still left precisely where he had kicked them off.

"Jake?!" I called, expecting his voice to filter down the hall from the music room.

Silence.

"Jake?!" I called again, pulling on my pants and shoes as I made my way through the house.

I expected to find him gathering up all the instruments he wanted to take. Agonising over which ones to take now and which ones to come back for. But there was nothing but the aftermath of what we'd done. And all the guitars were accounted for.

"Jake, this isn't funny." I cried, checking behind the curtains like a child playing hide and seek. "Jake, I'm being serious now!!!"

Panic began to rise in my chest. My heart soaring, making me dizzy as I flew through the house. Room after room coming up empty.

"Jake!!!" I screamed, running now. "Jake please!!!"

Had I ever given myself permission to imagine this, I would have driven myself mad. That one day he would simply vanish, like everyone else had, and truly I would have walked to my death in that moment. I had no desire to live in a world void of the man I loved.

"JACOB!!!" My voice broke on his name as I fell out of the door and into the back yard. "PLEASE!!!!"

I fell to my knees on gravel. Crying. Racking sobs expelled from me as I took fists full of tiny pebbles that cut into my flesh as I squeezed. I felt as if I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, all the horror of him disappearing coursing through my veins as tears spilled down my flushed cheeks.

"Jake, I can't do this...you have to come back..." I begged, broken and beyond redemption.

In a matter of moments I'd gone from waking up, to screaming on my knees. I'd have thought it a nightmare had I not already endured one. The reality of this feeling was one I knew. Only this time, intensified by a love that had known no bounds. I could live in an empty world before I'd ever known him.

Not anymore.

To be Continued...

@caprisunsister @thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @katuschka @its-interesting-van-kleep @lvnterninthenight @writingcold @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @edgingthedarkness @velveteencatch @lyndz2names @nina-23-45 @itsafullmoon @vikingisthenewsexy @char289

#greta van fleet #jake kiszka #fanfic #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf #gvf fanfiction #fanfiction #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka x reader

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literallyjustanerd · 8 months

Text

Tease (Fives X Fem!Reader)

You're a student at Coruscant U. The boys of the 501st are guest speakers for a class on galactic politics. But one particular ARC trooper gets more than he bargains for when he starts checking you out...

My first time attempting anything close to smut, hope y'all enjoy! Lmk if it's good enough that you'd want a continuation ;) This also may be partially inspired by a dream i had oops

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: eye-fucking, teasing, showing off, making out, hints of both dom reader and dom Fives, suggestive ending

Rating: 18+ (minors DNI please)

Credit for the Fives divider to @freesia-writes with helmet art by @lornaka !

You have to stifle a yawn as you settle into your desk, stretching out heavy limbs. Your last lecture after a long day of classes. Galactic Relations and Conflict wasn’t really relevant to your major- you’d picked the elective on a whim, but it had proven to be your most interesting class this semester by far. Today promised to be no different: your lecturer had pulled some strings and arranged for some pretty interesting guest speakers.

You hear them before you see them: boisterous laughter echoing down the hallways. Then, the boys in blue file through the door. The one in front corrals the others into order as they come to stand at attention at the back of the hall. Five in total- two ARC troopers, two lieutenants and their Commanding Officer. Armour proudly polished where it isn’t scuffed or dented, painted helmets slung under their arms. Two things hit you in quick succession as your eyes cross the five identical faces. One: these clones are nothing like the carbon copies you’ve seen on your holoscreen. As alike as they look under their haircuts and tattoos, they’re individuals, plain as day, from how they style themselves to the way they stand and speak. Two: one of them is looking your way.

There’s a cool confidence in his demeanour, an effortless assurance to his movements, and he’s not at all embarrassed to be caught looking: though he’s still in conversation with the others, his eyes don’t waver from yours for a moment. It gives you ample time to take in the view, and what a view it is. The angle of his brow highlights the tattoo at his temple, and from there you follow the sharp cut of his jaw down to the well-kept goatee at his chin, up to the inviting curve of his mouth. Solid, square shoulders shift when he laughs at something another clone says. There’s a stray curl falling over his forehead you want to tangle in your fingers. You fight the urge to bite your lip as your eyes venture lower, sweeping down a broad, thick chest to his deliberately cocked hip. You force yourself to look away. Can’t be caught ogling the trooper, like the self-proclaimed “bucket fuckers” you see on your social media feed, lining up at 79s every weekend. You’re not that desperate. Subconsciously, though, you realise you’ve straightened in your seat, pulled your shoulders back. You’re even toying with your hair.

You cringe internally, chastising yourself for looking so eager. Calm down, you think, it probably doesn’t even mean anything that he’s looking. The lecture isn’t due to start for another ten minutes, and among the smattering of early students, you’re the only one in the front row. He’s just getting a look at his audience. But when you chance another look up at the ARC trooper, you find his gaze still locked onto you, even as the clone beside him continues to speak. Cockiness is a trait you usually find irritating. But much to your dismay, instead of scoffing when he arches his brow and quirks his mouth in your direction, you feel your pulse quicken and your skin heat.

He winks, and your mind is made up in an instant, caution thrown to the wind. It’s been too long since you’ve taken a break from your studies and had this kind of fun. If he wants to play the game, you’ll play. And you’re not going down without a fight.

You bring your eyes back down to your desk and pretend to be deeply focused on laying out your datapad for taking notes. Hot as blaster fire, his gaze still burns on you, but you refuse to give in. You’re no stranger to this dance, and you’ve gotten pretty good at it, even if you do say so yourself. Your lecturer enters soon after and begins the talk, introducing your guests. You get your first taste of the ARC trooper’s deep, gravelly voice when he steps forward in turn, as well as his name. Fives. It loops in your mind as you wrap your lips around it, trying it out. As Captain Rex takes the podium, you make your first move. Slowly, deliberately, you cross one leg over the other, and lean your elbows on your desk, shoulders pulled proudly back. The stars must have aligned for you this morning: you’d picked one of your lower cut shirts, and it frames your cleavage perfectly. A few carefully counted seconds later, you tilt your head away from the podium back to Fives.

Oh, yeah. You’ve got him.

He’s looking. He’s staring. His gaze has darkened, intensified. When his eyes roam down low and creep back up, you feel it like it’s his fingers on your skin. Your body warms under the stare, liquid heat pouring over you, pooling at the top of your thighs. Not wanting to seem too self-satisfied, you allow yourself a small, restrained smirk. A twitch of your eyebrow, just to gloat. Such a small gesture, but it lights a fire in Fives’ eyes. You’re enjoying the game, but you want to stretch it out, so you leave him hanging, and go back to listening to Captain Rex, your stylus working across your datapad, dutifully taking notes like you’d been paying attention the whole time.

You don’t let up on Fives, though. As his brothers each take their turn to answer questions from the cohort, you pull out every trick up your sleeve. Mussing your hair, adjusting your top. You swear you see his upper lip twitch into a growl when you shift your legs, gliding one foot up and down your calf. He has his arms folded now, the end of a thumb jammed into his mouth, chewing on the tip in a way that makes you hungry to replace that thumb with your lips. He makes no attempt to hide his want: he’s undressing you with his eyes, and you’re quickly getting drunk on the power. The killing blow comes when Fives has to wrench his attention from you long enough to take his turn at the stand. You can see him struggling to keep his focus on the rest of the lecture hall and away from you. At first, you feign innocence, letting up the act for a few short minutes, playing nice, giving him a reprieve. And in truth, it’s not hard to actually stop and listen to his words: he speaks with confidence, cracks a few corny but endearing jokes, and answers the audience’s questions with a thoughtfulness and insight that catches you off guard. Shit, you think, swallowing down the flutter in your chest, he might have the edge on you.

But in the end, he will get no mercy from you. The third time he gives in and glances in your direction, he finds you with your stylus poised at the corner of your mouth. Your pulse throbbing, you grind your thighs together, making a show of it. Your tongue darts out for just a moment and, soft and delicate, you press the stylus past your lips, teasing the tip. The effect is instant. Fives chokes on his last word, stifling a groan that quickly turns into a string of coughs. His eyes are blown wide, his cheeks several shades darker as he tries to regain his composure and remember what he had been saying.

You win.

You back off for the rest of the lecture, content to enjoy the feeling of his eyes on you and the playful glances you exchange from the moment he leaves the podium. He takes your little trick in stride, and even gives back what he gets, a sway in his hips as he walks back to rejoin the other clones, taking it slow to give you ample time to enjoy the view from behind. All too quickly, though, the talk ends, and so does your fun. You shoot Fives one last wink as he and his brothers leave the hall, and he fixes you with a cutting smile that’s equal parts charming and dangerous. You gather your things and leave with the other students, with full intention of returning to your apartment to take care of the ache between your legs alone. The memory of Fives’ gaze lingers on your skin, drawing an involuntary shudder.

The train home is going to be torture.

But you don’t make it to the station. You don’t even make it off campus. You’re rounding the corner away from the lecture hall when you hear him. He clears his throat, and your nerves thrill when you turn to see Fives leaning heavy against the wall, one hand propped on the inviting curve of his hip. The pathway he stands in is seldom-used, small and quiet, and the shadows from the towering buildings throw his face into shadow. His voice is pitched low when he speaks, thick and sweet, dripping like syrup.

“Quite a show you just put on,” he purrs, and the words go straight to your cunt. “What’s your name, gorgeous?” You give him your answer, careful to keep your voice in check while the rest of you quivers with anticipation. Fives repeats it, the sound rolling heavily off his tongue.

“Thought this gig was going to be boring,” he muses, “you certainly proved me wrong. Thought it would only be polite to return the favour. Show my… appreciation?”

The curling grin on your face is all the answer he needs: a thick hand on your waist pulls you into the alleyway, cold brick at your back and hot breath on your neck. You’re trapped in an instant, bracketed by his arms on either side. His lips hover an agonising inch from your skin, sparks of honey-sweet electricity dancing along your shoulders and down your spine.

His body is still angled away from yours, yet the tiny, twitching roll of his hips draws an answering thrust from you all the same. The lack of friction tears a tiny groan of frustration from your throat before you can stop it, and Fives’ chest rumbles with his answering chuckle. The end of your rope dangles so close. It would be so easy to just give in and let him win. Your defences weaken further when the warmth against your throat sharpens, searing breath giving way to the scorching wet heat of his lips at the top of your jaw. The dizzying thrill of finally feeling him against you is what gives you the strength to regain control. A firm hand at his cheek shifts his mouth away from your ear and onto your lips, kissing him hard and merciless. He moans when your fingers dip low to scratch teasingly through his goatee, and the sound sets your every nerve singing symphonies. In an instant you know you’d do anything to hear that sound again, to feel the high of him melting under your touch. With dwindling patience you reach out, grabbing at the belt of his armour and trying to pull him flush against you. He resists, breaking your kiss just barely and tutting against your lips.

“No need to rush, mesh’la,” he taunts, settling a warm, gloved hand on the swell of your hip. He’s firm but gentle, coaxing you back into the wall with just enough pressure to tease you. You recognise the Mando’a, though you can’t quite place its meaning. You find you don’t much care- not when Fives is kneading at your waist and mouthing at your collarbone.

“We’ve got plenty of time Besides…” With one fluid movement, he forces your legs apart, pressing one thick thigh between your own. It's your turn to moan, trying to shift your hips, though Fives' grip keeps you maddeningly still. ”You gave me a whole lot of grief back there. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You swallow thickly, the shifting column of your throat catching against Fives’ teeth and making you gasp. This one might be harder to win than you thought. A devilish grin slides onto your lips.

You still won’t go down without a fight.

#fives x reader #fives x you #clone thirsting #clone thots #sw tcw fanfic #arc trooper fives #x reader #reader insert #sw tcw #drabble #fem reader #fives smut

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solaneceae · 6 months

Text

float like a feather, sting like sharp talons

Philza drops by Étoiles' brand new dojo for a friendly sparring session, and ends up getting quite a lot more. Namely existential dread, the thrill of a good hunt, and the comfort of shared trust. @apthotiosis this is a commissioned fic! read on ao3

He whistles, eyes lingering along the thick, wooden support beams and rice paper walls surrounding him. It’s a surprising sight, tucked away in a corner of what he can only describe as a mess of a base, mostly empty, the walls still a rough (and frankly ugly) mix of dirt and cobblestone that hasn’t been cleared out even after six months. “So. That is your dojo.”

Étoiles nods at his side, a big stupid grin on his face. “Do you like it, Phil?” he asks, eager as a pup as little Pomme zooms around the cave in an improv game of tag with Tallulah �� ever mindful of how her lag (sorry, asthma) sometimes stalls her in her tracks. He glances at them fondly, silly, eggs, babies. “I do,” he hums, because it is pretty. Especially if you ignore the rest of the cave outside because God, it’s fugly as shit and Étoiles knows it. The plant hybrid smiles, all teeth and gums, and squints with star-filled eyes that always seem to glow despite not working like they used to. Phil still doesn’t get why what was originally a completely harmless veggie plant has evolved to bear such predatory teeth, but he can’t say it doesn’t suit his friend. “He likes it! Let’s gooo, big win for me, big win. I can die happy now.”

“Oh my god, stop. Kristin’s married, you know.”

Étoiles gives him a mock-shove that is more of a real one, because Étoiles never holds back, especially not with Phil. “Oh! Oh, so I can’t be nice to Lady Death? I can’t just visit her because she’s cool and she likes me also? I am married to the grind, Phil, you know me!”

Phil shakes his head, exasperated and fond. “You’re a nerd is what you are. Did you know she calls you her tech support?” Étoiles makes a confused noise. Tallulah peeps in the background, mimicked by Pomme, a chorus of play and yesyes, because all the eggs have picked up on that one by now. (Mimicry is a powerful thing, and the eggs are highly social creatures who thrive on it.)

Phil elaborates, circling the build to assess its structure better. “Because of the sweeping edge bug thing, and Richas’ cancelled death last week. You find the kinks and loopholes in death mechanics better than anyone she knows.”

Étoile beams at that. “That’s so cool. I’m Death tech support!”

“You certainly are. Do you think it’s because you picked Death? In the entity rooms?”

The green-skinned man shrugs, then gasps and takes off running after Pomme to stop her from setting up waterframes everywhere to display obscure anime edits for Tallulah because her internet, her lag Pomme, you’re going to make her void! Phil glances at them (safe, no danger, good) then back at the dojo, running his palm down a beam to feel its grain. It’s smooth, recently stripped of its bark. “Huh,” he says.

He doesn’t understand why his friend chose to build this underground when dojos are usually suited for wind-swept plains or mysterious forests. Then again, Étoiles has never been much for coherent aesthetics. That, and he probably thought it would be more mysterious to hide it under the ground, knowing him. “It’s. Well, very dojo-like,” he walks through dark support beams and onto clean, recently-oiled planks, coming to poke at one of the wooden sticks idly rotating above an altar to send it spinning in the opposite direction. Étoiles trots back to him with an egg under each arm (Play, dad, Pomme warbles. Play, silly, Tallulah beeps from within her cracked shell.) and lets out a guttural noise, visibly bothered by the sticks being out of sync, and it makes Phil snort. Silly. Silly. “Did you build it all by yourself?”

“Yeeaaaah.”

“You’re lying.”

A dramatic gasp. The warrior puts both eggs down to throw his hands in the air. “I’m not lying! Pomme, ma légende, dis-lui.”

Bomp. [me and richas did it. papa helped, very much :DDD]

Étoiles comes to brush his fingers against the red sign, letting the device tucked into his ear translate the written words into spoken ones. He whines, puts a hand over his heart as his ears droop. “Ahhh, trahison. Disgrâce. Tu m’détestes en fait Pomme, c’est ça ? You want me to dig down to bedrock and die forever? Or it’s because I can’t see, so you think I’m shit?”

Bomp. [papa…] Bomp. [t’a pas besoin d’être aveugle pour avoir des goûts douteux en déco :X]

“Okay, okay. I go die in fire then, goodnight.” Then Étoiles pours lava into the cobble floor and stands in it with a huge smile. His body catches on fire immediately, skin quickly shrivelling up and blackening under the heat. Pomme peeps at him loudly and hits him with her scythe, then douses him in water and healing potions — which immediately prompts Étoiles into sparring mode, laughing and hyping his egg up with a string of ‘oh she knows, she knows the play’ and ‘strafing, comboing, keep at it’ as his body heals up. Philza watches the display for a few seconds before getting bored, choosing to walk past the layer of light wood circling the dojo to take a look inside.

It’s even prettier than the outside, with all the paper lanterns and little fountains and bamboo shoots. His geta clack against the wood, then go silent on the woven straw flooring at the center. “Why’re all the posters in Japanese?” he remarks when his friend comes back from his little mock-tantrum with his daughter in tow, squinting at a crude montage explaining the belts system. Philza can gather that it’s based on how much HP the dojo master has left after a duel, because Étoiles has been yapping about making a dojo with that exact system for months now. (Is that a jar of mayo at the top? The hell?) Guess the eggs returning has been the push in motivation he needed to actually commit to that build, despite his insistence that he is very much a builder now, thank you very much, look at all the wool I have.

Étoiles perks up, grins in a way that lets Phil know he’s about to do a bit. “Oh, you don’t know? You don’t know that I’m literally Japanese, Philza?” he chirps, picking up one of the sticks on display before running circles around the other man, poking at his legs playfully. His boots are off, Phil notices. “Speaking of! Shoes off Phil, come on, come on!”

“You literally told me you grew in a field, mate,” Phil laughs, airy and wheezy and light as he evades the attacks. “The little legume who could! In rural France! Where does Japan come into play here?”

“Aaaah, Philza, Philza,” the warrior shakes his head, hitting the other on the shoulder to push him back out and onto the cold cobble floor. “Shoes off I said, it’s a rule. I don’t want shit on my tatami, I already had to clean it up sooo many times with the whole server fucking around in it yesterday. And Japan lives in my warrior’s soul. It’s all that matters.”

“F’course it does,” Phil complies regardless, shimming out of his geta before walking to the little shoe rack in the corner to tuck them inside. “There. Happy?”

“Very. Also, trivia time, culture time: did you know that cucumbers aren’t legumes? They are fruits, Phil! And vegetables don’t actually exist, they’re all either fruits or roots or leaves or flowers...”

Phil stares at him. “...You don’t get to stand there and tell me my avocados are fruits, Étoiles. What the fuck.”

“Umm, they are berries, actually—”

“Oh fuck off and come kill me already.”

“With pleasure, my bro.”

Armors come off next, quickly magicked back into inventories. Phil walks up to the altars to pick up his own stick (unenchanted, as plain as it gets) and spots Étoiles off to the side, rolling up his sleeve to check on his insulin levels before rolling it back down. “We eat one gapple each, yes? My sugar is low,” he explains as they both get into position on both ends of the tatami.

“Sounds good. You got yours?”

Étoiles laughs, summoning a golden fruit from his inventory and spinning it over his finger like the insufferable showoff he is. “Always. Autofeed off Phil, no cheating.”

“Alright, you little shit,” Phil summons his own gapple and bites into it with purpose, feeling the warm tingle of magic-saturation in his stomach as the rest of the apple vanishes into thin air with a few golden sparkles. He turns to the eggs, settled on top of diamond blocks they’ve just placed. “Tallulah, do a countdown for us please?”

Signs are placed, one by one, as Pomme hypes them up with Megalovania, perfectly timed with the Pigstep now blasting out of a music box. Bomp, three. Bomp, two. Bomp, one…

Bomp. [GO PAPA PHIL :D]

Étoiles shoots off towards him as soon as the letters show up on the wood, jumping up and swinging his stick down for a crit. Phil dashes to the side, the blow just grazing his shoulder. “Nice cock, Phil!” Étoiles gasps, all sharp teeth and waggling eyebrows, and it takes the avian back enough for the other to get a few hits in. “Motherfucker!” Phil laughs, breaking the combo and pushing the cucumber back with a few crits of his own, adrenaline starting to flood his brain and paint the world in sharp edges and colors. “You little shit! Stop doing that!”

“Do what, Philza? I’m just bantering, just chilling.”

Étoiles’ combat style hasn’t changed despite the blindness, Phil finds — he’s insanely precise and quick on his feet, which is a problem. He decides he won’t be able to outrun or out-speed him, so he elects to block most of his strikes with his own stick instead, relying more on instinct than observation. “He’s blocking, he’s blocking,” the warrior’s voice chants through the flurry of swings and the clack of wood against wood. “Strafing, strafing, he’s the best, he’s the GOAT. Hit me, Phil! Don’t just defend, hit me!”

And dammit, Phil tries pretty hard — but Étoiles is insane and he’s just a little too fast even without speedbridging, just a little too smart with his feints. Phil goes down after two minutes, the last hit clocking him across the temple and sending him to the (thankfully a little soft) floor, ears ringing and white stars dancing across his darkening vision. He wonders if it’s a little like how Étoiles sees the world now. Probably not. “Four hearts, Phil,” Étoiles announces, laying his hands on Phil’s side — the pain fades, the world comes back into focus, and his brain rattles with the doom-doom of revival. He hears fireworks going off, probably Pomme’s. “That’s good, very good. That’s a brown belt! I think you can kill me soon, easy. Again?” the cucumber chirps, offering his hand, and Phil thinks that if Étoiles had his tail it would probably be wagging right now.

He groans in agreement, grasps his friend’s hand and is pulled back on his feet. “Yes. Again.”

Round two goes similarly. “Again.” So does round three. “One more.” After his fourth consequential victory, Étoiles looks pensive, and Phil is getting a tad frustrated — he’s muted his comm for this, as he often does, but he can usher a guess at what Global chat looks like, spammed with his half-death messages and maybe a brief bout of concern from whoever else is online at the moment. “Fuck, man,” he rubs at his neck where a particularly vicious strike has left the skin an angry red, molted with purple. He’ll feel that in the morning, if he doesn’t get a respawn. “I don’t think I can do it. No black belt for me.”

“No, no, you can,” Étoiles insists, circling him — dull, greyed out eyes scanning for something. “I think…”

“Looking for something, king? How’s nebula-me looking?”

“Like the GOAT, you know that. But since you ask, you’re more blue today. With some red.”

“Cool. Wish I could see like you do, for a day.”

“You don’t. It’s pretty, but annoying. It’s harder to make out details inside the, ah…” he mumbles something in barely-legible French. “Je sais pas comment on dit. Les contours. The lines at the limits of a drawing.”

“Outlines?”

“Yes. I see the outlines well, but everything inside is messy. To me everything is just, shapes. And the bigger a thing is, the harder it is for me to understand it. Eggs are easy, because they are small and simple. People are harder.” He waves towards Phil. “Like, I can’t know if you’re smiling or frowning, I have to listen to how your voice sounds.”

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

Étoiles hums, stops at his side. Cocks his head like an attentive dog. “Ah. You should take your backpack off, Phil. It’s slowing you down.”

Oh. Philza shifts, hesitant. “I wear it all the time, it doesn’t nerf me that much.”

“No, I think it can make a difference. Let’s try it?”

Mh. He hadn’t planned on doing this today. Showing his kids had felt right, natural. Showing Fit had required a few deep breaths, but not much else. Étoiles… is a trickier case.

He does want to show him — the french warrior is one of his most trusted friends, and someone he knows he can rely on in a pinch. The guy is loyal to a fault, always looking at Phil like all it would take for him to lay down his life before him was a single word. It’s a bit scary, in a way, and always makes his hindbrain buzz pleasantly. But Phil held things like mutual trust in high regard, and Étoiles had broken that on the first day of Purgatory.

They had talked since then, and it’s clear to Phil now that it had been an honest mistake, a temporary lapse in judgement. Plus, it’s not as if Phil hadn’t lost his own mind within the first twenty-four hours in that red hellscape. Still, even though he has forgiven Étoiles, the cracks don’t feel completely healed just yet. “I don’t know, mate,” he pulls at one of the straps of his backpack self-consciously, feeling its weight pressing his wings tightly against his back. “I can’t get you under four hearts, I doubt taking it off will give me that much more.”

“Phil. Phiiiiil. Trust me?”

Tall order, Phil almost jokes, but refrains. “I do trust you.”

“Then trust what I’m saying. I know my shit, you’re being slowed down, you can’t spin as fast or jump as high with this thing, it’s basic physics. I want you to have all the chance on your side.”

Philza purses his lips, glances to where Tallulah sits off to the side. She jumps to her little feet and places down a sign, while Pomme rummages through her backpack next to her. He can’t help but coo when the bright ‘<3’ shows up in stark white against the magenta wood. “Right. Okay.”

Étoiles can’t see, not normally. So maybe he won’t be able to make them out, bound tightly against his back as they are. And if he does, then that is fine. No need to make a fuss of it. So Philza walks up to Tallulah and drops the black pack next to her, giving her a little headpat in passing. “Watch over that for me, okay?” he smiles at her, and she peeps at him with purpose, jumping on top of it and doing the egg equivalent of puffing up her chest. Pomme is in her own red backpack now, little legs kicking the air as she reaches as deep as she can. silly, egg, baby, egg, he croons. “I’ll be right back. Got a green ass to kick.”

“He is back,” Étoiles whoops when he steps onto the tatami. “Oh, he is ready, so ready. Are you full hearts?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We go on three, one, two, th—”

Phil takes off at the first syllable, and oh, yeah, the lack of weight on his back means he can lean forward more without gravity winning, and that means he reaches Étoiles right as he reaches the end of his three. He thrusts his stick forward, the blunt tip digging itself right into the other’s abdomen with enough force to make him stumble back, winded and sputtering. “Argh—”

Phil doesn’t let him recover, getting a few good hits in before his opponent parries and attempts an upward swing that he barely evades by sending his body backwards, dangerously far. The weapon grazes his chin, and his wings try to open to regain balance but they’re still bound against him. “Shit—” he steps back quickly, arms pinwheeling, and it looks a little silly but it works, and he does not crash onto his back like an idiot.

Étoiles stares at him from the other side, breathing hard, eyes wide, a palm against his diaphragm. Then he smiles. “Oh. Ohohooo. Okay, now we’re talking. Let’s go.”

Moving more freely doesn’t make the fight easier, not by a long shot, because Étoiles adapts quickly — but it does make it more fun, and that’s already an improvement in Phil’s eyes. He gets less crits in, because jumping up leaves him too exposed to revenge strikes, but he gets more light hits in between sidesteps and mad dashes. “He is so fast!” Étoiles cheers, ducking to dodge a vicious strike to the head. “Oh, he is so good, go Phil go!”

Run, dodge, strike, strafe, dash. Every muscle in Phil’s body strains to keep up as he pushes it past its limits, arm aching from the repeated shocks against the stick, but he barely feels it thanks to the adrenaline flooding his system. A hit to the back of his knee makes him stumble, but he recovers into a roll and trips Étoiles with his stick in retaliation. The cucumber groans, scrambles to get up, and Phil sees an opening right there on his foes’ unprotected throat. He zeroes in on it, takes the first step, raises his weapon and—

There’s a jagged shape in his peripheral vision.

He falters. Tries not to look at it, tries to keep his eyes on target, target that’s about to get back up, quick, quick, do it.

There’s a purple shape in his peripheral vision.

He fails. Sharp angles and eerie glow, that shade he’s come to dread. The amethyst crystals hum out their ethereal song, taunting him. He doesn’t see Étoiles anymore, and his world is drowning in high-pitched static.

Purple. Purple everywhere. The room is too dark, too dark, darker yet darker.

Time slows down. No. The edges of his vision are fraying, dark tendrils creeping in. He feels himself falter, adrenaline making way for cortisol and making his hindbrain, no, fly, fly, run, nonono. He’s losing his footing, his grip around the stick growing slack, palms getting clammy. No, no, not now, please. His breathing picks up, faster than it’s been at any point of this duel. The amethysts glow an eerie violet, jagged shapes growing out of the thick, wooden beams around him, and he swears the room has gotten even darker. “Tallu—” He doesn’t make it to the end of the name, because then something smacks him in the back with unrestrained force.

Right on his left ulnare, the wingbone left exposed with no fat or muscle to cushion the blow.

Pain explodes throughout his left wing, the shock propagating all the way into his back and making him yell out, a gasp-screech that is very not human. Tallulah peeps loudly somewhere at the edge of his awareness, papa, no, bad! as he falls to his hands and knees, panic spiking, bad, bad, hurts, getoutgetout—

“Oh merde! Phil, ça va ?” He hears glass breaking, smells melon and gunpowder and something both earthy and spicy — Nether wart. Étoiles is healing him, putting a stop to their duel, and the realisation drags him out of that weird fugue state. “You never made that sound before, I think it’s bad. Are you okay?”

“Amethyst,” the older man growls between clenched teeth, letting the potion effects refill his health bar — fuck. Pain signals were always limited during PvP, but this had somehow broken through the server’s capping function. Étoiles makes a noise of incomprehension, his hands just hovering over Phil’s shoulder, not quite touching. “What?” he says, and Phil hears the patter of little feet rapidly coming closer. Pomme and Lullah.

“Please, just... Can you see the amethyst?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking, of course his friend can’t see it, because that shit isn’t real. Or at least not to anyone but him. Through the haze he can feel Tallulah’s warm shell bump against his arm, hear her little worried chitters. He doesn’t trust himself to tell her he’s fine.

But then, Étoiles raises an eyebrow and turns his head towards the wall, blinks. A frustrated noise. “Euuuh Pomme, je t’adore hein, mais ça va pas trop avec le reste en fait. Tu peux les retirer steuplait ?” Pomme crouches, one-two, then summons a pickaxe and walks towards the crystals, and proceeds to casually break all of them.

Oh. Her backpack, all her rummaging. She’d been trying to decorate the dojo while they were busy sparring.

Philza lets out an uneven breath, runs a hand through his hair — his forehead is damp with cold sweat, and it sucks. Okay. Okay. Real, then. Just a really, really bad coincidence. Bad timing. Bad everything. He lets out a breath, the tight coil in his chest slowly loosening. “I’m sorry Pomme,” he gives the little egg a smile that he hopes to the Gods isn’t shaky. “Got distracted by the shiny, you know how it goes. Crow brain go brrrrr.”

Pomme falls dramatically on the floor at that, places a red sign that reads [sorry ;_;] “You’re good, you’re good, don’t worry.” Tallulah places a flower next to Pomme, bomp, [RIP manzanita]. Phil chuckles at their antics, heartbeat slowing down to a more normal pace. Jesus Christ. “You like shiny things, Phil?” Étoiles asks. “Did not know that.” He looks around, scans the dojo for any stray shine. “Mmmh. All good, I think. Sorry about Pomme, she likes amethyst stuff.” Then, quieter, “I think it reminds her of Baghera. She has an amethyst farm in her castle.”

Oh. Phil glances at Pomme, who thankfully seems fully absorbed in a sign-based conversation with Tallulah. “That makes sense. She must miss her a lot.”

(Dad, are you proud of me? I just killed a silverfish.)

“Can I see your wings, Phil?”

And, there it is. The other shoe. Phil lets out a heavy sigh, wincing when the movement makes his joint twinge in lingering pain — he’s pretty sure nothing’s actually broken or sprained, at least not any worse than before, but it still hurts. “So you saw them.”

“No no, I can’t. But I know they are there, somewhere. I’m sorry I hit them, I can’t tell where they are if you don’t have them out. Told you it was annoying.”

Ah. That makes more sense. He doubts Étoiles would voluntarily target them. Still… “How do you know about them? And, why?

“Philza, you need to understand something. And the thing is, I’m really dumb. I want to see them because maybe I can help, if I hurt them. I fix.”

“No you’re not, stop that. And you didn’t do any permanent damage, you’re fine.”

“No, wait. I’m stupid with lore, but I have eyes and ears. Jaiden showed she had wings, pretty sure Baghera has some but she hides them, I assumed you were the same.” Ah. Fair enough. Phil hasn’t been as subtle lately, and the crow jokes could only go for so long before people started to pick up on how literal they were. “Also, Kristin told me.”

Wait, what. “Wait, what?”

“Ye ye. First day of Purgatory, I died a lot. She said she wanted to exchange fofoca, so I told her about things, and she told me about you because she likes me. Did you know, I asked her if I could get wings too? It made her laugh. I guess tech support is not a high enough position to get flying benefits, sad times for me.”

Mother fucker. It’s hard to be upset when everything that spews out of Étoiles’ chattermouth is so consistently funny. “Well. I would’ve told you sooner than later, anyway. S’fine.”

“So you let me help.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll let you take a look, if that’ll make you feel better about it.”

“Let’s goooo, we got trust. Sit down please?”

Phil snorts and complies. He spots Tallulah running back towards him to climb onto his lap with a quiet warbe. good? Phil warbles back, good, yesyes, and rests his chin on top of his egg’s soft locks of hair. He hears Pomme hitting her dad behind him. “Ouais Pomme ?” Bomp, a short silence. “Badboy est là ? Ah ouaaais. Il veut encore t’exploiter pour ses boutons de l’enfer là ? POV, tu aides le fou du QSMP avec son escape game pour pas qu’il te tue.” More hits, Pomme’s little click-chirps. Étoiles laughs. “Okay, okay, t’inquiètes. Va l’aider, moi et Phil on va parler de trucs chiants de toute façon. Je te vois plus tard ?” The sound of a warpstone going off. “Saluuut.”

“Is Pomme leaving?”

“Yeah, she wants to build stuff with Badboy.”

“Oh god. Please tell me it’s not another find-the-button map.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna spend ten hours finding those fucking things again soon, let’s gooooo. So your wings, who else knows? I bet Fit knows. And your eggs.” Tallulah nods in Phil’s hold.

Étoiles’ lack of big reaction feels nice, but he supposes he should have expected it — the guy never makes a big deal out of anything. Except when it’s about banned materials. Or the Nether. And finding buttons, new trigger unlocked. “Add in pretty much everyone in the original Bolas, king,” he huffs as Étoiles settles behind him. His unseen presence makes a brief shiver of danger, danger go up Phil’s spine. It’s fine. It’s fine, he soothes himself, idly rubbing at the scar at the center of his chest through his robe. “I lost my shit with them around. Stopped caring as much. They saw them on day one.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Half the people on this shit island are like, creatures. Not humans. Nobody cares. I’m literally a fruit, Phil.”

Phil chokes on his own spit. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea how funny what you just said was.” Tallulah chirps and wiggles in his hold, places a sign. [*side-eyes u*] it says, and that’s somehow even funnier than if she had actual eyes to side-eye people with instead of the blank expanse of her brown-spotted shell.

Étoiles blinks. He cocks his head to the side, in that specific way he does whenever he’s listening to what he calls the ‘voices of the stars’. (Something akin to his crows, from what the older man has been able to gather.) “Oooh. Oh, is it a gay joke Phil? That doesn’t work man, we are on Gay Island, everyone is gay here, or they don’t date at all. And you are incorrect, because I am in the second group, héhé.”

“Didn’t Antoine call you his boyfriend once?”

“He calls me a lot of things.” Étoiles shrugs. ”He’s also an asshole and my DJ partner and my friend and I love him very much, but no, it’s not like that. And I am married to dark metal and dungeons anyway. Now I’m going to unbind your wings and move them around, okay?”

“Mh. Go for it, king.”

To his credit, Étoiles is methodic in his approach — unknotting the binds and carefully tracing the upper edges of his left wing while the other spreads out with difficulty, a few black feathers coming loose. Étoiles lets out a surprised oh, gently grabs the other to help it unfurl, and Phil feels him poking at the bottom of his regrowing primaries — right where the white ones, usually hidden beneath the outer layer unless he spreads them wide, grow in diamond-like spots. “I know this pattern, right there. You have Elytrian code too, Phil? I thought it was just crow.”

“Ah, so Kristin didn’t tell you everything then.”

“No. And she didn’t like, out you, you know. She only told me because she knew I knew, she only confirmed it. People with wings have like, a way they move? I can’t explain it, I just see it.”

“Body language expert Étoiles, ey? Have you known a lot of avians before?”

Étoiles stays quiet for a second. When he speaks again, he sounds perplexed. “Huh. I don’t know. I guess I knew Baghera? Memory stuff, it’s annoying.”

Phil frowns. Right. “You told me a little about your childhood, though. The village, the farmers?”

“Yeah, that’s a thing that came back quickly after the crash. But everything after that, I don’t remember.”

“Man, fuck this island. I’m sorry.”

Étoiles hums. His fingers start combing through his bottom feathers, lingering among the white ones. “I think. I think I went to the End before, Phil.” His voice has gone softer, airy, like he’s not quite anchored in the present. “I think… maybe, I’ve seen Elytrians before.”

“You have?”

“Mmh. I think I killed one. Yeah. And I took its elytra. It was a good fight.”

The revelation doesn’t shock him — Elytrian hunting is a common activity for those who reach the End, and elytras are a highly sought-after item in most worlds. (Philza would know.) “Were you a hunter? Before the island.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t like hunters.” And Phil can’t see Étoile’s face from his position on the floor, but his words are dripping with contempt. “Hunting for yourself is one thing. Making money off it, it feels wrong. And they don’t even fight, they make traps. I don’t like that. If you’re too shit at fighting to win fairly against something, you don’t deserve the loot. Bâtards de merde.”

And Phil laughs, because this he understands. “Ever the honorable warrior, aren’t you Étoiles.”

“Dude, I have so much honor. I told you, I’m literally Japanese.”

“Right.”

“And like I said, I am your arms. I am your sword, Philza Minecraft.”

Phil’s wings fluff up slightly, a croon of ownership-claim threatening to spill out of his chest. Mine. “Étoiles…”

“I am, it’s not a bad thing! Purgatory sucked. I didn’t like it. But it was better at the end, when you were telling me what to do. Who to kill for you.”

Phil croons, leaning back into Étoiles’ careful hands. “I see. You never called me dad though.”

“Fuck that!” Étoiles laughs, bark-like and airy. “That cult leader shit was weird. You’re Philza.” And there’s a quality to the way he says it, something that feels both casual and reverent. “First of his name, GOAT of PvP, Avoider of Lore, greatest man alive—”

“Woah there—”

“—husband and Angel of Lady Death, and father of dragon eggs. You’re not my dad. Why everyone has daddy issues on this shit island?”

Phil snorts. “I don’t know, mate. But I won’t judge. I think it’s fine if seeing me as a father figure brought them comfort. It was literally hell out there.”

Étoiles hums. “Maybe. Also, you didn’t answer my question.” Phil lets out a confused huh. “Earlier, when I asked why you were hiding that you had wings.”

…Shit. Curse Étoiles’ one-track mind, his deflection tactic had been foiled. “It’s not— shit like prejudice I was afraid of, Étoiles,” he admits, quiet and somber. The other man stops his ministrations, fingers dug deep in his primary coverts. “I know this island is a goddamn circus show. Mousey screams she’s a demon to whoever will listen and nobody gives two shits, I don’t know why Bad even bothers pretending he’s not. That’s not the problem. It’s just…” He sighs. ”The Federation has eyes everywhere, man. I feel like if I show them off too much, they’ll fuck them up again. Maybe even worse than last time.”

Étoiles is silent. His motions resume, slower, more careful and deliberate. “The first time, you say,” he eventually hums. There’s something dangerous in his voice. “So it’s because of them, that they are like this? Your wings.”

“Pretty much. Woke up on the train, boom, clipped. No more flying for me. I don’t know why they didn’t do the same to Jaiden, she said she didn’t want to fly, or didn’t know how? I can’t remember too well, but maybe that’s why. Less of a threat. Honestly, I’m just glad they didn’t do it to her. She’s family now.” Even though her loyalties are a point of concern, he couldn’t help it. She is Bolas, she is flock. And he had held her as she screamed out the temporary loss of her shiny blue wings, that first night in Purgatory. “No avian deserves that shit.”

“You don’t either, Phil.”

“I know that.”

“I’m just saying it because you have the voice! The one you use when you think bad things.”

A wry smile. “How dare you call yourself dumb, man. How fucking dare you.”

“It’s what I do! I kill things, I see people’s true souls, and I shit on myself.”

They stay quiet after that. Étoiles stretches out his wings, flexing the joints one at a time, muttering quick apologies when Phil hisses a little too loud. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You’re good. Keep going.” So he does, until Phil no longer feels the pins and needles of blood flooding back into his wings, until the joints no longer feel like rusted cogs. He even gets a little preening in, dislodging matted down and crooked secondaries, and it feels nice. Tallulah is dozing off in his hold, warm and safe. His egg, his baby, his hatchling. “Thanks mate,” Phil hums, a little out of it by the end, hindbrain thrumming pleasantly. Flock, good, yesyes. “You’ve done that before, I can tell.”

“If I have, I don’t remember. Okay, now stand— sorry Tallulah, were you sleeping? Sorry, your dad has to stand so we can see. Yes, nice. Now try them.”

Phil chitters quietly, furling and unfurling his wings experimentally — the constant pain is still there, but minimal, very bearable, and they do feel less stuffy. Lighter. “It actually does, yeah.” Tallulah does a little dance at his side, twirling and playing a few cheery notes on her flute. “Good job, seriously.”

“No probleeeem, Phil, my bro. Last round?”

This guy, I swear. “I’m a little tired,” Phil groans, cracking his neck as he stands, stretches his wings out as far as he can — it still aches, but feels miles better. “But okay. I’m going to put Tallulah to bed real quick, she’s eepy.” Tallulah nods in confirmation, takes out her warpstone right as her papa does. “Then let’s fight, one more time. After that I’m going home and conking the fuck out.”

Étoiles makes a sound that probably means something like ‘holy shit say less king’. “Okay!”

Five minutes later, and he’s warping back to Étoiles’ cave like a man on a mission. And in a way, he is. “Welcome back, worthy challenger,” the cucumber greets him, crossed-legged in the middle of the dojo, and Phil snorts because the music box is blasting Smash Bros music now. “You’re such a fucking nerd, oh my God.”

“It gives me strength, Phil. It’s my final form.” Étoiles gets up, stick already in hand, bouncing on his heels with anticipation. “Autofeed still off?”

“Yup. How’s your sugar?” Étoiles checks his monitor quickly, gives a thumbs up. “Good. No holding back?”

“I never hold back, Phil. Let’s go.”

There is no countdown this time — both opponents slip into quiet assessment, circling each other slowly, slowly. Étoiles does a strange head-tilt, ears flicking to track Phil’s footsteps, the sounds of feathers ruffling. Phil’s eyes do not stray from him, hardened and focused, picking up on the change in the air. Étoiles wants him to go all out. So he will. And he has a plan.

(The bigger a thing is, the harder it is for me to understand it.)

Time to put that to the test, then.

Étoiles charges first this time, quick-footed, swerving at random moments to keep himself a hard-to-track target. Phil almost bursts into incredulous laughter because holy shit, he’s Naruto-running, what the fuck— but manages to keep his focus, waiting until the very last moment to thrust his wings downward with enough force to send him soaring abovehis opponent. Then, right as his feet touch the tatami and right as Étoiles screeches to a stop to spin back towards him

he spreads his wings

wide, wider

casting huge shadows on the four walls of the dojo

and lets his powers roll off of him like a dark mist, sparking with magic and wither-decay.

(The bigger a thing is, the harder it is for me to understand it.)

It’s a gamble, a costly one that saps his Feds-capped magic like crazy — but it pays off, because Étoiles staggers back, confusion etched across his features. His head subtly snaps in all directions, like he doesn’t know where to look, his ears swivelling to try and pinpoint him. Bingo. Phil has made his nebula-self big, toobig for Étoiles, rendering the warrior effectively blind. Well, double-blind.

Phil doesn’t wait for the other to find a counter to this, curls his wings forward then snaps them back — they launch him forward at breakneck speed and create a gust of wind that makes the paper lanterns swing on their hooks, and then Phil is slamming into Étoiles like a literal hurricane.

The plant hybrid gasps, fingers slackening from the sheer strength of the impact — his weapon slips out of his grasp to clatter against the ground and roll out of bounds. His body describes a perfect curve and hits the wooden floor with a loud thud. He barely has the time to blink the dizziness away before something presses against the side of his neck, and he freezes completely. “Gotcha,” Phil preens, looming above him. The end of his stick is right against Étoiles’ pulse point, the threat crystal clear, and he’s a writhing mass of burning stars and cosmic fury.

The energy rolling off of him washes over Étoiles in waves, makes his skin tingle, and he recognizes it as withering. Withering coming from Philza himself, whose outlines are impossible to pinpoint, lost in the cloud of magic and giant Angel wings.

...Okay, this is sick as hell, Étoiles thinks, and he can feel somethingwithin him grow, a presence rejoicing in the back of his mind. Ink bleeds into his eyes, then under it, twin lines of darkness going down his cheeks and neck. (Flashes of a white spiral on a dark expanse, of whispers and stolen Time.) He feels cold, but he feels good about it, and he’s not scared at all — this is fine, more than fine. Withering is harmless for Death-touched things. Things like him and Phil. He laughs, loud and ecstatic, this is fun, so fun! “Aaah. Clever bird, clever Phil, I like. Okay.”

Then something wraps around Phil’s ankle and pulls it forward, breaking his balance and making him hit the ground ass-first with a startled caw. He grits his teeth, shoots a glare towards his leg to see—

—blinks at the sight of a green vine wrapped around his ankle. His eyes trace along its length. He’s seen this before, but only once, months ago. Right after harvesting a freshly-regrown Étoiles out of the ground, a week after his Code-related demise. “Oh,” Philza says, and Étoiles smirks in return.

His tail is long, as long as he is tall, and covered in large, healthy green leaves. It swishes against the tatami in a serpentine motion, the leaves rustling quietly, and Phil notices a half-star-shaped kink at the end of it. It’s... well, it’s pretty adorable actually, but something tells him Étoiles wouldn’t like that descriptor. “You kept it,” he says instead, fight-darkened eyes sparkling with something like kinship-euphoria. “You grew it out.”

“I did, I listened to you. I keep it wrapped around my waist, it works.”

“Told you it could come in handy.”

“You did. You’re always right about things, Philza.” Étoiles steps into a fighting stance, hands curled into fists, tail lashing left and right like a whip. Phil understands, lets out a quiet chuckle as he sends his own weapon flying out of the arena. So they’re doing it this way, huh. More than fine with him. “Nothing’s off the table then,” he hums, hands curling like claws at his sides, sharpening talons glinting ominously in the light of paper lanterns. His friend hums approvingly, and it’s all Phil needs to pounce.

They no longer try to evade, instead crashing into each other to cause as much damage as quickly as possible. Étoiles throws a jab, Phil retaliates with a smack of his wing to destabilise the other before slashing at his chest, tearing at his shirt and drawing the first blood. Because yes, Étoiles bleeds, deep cuts marring his dark green skin, chlorophyll sticking to Phil’s hands. Étoiles hisses, gets behind him and wraps his tail around Phil’s throat to choke him. Phil gasps, coughs, briefly flails before smacking the other with his wings until the tail goes slack. Phil rips it off him and whirls around to pull at it sharply — Étoiles falls, but not before grabbing onto Phil’s robes to pull him down with him.

Things get messy after that — a flurry of feathers and leaves and punches and kicks, one that clocks Phil in the jaw and makes him taste blood, one at the side of his head that makes him see stars. He hisses, screeches, swipes, again and again, and Étoiles blocks some of them with his arms, arms that gain more and more tiger-stripe cuts, but many go through and eat at his health, heart after heart. The warrior retaliates with a headbutt that makes the Angel’s world darken for a second, burning blood getting into his eyes and half-blinding him. Maybe it’s more fair this way, not that it slows him down at all.

They punch, claw, snap their teeth at each other like rabid dogs — chipping at each other’s health with no care, no limits. Dark red and greenish white smear against the straw tatami, but that’s fine, that’s okay, they are playing, they are having fun, and Philza feels alive, alive, alive!

(The whole time, Étoiles never touches his wings. Which goes against the whole ‘nothing off the table’ thing, yet Philza is grateful for it. He’s also grateful none of the eggs are here to see this.)

Philza has no idea how long this lasts, lost in the thrill of a fight the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in decades. But eventually the doom of someone getting downed makes every muscle in his body lock up, and he’s still standing. Or, kneeling over Étoiles with his talons right above his jugular, the other hand pinning the warrior’s hands above his head to keep him from hitting back. Semantics.

Étoiles has gone limp, heaving, his body a canvas of bruises and bloody cuts. “I win,” Phil realizes, wings quivering, all fluffed up in a show of victory. “I… won.”

“Well played, well played,” his warrior wheezes out in response, and Phil’s never seen anyone so happy about getting their shit kicked. Except maybe one person. But he won, Phil won, Étoiles is down and he himself still has… yes, two hearts to spare. He has won. They can stop. Right here. Right now.

But then. Étoiles, stupid and crazy and wonderful Étoiles, tilts his head back to offer him his throat, his binary-scarred face twisted in a feral grin. Philza gasps and leans back a little, eyes wide “Take your win, my bro,” he chirps, happy as can be, tail thumping against the tatami like an overpet cat. Tap, tap, tap, the countdown to his demise if Phil doesn’t up him soon. “Do it. You won’t. No balls, no bolas.”

And those words are the last push Phil needs for his Elytrian code to take over. He bares his teeth, eyes darkening to a pitch black that eats up his entire sclera, until the white of Étoiles’ teeth gets reflected back at him — not that he can see it.

Phil’s wings spread out behind him, huge and dark and awe-inspiring even in their frayed state, and the withering aura that exudes from them paints Étoiles’ eternal night in bursts of star-speckled purples and reds and blues.

It’s beautiful. And it’s terrifying. Étoiles is about to get killed by an Angel of Death, and he’s never been so goddamn scared and excited in his life.

Phil feels insane. He’s going feral, going sicko mode, or whatever other colloquialism that means his mind is drowning in the thrill of hunt, hunt, prey, yesyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Étoiles scared before, but there’s no mistaking those too-wide eyes, that subtle tremor in his friend’s wrists as Phil’s hand tightens around them. He can smell it too, like cut grass left to decay in the hot sun, and it’s making the End’s superpredator in him go zoomies inside his skull.

He growls, low and bone-deep and dangerous, his talons pushing harder against the paling, sweat-damp skin of Étoiles’ neck. prey? flock. prey. prey? kill, eat, yesyes. Étoiles isn’t human, but he has something close to a heart, and he bleeds like one — greenish white chlorophyll that smells strong and tastes awful, bitter.

(Phil knows that, because Purgatory happened. More specifically, Bolas happened, gas masks and ritual sacrifices and fresh blood always lingering at the corner of their mouths. He misses his flock — misses all the ones that are still gone, carving cookie-cutter negative shapes in his heart — everything else about that hellscape, not so much anymore. Maybe he’s healing, just a little.)

His talons are just a hair away from perforating Étoiles’ jugular, so close to making not-quite-blood pour out like a fountain. But then he freezes, going silent, because the part of him that is still sane recognizes that this is a terrible idea.

It’s a terrible idea because Étoiles is bad at knowing when to stop, bad at spotting the line between what challenges him and what hurts him. And Philza understands that this, this is a bad. The cucumber hybrid is a creature of instants — fugue moments, rash decisions, the kind you would look back on later and go oh, yeah, that was dumb and maybe not worth it. Hence Philza has to be the responsible one, has to ignore his base instincts screeching at him to hunt, kill, kill, lest this ends badly. Like Étoiles getting mauled to death by what is supposed to be his most trusted friend. Again. (They don’t talk about that time. Just like they don’t talk about Étoiles’ betrayal, neither want to reminisce over Phil’s teeth tearing his throat out in the middle of a Hunger disaster. Not-so-fun fact: Étoiles doesn’t taste like cucumber at all.)

“Enabler,” the avian warbles, talons slowly lifting off the hollow of Étoiles’ throat. “M’not killing you.” And Étoiles, like the little shit that he is, has the gallto pout at him. “Why not?”

“Because then I’ll have to regrow your ass in my potato field for a week, you twat.” Also I think it’s not good for you, and my sanity is at an all-time low so I don’t need cold-blooded murder to push me over the edge, he adds in petto.

Étoiles blinks. Huffs out a laugh, something a little unhinged, but also a little relieved. “Ah, yeah! I forgot, because I respawned normally in Purgatory. Okay, you win.” The warrior’s smile softens to something more like him, and just like that, the tension vanishes, the buzz of fear and aggression replaced by something light and playful. Étoiles baps his hands against his chest, grabbing at his robe to tug him down into a hug.

And Philza’s hindbrain floods the rest of him with happy, happy, yesyes, because Étoiles isn’t really a touchy-feely person and neither is Phil, but this feels right. “GGs,” the crow says back, warbling and chirping like crazy, the black in his eyes receding. yesyes, mine, mine, yesyes, yesyes! And to his surprise, Étoiles responds, not with a crude imitation of his own bird sounds, but with something… different. And Phil’s not sure any word in his vocab could ever describe it accurately — but something deep within him knows that if starlight was a sound, this would certainly be it. “Oh, oh, he is so good. The GOAT, the actual GOAT, best man on the planet Philza Minecraft,” Étoiles mock-sobs against him. “He wakes up in the morning casually being the best, and he takes care of two eggs and says fuck to the president’s office from the wall, and he finally beats me. My legend, Felipe, Felipe!”

Phil shakes from the force of his hilarity — a regular occurrence whenever he hangs around his favourite pickle man for long enough. silly, he warbles between fits of belly-aching, hiccup-inducing laughter, and he leans down to nuzzle against his friend’s mess of dark green hair (leaves?). silly. silly. flock. “I do see Forever wave at me from his office sometimes,” he hums, once he’s calmed down enough to speak again. “He makes kissy faces at me through the glass, so I flip him off.”

Étoiles hums in acceptance, finally pushes Phil back to shimmy out from under him with a small héhé to lay on his back, starfish-style. Phil rolls onto his own back, and they both stare at the interlacing wooden beams of the dojo roof for a little while, basking in the fuzz of a fading adrenaline rush.

(Phil hasn’t seen his favourite Brazilian as much lately. Silly, sun, friend-protector. He probably has his hands full, what with returning to his political duties after so long. Still, Philza worries — he thinks of black tar clinging to sun-kissed skin and tired sienna eyes, above a smile that just doesn’t shine as bright as it used to.) “I kinda like it, though. It’s like our good morning. Never tell him I said that.”

“I wooooon’t, I promise.”

“Thank you. For the fights.” Philza closes his eyes. He is here, he is real, everything about this moment is so real. It’s comforting, a balm on his fraying psyche. “It was fun.”

“It was so fun. Please fight with me again like this sometime, no sticks, yes? You have to come back so I give you your black belt anyway.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I can hear you smiling, Phil. You want to, I knowww.”

“M’not smiling at all, dumbass.”

Étoiles does that high-pitched hum of his that means he’s not buying it, reaches towards his friend — his leader, his wielder, his death-touched Angel. Cool fingers, untouched by code, playfully trace over each of Philza’s features, feeling out the dimples and the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes — pun very much intended. “You’re so bad at lying, Philza,” he sing-songs, playful and content. “I know you too well. Maybe I can’t see you, but I can see you.”

And goddammit, Philza actually does feel seen in this moment, anxieties melting away for now. How does he do it. How does this reckless, thrill-seeking cucumber man with a limited (albeit pretty good, and improving) grasp on English so consistently drop the most gut-punching lines in this entire server. Étoiles is something else. “...Yeah. I see you too, mate,” Phil breathes out, and the rough texture of the tatami is starting to dig criss-cross patterns into his back, but he wants to stay like this. Just a little longer.

(Philza is damaged goods. But so is Étoiles, and so is everyone he knows. But maybe they can both pretend, for a little while.)

#qsmp #qsmp fic #fanfic #philza #étoiles #codebreakers #commission

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demonslayedher · 1 year

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Hantengu: As Bad As You Can Get Without Being Muzan

I've touched on this in old meta entries and I'm just going to wind up linking them here, but a friend got me going on this again today, so I'll state it again: Hantengu is one of the most insidious characters in this whole series, if you're going by sweeping themes of self-mastery which Gotouge may or may not have consciously intended.

For starters, I'm going to compare Hantengu to his polar opposite, Rengoku Kyojuro, mostly by referring you this post where I already explained how Kyojuro displays samurai-style idealized virtues of self-mastery, stoicism, and inner peace about death or aging. A common theme in oni lore is how letting one's passions run amok is what brings out the demon any person has potential to become, whether these passions are greed or worry or even joy. Kyojuro is very clearly a passionate person, but he's self-aware enough to know that his passions must be kept in check in order to benefit from them, and that means putting effort into maintaining them. He's seen how that can lead to burn out as in the case of his father, so he maintains his own balance by recognizing and accepting the harsh truths of any situation with as much grace as he can muster, recognizing and taking steps to overcome his own shortcomings, and recognizing and making a choice to "set his heart ablaze" instead of getting lost in frenzy.

Hantengu, on the other hand, lets his passions run so amok that they take their own physical forms, and even then no single one of them is ever consistently powerful enough to be sustained for long before he's spawned something new based on whatever new frenzy he's in. It's his reckless abandon of self-control that made him so demonically powerful.

There are other characters who lack self-control, though--Inosuke and Zenitsu are who they are because they are the perfect agents to introduce chaos to any scene. They gradually take steps to learn self-mastery, however--Zenitsu is hyperaware of his own failings, to the point of rumination, and Inosuke is hypoaware. However, at their core, their desire to do better by other people leads them down paths of self-improvement, a path which keeps them aligned with humanity as opposed to the allure of powerful demons.

Demons in this series display similarly admirable traits, though--Kokushibo and Akaza have striven as hard as any Corp member to improve themselves, for instance. Gyutaro and Daki might have had blatant disregard for others due to a lingering jealousy and hatred for how much better everyone else always had things than they did, but they have always taken active roles in standing up for themselves and trying to improve their circumstances.

If we dive into more loathsome, demented demons, we still see that they know themselves enough to own their faults, whether they see them as faults are not. Douma is quick to recognize his own lack of passion, Enma is unashamed as about what gives him pleasure and uses his underhanded, self-protecting tactics in order to play the long game in his strategy, Gyokko is an artist, and Muzan is perfectly clear and at peace with who he is and what he wants. Muzan's desires are so plain to him that it even opened up a believable opportunity for Tanjiro to feel sympathy for him in their final encounter, though Tanjiro made the choice not to.

Tanjiro never even entertained the notion of pitying Hantengu, though.

I'll come back to Tanjiro, but to borrow from this post about themes in KnY as they relate to oni lore: In many philosophies, even an excess of positive emotions can be detrimental, and people who follow those philosophies are instead encouraged to not given into any emotion too strongly. Likewise, the lack of a virtue can be bad, but an excess of it becomes a vice.

While the Ki-Do-Ai-Raku fearsome foursome represent the danger of unchecked, excessive emotions, Zouhakuten represents an excess of virtue, which turns it into a vice. From an outside perspective, of course Tanjiro was doing the right thing attacking a tiny oni, because this oni will go on killing people if he doesn't, but Zouhakuten focuses so intensely on the injustice of attacking the small and weak that he is ignorantly convinced of his own self-righteousness.

The other demons don't do this, particularly--they justify what they do, like Daki saying how this is just the way the world works that beautiful and powerful oni can do whatever they want because that is how the world works, but she doesn't claim her actions are righteous. Muzan also makes rational points--which Zouhakuten echos--about how the demon slayers drive a lot of the violence due to their own inability to make peace with their lot in life, and going out of their way to attack demons. However, as much as Muzan believes he is superior, he doesn't belief he is a god who can cast moral judgement on others, nor is he interested.

Zouhakuten, taking the form of a deity that fiercely protects the precepts of Buddhism and threatens those who defy it, makes the daring claim that he is just.

The Demon Slayers Corp members, at least those like Tanjiro, are guilty of the same thing. The difference, however, comes back to self-awareness. For example, Tanjiro is confronted with the question of whether Zouhakuten/Hantengu has ever eaten anyone in Tanjiro's life, and as he has not, Tanjiro must at least question if justice is on his side anyway in attacking Zouhakuten. It was an easy answer, but being mortal and easily killed for sticking his neck out by picking fights with demons, it's something Tanjiro continually has to question and reaffirm.

Yes, the answer is always easy for Tanjiro, and yes, there are Corp members who are only in it for the glory or the money (and these characters are not treated as heroes). However, Tanjiro must also continually self-reflect on his own weaknesses and failings. Taisho Secrets tell us he's even reviewing his training and battles in his sleep to analyze and learn from them, and we see his continual efforts to improve no matter how beaten down he's gotten. In the heat of battle he has to keep himself confident and focused. He's got to keep from beating himself up unfairly, and he's got to keep from getting over-confident, it's a balance to maintain and it takes practice to read oneself with clarity.

He's constantly having to practice self-mastery, which means Total Concentration of whatever strength he needs to pull from, including passions like righteous anger that make it feel like his heart and/or forehead are ablaze. It takes him practice to be able to keep rebounding, but he's got humility to be able to learn from others, take criticism, and analyze himself with clarity.

These are the virtues which Kimetsu no Yaiba extols, and which most separates the paths of righteous from the paths of those who who gave into their passions.

As a few other examples: --Nezuko retains her virtues by recognizing her own weakness and focusing on self-mastery --Rui lost himself in a feeling of entitlement, conviction in his own sense of justice, and disappointment in his parents. Or so he thought! That was all the result of running away from a truth about himself he didn't want to face; the fact that he was the one responsible for breaking his family bonds. --The Pillars, with all their human faults, remain righteous because they could easily succumb to their own sorrows, angers, and self-loathing. The fact that they do not--however much these things have messed them up--and they keep striving to better themselves, for the sake of a conviction in something difficult to achieve otherwise.

Zouhakuten, instead of rising above his own shortcomings, is a deeper concentration of, a wallowing in those unbridled passions. Being so convinced of his own righteousness, he does not have any clear self-understanding, and therefore, has no inclination toward self-mastery.

He is, after all, Hantengu.

Hantengu made himself into what he is because he convinced himself of his own lies about his own helplessness, and this utter lack of self-awareness and his unchecked passions are what make him a demon. By doing nothing to improve himself, he grew out of control. And, ultimately, Hantengu is selfish. Everything must revolve around him and how he is the most wretched creature, the most powerless thing to ever have the harshness of the world thrust upon it. Among a cast of relatable demons, made victims of their own poor luck or circumstance or a desire to amend some wrong done to them, Hantengu is the worst because he got himself there for nothing but his own self-centered lie.

While all the demons have relatable traits which have flown out of control, he's the most realistically like someone we all know or have met. He's the most benign and hardest to catch, one whom many philosophical, religious, or therapeutic texts try to warn against for how his insidious fleeing from truth grows into something monstrous.

The scariest part is that the wallowing Hantengu might be closer than we think.

#and now I'm going to bed #can you tell I'm excited to watch Noh this week?#Hantengu #kny fandom theories and meta #by this logic Douma is also pretty bad but for nihilistic reasons #and at least Douma displays a willingness to change his mind if challenged #I don't care about anything ACTUALLY NO I THINK I LIKE YOU SHINOBU LOOK I DO HAVE FEELINGS AFTER ALL THIS IS NICE #and what's fun with Muzan is that we get to see his worldview challenged by panic #but also Muzan KNOWS he's a coward and OWNS THAT by trying to run away #AND I LOVE IT #I love all the tension from seeing the battle from inside his head #anyway #right #bedtime

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jazzmckay · 6 months

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soft little fenders ficlet because the mood struck <3

Anders has been growing his hair out. It hangs past his shoulders now; sometimes he ties it back, other times he leaves it free, lets it fall where it may, not minding when the wind swirls it into tangles. On such occasions, Fenris finds himself running his fingers through it, gauntlet removed and touch gentle, easing the knots loose. Anders' hair is soft, and running his fingers through it feels nice.

From the smile Anders always gives him after, it feels nice to him too, so Fenris keeps doing it, even if he is unused to--and therefore unsure about--giving such simple affections.

It's warm enough on the northern border between the Free Marches and Antiva that Anders ties his hair up in a messy bun more often than not when he goes to work in the tiny garden they've started behind the cabin they're currently inhabiting. It's a nice cabin, and easily defensible, too--they may stay here longer than they've stayed anywhere else.

While Anders tends to the plants, Fenris fills a wash basin and cleans the pile of laundry that has gathered over the past week. His attention is divided, half on his soapy hands, half on Anders. Some strands of his hair fall loose from the tie. If one gets in his face, he blows and shakes it away, still intent on his work. His hands move with practised motions, firm and precise.

By the time Fenris is pinning up their clothes to dry, Anders is finished. He takes the washing basin with him when he goes inside, off to wash up himself.

Fenris follows once he's done his task, and finds Anders sitting on the end of the bed they share, his hands clean and working a brush through his untied hair.

The sight of him makes Fenris still just to take him in, even though he's been treated to the sight of Anders relaxed, in loose, plain clothes, and with the lines of his face smoothed out, many times now. Almost every day, as Kirkwall fades into the past, relinquishing its hold.

Fenris finally steps over to him, and Anders lifts his face to meet his gaze. "Beautiful mage," Fenris murmurs as he cups Anders' cheek and leans down to kiss him.

Anders' fingers clutch the back of Fenris' tunic as he returns the kiss, holding onto him. He always does something of the sort when Fenris initiates, like he needs him closer, needs him to linger as long as possible.

Fenris draws his fingers through Anders' combed hair, both enjoying the sensation and as a gesture of reassurance. When they part from the kiss, Fenris takes the brush from Anders' hand and settles on the mattress with him, picking up from where he interrupted Anders' brushing.

As he passes the brush through Anders' hair, Anders goes boneless, shoulders completely loose and head tipped forward. Fenris can't resist sweeping his hair aside to kiss his nape, which earns him a soft sound of approval.

The last of the tangles are smoothed out easily, then Fenris sets the brush aside on the patchy blanket, bringing both hands up to gather Anders' hair within them. The tie is around Anders' wrist; he would hand it over, if Fenris offered to put his hair back up, but that hadn't crossed Fenris' mind, initially. He only wants to touch, and wants to soothe.

Still, an unexpected inclination comes over him as he's running his fingers through. He parts Anders' hair into a few narrow strands, beginning to weave them in a way that starts forming a braid, even though Fenris has never learned how. At least, he has no recollection of learning how, but muscle memory takes over, and soon Anders' hair is pulled into an intricate braid that starts wide and tapers to a tiny point.

"I didn't know you could do this," Anders says as he raises a hand and brushes his fingers blindly over the braid, feeling the weave of it.

"Neither did I," Fenris admits. "Maybe... I did this for Varania, or our mother. A long time ago."

Anders turns enough to look at him, taking his hand in a comforting hold.

Thinking of his family doesn't sting as much as it did after Varania's betrayal. Fenris is almost at peace with it, almost able to accept a past he doesn't remember but was still important to him, once upon a time. Regardless, Anders is his family now, and the others too, even if they've mostly gone separate ways. Anders is the one here with him, holding his hand and looking at him with love in his eyes.

"I like it," Anders says. "Will you do it for me again?"

Fenris nods. "Whenever you like."

Anders smiles and shifts closer, leaning in to rest against Fenris' chest. Fenris wraps his arm around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, as eager as Anders always is for there to be no space left between them.

#just randomly got the headcanon that fenris can braid hair and ran with it #my fic #dragon age #fenders

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echantedtoon · 2 months

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Waning Obsession(Yandere Kokushibo x Reader) Ch1 Fated Encounter

When the shadowed moon turns to a full eclipse that blocks out even the stars, the monster comes out to claim the maiden. The wound Cupid's arrow caused by piercing his dark heart bleeds out for her, so he would seek what his body needed to heal. The waning desire pangs him so.

This is a semi rewrite for In The Moon's Shadow/ Eclipsed Starshine. I wasn't very happy with how either turned out so I'm reediting the old chapters to be better and adding new ones and getting rid of some completely. With new plot points added in and a few other things. Again there's a few things that you need to know about so please read the points below!

1. This is a Yandere-ish story. I in NO way support any of that kind of relationship in real life!

2. This is a story with Demons from Demon Slayer so expect there to be some fighting, cussing, blood, mentioned killing, and other such things. Although they WILL be way toned down.

3. Kokushibo isn't going to be much of a yandere and more of having no idea how human relationships work but that's because Im not used to writing full blown yanderes. So the relationship will be non-toxic.

4. This IS an AU. So barely anything will be cannon.

5. If any chapters have warnings please read and heed them.

(Warnings: Some Hate and discrimination against demons. Demons don't eat humans in this au but most aren't very pleasant.

EDIT: Fixed previous spelling errors plus added one or two details.)

To say the least you had a pretty consistent, normal life.

....

......

No. Really. You did. There really wasn't anything else to describe it. Just that. Normal. Plain. Average. But calm and quiet. A normal every run of the mill life. As simple as that. Your life wasn't too different than the other average woman's. There wasn't anything that stood you out from another person.

And that's EXACTLY what you loved about it.

For as long as you could remember it had always been pretty peaceful. You were raised by a kind older couple along with many other children they took in. You had a happy normal childhood, and when you turned fourteen you were offered an apprenticeship by your tiny village's local fragrance maker. It wasn't the most exciting life but as you grew older into adulthood you learnt to appreciate the calm and quiet of your job. Learning from your tutor to carve the carefully crafted hand made soups and candles into different shapes, learning the best ways to store incense, and slowly learning how to make perfumes. Although you hadn't gotten a hand for the liquid scent sprays yet. But you didn't mind. You were always surrounded by delightful fragrances.

Overall your life as an adult was everything you could've asked for. A peaceful village with plenty of good people. A calm life away from waring clans and big crime. A job that pays well. And a small home you could call your own. There wasn't much for you to really worry yourself over except for the stares. You couldn't pretend that you didn't get many stares from the men in the town. Many offers of marriage declined. And many more people becoming angry but only a select few had gotten violently aggressive and they were all taken cared of one way or another. So there really wasn't anything much else in your town to worry about-

"The fighting has gotten worse to the east of here."

The sounds of broom bristles sweeping across the floor stopped in their actions. Your hands paused in their task of cleaning the shop entrance to look up and over. The small shop was quiet again today. There was hardly any customers in at all other than sweet old Mrs.Tenshi whom had stopped by to by a few rose scented candles for her study. Not a sound to be heard except for your body stepping around to sweep the floors and the wind chimes hung just right outside of your boss's shop. You figured today was a perfect day to sweep and mop the store front and dust the shelves to keep the store looking clean and enticing to customers. But hearing the words of the older woman sitting just in front of a small table had made you pause and turn to her.

"What?"

Her wrinkled face frowned harder in a scowl aimed at nothing in particular but clearly upset very much at something troubling her. "The fighting to the east of here has gotten worse. The peace talks between the warlords hasn't provided anything. Soon their fighting will continue on."

That's right. The war. You nearly forgotten about that. Two of the biggest nations there was around here had been fighting for almost three years now. Wars were full of death and misery and destruction and chaos. However your little village nestled away in the hills and forests had remained entirely unaffected by anything the two nations had done being just outside of both. Far away enough to escape any negative side effects but close enough to still hear news of what was going on with the wars. Sometimes you'd even see soldiers walk through town to buy supplies or sake from the local markets before leaving. Their armor and swords clanking heavily. Their bodies usually covered in scars and healing wounds. And their powerful war horses stomping down the paths. You've always made it a habit to avoid interaction with those men as much as possible even if most of them had been actually quite friendly to who they spoke to. You just didn't want any trouble with anyone. So you always played it safe. But even the soldiers visiting was a pretty rare occurrence. You hadn't seen any for the last year now even. So you were never really too concerned about what what those men did miles and miles away from you. It wasn't affecting you so you didn't see any reasons for concern.

"Oh my. That is awful. Those poor men must be very tired by now."

"It is not the men who concern me." The older woman rose a shaking hand out to place down a small bar of lavender scented soap she'd been mindlessly fiddling with for the past ten minutes as her mind wondered off on its own. "A human I can have no qualms against but it's the beasts that make me feel concerned."

"Beasts?" Was she perhaps referring to the soilders? You heard these warriors could be ruthless in battle and blood thirsty enough to rival a bear's appetite.

Her eyes flashed dangerously at you. "Demons you naive girl! Demons! The blood lusting animals that dare walk amongst us and act like we are equals when they are nothing but mindless savages!"

You had nothing to say against that. Mostly because you didn't know what to say to that.

Demons.

Yes. Yes you've heard of such people. People who were not human. Beings with horns like dragons, fangs like a wolf, multiple eyes and arms like spiders, and all kinds of other rumors. Everyone always pointed at demons for things that went bump in the night. Rumors said that they were supposed to be nothing but bad news for anyone. Blood thirsty and being able to harness dangerous powers. But you'd never met one before. Oh you knew they existed alright. How did you know? Well you never saw a demon before but you HAD seen a man that claimed to have demon heritage. He had the truth written all over his face..Or quite plainly his forehead where a third eyeball had been stationed in the traveler's face. All three very much real moving and blinking at everyone. The town's people hadn't taken too fondly of the traveler with most of your village giving him stares or out right ignoring the man asking about any inns nearby. He had gotten the unwelcoming hint and left before nightfall. You felt bad for the poor man but never spoke to him since you both hadn't interacted one on one. That was the closest thing to excitement you had gotten around here. The closest thing you'd ever seen to a real demon. And you weren't sure you actually wanted to meet one.

"It's rumored that one of those warlords are paying for the beasts to be mercenaries for war!," she spat continuing on with her disdain for the demons.

"Well that's only rumored right?" You changed the subject politely not wishing to continue listening to her ramble on her hatred. "You shouldn't believe gossip about something like that if there's no real proof. Otherwise you'll be worrying about nothing."

You turned back to the hardwood floor and started up your broom again making your boss scoff at your words. "Rumors or not you'll soon learn that being vigilant about these things can and will save you later on in life. It's how I survived for so long."

"I'm sure it is," you politely said back not in the mood to argue about such things.

It was stupid to argue with someone so bullheaded anyways. The old were stuck in their ways and would die on their hill before admitting defeat. Energy was better spent in productivity and getting work done now rather then letting it build up later.

Days of beautiful cloudy skies and warm weather transitioned to warm nights with the moon shining brightly in the dark. Blissfully life went on. Peaceful. Hard working. Serene. And safe from any harm that might've been taking place mere miles away and hopefully it would stay like that. The thoughts of danger and of Demons wasn't too concerning but it always looked in the back of your mind like a pesky fly not willing to buzz off but as always life goes on. Summer was in full swing, and the enjoyable warm weather would not be wasted on worrying about what ifs or possible scenarios that might not even come to pass. The warm weather should be taken advantage of. To be enjoyed to the fullest. To be appreciated and enjoyed.

"Will you be going night fishing again tonight?"

The smell of lavender fragrance filled the air as your hands carefully guided a small carving tool over a purple hunk of soap. The hands holding it currently in the process of carving the small soap hunk into the shape of a flower, to be placed on the shelf later for a customer to buy and take hone. Your eyes blinked up at the older woman. She was already grabbing a few previously carved soaps in different shapes, patterns, and forms up in her arms to place on the shelves as you finished up the one you were currently holding. But you had stopped to look up at her as she spoke.

"Yes. It's less crowded that way." Your eyes followed her form as she slowly stood up and walked over to a nearby shelf her older form shuffling along slowly. "The waters are always crowded with men and boys during the day. It's a favorite past time for them....and not many of them appreciate a woman intruding into their 'territory.'"

The elder hummed. "It's a dangerous thing to do, walking around at night by yourself. Especially for a girl."

"I only do it when the nights are clear and warm." You smiled widely at her back before the hands continued their task of carving. "I'll be safe near the village. A few good meals of fish will be worth losing a few hours of sleep."

She hummed placing a cat shaped soap bar on the shelf. "I still say it's foolish...but if you're insisting on going out tonight, pick up some wild basil for me. I'm starting to run low."

Your lips smiled wider. "I will. There's some near a small pond not too far outside of the village."

"Hm. I just hope you know what you're doing."

"I'll be alright. You'll see."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You should have heeded the warnings.

Warm blue skies faded to make way for her dark sister to claim for night. The sun kissing the horizon good night as it's last few rays of light disappeared from sight. Mothers called their children inside their warm houses to sleep in their cozy beds safe and sound until the next morning. The silence was peaceful on the warm summer night breezes. The calmness soothing the crickets to sing their lullabies to the dimming lights of the homes. Lantern lights being put to sleep after a long usage. The bustling town settling down and falling asleep soundly.

Your door opened quietly and you stepped out of your house and into the quiet, barren streets. The moonlight shining down and kissing your form. A shiver running down your spine from a warm breeze ghosting over your form. It would be a good night to fish. The door closed softly as you started walking towards the woods outside the village, fishing line curled up within your right hand. The moon shown down upon the forests illuminating the night bright enough for you to see and watch as the trees swayed im the warm breezes and hear the peaceful rustling of their leaves and lullabies of the crickets. It was just so beautiful and lively. You always loved doing this. Free from crowds of people and being able to peacefully just live in these moments.

The sweet smells of flowers and grass were encouraging your lungs. Combined with the warmth of the summer air warming your muscles and urging them on. Both made you feel as light as a feather on your mere feet and the ground felt soft under you. You were smiling. Arms out splayed against the wind blowing around your hair like crazy and cooling your body against the warm heat beaming down on you. Step after step. Faster and faster. You joyously started to run through the pathways and around a corner of a house as soft dirt pathways turned into grassy floors of forests as you excitedly entered the beckoning woods. The moonlight being blocked out a bit because of the swaying trees and branches but you could still see perfectly fine. The small pond so many people liked to fish at during summer wasn't too far from where you entered. It was just nearly a quarter of a mile into the woods. You loved coming out during these warm months and gathering the natural resources the forest provides your small village. It really was a perfect place to live being so abundant in resources and stationed within such a secluded and safe location. The way you found the decently sized pond was walking through a bush and having to blink when a flurry of sparkling lights glared your eyes for a second.

Blinking your eyes adjusted to the beautiful and wonderful sight of a dark beautiful pond reflecting the moon on its surface and sparkling as if the reflection had its own stars and consolations within its ripples. Completely untouched and waiting for you to touch its soft silence. Soft footsteps approached the gleaming water and a carbon copy of a woman appeared in the gleaming reflections. She smiled up at the original mirroring the actions of the woman above. The woman's fiddled with her line and the small contacts she brought along with her. A hook with a big, juicy worm stabbed on the end of it dangled over the woman in the dark reflection before dropping into the water and rippling the reflection woman away back into the darkness of the waters.

The night was a beautiful thing if you needed it to be, or if you wanted to make it become that way. And in a way, it was both to you in the end. The sweet smells of flowers and grass filling your lungs. Combined with the warmth of the summer season warming your smaller body as you walked along the forest back towards your small home. Tonight was the perfect night to go fishing within the woods as it was warm, full of food, and a wide variety of other items that you could harvest. Wild berries to be picked. Old fruit trees long forgotten. A small pond with plenty of fish that only you knew. It was perfect for someone like you who loved these nights. Even taking time to pick up a few stems of basil and what fruits were left by the hoards of hungry men who flocked through here during the day. You could just harvest and hunt whatever you needed even if you lost track of time and it was fairly dark now. It shouldn't take you too long to get back to your village, but even then it'll be darker and later before you got back anyways. Not that you were too worried about still being in the woods when night fell, after all there wasn't really anything dangerous like bears or tigers where you lived. They usually didn't go near human settlements. The most dangerous predator in these woods was the hawks and owls with the occasional fox here and there. You doubt a bird or tiny fox would even want to bother you, you were much bigger compared to them and it wouldn't be worth the fight for the food you carried when they could easily hunt their own. So no. You weren't worried at all. And it was beautiful outside tonight, a warm breeze in summer and the moonlight being your companions for the long trip back home.

You had nearly made it out when a curiosity caught your eye. A light within the darkness ahead of you. One that wasn't the moon or stars in the sky and it certainly wasn't the fireflies. A flickering dancing light that was blocked by a wall of tall bushes. That... wasn't supposed to be there. It had caught you so off guard that you nearly dropped the few fish you caught on your line in your hands. The bold brightness of the light was mysterious but... enticing. Enough to get you walking forward towards the wall of bushes. Hand slowly reaching out to grab a handful of soft leaves on the bush to pull back. You were expecting perhaps a start of a forest fire or perhaps a hunter camping out here enjoying the warm weather like you were.

However you were not expecting seeing was a fluttering purple and black haori coat moving with the cool breeze or the man who was using the fire as his companion for the night. The woman's body ran cold as she realized he was standing just a few inches away from her own face and loomed above her form and it took you longer to figure out one thing. He had been staring in your direction this entire time. It took you off guard once the realization hit you, and it caused you to pause staring back at the still chest of the man. For a long time there was nothing but silence not even the crickets dung. Only the fire behind the dark figure, the wind, and the rustling of leaves to save you from total silence.

"A woman."

You flinched at the Deep monotone voice above you. There was a clicking sound in the dark that had your eyes darting to the right in search of the source, and ice flooded your veins when realization struck you. Two strong looking hands had let go of the familiar sight of a sword tied to the side of the flowing purple and black checkered haori. This man, whomever he was, had been gripping onto that weapon with intent to strike. The clicking noise had been him resheathing his sword.

Dark fear enveloped in your mind as your eyes darted away and back to the middle of the man, one hand still clutching onto the hilt of the weapon. "I-Im sorry. I-I had no idea s-s-someone else was out here. I didn't m-mean to scare you."

You couldn't make out his face entirely, the fire was too small to produce enough light and he stood mostly in darkness so you couldn't make out exactly what color the eyes that looked back at you were, not that you could anyways refusing to look up at his face. But you could tell he was young, maybe mid or late twenties by the sounds of his voice.

"A weak thing like you did not scare me." You flinched at his blunt, harsh words. "Who are you?"

"I'm from the village. I wasn't expecting anyone else to be out here hunting," you somehow managed to stutter out from the intense atmosphere this man radiated.

"I am not hunting." His head tilted slightly and bore into the sight of the line of fish still strung in her hands. "Is that what you were doing?"

"N-No ..I-I was fishing."

"Fishing?" You nodded. And finally the other hand slowly dropped from his sword much to your relief. "A woman should not be in the forest late at night."

"I-Im ok. I d-dont live too far from here. H-honestly I didn't know another hunter w-was out here."

"I am not hunting."

"But if you're not hunting, what are you doing all alone out here?"

"That is none of your business." Again you fell silent from his blunt tone that left no room for arguing but he did seem to pause taking in the sight of the woman before him. "...Is there a town nearby here then? Or does your family live out here alone?"

"T-There's a town," you squeaked out.

"With businesses?" You nodded quickly and silently making the man above you hum. "... Excellent."

He spoke strangely. Very slow and with pauses between his words. Strange. Maybe he was tired from traveling. It was turning night after all.

"Oh. Well I won't disturb you then-" A gurgling growling noise stopped you in your tracks from backing away as the man stiffened up. You both stood there. You slowly blinked and your eyes lowered to his mid section. "....Have you eaten anything?"

"No."

"Then here." The man seemed surprised when you reached out to the line you were holding, snapping off one of the fish, and held it out to the darkened figure. "It's not much, but traveling on an empty stomach isn't good for your strength. Take this and make some food out of it...Wait. You do know how to cook fish, right?"

You finally looked up at his face and.... couldn't make out a single feature of his face. It was too dark and the hat he wore blocked out even more light cloaking it further from view, although you could make out long hair poking out from his hat and pool near his neck. Bangs maybe?

The stranger remained silent for a long moment just looking at the fish dangling from your hand seeming to contemplate for a long moment. "No and I Don't need it but I will take it since you offered." A hand reached out and grabbed it from the darkness. You noted how much larger they were compared to yours and the strange pointed nails but didn't comment as the hand pulled it back into the darkness and away from your sight. The man's head turning away downwards to you assumed to look at the food you had offered him. "...This will suffice for now." He then turned back to you. "What will you do now?"

"Go home of course." Your head nodded further up into the woods back towards your village and his head turned following your direction. "Wait. Did you just say you couldn't cook fish?"

"It is unnecessary-"

"No it's not!" Your rise in volume made him turn back to you, not surprised or anything but his brow rose at your frown. "Don't you know eating raw meat isn't good for your body? Or are you trying to save it for later?"

"I will reserve my hunger for later travel-"

"By then the meat will be bad and unsuitable for consumption. That'll just make you even more sick regardless if it's cooked or not!" You wanted to facepalm this stranger despite your earlier fear. It was instead replaced with a ridiculous feeling at this situation. You didn't know him at all, but he wasn't the brightest it seemed, or being tired and hungry is clouding his judgement. You extended your hand. "Here. Give it to me. I'll cook it for you then."

The darkened face tilted more at you. "YOU will cook for me?"

"Yes. Because I gave you the fish, if you refuse to eat it properly then it'll be on me if you get sick. There's a fire here and plenty of sticks from the trees, so I'll be able to cook it for you the same way I cook it for myself."

He didn't say anything, but after a couple seconds, a hand slowly held out the fish back out to you and you took it back, only to drop your small bag and other fish to the ground and wonder off towards the woods still carrying the fish in one hand. All the while his head followed your every movement from your form walking into the darkness, to your hand picking up a stick and jabbing it into the fish, to you walking back and just placing the entire thing into the fire with a part of the long stick safely out of the way of flames. And then the silence resumed for what seemed like hours as he just watched your actions which included using the stick to flip the fish over onto the other side after a long while. After a long while more, you completely pulled the now fully brown fish from the fire and held it out to him with a smile.

"Here. It should be good to eat now, and don't try to save it for too long or else it'll go bad." There was another pause from the man who just stared at the food you offered before the same hand reached over and took it from you once again. Seeing it as your job being done here, you quickly grabbed your things, thanked the gods for a chance to leave, and turned away from him. "Will you be leaving soon?"

"That is none of your business and neither is my travels."

Ah. So another traveler heading up there. There was a few in your limited years of living here and they all traveled past your village on their way over the mountains ...Although it was a bit strange this stranger was armed. He might've been another soldier and that thought frightened you. It was best if you distanced yourself. Either way it was none of your business. Your business was to get home now and get some sleep before you had to work again tomorrow. But still....he seemed hungry.

"Is your destination far? You might need some more food if you're stomach is growling."

"I will be fine."

That was a no then. You contemplated something in your head and picked up your remaining fish and bag only to toss it at his feet with a thud. He looked at it, then up at your face in obvious question. "It's full of wild fruits and vegetables. They might taste a little bitter, but they'll last you a couple days. I can just come back and get more for myself. And if you need more, you'll find some around the pond back there-" you pointed back from where you first came from. "-if the men hadn't all gotten it first." He didn't say anything, not that you were expecting him to, but you took that as your cue to leave, so your body bowed at the waist. "May you have a safe journey."

With that you turned and began walking back off towards the direction of your village, with less food for your hungry self, but you could always come back and get more. Right now you wanted to do nothing more than to get home and put distance between yourself and the man. The strange man watched your form until it disappeared from his sight and slowly turned back to the fish in his hand....And taking a rather large bite with his inhuman fangs.

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skinnyazn · 1 year

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In the Bleak Midwinter

The sequel to this story: The Masks We Wear

Ch.3 Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader Chapters: 3/5 Notes: Sorry for the delay! We're back, folks! Jag is back home trying to repress the thots of her man-who's-not-her-man Simon, our boy pays her a visit, it's not creepy if ur both pining for each other, right?

San Francisco was cold this time of year. It was foggy and wet outside and you could just make out the bridge from your apartment. The wind rapped against your windows at this height. Below you, cars made their way through their morning commute; oblivious to your observing. Their headlights were fuzzy in the pre-dawn dark. You covered your nakedness with your plush robe and went to fix a coffee.

It had been over a month since you'd come back. Your work with the 141 was finished: target neutralized. Laswell wanted you in the States immediately after the mission to discuss the details in person. Even though you had told everything to Price and was sure he had already relayed it to her, she was the one who wrote the checks. Two days later you were on a flight home.

Ghost was considerably better by the time you left. It was a grueling 24 hours after you brought him in; the doctors worked around the clock to stabilize him. Even though you yourself could barely move, with every muscle fiber on fire from overexertion, you still managed to wait outside his room—with Soap and Price equally as anxious—until the final doctor was finished and you were allowed inside. You don’t know why you spent that last night in Ghost’s hospital room, but if that was to be the final time you saw the man, you wanted to keep a part of him for yourself. Wanted to commit every detail of him to your memory so that when you were alone across the Atlantic you had something to fall back on. A souvenir of what never was. It was unhealthy, sure, but when had you ever had healthy relationships? They were always fleeting, temporary things. Always kept at an arms length. Vulnerability didn’t fit in with your line of work.

And the memory had served you well over the last month—wrapped in your sheets, down on your stomach with your hand between your thighs, whispering his name into your pillow until you clenched around your fingers so tightly, you wished it was him. When you dreamt those nights it was always the same: of snow and red and blonde lashes. When you woke, the bed always felt a little too empty. Just need to get it out of your system so you can move on.

You tried to be present, enjoying the money you made out with and the tranquility of your home. Put Jaguar in a box and suppressed her. Forced yourself to forget the foreign men and their warmth and the comforts of Task Force 141—of camaraderie. You allowed yourself to indulge in your secret fantasy only on occasions, filling the rest of your time with classy bars and uninteresting people. Pretending at a civilian life until the next job came to take you away for months and gift you with new scars to heal.

But try as you might to compartmentalize the 141 and Kokshetau, your mind would still wander back to your time in the bleak midwinter with your towering ghost.

After your coffee and morning routine, you put on an outfit and decided to take a walk. Gloomy weather always put you in a pensive mood and being outside was the best way through it—you liked the way the sensory nature of it kept you grounded in the present. Wandering for the sake of wandering allowed you to discover hidden things in your city. Secrets in plain sight, there if you only cared to look. You rode your building’s elevator down in silence.

When you first noticed it, you were cutting through Little Saigon. Sunday mornings here were quiet, with only a few vendor sweeping the fronts of their shops. But you felt that familiar heat on the back of your neck—a prickle against your spine that made your hairs stand up and your pulse quicken. Some primal vestige for danger. He wouldn’t be here. He didn’t know where you lived. None of them did. You’d left without leaving any contact information; never made your city available to the team. But when you turned around you found yourself standing alone among the lingering, grey mist. It seemed your phantom had come back to haunt you.

Crossing Turk Street, you hopped on the bus. This one would take you deeper into the city. If it was him, your ghost, he’d find you again. Part of you delighted in this game of cat and mouse. A dance with the forbidden. You looked out the window wondering if he was watching you still. Somehow you knew he was.

Taking the exit before the park, you walked another few minutes before seeing the greenery. It was a huge expanse in the city—the perfect setting for seclusion among three million people. A nice place to hide; a nice place to be found. The fog coated your beret and trench coat with a fine layer of mist. The clack of your boot-heels on the concrete was muffled by the damp. A couple of stray joggers passed you on your walk to the Conservatory of Flowers—it’s Victorian design was fitting for today’s circumstance.

Inside the conservatory was a sharp contrast to the brumal park: it was balmy and humid, like a portal to some remote jungle on the equator. The artificial insect and bird sounds were a nice touch as you walked in complete solitude, admiring the various tropical flora. It wasn’t long before you could feel his presence again, even if you didn’t hear him, like you were two particles entangled. You opened a door leading further into the conservatory.

Water lotuses floated on a glass-like pond in the center of the room. You stopped to admire them, leather-gloved hands resting on the railing.

“Did you know the lotus is a symbolic flower used throughout many cultures? The Buddhists see it as the flower of awakening; the Egyptians, a flower of rebirth—because each night it retreats into murky waters and each morning emerges, perfectly clean.”

Ghost finally appeared next to you, footsteps silent as smoke; looming. His massive frame filled the corner of your vision as you continued to watch the placid water. His large gloved hands were dangerously close to yours on the balustrade.

“You found me,” you said.

Then you turned to look at him. His face was covered by a knitted black balaclava; his hoodie pulled up from underneath a wool pea coat. But his eyes, warm and as intoxicating as you remember, held your gaze. There was curiosity between you—like two jungle cats sussing out newfound territory.

“What are you doing here, Simon?”

His eyes traced your face languidly.

“Thought we made a deal.” That basso, Manchester accent sent a heat straight to your core. He took a step closer. “And I’ve held up my end.”

A tentative hand hovered over his heart for a second before you rested the entire breadth down. You felt his body stiffen but also his heart's strong beating under your palm. You wanted to reach in and claim it.

“That you did.” You had to drag your eyes back up to his. It was a dangerous, stupid game you were playing but here you were, unable to stop what had already been set in motion the moment you picked up Laswell’s call all those months ago.

“Join me for some tea?” You removed your hand, already missing his warmth. "Delighted to."

For those who wanted to be tagged! @deadbranch @k4marina @embers-of-alluring @shuttlelauncher81 @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago

#my fic #my writing #simon ghost riley #simon ghost Riley x reader #simon ghost Riley x f!reader #cod ghost #cod fic #mw2 fic #ghost mw2 #oc #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x jaguar

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mothpawbs · 1 month

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ooooklahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plains (to kill you)

#lots of tornadoes the last couple days haha #it's ok that's how you know it's spring!#moth mumbles #oklahoma

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onekisstotakewithme · 5 months

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'Tis the season, so let's hear about the ski resort AU :3c

Neeks my beloved! 💜 hope you are well in this, a new year.

ski resort AU was born from a conversation between me and @thebreakfastgenie in summer of 2022 i think, but the main concept:

BJ and Peg are a couple of young married professionals in their thirties who hardly ever take time off. But one year, right after Christmas in 1998, they decide to go on a skiing holiday in Maine.

While there, they just happen to meet another handsome young professional... (I think you can guess who), who was at the resort for a wedding.

Snippet, and honestly this one was fun, I just got tripped up by writing the actual skiing:

“You Californians… lily-livered, all of you.” “Don’t include me in that lily-livered lot, Hawkeye, I’m from Oklahoma.” “Where the wind comes sweeping down the plains?” Peg scowls. “There’s nothing you can do about that joke, you just have to sit there and take it.” BJ chuckles to himself. “I’d leave that alone, Hawkeye. Peg hates Oklahoma.” “The state or the movie?” Peg shrugs. “I can go either way.” BJ and Hawk both turn and look at her, and BJ has to bury a grin in the collar of his jacket. And then suddenly, there’s a whirring sound, and the chair lift creaks to life underneath them. “Holy shit,” BJ breathes, glancing over the side, to indeed see that one of the trees they’re close to is moving – or at least, they are. “I think the earth moved.” “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Hawkeye jokes, making them both laugh. BJ thinks there’s a hysterical edge to his laughter, as much as it’s also tinged with relief.

#bj x peg x hawkeye #punnihawk #m*a*s*h #wip ask game

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lifeofkaze · 8 months

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The Sorting Ceremony

A/N: Written for the September prompt of @hp-12monthsofmagic OCs mentioned/featured belong to @thatravenpuffwitch (Rylie and Pat), @the-al-chemist (Rory), @that-scouse-wizard (Robin) and @usernoneexistent (Zola). Thank you for letting be borrow them!

The Great Hall was abuzz with noise. Hundreds of voices drifted up towards the starry canopy of the enchanted ceiling, the floating candles bobbing up and down slightly with the air’s subtle movement basking the hall in a warm, welcoming glow.

There was much to talk about after six full weeks apart, and the students of the four long house tables running the length of the room were mingling, catching up with those of their friends and classmates whom they hadn’t seen on the Hogwarts Express already.

Dylan wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t like he didn’t have any friends to share his summer adventures with; he had plenty - or, what he considered plenty - and most of them were currently gathered at the Hufflepuff table, discussing their break.

Dana Parkin, his childhood friend and godsister, had come over from the Gryffindor table, bringing some of her friends (of whom she had too many for Dylan’s taste) with her. She was talking with Rory McTavish, a loud, grating Gryffindor from Dylan’s year, and Rylie Hopper-Lee about her aunt’s latest plans for the Wigtown Wanderers when Rylie leaned suddenly to the side, whispering to Dylan.

“What’s up?” she said, tilting her head curiously. “You’re so quiet.”

Dylan made a nondescript noise, sinking deeper into his seat. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t look like she believed him, and Dylan had just opened his mouth to reassure her again that he was fine, when a hush ran through the Great Hall and Headmistress McGonagall rose from her seat in the centre of the staff table. She clapped her hands twice, and the room fell silent.

“Attention, everyone. The Sorting ceremony is about to commence. All students return to their respective house tables, please.”

Her eyes lingered on the Gryffindors still occupying the Hufflepuff table for slightly longer than the rest, and Dana and her friends quickly shuffled away. Dylan watched them go with a sinking feeling to his stomach. Not much longer now.

The great double doors to the Great Hall flew open, and the massive silhouette of Rubeus Hagrid, the Care of Magical Creatures professor, appeared in the doorway. Not much could be seen for a moment, the wide frame of his shoulders blocking most of the view.

“Come on then.”

He waved his plate-sized hand above his shoulders and walked towards the staff table, in front of which a plain wooden stool had been set up. On it, a battered brown hat was sitting, the fabric creased and wrinkled with age.

The muttering that had branded up with the appearance of the Sorting Hat ceased again as a group of children entered the hall, huddling together like a flock of ducklings behind their giant, moleskin-clad mother. A cold autumn wind had been sweeping the grounds earlier, and the anxious faces of the first-years were flushed as they peered at their surroundings.

They shuffled along and into the Great Hall properly, forming a haphazard line on their way to the raised pedestal where the Sorting Hat was waiting for them.

One girl - small, scrawny, and with a wild shock of dark brown curls - pushed to the front. Dylan followed her with his eyes as she strutted past him. She caught Dylan’s eye, sticking her tongue out at him. Next to him, Rylie leaned in again.

“Was that…?”

“Reva, yeah,” muttered Dylan in response. “Where’s Patrick?”

“Let me see… over there!” Rylie exclaimed brightly, waving to a young boy towards the end of the line. Rylie’s brother timidly raised his hand and waved back, looking slightly green in the face.

“Can you believe they’re here?” Rylie sighed. “I swear they were babies only yesterday.”

“They’re only a year younger than us, Ry,” Dylan said flatly, eyes sweeping over the rest of the first years. “It was us in their place last year.”

“Makes it even stranger. I can’t imagine not being at Hogwarts anymore, and now Reva and Pat are here, too! Aren’t you excited?”

Excited wasn’t really how Dylan would describe his sentiments at Reva attending the same school as himself. His mother would probably tell him to not be so dramatic, his father to embrace his feeling of imbalance and by acceptance find his inner peace… or something like that. But neither of them was here, and neither of them knew just how peaceful his year without Reva had been. One entire year without the constant threat of being pranked, one entire year without her screaming in his ear about who and whatnot and making all of his days loud, hectic and intense.

“What do you think?” Rylie broke him from his gloomy thoughts as the first-years lined up before the Sorting Hat and Professor Flitwick stepped forward with a scroll of parchment in his hands longer than he was tall. “What house are they going to be in?”

“Gryffindor,” Dylan said immediately. “Reva’s going to be a Gryffindor.”

Rylie looked at him sceptically. “How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me. If you knew Reva, you’d say the same.”

“Don’t you want her to be in Hufflepuff? Both your parents were, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“There you go, it’s family tradition. Wouldn’t that be fun?.”

Dylan snorted. “Yeah, sure.”

“Anyway, I have no idea where the Hat’s going to put Pat,” Rylie smiled over Dylan’s dark look. “I don’t see him as much of a Slytherin, but he’d make a great Puff, and he’s really clever, too.”

“Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, then?”

“I don’t know,” Rylie shrugged. “Or Gryffindor, who knows?”

“Yeah,” echoed Dylan. “Who indeed?”

Up front, where the new students had assembled, the Sorting Hat stirred on its stool. One of its creases began to move, the shadows on the fabric reminiscent of a weathered, age-worn face. Its bodiless voice boomed through the Great Hall, filling every last corner with its sound.

Many heads I’ve seen That goes without say. I’m here to Sort the new ones So let’s not cause delay. Into Gryffindor you may go, Where they are brave and true. Chivalrous and bold If that appeals to you. Or maybe Hufflepuff’s the place Where you feel like you belong. Loyalty and hard work Is the essence of their song. Ravenclaws are studious And with a ready mind. If you have the wit it takes They will be your kind. And lastly, there’s Slytherin, Who are cunning rather than loud. If you aim for the stars You will fit in with this crowd. These are your choices, This is the song I wanted to sing. Now let us not dawdle And let the Sorting begin.

Dylan’s eyes rested on the back of Reva’s head as the Sorting Hat fell quiet. She was bouncing, probably with a mix of impatience and excitement, and Dylan found that his foot had begun doing the same. The conviction with which he had told Rylie that Reva was going to go into Gryffindor wasn’t as strong as he had made it seem. Both their parents had been in Hufflepuff, after all, and he was, too. It would make sense. What if the Sorting Hat would think the same?

Pushing the thought aside, Dylan swallowed heavily. At least they would know soon.

Sure enough, Professor Flitwick hadn’t even begun reading yet when Reva began to move, pushing past the few students still in front of her.

“Albatross, Zola.”

Reva stopped abruptly as another girl stepped forward, dark-skinned and with a head of close-cropped, raven-black curls. The Sorting Hat was placed upon her head, and after a moment, it opened its mouth and boomed out: “Slytherin!”

The girl slid from the stool and walked over to the cheering table at the far end of the Hall. She sat at its very edge, watching her surroundings with a guarded expression.

“Amari, Reva.”

Dylan’s stomach gave a painful tug as his sister climbed the dais. Her eyes, which had rested on the girl who had been Sorted before her, were fixed straight ahead. With a cocky smile, she pushed herself up onto the stool and the Hat slipped over her eyes. It almost seemed to swallow her as it sunk in on itself, quivering in a movement that reminded Dylan of laughter. Then, it straightened itself out, and the crease in its centre widened to something resembling a grin.

“Gryffindor!”

The table next to the Hufflepuffs burst into applause. Dylan saw Dana raising her hands clapping, hollering as a grinning Reva took a seat next to her. She already seemed perfectly at home, as if she couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else.

“You were right, good job,” whispered Rylie next to Dylan. He nodded absentmindedly.

“Seems like it.”

Logically, there had been no doubt Reva would fit anywhere but with the Gryffindors. Watching her and Dana chatting between themselves now, however, gave him a strange, sinking feeling that he couldn’t quite place.

In the midst of his musings, Reva suddenly looked up from whatever it was that Rory McTavish was telling her. Catching Dylan’s eye, she wiggled her eyebrows and made a funny face. Sighing, Dylan looked away, his odd sense of disappointment dissolving as quickly as it had come.

The Sorting continued, and after “Willows, Robin” had been placed into Gryffindor as well - much to Reva’s delight and Dylan’s growing sense of dread - and Headmistress McGonagall had delivered her speech, the plates in front of them filled with all the delights the kitchen had to offer, and his musings were forgotten.

Dylan was still happily filled with mashed potatoes, peas and Treacle Tarts when he left the buzz of the Hufflepuff common room later that evening and made his way toward Gryffindor Tower. He waited until the enchanted staircase swung his way and climbed it towards the landing, where Dana was already waiting for him.

“How did you like your first feast without getting Sorted?” she smiled broadly as she fell into step beside him.

“Better than last year.”

Dana laughed breezily. “I can imagine.”

“How about you? Glad you’re back?”

“Always,” Dana said, her eyes flashing. “There’s so many things that happened during the summer. So much to catch up on, and seeing what electives everyone has chosen and comparing the timetables and… what?” she tilted her head when a look of relief crossed Dylan’s face. He blushed.

“Nothing.”

“No, what is it?”

“So, nothing’s… happened yet?”

Dana frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know, with Reva and all.”

At that, Dana had to laugh out loud. “She’s only been here for a couple of hours, Dylan. What did you expect, that the castle would burn down?”

The thought had crossed his mind but Dylan figured that he needn’t tell Dana that.

“I just mean, with her and Robin Willows both in the same house, there’s bound to be trouble,” he shrugged, trying to sound as nonchalant as Dana obviously felt. “One of them is chaos, but together, they’re mayhem. They got banned from sharing a room at Quidditch camp this summer.”

Dana’s eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t the owner Reva’s godmother?”

“The only reason they didn’t get sent home.”

Dana’s smile wavered, if only a little. She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. You’ll see. This is Hogwarts. I’m sure it has seen worse than two eleven-year-olds with a couple of explosives.”

Dylan stopped dead in his tracks. “A couple of what?”

“Like I said, don’t worry,” Dana said, patting the bulging pocket of her skirt. “I got everything under control.”

“Where are Reva and Robin now?”

“They left to explore some time earlier.” Dana sounded thoughtful. “I hope they’ll make it back before curfew. This place can be a maze.”

Dylan shuddered at the thought of Reva and Robin prowling the castle unsupervised, but it wasn’t them that he was concerned for.

“You’ll have an eye on them, won’t you? Make sure nothing bad happens.”

“To her, or because of her?”

“Both.”

Dana gave him a half amused, half doubtful look but nodded her head, and Dylan already felt lighter for it. He bade Dana goodnight when they reached the portrait hole leading into Gryffindor Tower, and with a renewed spring in his step, he made his way back towards the dungeons.

He didn’t make it far. He had just entered the corridor that would lead him to the Great Hall, its walls lined with ancient suits of armour, when a strange, high-pitched whizzing sound caught his ear. Alarmed, Dylan jumped to the side, just in time to avoid the bright green, sharp-toothed Fanged Frisbee that was hurtling towards his head.

The impact of his movements sent him hurtling into one of the pieces of armour. The ancient suit began to topple, and before Dylan knew it, it came tumbling down around him with a resounding crash and clangour.

Hysterical giggles came from the far end of the corridor, and when he pushed open the visor of the helmet that had landed square on his head, two little girls were standing there, doubled over with laughter.

“Happy new term, Sir Dylan,” cried Reva between fits of laughter, making her friend Robin Willows howl as she wiped a tear from her eye. “This year is gonna be great!”

And with that, they were off, their raised voices still audible long after they were gone.

Dylan sat on the ground for a moment longer before he freed himself of the armour pieces and arranged them in a neat pile next to their socket. Sighing deeply to himself, he buried his hands in the pockets of his trousers and continued on his way back to the dungeons.

This year was going to be great, indeed.

#hpma #hp magic awakened #magic awakened #next generation #hp next gen #dylan amari #reva amari #hp12mom #oh look #fandom me is still alive

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