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[7sevenled]

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[swampjawn]

Dungeon Meshi Episode 7 was super interesting from an adaptation standpoint - this'll be a little different from what I usually write about (though I do still talk about the animation in the full video).

Studio Trigger have never done a straight-up manga adaptation before - and led by Yoshihiro Miyajima, a big fan of the manga who pushed hard for the adaptation to get made, and who has never directed a full series before, it was unclear if they'd be able to find the right balance between a simple panel-for-panel recreation and making something that's completely different.

And in the first few episodes, you could really feel the tension between the influence of a cautious young creative with great respect for the source material, and a studio with a unique established visual style. It kinda seemed like they were ping-ponging willy-nillily between the two sides of that spectrum.

But this episode showed that Miyajima (and series writer Kimiko Ueno) can take 3 chapters, slice them up and rearrange them into a cohesive-feeling episode while taking into account the differences between screen and page, and using them to their advantage.

Starting with the way the water looks. This line from the manga describes a faint magical glow to the water in this lake and you can see that the cavern fades into darkness above, but Kui's illustration style doesn't really define lighting and shadows very much compared to the cel-drawing style of animation. So the animators took the opportunity to use the water as the light source, and make a whole episode that's lit almost entirely from below. It really gives an otherworldly feeling to this area.

Particularly when the Kelpie shows up, that under-lighting works wonders to define its anatomy within the relatively simple line art.

What do you do when you can't show the immense fuck-off scale of a monster with a beautiful full-page spread like this?

Well you use what you do have: the ability to move the camera instead. This is such a great way to communicate the scale of this thing, AND such a great way to show some of Senshi's anime-original butt-cheeks!

This is one of my favorite shots from this episode - this whole sequence is super hectic, cutting quickly from character to character, but they use tricks like this to keep you from getting confused. This is framed much like it is in the manga, but with the moving image, they're able to use the trajectory of the fish head in the background to lead your eye directly from Chilchuck, right to the point where Senshi pops up in the foreground and transition seamlessly from one character to another!

Now, it's not all good - I am a bit disappointed that they removed Marcille's own Senshi-style soap-making montage, which was the perfect visual representation of the culmination of the character development and understanding built between Senshi and Marcille.

It's a shame to see it go.

I get more into that, what else was cut, and much more in this video where I broke down the entire episode!

Check it out if you feel like it. If you don't, jump in a ditch, cover yourself in leaves and jump out at people as they walk by.

Thanks for reading!

[littlelamy]

title: rafe's personal playboy bunny

warnings: 18+, smut

background: before moving to obx with your best friend, you were featured in a small playboy spread. when rafe found out about your past gig, he decided he needed to take some photos of his own.

the first purchase was a camera. top of the line, mirrorless, sleek in his hands like it belonged there. he spent too long in the store testing lenses, zooming in and out, asking questions he already knew the answers to. but it wasn’t just about the camera—it was about the setup, the lighting, the fucking vision he had in his head of you spread out and glistening under a spotlight, looking like something out of a magazine, but better. raw. real.

then came the tripods, the softboxes, the LED panels. he wanted precision, control over every shadow and highlight. you weren’t just a girl in front of his camera. you were a masterpiece he was going to create, frame by fucking frame. he tested angles in his room before even bringing you into it, adjusting the height, the placement, imagining the way the light would kiss your skin, the way the shadows would carve out every perfect line of you.

by the time he called you in, the room was transformed. not just a bedroom anymore, but a set. the walls lined with blackout curtains, the bed pushed to the center like a stage, soft sheets rumpled just enough to look inviting. and then, there was the table—laid out with more than just camera equipment. a collection of toys, sleek and glistening under the studio lights, each one carefully chosen. he wanted to see you use them, wanted to capture everything.

“strip,” he said, adjusting the focus, not even looking at you yet. the camera clicked as you peeled away your clothes, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight through you. his voice was low, measured, but you could hear the edge to it, the hunger buried beneath control. “slow. take your time.”

he guided you, not with touch, but with words. told you where to sit, how to arch, where to let your hands wander. the camera clicked with every motion, freezing you in time, making you immortal in pixels. and then, his voice dipped lower, dark amusement curling around each word. “pick one.”

your eyes flicked to the table. so many choices. some familiar, some new. you hesitated, and he caught it, a smirk tugging at his lips as he zoomed in, the lens capturing every little flicker of anticipation across your face. “don’t be shy now. you posed for strangers before, didn’t you? this is just for me.”

heat coiled in your stomach as you reached out, fingers grazing over the cool surface of a toy before wrapping around it. the moment you held it up, the camera clicked again, a satisfied hum escaping him. “good girl,” he murmured, stepping closer, adjusting the angle. “now show me how you use it.”

his voice guided you, steady, unwavering, the authority in it making your breath hitch. “start slow,” he instructed, eyes never leaving the viewfinder. “press it to your skin first. tease yourself.”

you obeyed, trailing it over your thighs, over the soft dip of your stomach, your lips parting when you felt the first shiver of pleasure. the camera clicked. “yeah, just like that. drag it lower.”

his breath was audible, heavy through the silence, the sound of the camera shutter filling the space between you. “spread your legs wider. let me see everything.”

your pulse pounded as you followed his orders, your fingers trembling slightly as you brought the toy exactly where he wanted it. the moment it pressed against you, a sharp inhale echoed from behind the lens. “fuck, that’s beautiful. turn it on.”

the vibration jolted through you, and the camera caught the exact second your mouth fell open, your eyes fluttering shut. “keep them open,” he reminded you. “look right at me. let me see what it does to you.”

his commands were precise. “circle it. slower. now press it in—yeah, just like that, princess.” the camera clicked with every change in your expression, capturing the way your brows knitted, the way your lips trembled. “use your other hand,” he murmured. “play with your tits. make it pretty for me.”

heat coiled tight in your stomach as you did exactly as he said, teasing and touching as he dictated, the pleasure intensifying with each passing second. the room was nothing but the sounds of the toy, your own soft gasps, and the rhythmic snap of the shutter as he immortalized every filthy moment.

“push it deeper,” he ordered, voice thick. “fuck yourself on it.”

you whimpered at the words, legs shaking as you moved the toy in and out, every motion perfectly timed to his direction. “yeah, just like that,” he praised, the camera still clicking. “God, you’re gorgeous honey.”

he didn’t stop until he had everything he wanted. until you were spent, trembling, and completely undone beneath the heat of his lens, captured forever in a way only he would ever see.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl

[cece693]

Bound By Obsession Pt. 2

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: I feel bad for you, like you're trying so hard to escape but hannibal is always one step ahead, invasion of privacy, hannibal is a dick, wanted to show a more uncivilized/disrespectful hannibal as he finally drops his 'human suit', it will only get worse from here

RECAP: Your breath rattled in your chest, part of you screaming to keep resisting, to never surrender. But another part—terrified, uncertain—couldn’t ignore the chilling inevitability in his words. His unwavering belief that this was right threatened to unravel your hope. Fury warred with fear. Yet as Hannibal gently dabbed at your temples, as if tending to a faint bruise, you realized he’d planned every detail with excruciating precision. You were truly at his mercy.

Time crawled slowly after Hannibal left. You could almost still feel the glancing brush of his hand against your forehead, the memory of his touch making your stomach turn. He had retreated with the same eerie calm he’d shown when he abducted you. He acted like this was perfectly normal, you thought, fury and revulsion warring in your gut. You tried to keep calm, reminding yourself that you just had to survive until help arrived. Any minute now, someone would notice you missing. Franklyn would realize you weren’t answering his texts and phone calls. He’d put two and two together, but the bitter taste in your mouth told you otherwise.

Franklyn…? The same man who idolized Hannibal Lecter? Who practically worshipped him? The same man who was so obsessed with being “friends” with his revered psychiatrist that he dismissed every uneasy vibe you’d ever shared about the man? No. Relying on Franklyn for a rescue was foolish, and the realization hit like a gut punch.

So you catalogued the room instead. Four walls paneled in pale maple, a ceiling vent too small to crawl through, a single recessed light. No windows. No décor. No edges you could splinter into a weapon. Even the chair you were bound to was a single curve of molded wood, impossible to break. Hannibal had designed the space the way a jeweler designs a velvet box: nothing inside but the gem. Time staggered past in slow, uneven heartbeats. Hunger gnawed first, then humiliation—the hot, urgent ache in your bladder. You clenched your thighs, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing you plead.

Footsteps. Measured, expensive shoes on hardwood. The door whispered open.

Hannibal stepped in carrying a silver tray. He looked maddeningly fresh, like he’d just stepped off a magazine spread: shirt sleeves rolled to the perfect midpoint of his forearm, waistcoat hugging a frame built for precision. His eyes lit when they found yours, as though the sight of your discomfort were a private sunrise.

“Dinner is ready,” he said.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you snapped. Your voice came out ragged, the edge of desperation sharpening every syllable.

He considered you for a beat, then inclined his head. “Of course. However, the door remains open.”

“Close or I piss on your Italian shoes.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, delighted. “Such spirit. Unfortunately, I still require the door open—until I’m certain you won’t attempt to bludgeon me with the cistern lid. I will stand outside the threshold and face away. That is my compromise.”

You wanted to fling an insult, but your bladder had other ideas. “Fine. Just—fine,” you relented with a grimace. “But don’t get any weird ideas. You so much as try anything, I’ll—”

“Nothing untoward will happen,” Hannibal interrupted, a faint, humorless smile curving his lips. “You have my word.”

He loosened the restraints carefully, as though unwrapping a delicate object. Once you were on your feet, he placed a light hand on your arm, guiding you from the room. The hallway was dimly lit, lined with a few closed doors whose locks glinted ominously. He led you to a small bathroom. Sure enough, he propped the door open partway, standing just out of view but still there. You felt humiliated, heart pounding with anger and shame as you went about your business under his watchful presence. At least he’s not looking directly at me, you thought bitterly. Small mercies, I guess…

True to his word, Hannibal didn’t try anything—no touches, no manipulative chatter. In fact, he was startlingly polite, a perfect gentleman. Somehow, that unsettled you even more.

Afterwards, he led you down a short corridor. At the end stood a door that opened into another room—a dining area, by the look of it. Candle‑light flickered over linen as white as a surrender flag. Two place settings gleamed: crystal stemware, antique cutlery, plates art‑house arranged with roasted root vegetables, a pale purée, and a slice of meat pink as a blush. The aroma was obscene in its seduction, but you refused to be impressed. You were still his prisoner, no matter how fancy the setting.

He gestured for you to sit. “I imagined you’d be hungry,” he said, as though discussing the weather.

“You imagined correctly,” you muttered, resisting the urge to snap further. Play it calm, gather info.

You settled into the chair, noticing that while you weren’t chained this time, Hannibal had chosen a seat just close enough to intervene if you tried anything. There was a steely vigilance in the way he watched you, like a natural predator prepared to pounce.

Dinner unfolded in brittle silence. You refused to touch the food at first; your stomach betrayed you with a growl so loud it echoed. Hannibal’s lips curved in quiet amusement but he said nothing, content to watch you with that fever‑bright fascination that crawled over your skin. Finally hunger won. You took a cautious bite—savory, buttery, maddeningly perfect. Revulsion warred with relief as warmth spread through your belly.

Hannibal, for his part, ate with a serene air. Now and again, you felt his gaze cutting across the table, a weird, obsessed gleam shining in his eyes. It was difficult to swallow under such scrutiny, but you forced the food down. Finally, you couldn’t stay silent any longer. “So is this it? Kidnapping me and forcing me to have dinner in your…your psycho lair? How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

He placed his utensils down with meticulous care, meeting your glare without flinching. “I have no end date in mind,” he said mildly, as though discussing a lease agreement.

“Why?” You set your fork down hard enough to clang. “Why do all this? What’s the magic word that gets me out of here?”

Hannibal’s expression softened as though you’d asked something tender. “There is no word,” he said. “Language cannot sever what exists between us.”

“What exists is kidnapping,” you shot back. “You’re going to prison for this.”

He laughed—an actual, delighted laugh. “Prison? I doubt it. Franklyn assures me you are prone to sudden disappearances when overwhelmed. He is already rationalising your absence.”

Your heart lurched. “You manipulated him.”

“I merely provided a narrative. He supplied the belief.” Hannibal leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “In truth, I’ve never met anyone like you—someone who balances genuine compassion with an acerbic wit and an undercurrent of fearlessness.”

You practically snorted. “Fearless? Right. I’m terrified out of my mind here.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the contradiction. “Fear is an instinct. You’ve every right to it. But even in your terror, you maintain a certain core of defiance. That’s rare, and I cherish it.” An icy chill spread across your skin at the word cherish. He talks like he’s in love—and that is infinitely worse.

“So you caged it.”

“I preserved it,” he corrected gently. “In time, the cage will feel less like confinement and more like sanctuary. You will come to understand that freedom is not the absence of walls, but the presence of someone who sees you utterly.”

You swallowed a surge of bile. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast. “But I am also patient. Fascination, like good wine, deepens when allowed to breathe. We have all the time we need.” The crystal of his glass clicked softly against the rim of yours—an accidental toast you wanted no part of. You set your drink down, untouched, pushing the plate away even though hunger still gnawed at you.

Hannibal watched every small rebellion with fond amusement, as if you were a child refusing bedtime. “Eat a little more,” he urged. “Strength will serve you, whatever path you choose.”

“My path is out of here,” you muttered. “One way or another.”

“That is a destination,” he allowed, folding his napkin with immaculate precision, “but not a path. And destinations are so often less important than the journey.”

You stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor. “Show me the way back to my life, Doctor. Right now.”

His eyes glittered. “Would you believe me if I said the door is unlocked?”

For a heartbeat, hope surged—then died beneath his measured tone. “Unlocked but guarded,” you countered. “Or rigged. Or you’ll hunt me the second I step through.”

“Consequences are not chains,” he replied, rising with fluid grace. “But they do guide behavior.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Come. I’ll prove there is no lock.” Wariness warred with curiosity, but you followed, pulse hammering. He led you through a winding corridor lit by low lanterns until you reached a heavy wooden door. At the threshold, he laid a hand on the knob and swung it open.

Beyond lay a dark forest. Tall conifers pressed close on all sides, their branches creating an almost impenetrable canopy that blocked out any hint of moon or starlight. The air smelled of damp pine and moss, and a biting chill seeped in. You could see no roads, no lights—nothing but trees and blackness. “No bolts, no bars. Walk away if you wish.”

A cold wind slid past you, rattling the nearest branches. You squinted, trying to make out a trail or any sign of civilization, but saw only the dark tangle of trunks and undergrowth. Your heart pounded. “Where does this even lead?”

“Somewhere you’re not prepared for,” he replied. “Freedom is rarely found by sprinting into darkness—especially when you have no idea where you are.” An image flashed through your mind of yourself stumbling among those trees, lost, maybe succumbing to hypothermia or exhaustion, while Hannibal followed at his leisure.

He closed the door without force, a quiet click that sounded painfully final. “If you want to wander out there, I won’t stop you,” he said, turning to face you, “but I assure you, it’s a harsh environment. I planned this location for its isolation.”

You swallowed hard. “You couldn’t have just asked me on a…on a date?”

His brows rose with mild amusement. “Would you have accepted?”

“Of course not.”

“Precisely.” He inclined his head as though that single word justified every abhorrent thing he’d done. “Conventional courtship would have led only to your polite refusal. And then distance. I couldn’t allow distance.”

Your anger flared. “That’s not how people function, Hannibal. This—this kidnapping— I’m not going to just fall in line because you’re too cowardly to handle rejection.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, his soft amusement a nightmarish counterpoint to your rage. “Cowardly?” he repeated in that cultured, low voice of his, as though you’d just made a delightful observation. “Would a coward risk everything to ensure someone precious does not slip away?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re justifying kidnapping as bravery? That’s twisted.”

“Twisted or simply honest,” he mused, eyes flicking over you with calm interest, like a collector surveying a prized piece of art. “Could it be you’re angered most by the fact that I am willing to do what polite society forbids? Because it calls into question whether you truly know yourself. Whether you might, under different circumstances, be drawn to me.”

“You’re unbelievable.” You spat the words, every nerve alight with fury. “People reject each other all the time without resorting to—to this. You can’t handle the idea that I might say no, so you stole me like some demented child with a shiny toy.”

His expression flickered just once—something close to hurt, as if your fury stung him more than he’d ever admit. Then a measured exhale steadied him. “I prefer to think of it as choosing a path that ensures we fully explore our connection. I will not hide from possibility simply because you or the world might disapprove.”

A tremor rippled through your limbs, pure anger coursing hot. You advanced on him. “No, you’re just hiding behind sedation and locks, creeping around like a monster. That’s the opposite of bravery, you smug—”

The porcelain teacup on the nearby tray caught your eye. Without a second’s hesitation, you seized it and flung it at him. He inclined his head at precisely the right moment, letting the cup sail past and shatter with a piercing crack against the wall.

“Careful.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “You’ll need that energy for what comes next.”

“What comes next,” you snarled, “is me leaving—whether I have to do it over your battered corpse or not.”

You swung a blind punch, your muscles coiling with desperate fury. Hannibal sidestepped it so elegantly, it made your blood boil. Another strike—he dipped under your arm, capturing your wrist. You drove your knee up, aiming for his ribs. He twisted gracefully, letting your momentum pass inches away. A guttural sound tore from your throat—part frustration, part outrage—as you came at him again, swinging for his jaw. He simply circled behind you, and you felt a prick of something cool against your neck.

Instantly, a familiar, sickening warmth spread through your veins. Your blows lost their weight, your vision stuttering. “N‑no—” The word slipped into a groan as your knees buckled.

With obscene gentleness, Hannibal caught you, easing your body against his. Your cheek pressed to the expensive fabric of his vest; you smelled faint cologne mixed with your own sweat. Horror gripped you, but your limbs fell slack, your mind swimming.

“That was quite admirable,” Hannibal said softly, stroking a hand over your hair. “I do appreciate your spirit. It’s part of why you’re here. Why you fascinate me so deeply.”

“Go…to…hell,” you managed, fury still sputtering in your fading consciousness.

“Shh,” he murmured, drawing you close as though comforting a lover. “Sleep now. Anger is exhausting, and we have plenty of time to revisit this conversation when you’re calmer.” Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The world blurred around the edges. Then only darkness remained, along with the nauseating warmth of Hannibal’s arms—his lips against your temple in a final, disturbingly tender gesture before oblivion claimed you.

[cherrycocaineee]

41. Happy Birthday, Slut - Joker

*Synopsis: It’s Athena’s 19th birthday, it’s also been a complete year since she ran away with the Joker after he killed her abusive father. The Joker wants to make the day special for Athena, wants her to have a good birthday since it’s been awhile. And her birthday present…he’s got something special planned for that.*

*Warning: nsfw, 18+, dumbification, degradation, praising, rough sex, choking, restraints, legal age gap, daddy kink, semi-public sex, whatever else you wanna consider a warning lol.*

*A/N: just a reminder that I’ve changed the character name to Athena bc I had my daughter five months ago and named her Paisley.*

*Athena’s p.o.v*

Rays of sunlight pierced through a crack in the black curtains that covered the large panel glass windows in the room. I groaned, stretching my bed over the black, silk sheets. The Joker wasn’t lying beside me but that was normal most days, he was probably down in his study or something. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before throwing my legs over the side of the bed. I flinched when I touched the cold floor. The floor was always so cold, I really needed to get some slippers.

   I push myself up and head to the master bathroom, turning the light on. I turned on the hot water before slipping out of my silk nightgown. It slipped off my body with ease, then I took off my underwear and climbed inside. Hot water cascaded down my small frame, soaking my hair as I rinsed off. I grabbed my loofah and washed my body, then moved on to washing my hair. After my shower, I turned off the water and grabbed my towel, dried off then wrapped it around me before grabbing another towel to dry my hair.

As I walked out, I noticed the bed was remade and there was an outfit sitting out on the comforter. I looked around the room but didn’t see anyone. Either Mister J or one of his henchmen, Frost, did this. I walked over to the outfit and looked at it. It was a short sleeve, red dress with white polka dots and a low v-neck; it was also thigh high and I was sure if I bent over it would live zero to the imagination. There were a pair of white platform pumps that were absolutely gorgeous, a pair of ruby red earrings, and a small white handbag. It was a lovely outfit. I threw it on before going back into the bathroom where I straightened my hair and did my makeup.

   My heels clicked against the marbled floor of the house as I walked down the stairs and headed towards Mister J’s study. Frost was just coming out when I arrived.

 “Good morning, Frost.”

He looked at me and smiled. “Good morning, Athena.”

  “Is Mister J in?”

He nodded his head before opening the door and letting me inside. I thanked him as he closed the door. Sitting behind his desk, Mister J was scribbling some stuff down on some papers; he looked up when he heard my heels. A grin stretched across his painted red lips.

  “Ah, good morning, darling.”

  He stood up from his chair and approached me, his tattooed hands immediately finding my hips. I smiled at him.

 “Good morning, Mister J.”

Mister J leaned down and pressed a sweet kiss against my lips.

 “Happy birthday,” he added against my lips.

 My eyes widened, I couldn’t believe I had forgotten my own birthday. I giggled and touched his chest, my fingertips grazing over the opening of his blood red, button up shirt as well as the ink on his pale skin. He watched me.

  “I’d completely forgotten,” I laughed.

  Mister J laughed too, his fingers touching my face before his fingers gripped my chin and he crammed his lips onto mine. He kissed me for what felt like forever but when he pulled away it felt like the kiss had barely been there.

  “Have you had breakfast yet, birthday girl?”

 I shook my head “no.” He took my hand in his and led me out of the study down to the kitchen. I smiled as he looked at me.

 “You look stunning in your new outfit, darling.” Mister J said.

 “Thank you.”

In the kitchen, Mister J gestured for me to sit down on the barstool before he started making me breakfast. I watched him cook, it was rare for him to be in the kitchen making our own meals. He’d normally tell one of the cooks to do it.

  “Well, aren’t I special,” I giggled

  “You are special, darlin’.” He grinned.

When breakfast was cooked, Mister J placed my plate in front of me and stood behind me with his arms around my waist and his head on my shoulder. The food looked amazing. He had made me waffles with fresh blueberries and strawberries on them, scrambled eggs because he knows I hate runny yolk, and some breakfast sausage. It was absolutely perfect.

 “You aren’t going to eat?” I asked him, shoving a bite of egg in my mouth.

He grinned and shook his head, “no, I’ll be saving my appetite for later this evening.”

I was about to ask him what he meant but then his hands squeezed my exposed thighs. I knew exactly what he wanted, it’s what I’ve been wanting too. Mister J and I hadn’t had sex the entire time we were together and that was because he had been so busy with so many things that he was tired. That and I was a virgin, so the thought of having sex immediately after we just got together didn’t seem appealing to me. I had been afraid that after I gave him what he wanted, he’d leave. But after awhile, I longed for him to touch every part of my body, to feel his cock inside my cunt, and the sounds he would make while he was fucking me.

  Mister J tapped on my head. I hadn’t realized I had froze in deep thought.

“What’s running through that pretty, little head of yours, Athena?” He grinned.

I chewed the remainder of the egg in my mouth before swallowing it. I turned and looked at him, our blue eyes staring into each other. God, he was handsome, no one could convince me otherwise.

  “Do you think that we could…uhm…” God this was embarrassing to ask for.

Mister J watched me intently, waiting for me to say what I was gonna say. I gulped, feeling my cheeks turn red.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” Mister J teased, “Can’t give you what you want if you don’t use those pretty words of yours.”

A tease. He was a ginormous tease. He knew exactly what I wanted.

  “Can we…can we please…please don’t make me say it.”

 “Oh, well then you must not really want it.”

Asshole.

Mister J kissed my neck and I shivered as I felt him move along my neck. His hands squeezed my thighs and I moaned. He chuckled.

 “Mister J,” I whimpered, “I need you.”

 “Need me to what, darlin’?”

 “N-need you to fuck me.”

He grinned wider than I have ever seen. He was waiting for this day just as much as I was. I bit my bottom lip and he stared longingly. He chuckled and looked at me.

 “I sure can, but you’ll have to wait for tonight after all the fun birthday things we do. Now eat your breakfast, you’ll need the energy for what I have in store for you.”

  Mister J walked away from me and headed off probably back to his office. I huffed. He was really making me wait until the end of the day, that was totally rude. I sighed and started finishing my breakfast. After I was done eating, I cleaned my dishes even though the cook insisted that she would do it. I shooed her away, telling her she does enough for me already. When I was finished cleaning my dishes, I headed to a different part of the house but was stopped by Frost.

 “Miss Athena,” he said, “Mister J has asked me to tell you to go out to the car, he’ll be waiting for you there.”

 “Oh? Are we going to his club?” I asked.

 “No, he has something different planned.”

  Frost didn’t say another word to me, he just walked away. I tilted my head and went outside to find Mister J waiting in his purple lamborghini. I approached the car, Mister J pushed the passenger’s side open for me like normal and I climbed in, closing the door.

 “Ready, princess?”

 “Where are we going?” I asked, curiously.

 “Thought you might like to go shopping, get yourself whatever you want. You don’t really spend a lot of my money, so I figured this might be a treat. I’ll go with you so I can make sure you’re actually spending a lot.”

 “You want me to spend a lot?” I asked, with wide eyes.

 “Sweetheart, if it doesn’t say you spent the length of a phone number, I’ll be quite annoyed.”

My eyes widened. He wanted me to spend that much money. I did the math in my head and gasped.

 “But the size of a phone number is like a billion dollars.”

 “Exactly.”

  Mister J started driving towards Gotham. He asked which store I’d like to go to first. I looked down at my phone wondering how the hell I was going to spend a billion dollars or if he was just exaggerating and I didn’t actually have to spend a billion. I perked up. This phone was the same phone I had since I moved to Gotham, Frost had picked it up when he went to get my belongings and kidnap my dad.

 “I would like a new phone, if that’s okay.”

 “‘Course it’s okay!” He laughed before driving me to a phone store.

People in Gotham didn’t really pay any attention to anyone unless they were being robbed or some other criminal act was being performed, mainly violence. So I wasn’t shocked when Mister J walked around the phone store with me, our hands clasped together, and no one jumped to call the police. I was looking at all the phones that they had on the floor while the Joker watched me. Finally I picked an Iphone 13 in a pink color. The Joker paid for it and we headed back to his lamborghini. For the remainder of the day, Mister J took me shopping at various different stores before taking me out to dinner later that evening. The restaurant he took me to was absolutely stunning. There was a chandelier directly above the entire restaurant that illuminated a soft glow over all the tables. Mister J and I were escorted to a VIP section so that neither one of us could be bothered. I was staring at all of the beautifully, expensive art that hung on the walls, the mahogany brown color that mixed with the egg shell white. The restaurant was gorgeous. We sat down and the waitress came in to take our order. Mister J ordered himself a large steak and I ordered myself a grilled chicken salad. I looked at Mister J.

 “Thank you, for all of this today.”

 “You’re welcome but the day’s not over and I’ve got one more thing for you.”

  He had a mischievous grin on his face and I felt my heart rate speed up. He knew what he was doing, that asshole. Our food came and we started eating while chatting about random things. I couldn’t keep my eyes from staring at him. He was handsome. From his green hair, to his ruby red lips, to his tattoos, and his muscular body. God, he wasn’t just handsome, he was sexy. I slowly chewed my food, it tasted good but I didn’t want it right now. Mister J looked up from his steak.

 “You alright, darling?” He asked, grinning.

 I didn’t answer him, I just stood up and walked over to him. I climbed into his lap and he looked at me, a grin stretched across his ruby red lips. I smiled back.

 “Someone couldn’t wait, hm? Impatient little thing.”

“How can I wait when you’re sitting across from me looking so good,” I point out.

 “Well who can argue there, doll?” He laughed, his hands moving to my hips, rubbing small circles against my exposed skin, “I can’t keep my eyes off you either.”

 “Then why are we waiting?” I whispered seductively in his ear.

Mister J ran his hands down my hips to my exposed thighs. I shivered from his touch, my eyes wandering down his exposed chest. He always wore his shirts slightly unbuttoned, giving me a perfect view of his pretty, tattooed chest. I was getting so tired of fantasizing about him fucking his cock into me while I touched myself, I needed it. I ran my fingers down his chest before I started unbuttoning his shirt exposing more of his skin. I sighed softly as I leaned down and peppered his tattooed chest with kisses, leaving behind a trail of dusky rose lipstick against his pale skin. Mister J groaned. That sent a shiver up my spine. I loved how deep his groans were even if I’ve only ever heard them when he was frustrated with his work or someone was pissing him off. This was different, this was a groan of pleasure that I was giving him.

 “Like that?” I asked, my eyelashes fluttering as I looked up at him.

 His hand went to my throat while his other stayed on my thigh. I grin as he moves closer to me.

 “You know I do, doll.”

His grip on my thigh and my throat tighten just a little bit; not enough to hurt me but enough so he was holding me tight. I could feel my cunt practically drooling. Mister J slammed his lips against mine and we kissed feverishly. I wrapped my arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. He wrapped his arms around my waist and I moaned, his tongue running over my bottom lip before slipping it into my mouth. He tasted like steak, obviously, but I could also taste expensive scotch, smoke from his cigars, and just…him. I moaned as I grinded my hips against him, my aching cunt desperate for some type of friction. I was sure I was leaving behind a wet spot on his pants but he didn’t seem to mind. He moved his lips from mine and started kissing and sucking on my neck. I moaned again, my movements becoming rougher as I felt his hard cock through his pants.

  “So pretty,” he whispered before he lifted my dress revealing my black, lacy panties. He grinned softly. “Look at you. All ready, wrapping yourself all pretty for me.”

 I moaned at his words. He grinned and pushed my dress up more until it was completely off of my body. My black, lacy bra being revealed. He growled, his eyes darkening in desire and lust. He pulled me closer to him, his lips attaching to my own. His tongue ran over my mouth and he groaned. I gasped as he squeezed my breast, my eyes rolling back as I filled his bulge pressed against my cunt.

 “Mister J…”

 “Ah,” he interrupted, “what’s my name?”

 “Daddy,” I corrected; his grin stretching further across his face.

 “What can daddy do for you?”

 “Fuck me.”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest as he grips my breast again and I moan. He held me close to his body, his piercing blue eyes staring into my lust filled eyes.

  “Such a dirty slut wanting me to fuck you in this restaurant,” he grinned, “you like the idea of the waiter coming back in here seeing me stuff your sweet little pussy, huh?”

 His words made my cunt even more wet. I moaned and nodded my head. Whatever got me railed sooner. Mister J pulled me off his lap, making me stand up. He got to his feet too, unclipping my bra with one hand, my breast fully exposed as he tied my wrist behind me back with my bra. The fabric was tight against my skin but I liked it. Once my hands were secured behind my back, Mister J pushed me down to my knees. His shirt was still unbuttoned, but not completely off; he unbuckles his belt and pulls it off before setting it down on his seat. I watched him with doe eyes as he undoes his pants and pulls out his cock. It’s already hard and standing at attention, the tip of his cock already leaking with precum. Drool slips past my lips and he grins.

  “Open wide for daddy, baby.”

  I don’t even hesitate or think about it, I just open my mouth. He guides his cock into my mouth and I moan as he fills my mouth. He moves his hips slowly, his cock moving in and out of my mouth each thrust getting rougher and rougher as the tip of his cock hits the back of my throat. Mister J groans as he grabs my head pushing himself deeper into my mouth. I felt tears prick at the corner of my eyes, my hands struggling in the restraints he had me in. It was my bra so you’d think the fabric would be easily tearable but not for me. Mister J growled.

 “That’s it, baby, suck daddy’s cock.”

 The back of my throat made squelching noises as he fucked my face. I felt tears stream down my face but I was enjoying every moment of it. I ran my tongue over every inch of his cock, groaning as I felt every vein that decorated his cock.

  “Fuck, you’re so good at this.”

I moaned around him. Mister J grunted before pulling me off his dick, I started gasping for air. He turns me around and pushes the food onto the floor before pushing me down on the table, my back facing him but my ass out. He grabs the fabric of my panties and rips them off, tearing the fabric easily. I moan. He kneeled down and pulled my ass cheeks apart, my eyes rolling back as he gave himself a perfect view of both my cunt and my asshole. Mister J spits on my pussy before devouring it, his tongue and mouth slurping and licking at my soaked cunt. I moaned, pressing my head against the table as he ate me out. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as he nipped my clit.

 “Oh fucking god,” I moan out, I grip the side of the table.

  Mister J keeps eating me out, his tongue pushing into my cunt. I tighten around his tongue and he growls. I try to move my hands but can’t. My legs started shaking and I knew I was about to cum.

 “Daddy,” I moaned out, “I’m gonna c-cum.”

 Mister J moved his mouth from my cunt, his chin dripping with my juices. He rubbed my clit harshly, the sound of my arousal echoing in the room mixing with both our heavy breathing. I moaned more as he looked up at me, grinning.

  “Come on, baby, cum for daddy.”

 “Oh fuck, cumming, daddy.”

  My knees buckled as I came hard, my eyes rolling back as a silent scream left my lungs. When I was done cumming, Mister J stood up and picked me up and placed me on the table, spreading my legs. I was still panting from the previous orgasm. Mister J spit on his cock before rubbing it over it and positioning himself in front of my pussy. I propped myself up the best I could so I could see him shove his cock inside me. I moaned as he pushed himself inside me, his cock stretching me out to his width. Mister J groaned.

  “Such a tight, fucking pussy, doll.”

 “Yeah, daddy?” I moan, he nods his head as he starts moving his hips faster and harder. I groan as he pounds into my cunt. Mister J reached his hand up and grabbed my throat and squeezed tightly as he fucked me. His hips moved at an animalistic speed, the table shaking back and forth, his hand on my throat was the only thing that kept me on the table.

 “Holy shit,” I moaned, “you’re so f-fucking deep.”

 Mister J grinned as he continued to fuck himself into me. I fall back on the table, my hands still secured behind my back. With each thrust, my breast bounced. Mister J leaned down and sucked on one of my nipples, the speed of his hips never faltering.

“Such a stupid whore,” Mister J growled roughly, sweat collecting on his body. My own body glistened with a small film of sweat. Mister J grabbed one of my legs and threw it over his shoulder allowing him to go deeper. My eyes rolled back and drool started spilling from my lips and collecting on the table I was one. Mister J watched me, a grin on his face as he continued to move his hips roughly. My heart was hammering inside my chest as adrenaline and pleasure soaked every inch of my nerves. I couldn’t focus on anything else, just the way he cock stretched me out and the sounds coming from my wet cunt each time he drilled himself into me.

  “Look at that,” Mister J grinned, “now we’re getting somewhere.”

 My entire body was buzzing and I was approaching my climax once again. I moaned and arched my back the best I could with my hands behind my back. The fabric of my bra rubbed my wrist raw but I didn’t care.

 “G-gonna cum,” I managed to pant out.

 “Panting?” The Joker laughed, “like a bitch in heat. You wanna cum, doll, beg me for it.”

  His words were so lewd, it was only gonna get more intense from here. I moaned and looked up at Mister J the best I could through teary eyes. I wasn’t crying from pain, but from pleasure.

 “Please, daddy, wanna cum.” I whimper.

He laughs. “You can do better than that, baby. Beg daddy and I’ll let you make a pretty mess on my cock.”

  “Daddy!” I moaned louder as he rubbed my clit at the same time as he fucked me, “f-fuck, please, please let me cum. Need it, need it so fucking bad. Wanna cum, please, please.” I didn’t care if the words made sense or anything, I just needed to cum. Mister J reached down and grabbed by my neck with his free hand and yanked me closer to him, his cock still working its magic. I moaned again.

 “Cum.” It was an order. Either I cum now or not at all. So I came hard all over his cock, my legs shaking and my eyes rolling back. I might have looked like the main character from the exorcist. A scream was ripped from my lungs as my juices coated every inch of his cock, my pussy squeezing around him. He groaned too but didn’t stop. Instead, he pulled me up and sat down on his seat.

  “Ride me.”

 “T-tired.”

  “Don’t think so, doll, you wanted to be an impatient brat, ride me.”

I moved myself up and down on his cock. His hands were on my hips as I bounced up and down. My hair bounced with the movement. My sweaty skin caused some strands to stick to me.

 “That’s it. Ride daddy.”

 “L-legs getting tired, daddy.”

  Mister J looked up at me and smacked my face, not enough to physically cause me pain but enough to tell me that he didn’t care. He was right, I wanted this now and was too impatient to wait when I got home. There was a knock on the door and I covered my mouth. Mister J laughed and pulled my hand down.

 “What is it?” He laughed.

The door opened and the waiter walked in. His eyes practically popped out of his head when he saw me riding the Joker’s cock. Mister J pulled me off of him and bent me over the table.

  “W-was just coming to check on you two,” the waiter stuttered out, I could see the growing tent in his pants.

 “Hold on a second, kid,” Mister J said, he removed one of his golden chains and wrapped it around my neck before pulling on it. Not tight but enough for the cool metal to dig into my hot skin. He slammed himself in from behind and I moaned out again. By now I knew, without actually seeing, that I was completely fucked out. The waiter’s eyes met mine, which were teary eyed and my eyeliner and mascara probably smudged to hell. 

  “See that, kid. This dumb whore likes that you’re watching her get fucked. Her pussy is practically suffocating my cock.”

 The waiter couldn’t move or say anything, he just stood there and watched; his mouth slightly open.

 “Oh my fucking…” I couldn’t even finish my sentence.

 “What a dumb slut,” Mister J laughed, “gonna cum on my dick again in front of this man?”

 “Yes daddy.”

 “Then let’s see it baby. Give this man a show.”

I moaned louder this time as I came hard on his cock for the second time, this being a total of three orgasms in I don’t know how long. Were we here for an hour, two, maybe it was closing time and that’s why the waiter came to check on us. Mister J rubbed my clit quickly and I felt a different type of pressure before I released and ended up squirting for the first time.

 “Ohhh, fuck,” I cry out.

  In front of me, the waiter now had a wet spot on his pants meaning he probably came too. Mister J smacked my ass roughly before grabbing it and continued to fuck himself into me.

 “Gonna breed this cunt, baby, ready?”

 I nod vigorously, still moaning and panting. Mister J fucked himself into my cunt a few more times before he growled and released his cum into my pussy. My eyes rolled back as I felt his entire seed push all the way inside me, deep. Mister J rutted against me, groaning as he watched my greedy pussy take all his cum before he pulled out. He zips himself back up and looks at the waiter.

 “Bring the check.”

 “Y-yes sir.” The waiter ran off and Mister J helped me to my feet.

He untied my hands from my bra and grinned down at me.

  “Get dressed doll, sorry about your panties and bra. Looks like you’ll have to walk out of here with my cum running down your leg.”

 He wasn’t actually sorry but I didn’t mind. In fact, I moaned at the thought. He wrapped his arms around me.

 “Happy birthday, sweetheart. Let’s get home so I can rough you up some more.”

 I giggled and nodded as I got dressed. Mister J paid for the food that we didn’t eat, the waiter refused to make eye contact with either one of us, and we left. I was excited to see what more he had in store for me when we got home.

Tags: @w4nt-h1s-d1ck

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Ford Glocar Concept, 2003. An experimental concept wrapped in translucent plastic panels illuminated by LED lights allowing the car's colour to change. Drivers could either stand out or blend in depending on their preference or driving conditions. It was powered by fuel cells and built on a lightweight aluminium space frame.

[inkedtae]

the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART II

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

⬅︎ PART I

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.6k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.

A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.

In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.

Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit  the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.

Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.

Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.

You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.

But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.

You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.

“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.

You stiffen.

This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.

As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.

Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.

“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”

You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.

The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.

You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.

“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.

Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.

“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.

That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.

“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.

“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”

You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”

He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.

You wonder if he learned it from—

Chris says your name.

The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.

He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.

“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.

I need to go, you know you should say.

Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.

“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.

No, thank you. I have to go.

His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.

You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.

Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”

“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”

His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.

You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.

The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.

In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.

In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.

The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.

You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.

“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.

You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.

You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.

Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.

Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.

Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.

Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?

“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.

You shrug. “What about me?”

“What makes you a traitor?”

You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.

Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”

“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.

You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“The answer is no.”

Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.

You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”

Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.

“Are you stupid or suicidal?”

“A lot of people would argue both.”

The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.

He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.

“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.

Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.

Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.

You bite your lip and shake your head.

He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.

Your eyes roll, head tilting back.

“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.

Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”

“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”

“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.

Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.

You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.

Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”

“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.

Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.

“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.

You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.

He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”

Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.

“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”

Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.

Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”

At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.

You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”

Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”

You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.

“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.

But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.

Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.

“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”

“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”

You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.

Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.

“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.

“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.

I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”

“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.

You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”

Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.

“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”

Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.

“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.

The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”

Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”

You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”

“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.

His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.

“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .

You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.

“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”

You obey.

Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.

You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.

“Take off your shorts.”

Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.

Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.

“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.

“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.

Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction. 

Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”

He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.

God, he’s so perfect.

If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.

Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.

You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.

So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?

The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.

He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.

Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?

You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.

Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.

A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.

Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.

What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?

Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.

Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.

Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.

You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.

The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.

You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)

Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—

“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”

The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.

An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.

“Lean back.”

Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.

Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.

Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.

Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.

“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”

Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”

He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.

“Beg.”

Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”

His smirk widens at that.

You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”

Jaw flexed, he softly growls.

“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.

He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.

You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.

“Oh, god!”

Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.

Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.

Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.

“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.

His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.

Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.

So, so cl—

A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.

“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.

Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”

You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?

Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.

You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.

“Chris, I’m—”

He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.

His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”

You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.

Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.

Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”

That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.

He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.

The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.

His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.

Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.

That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.

You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.

Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.

The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.

You moan through a bitten lip in reply.

Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.

Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.

“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.

Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.

Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.

Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.

You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.

“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”

His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.

Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.

As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.

“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”

A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.

Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.

“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.

A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.

The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.

“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”

You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.

Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”

“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”

Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.

You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”

Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.

Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.

You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.

Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.

Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.

You clench. “Chri—”

“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”

Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.

Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”

His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.

You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.

The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.

As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.

His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.

Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”

You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.

After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.

You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.

“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.

A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.

His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.

“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.

You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.

Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.

“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”

You whine incoherently.

He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.

Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”

Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.

You flush, nodding.

He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.

Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.

Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.

You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.

You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.

Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.

“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.

Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.

“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.

Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.

Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.

There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.

He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.

“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.

You nod.

Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.

He sees you.

Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.

You clench, whimpering.

He licks, chuckling.

His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.

“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”

Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”

You draw in a long breath and release it.

He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”

The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”

A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.

“Daddy!”

Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.

Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.

It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.

“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.

He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.

Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.

Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”

His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.

However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.

A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.

“Why do— Ah!”

Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.

“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.

You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.

Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.

And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.

“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”

Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.

You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”

The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.

“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.

“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”

His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.

A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.

Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”

You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.

“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.

Chris tightens his jaw.

A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.

The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.

The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.

He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.

Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.

Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.

People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life. 

It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.

And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.

He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.

Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.

“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.

You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.

“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.

You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.

His eyes darken.

Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.

Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.

You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.

He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.

You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.

He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”

The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.

You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.

Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.

Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.

A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.

His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.

However, you were promised ruin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.

Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he  shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.

You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.

Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.

“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.

You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.

You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.

“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.

You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.

Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.

Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.

“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.

You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”

He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.

“Please what?”

His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.

A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.

“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”

His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.

“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.

A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.

Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.

Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.

It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.

You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.

Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.

You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.

You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.

Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.

There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.

You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.

The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.

The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.

Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.

The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.

“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”

You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.

“Of course,” you reply.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Are you hurt?”

The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.

“Are you?”

A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.

“I’ve never been better.”

“What…happened?”

You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.

Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?

“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”

“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.

He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”

You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”

“Do you remember saying anything?”

Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.

He bites back a sheepish grin.

“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”

“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”

You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.

“Well?”

“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.

You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.

“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.

Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?

The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.

Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”

You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.

“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”

His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.

You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”

Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”

A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.

“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”

Your spine stiffens.

His gang?

Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”

Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.

Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.

“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.

Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.

“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”

You press your legs together, squishing his hand.

He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.

You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.

“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”

Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.

“So what then?” you ask.

Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”

You blink.

Protection?

You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“It’s my life.”

Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.

You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.

I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.

“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”

You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time. 

Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.

“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”

“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”

“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”

You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.

And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.

You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 56 Chapter 56 | muse of mine⌟

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Your hand stayed in Apollo's, warm and easy, like it had every right to be there. You walked beside him, past silver archways and flower-drunk halls, your fingers laced with his and your throat tight with everything you weren't saying.

He smiled like nothing was wrong.

You wondered if he'd even noticed the tremble in your grip. If he cared.

Soon, you both stopped just before a set of gilded double doors, carved with music notations that shifted as you looked at them, like they were still being written. The knobs were shaped like twin sunbursts.

Then he pushed open the doors.

The moment they parted, music hit you—not loud, not jarring. Soft. Gentle. Like a whisper pressed to your skin.

You stepped in slowly, your sandals brushing the threshold like it might bite you.

And then...

Your breath caught.

It wasn't a room. Not really. It was a sound.

A sound with walls and space and light.

Every inch of the chamber pulsed with music—layered, flowing, looping through the air like a living thing. The walls glowed with faint golden lines, shifting with the rhythm. The ceiling arched high above, curved like a lyre's frame, and every note that echoed seemed to make the light dance.

It wasn't loud.

It was constant.

Endless.

As if the room had been built to never fall silent. To never allow it.

You stood frozen.

Because you heard it.

You heard... you.

A melody drifted down from the rafters—low and sweet, threaded with something achingly familiar. You frowned, trying to place it.

And then it hit you.

You had hummed it once.

Only once.

In Ithaca. Alone in the garden. A half-tune you'd made up while watering the flowers on Penelope's windowsill, something silly and simple, a little crooked on the edges. You hadn't even remembered it until now.

But here?

Here, it had become a symphony.

Strings. Harps. Wind instruments you couldn't even name. The melody was richer now, wrapped in harmony, transformed into something elegant and whole. It climbed the walls like ivy. It sang your name in chords you hadn't known existed.

And that was only one.

As you walked further in, the music shifted. It layered. New ones folded into the air—slower, sadder ones. Some in minor keys that curled beneath your ribs. Others soft and reverent, the kind of songs meant for mourning altars and temple gates.

They weren't just about you.

They were you.

Moments. Glimpses.

A laugh you'd breathed during the cultural exchange festival between Ithaca and Bronte. A heartbeat from your first time stepping on a stage. The lullaby you whispered to Eben when he couldn't sleep.

Your voice, your rhythms, your life—woven into each track like thread in a tapestry.

It was horrifying.

The realization scraped against your skin: he had been listening. Far longer than you ever thought. 

Long enough to mean every breath you've taken has been heard.

Every heartbeat—every hum, every pause, every laugh you thought no one caught—was stitched into a never-ending melody.

It hit you all at once.

You turned your head, throat tight, eyes scanning the air like the music might stop if you just breathed wrong. But it didn't. It never did.

Because in here... the music never died.

And Apollo... he only smiled.

His fingers squeezed yours gently—then tugged. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just steady. "Come," he murmured.

You followed.

He led you deeper into the chamber, past instruments carved from crystal and wood so polished it gleamed like starlight. You caught a glimpse of a flute resting on velvet, its keys shaped like constellations.

And then—he stopped beside a narrow panel carved into the back wall.

You wouldn't have noticed it.

Not unless you'd seen him press his palm to a symbol etched just beneath a stylized sunburst.

The panel shimmered, shifted, and opened inward with a hush so soft it felt like the air held its breath. Beyond the secret door stretched a hallway.

Long. Dim. Silent.

No music followed here.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the melodies behind you faded like they'd been swallowed whole. The door whispered shut behind you with a final click, sealing the music inside.

Your ears rang from the sudden stillness.

No song. No humming light. Only your own breath and the soft tap, tap of your steps against cool marble.

The air grew heavier the deeper you went.

Not stifling. But sacred.

Like walking through the inside of a prayer.

The walls pulsed faintly with old light—etched in golden vines and tangled script, some words too ancient for your eyes to follow. You traced your fingers near one and felt it warm beneath your skin, like it remembered being sung.

Apollo walked ahead, and you realized he had fallen silent too.

No more chatter. No teasing. Not even a hum.

At the end of the hall stood a door unlike any you'd ever seen.

Tall as a temple gate.

Carved of deep black wood streaked with veins of gold that glowed. Soft, alive, like they pulsed with a heartbeat you couldn't hear.

But that wasn't what stopped you in your tracks.

No—it was the creature standing before it.

You froze.

It stood like a sentinel—half-shadow, half-light. Its form was feline in posture, but not of this world. Its wings—yes, wings—were tucked close to its back, feathers like sun-drenched obsidian. Its body rippled with magic, its fur darker than night, streaked with sun-fire that moved as if alive. A mane like windblown silk circled its neck. Its eyes glowed pale, colorless and sharp, like moonlight reflected off a blade.

But its presence—

You felt it before you fully saw it.

Power rolled off the beast in waves, quiet but absolute. Not loud. Not fiery. But older. Like an oath made by the stars before the earth was shaped. You could feel it buzzing beneath your teeth, in your chest, behind your eyes.

Then—Apollo turned to you.

He raised your still-held hand to his lips, brushing a kiss to your knuckles with a warmth that melted like morning sun across your skin. And when he finally pulled away, his fingers still wrapped loosely around yours, his voice dropped low and quiet, like the words weren't meant for the air at all. "This, is my most sacred space."

Your throat bobbed.

He didn't look away. "The only room I don't let anyone else enter."

You blinked. "Not even the nymphs?"

He gave a soft laugh—but it didn't touch his eyes. It felt like he'd said it a thousand times in his head, but never aloud.

"...Not even Artemis."

That made your pulse skip.

Because Artemis had walked with him through lifetimes. Through grief and prophecy and golden halls that didn't know silence. But not here.

No one... but you.

Apollo turned back to the beast beside the door, and with a simple flick of his fingers—graceful, like waving away dust—the air shifted.

The creature bowed.

It bowed like night yielding to dawn.

Massive shoulders folded. Its glowing head dipped low to the marble floor, fur shimmering like liquid ink in sunlight. The heat in the air changed—less pressure, more reverence. And though it never said a word, you felt what it meant: You may pass.

Then—slowly—it moved.

One great paw glided to the side. Its gaze never left you.

And neither did the weight of it.

You stepped forward.

Immediately, you felt it—that watching. That not-quite-hostile hum beneath your skin, like its eyes tracked more than your footsteps. Like it saw what had been written into you. Not just mortal. Not just muse.

You kept walking anyway.

Apollo pushed the door open with both hands.

They didn't creak.

They didn't groan.

They hushed.

Like even the hinges respected the silence here.

You stepped through—just a breath behind him—and the moment the doors whispered closed behind you...

You flinched.

It was dim here.

Not dark—but shadowed.

Like the room had chosen not to glow until it knew who walked through it. The air hung thick with warmth, but it wasn't heavy. It was still. Like a cathedral that had never been touched. Like the sky had been folded into stone and asked not to speak.

Your breath came shallow.

Even Apollo was quiet.

He walked ahead of you, his shoulders back, bare feet soundless against the smooth floor. Every step he took stirred something in the air—light ripples, soft pulses, like even the space itself remembered his shape.

You glanced behind you, almost on instinct.

The creature was gone.

The doors were sealed.

You were alone.

Just you and him... and whatever waited inside this silence.

And gods help you, your heart had never beat so loud.

It echoed in your ears like a war drum—steady, rising, loud enough that you swore he could hear it. Every breath you took felt like it pulled in something sacred. Something that didn't belong to mortals.

Then—snap.

A sharp crack of sound. Apollo's fingers.

You flinched.

But before you could speak—before your startled breath even finished—light bloomed.

It rose from his hand like a glowing ember, a tiny golden sphere no bigger than your palm. It hovered an inch above his skin, pulsing once—twice—like it was catching a rhythm only he could hear.

Then it rose.

Higher.

Upward, smooth as a flame that didn't need air.

And the moment it passed above your heads—it burst.

Not violently. Not like an explosion. But like a seed finally opened.

Light scattered in every direction—soft, radiant, weightless. It flickered through the shadows, touching the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Not harsh, not blinding—just enough to make you gasp.

Because now you could see.

And gods, it was...

Stars.

The light hadn't just illuminated the room—it had filled it.

Like a galaxy had bloomed inside a temple.

Tiny motes of gold drifted lazily through the air, like stardust caught in slow motion. The ceiling shimmered above like the night sky had been pulled inside out. The walls were no longer just stone—they were alive, pulsing with delicate runes and song lines etched in firelight.

It wasn't a shrine.

It was a universe.

And you stood at its center.

Apollo stepped forward like he belonged to the place. Like it had grown out of him.

"This," he said, his voice warm, his arms lifting just slightly, "is where I write when I can't bear to forget."

You turned slowly.

And that's when you saw them.

Scrolls.

Thousands.

No—tens of thousands.

They lined the walls in uneven rows—stacked high, unrolled midair, curled into bundles, hovering lazily in the golden space like leaves drifting on a breeze. Some were etched on parchment so old it looked like it would crumble if you so much as breathed on it. Others were fresh—still glowing faintly, ink wet with divine magic.

There were books. Fragments. Chiseled stone tablets.

Notes scribbled on wax.

Scraps of linen pressed into glass.

Some pieces floated in the air around you—each of them softly humming with their own tune. You could hear it, just barely: music. Tiny melodies layered so gently it felt like standing in the ribs of a living harp.

You took a shaky step forward.

One scroll drifted near your shoulder—long, delicate, laced in threads of gold. Its words rearranged themselves as you watched, shifting and curling into verses you almost recognized. The chorus of a dream. A lullaby you thought you'd imagined once in childhood.

And then Apollo moved.

He walked toward a pedestal set in the center of the space—a single scroll resting atop it. The paper was ivory white, trimmed in sun-colored thread, its edges worn soft with age.

He didn't touch it at first.

Just stood there.

And repeated it.

The prophecy.

"One shall come, born of light delayed. A death too soon, spun by mischief. You will know them by what was taken— And by what your heart creates in its absence."

Apollo reached forward and gently unrolled the scroll with reverent fingers. The ink shimmered beneath his touch—glowing brighter as he traced the lines. "Delphi spoke it," he murmured. "And I... believed."

He said it so softly.

Believed.

Like that was the hardest part. Like belief was heavier than prophecy. Like it cost him something.

He stood over the scroll a moment longer, golden lashes low, his fingers resting lightly on the edges like he was afraid to unroll it any further. Then he glanced back at you.

The shift in him was almost boyish—bright, eager. His voice lightened, like honey warming in the sun. "Well?" he asked, eyes gleaming. "What do you think?"

You blinked at him.

You couldn't answer—not yet. Not when the air still buzzed with music that had no sound, and your skin prickled from the weight of names you hadn't chosen.

So instead—you walked forward.

You drifted past him, your eyes sweeping the chamber. The scrolls shimmered in the air like golden feathers, each one tilted toward you slightly, like they were waiting to be picked.

One caught your attention.

Small. Curled. Floating just above a stone ledge like it hadn't moved in centuries.

You reached out.

The moment your fingers brushed it, the scroll jumped.

Not violently—but like it had felt you. Like it had been waiting. The parchment trembled once, then flung itself into your hands with a little gasp of light, the edges unrolling with a flutter that sounded too close to a heartbeat.

You caught it mid-air.

The paper was soft with age, warm to the touch, humming faintly in your palms.

As you held it closer, the ink began to glow.

A song spilled out across the surface—etched in golden script, slanted and careful. Not formal. Not divine.

Personal.

And before you even read the first line, you felt it.

His voice.

Not loud. Not sung aloud.

But there.

A whisper beneath your ribs.

And then—you read it.

Muse of mine, forged by light's delay, Born of breath I begged not to waste, Let the stars shape your hands from sun, So you might hold the ache I could not face.

Come soft to me, not clothed in flame, But wrapped in the hush of prophecy's arms, I do not ask for fate or fire— Only the right to keep you warm.

Your fingers trembled.

The words glowed brighter for a beat. You swore you could hear the faintest thread of melody woven beneath them—low, slow, and familiar.

And there—woven into the edges of the paper—was the faint echo of Apollo's voice.

Singing.

Not to Olympus.

Not to the stars.

To you.

You didn't speak. You couldn't.

Because the truth hit you harder now—colder.

You weren't just a muse.

You were his answer.

To loneliness.

To longing.

To some aching question he'd never dared to say aloud.

He had poured himself into scrolls, sonnets, symphonies—into you—without ever meeting you.

He'd built you in ink and gold and dream.

And now?

Now, you stood here.

Breathing.

Real.

Everything he ever wanted, still unfolding in front of him.

You clutched the scroll tighter, as if it might fly away. But even as your hands shook, you could still hear his voice—a quiet echo curling around your ear, softer than prayer.

Not admiration.

Obsession.

And now that you were holding proof of it, it was starting to suffocate.

The words on the scroll hadn't stopped glowing—but your chest had. The heat had drained, leaving only the thud-thud-thud of your pulse and the tightening ache in your throat.

You didn't want to drop it.

It felt wrong to drop something so delicate. So old. So... intimate.

So instead, you set it down.

Gently. Carefully. Like it might shatter if you breathed too hard. Your fingers let go with the same hesitation someone might use to put down a letter they were never supposed to read.

Then you cleared your throat. Lightly. Awkwardly.

"It's... beautiful," you said.

The words barely came out.

You didn't mean to lie—but you didn't know what else to call it. Beautiful felt like the safest thing in the world to say. Safer than obsessive. Safer than unhinged. Safer than admitting that something about it made your hands shake.

Apollo sighed.

Not tiredly. Not in disappointment.

Lovingly.

He sounded so pleased—like you'd just told him he was right all along.

"I knew you'd love them," he said, almost giddy. "They've been waiting for you. Just like I have."

He stepped closer.

His hands reached for the scroll you'd just put down—and gods, he picked it up like it was precious.

Like it wasn't parchment.

Like it was you.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the page, tracing the gold-touched verses like he was greeting an old friend. "This one," he said, almost to himself, "I wrote during the fourth week of my... confinement." His voice curled slightly, the word too elegant for what it really meant. "I'd just argued with Dionysus for the third time that morning. He said my voice was giving him hives."

You gave a soft, nervous laugh.

Apollo smiled faintly.

"But afterward," he said, "I went to the old garden near the southern terrace. You remember it? The one with the crooked olive trees and the black peacocks?"

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

He beamed, already reaching for something else—an idea, a memory, a sound.

He crossed the room in long strides, suddenly intent, moving toward a delicate pedestal near the far wall.

Upon it sat a harp.

Not just any harp—his harp. He reached for it—then froze. His entire body went still.

You frowned. "...Apollo?"

He didn't answer.

Because the harp—was broken.

Snapped clean down the middle.

One half splintered inward, the strings snapped like frayed spider silk. It looked like it had been stepped on. Or struck. Or thrown.

Leaning delicately against the base of it was a scroll—one you hadn't noticed until now.

It was short. Folded.

And sealed.

With a kiss mark.

Bright red.

Apollo's face darkened.

Literally.

The light in the room twisted, gold flaring into something hotter—sharper. The warmth that had wrapped around your ribs all this time now grew hot. Oppressive. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

He stared at the ruined instrument like it had insulted him personally.

And then, quietly—deadly—he said, "Aphrodite."

You took a small step back.

Apollo reached down—slowly, like every muscle in his body was fighting not to snap—and picked up the note. He didn't open it.

He didn't need to.

You could see the tension in his jaw, the heat prickling along his shoulders. A soft crack echoed through the chamber—a scroll rack behind him warping slightly from the sudden rise in temperature.

Apollo turned the note over once in his hand, then let it fall. The kiss-stamped parchment floated gently to the floor.

You didn't breathe.

Not until he turned to you again.

The smile was gone.

In its place: something harder. Bare. His jaw clenched tight, lips thinned to a line, his golden glow pulsing too sharp to be comforting now. The warmth in the room shifted—no longer gentle, no longer sacred.

It became heat.

Real heat.

The kind that made your skin prickle. The kind that made sweat bead along your spine before you'd even taken another step.

You swallowed. "Apollo..." you said softly.

He looked at you.

No—snapped to you.

His gaze was molten, eyes narrowed and bright like twin suns blinking mid-flare. His breath hitched through his nose like it hurt to drag in air. And for a second, it didn't even seem like he saw you—just the idea of you. The memory of his harp, broken. His offerings mocked. His sanctuary invaded.

"She did this," he hissed, so low you almost didn't catch it. "She did this. Of course she did—Aphrodite."

Your lips parted, but he didn't stop.

"She couldn't stand the idea of something didn't center around her hips or her smile or whatever poor fool she's got clinging to her this week."

He started to pace, golden light trailing off his skin in sharp flares.

"She probably got Ares to do it. Let him break it while she watched. Or kissed him on the mouth while he stepped on it. Gods," he spat, and the room flared. The air rippled like a mirage. Scrolls overhead began to tremble. "My guard didn't see them. Didn't stop them. So either someone was paid off or someone was blind, and I don't know which is worse. This place is sacred. It's yours. And they ruined it."

His hand curled into a fist at his side, and you could swear the marble beneath his feet cracked.

The temperature soared. You could barely breathe.

And still he burned.

You felt it coil in your gut—fear, yes, but also something else: awareness. Of what he was. Of what could happen if he slipped too far past that line between heartbreak and wrath.

This wasn't a tantrum. This was a god on the verge of razing a room to the ground.

Your heart kicked against your ribs. A slow panic tried to rise up your throat.

You needed to calm him down. Somehow. Carefully.

A flicker of memory surfaced—Diomedes, somewhere between a grin and a lecture, muttering to you in the early morning of training: "If you can't win the fight, win the ego."

Right.

Okay.

Flatter the ego. Steer the storm. Or at least distract it.

"And now they'll laugh," he said darkly. "Dionysus will drink and joke about it at the next feast, and Aphrodite will press her lips to another wine cup like it was all just a game. But this—" he gestured to the scrolls, the music, the room "—this isn't a game. This is—"

You held up your hand, stumbling over your words before they could drown.

"I—" you started, voice a little hoarse from the heat. "I think I'm... flattered?"

Silence.

Utter, perfect silence.

The kind that hit.

Everything stopped. The heat. The pulsing air. The tremble in the walls. Even the light around Apollo froze, mid-flare, caught in place like a flame trapped in glass.

He blinked at you.

Just blinked.

Like he hadn't heard you right.

Like you'd said something utterly idiotic.

You cleared your throat again, a little squeakier this time. "I mean—like... not about the harp. That's—that was terrible, obviously. But all this?" You waved a little toward the floating scrolls, the galaxy of music he built around your name. "It's... a lot. And really intense. And a little terrifying."

A beat passed.

"But also... kind of sweet?"

Apollo just stared.

He didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Like a god trying to decide if he was being praised or teased.

And for the first time since the doors closed behind you, you could feel the power in the room shift.

From fire...

To want.

You felt it settle in the room like heat after lightning—soft but heavy. Like he'd stopped burning outward and started pulling inward instead. Every golden inch of him turned toward you—not just his gaze, but his focus. His devotion. His longing.

And gods help you... it was working.

Your praise, your awkward honesty—it had soothed something.

So you kept going.

"I mean it," you said gently, reaching out. "What you built here—it's..." Your fingers found trailed down his arm. "It's beautiful."

Your fingers closed softly around his hand.

"All of this... just for me?"

He didn't move at first.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't resist, but then, his knuckles slowly loosened.

In fact—he melted.

You felt the tension drain from his body like a knot finally coming loose. His shoulders eased. His jaw relaxed. The lines in his forehead smoothed. He looked at you like you'd just pulled him from a storm he didn't know he'd been drowning in.

And then—he swooned.

"Yes," he said, softer now. "And it can stay this way. If you want. If you'd like." He stepped closer, light pooling in the air like honey around your feet. "It could always be like this."

He didn't say the word.

But you heard it anyway.

Stay.

You blinked.

And then—his hand shifted. Just slightly. His fingers slipped from yours, drifting instead to your jaw. Not forceful. Not hungry.

Just reverent.

A brush of knuckles, featherlight, dragging from the edge of your chin up to the hollow beneath your cheekbone. You barely breathed.

"I could elevate you," he whispered.

You blinked again, pulse stuttering.

"A body that never aches," he continued, his gaze locked on yours. "A voice that never fades. A name that no one dares forget."

The words weren't cruel. They weren't sweet, either.

They were honest.

He was laying it out like an offering. Like a temple with its doors open. Like a god who had stripped down his pride and folded it into gold just for you.

"All you have to do," he said, thumb skimming the edge of your jawline, "is say yes."

The words lingered between you like a spell.

The air didn't move.

It held still—heavy and golden, caught between divinity and choice.

You blinked up at him, heart thudding too loud in your chest. The warmth of his hand still cradled your cheek, but suddenly, it felt like too much. Like the room had narrowed to just this moment—your breath and his, your fate and his hands.

You tried to pull back. Just a little.

Not harsh. Not panicked.

Just... enough.

But his fingers twitched. Just slightly. And he stepped closer.

His eyes flicked down to your lips—then up again. "Don't worry," he said softly, like he was trying to soothe a startled animal. "You don't have to be afraid. Olympus already loves you."

You stiffened.

"They do," he insisted, voice lower now, like he was trying to make it true just by saying it enough. "You've charmed them. Even Athena's softened. Artemis already calls you sister more than mortal. Dionysus laughs when you're mentioned—and Aphrodite—well." His mouth curled bitterly. "She sees you. That's enough."

You didn't know what to say.

He leaned down, voice brushing your skin again.

"I just have to convince Father," he murmured, "to forgo the usual laws. Just once. Just for this."

Your breath caught.

"Then I could raise you," he said, his fingers tightening gently on your hand. "Not like before. Not like how Hermes stole you from death. Not half-shadow. Not borrowed." His thumb swept across your knuckles. "But truly. Fully."

You swallowed.

"A life without pain," he whispered. "No more hunger. No cold. No aches. You'd never bleed again. You'd never break."

His other hand lifted—slowly—and then, between his palms, light bloomed.

A vision.

It shimmered before you like a dream made of fire and fog: you, standing tall, draped in gold that moved like breath. Your eyes glowed. Your body radiated warmth. You looked... eternal. Untouched. Like something that had never known fear.

A god.

His god.

And around you—Olympus bowed.

Even in illusion, they bent their heads.

Apollo's voice drifted like silk through the image. "You'd never have to earn their favor again. You'd be their favor."

The vision faded.

You stared at the air where it had hovered, your stomach tight and your chest aching.

Because for a moment—a terrifying, beautiful moment—you almost saw it.

The appeal.

The ease.

And yet...

You weren't thinking of marble halls.

You weren't thinking of golden robes or temples built in your name.

You were thinking of the spacious mattress back in Ithaca.

Of the cool stone floor beneath your feet when you got up too early for bread.

Of the breeze that pushed through the large windows in your room.

Of Lady curled at your side, warm and twitching in sleep.

Of Telemachus' quiet laugh, muffled through a doorway that didn't close right.

And gods help you—all you wanted, right now was to be back in your bed in Ithaca.

Blanket pulled up to your chin.

Quiet.

Home.

You clung to the word like it might save you.

But you didn't say it.

Because you weren't an idiot.

You knew how gods handled rejection—how even love, when given boundaries, could become something sharp. You saw it in the way Apollo's light flickered when you didn't answer right away. How his smile trembled at the corners when you didn't say yes.

So you forced a smile.

Soft. Careful. Practiced.

You tilted your chin up just slightly, your voice light and warm, even if your heart hadn't caught up yet.

"I think..." you began, brushing your fingers lightly along his arm, "a decision like that deserves time, don't you?"

His eyes searched yours.

Just for a moment.

And for that flicker of a second—you saw it.

A crack.

He'd wanted you to say yes.

Right then.

Right there.

He'd wanted it so badly it had already begun building a place for you in his mind.

But instead, you were giving him a delay.

A maybe.

And that wasn't the same.

Apollo's smile dimmed.

Only a little.

But enough.

Like the sun behind a cloud.

But before that silence could deepen, you leaned forward—closer, fast—pressing yourself against him lightly, like it had been your idea all along.

Your hand rested over his heart.

"Still," you said, coy, your voice just a breath shy of teasing, "you've brought me all this way. I think it's only fair I get the full tour."

You looked up at him, lashes low.

"Won't you show me more of Olympus, my lord? I want to see the beauty you spoke of..."

His breath hitched.

And then he lit up like dawn breaking.

"Of course," he beamed, hands finding your waist with featherlight care. "Of course, my muse."

You felt his pride bloom through his fingertips—his joy rebalancing, reshaping, now with a new plan. A new moment to share with you. A new way to try again.

He took your hand like it was a crown and turned toward the doors.

"This way," he said brightly, giddy again. "There's a grove that only flowers at dusk. And a place where the clouds reflect your name in gold. You'll love it. They've all been waiting for you..."

And just like that—

He led you out.

The golden doors closed behind you.

And the room full of poems, songs, and dreams you hadn't asked for... was left behind.

A/N: idk y'all i think y'all gonna enjoy the isekai fic lololo my sis and i are having a blast talkin about it--- and yes, godly things!mc will be a love interest in the isekai fic. idk how imma doing it but goddamit imma do it lolol but speaking of being excited etc/i just wanted to be real for a sec—i just wanna say i genuinely appreciate every single piece of fanart i get. even if it takes me like 11 years to respond properly 😭💀 y'all don't understand how much these mean to me. like... I've been getting art since last year and i still get blown away every single time. what really gets me tho??? watching some of y'all GROW?? like the improvement??? the stylistic shifts??? the little details that weren't there before that suddenly are now??? it's like watching my lil babies turn into full-grown gods 😭😭 idk maybe i'm just emotional but it makes me wanna CRY fr. so if you ever sent me something—just know imma cherish it, scream over it, and post it EVERYWHERE. and just know i WILL flex that I got art from y'all BEFORE you blew up. i will point at it in the future like "yeah. that's mine. i was there." 🫡✨ thank you for blessing my silly mythy stories with your talent <3

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️

from iconic-idiot-con

this is actual cinema. CINEMA. the way you nailed their entire dynamic in like 15 seconds flat and I'm sitting here on the floor clutching my chest. the dance between Apollo, Telemachus, Callias, Hermes---ACKKKKKK!!! you didn't even have to finish it but you did 😭💔 thank you sm for bringing this ship to life in such a beautiful and emotional way!!! i'm OBSESSED and don't think i'll ever be able to look at hermes the same way ever again😭🫶

THIS IS SO FREAKIN CUTE I CAN'T. the warm colors?? the little smile?? the soft "i definitely stole something but it was for a good reason" energy??? i love him. i love him so bad. this captures Callias' golden retriever menace energy perfectly. like yes he's charming, yes he's sweet, but also yes he's probably about to gaslight someone over a stolen peach 💀🍑 thank you sm for this!!! i'm saving this to show the jury when they ask why i let him get away with everything 😭🫶

OH THIS IS CHAOS. THIS IS PEAK GODLY THINGS ENERGY. 😭😭💀 you snapped so hard with this omg. Hermes out here grinning like a fox in a henhouse—"Missed me?" YES UNFORTUNATELY, and also how dare you 😭 and Poseidon with that smug "you boys talk so much about her, so yk..." like sir WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT 😭THAT'S NOT A VALID EXCUSE TO KISS SOMEONE WITHOUT CONSENT 💀💀💀 AND THE PANEL WITH APOLLO LOSING HIS MIND??? YOU KISSED HER??!! I'M CACKLING. I'M ACTUALLY IN THE DIRT. this whole image is just Olympus running on pure jealousy and audacity energy 💅✨it's givine 'divine whispers' 2.0 thank you for this absolute drama buffet 💋💋

from masermess

NOOO BECAUSE I'M SCREAMING ACTUAL MYTHIC TEARS 😭😭🪽✨WHAT is in your brushstrokes. divinity??? fate??? this is so stylized, so bold, so radiant, I can't stop staring. the curls??? the SPIRALS?? the eye bags??? the body language?? the way MC looks like a sun-kissed oracle and also someone who just survived a prophecy and a public scandal??? PERFECTION. AND THE LADY + WOLF PIECE??? literal divine iconography. it looks like it belongs carved into an ancient temple wall. the colors, the shapes, the cosmic orbit energy of it all??? i’m shaking. also baby telemacheeky in the corner??? yeah. yeah. you win. thank you so much for these masterpieces—i'm honored to have this version of MC in the Godly Things hall of fame now 🫶🔥

from nemesis

First of all—Andreia in the notebook sketch?? MOTHER. the curls?? the eye bags?? the "yes it's she hi lol" scribbled like a divine threat??? ICONIC. also not her roasting a lil doodle saying "i'm not built like a 1x1 lego" 😭😭 she's got main character rage and side character one-liners and I love that for her.

AND THE "SUN WEPT FIRST" MC PIECE??? STOP. STOP. IT’S TOO GOOD. the flower symbolism?? the palette??? the shattered sunlight in the background like fate broke before she did??? ughhh I want this on a book cover, a tapestry, and tattooed on my soul immediately. thank you SO much for blessing me with this tragic beauty + feral notebook scribble combo. you’ve truly captured the duality 💀💐

from fvckcare 

Okay but LISTEN TO ME—because even unfinished?? This is masterpiece behavior. Peak drama. Peak tension. PEAK "why does this feel sacred and forbidden at the same time." 👏you don't even understand how much I felt this. the fact that it's the first you've tried greyscale with?? the light balance?? the composition?? tthe shell throne as a visual nod to Aphrodite and divine love but twisting it just enough with Apollo and reader literally turning their backs to the light?? PLEASE. that's poetry. that's visual storytelling. that's ✨insight into corruption cloaked in beauty✨. also reader's pose?? so regal and defiant. Apollo looking like he's two seconds away from saying "oh, you'll understand in time" as he tightens the metaphorical leash?? The matching sun chokers?? The chains as jewelry??? My Gods. i'm so sorry Krita couldn't handle the weight of your vision because clearly it was TOO POWERFUL. But even as-is, this piece is breathtaking. You nailed the tone of that arc before it was even published. I'm legit in awe. Thank you sm for sharing this, it's an absolute treasure. 💛💛💛

this??? this is art. like not fanart. not a doodle. not just "a comic." this is storytelling at its most aching. 😭🖤you titled it "fig" and then proceeded to hit me with every metaphor for tenderness, longing, loss, childhood, and fate in three pages. THREE. and it worked. the pacing??? the little hand panels??? the quiet repetition of fig... like a memory trying not to slip away??? I'm so serious I need this framed in a museum next to a bowl of overripe fruit and a greek vase shattered in two. telemachus' face at the end?? those eyes??? the hands gripping the stone??? I've never seen grief drawn so quietly and still have it scream. I'm in pieces. thank you so, so much for this—i don't think i'll ever recover 😩

from ally (i shortened your name sry 😭😭 i wasn't sure what username you wanted to use/didn't see one)

No because how do I even begin—THESE??! These are so charming I could scream. The lil sleepy soft smile on Apollo?? The SUNS in the jewelry?? The gentle peaceful vibe??? I'm OBSESSED. And Hermes??? Oh he's definitely up to no good with that smirk. The floofy winged hat??? The cape drape??? Literally looks like he just teleported in after eavesdropping a conversation and is so proud of himself 😭 I love your style so much—it's so distinct and full of personality?? They genuinely look like they stepped off an ancient/comic papyrus scroll and started gossiping. And I LOVE IT. Thank you for taking the time to sketch them out omg 😭💛💛

from simp_0207

No because when I tell you I cackled—this is unholy. you read the assignment and said "I'm making this cursed AND gorgeous." the old pin-up girl ref?? the "Hermes probably" caption hovering in judgment?? the "A+ 10/10 would bang" rating in the corner like it's Rotten Tomatoes for hotness??? I'm losing it. and don’t get me started on MC. she looks like she KNOWS she just broke three hearts and is pretending it's an accident. that sun necklace?? the subtle body markings?? the "I'm just lounging here being divine and mildly disappointed" face??? Peak behavior. blessec thee for giving us thirst trap MC in all her mythical glory. 😌✨🔥

OH MY GODS. I'M— YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW HARD I JUST GASPED. Because HELLO??? MC's mom looks EXACTLY how I pictured her in the chapter—I'm talking regal, elegant, beautiful in that quietly devastating way. The kind of beauty that doesn't ask for attention but commands it. She looks like she'd speak in soft tones but you’d still flinch. That face says "I have survived things that would end you." SHE IS PERFECT. The gold accents?? The soft expression while holding MC like she's precious but dangerous??? I'm losing it. Deadass straight from my brain to your canvas. And baby MC?? Those eyes. The gaze. The world-weary baby face that says "You're below me, peasants." I'm obsessed. NOW LET'S TALK ABOUT THE DAD 😭😭😭 Because I genuinely SCREAMED. Why does he look like he got lost on the way to a YouTube reaction thumbnail and just decided to stay??? "That's my wife gang" with the wild facial proportions and suspiciously European coloring—like PLEASE. I know in canon he's just Some Guy™️, but this?? This is so deeply unserious I couldn't stop laughing. You drew the mother like she commands nations, and then dropped this walking sketch comedy filter next to her like "yes, this is the man she chose." Iconic. Historic. MC is fighting for her life between these bloodlines.

 you really hit me with the before and after of MC's death and resurrection arc and I am... not okay actually. the contrast??? The way it's the same face, same green eyes—but one is hope and softness and quiet promise, and the other is smeared with blood and so, so tired, still looking up like "I'm gonna survive this too." And the quote—"A chemical reaction... One day, I am gonna grow wings"—no you don't understand I'm actually sobbing. it's poetic. It's cinematic. It feels like looking at your own ghost and telling her "get up, girl, the story isn't done yet." you continue to emotionally body me and I love you for it. it's haunting and healing all at once 🥹🪽

you really said "lemme casually change the course of history" and dropped THIS. 176 layers. 3+ hours. the dedication. the suffering. the Naiadussy that got poured into this. I’m actually in awe. also? I'm not even gonna lie, I am so unbelievably obsessed with how you draw MC. I don't know if it's bias or divine revelation, but the hair?? the nervous expression?? the softness?? it's giving "sacred lamb sacrificed to the whims of bored immortals." it's giving "why are my shoulders bare and why is that nymph holding a towel like it's a weapon." It's giving Canon™. and the NYMPHS. each one of them has a whole backstory. like I know for a fact some of them commit tax fraud on the weekends and Apollo just lets it slide. they've got VIBES. they've got PRESENCE. one of them is holding an entire sandwich—I MEAN TOWEL (I was hungry okay)—and I feel like she's about to judge me into another plane of existence. anyway. I'm unwell. this is getting printed and laminated and posted in every divine hallway of this fic's Olympus. thank you again @simp_0207—you made my whole month 🥹💖

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[7sevenled]

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[numberoneredriotfan]

Tw: Mentions of child abuse and sa

Mitsuki Bakugou is such an interesting character to me... I know everyone is always quick to either defend or accuse her (of abuse), but honestly, I don't think her treatment of Bakugou is a black and white topic.

First point, I know the show frames Bakugou's violent nature as something that's been apart of him since he was a kid. Like, he was just born like that of course!

It is somewhat pictured this way in team up missions. But let's be honest, children grow up following their parents as an example. I don't like the whole excuse that the only reason Mitsuki is violent towards Bakugou bc Bakugou is violent towards her. Why is he violent towards her?? It's completely plausible that Mitsuki was violent and aggressive even before Bakugou was born, and Bakugou somewhat led by her example. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, you know?

This scene in particular is interesting. People who defend Mitsuki are often quick to say that, well, he was yelling at her, so of course she hit him!

First off... your child lashing at you should not be an excuse to hit them. Bakugou was just yelling here, he didn't make any violent threat or action towards he. And, it's also good to note that before this, she had hit Bakugou for literally no reason...

Like... we can see here that Bakugou was just sitting there quietly. He even looks a little dejected (understandable considering what he had just gone through). This slap was completely unprovoked??? Of course, this is played off for laughs, but it really gives you an insight on their dynamic. And just after Mitsuki hit him, Bakugou even exclaimed "that hurt!" (In the english dub) ....prompting her to hit him again, as I showed above. This is obviously concerning. And yes, you can argue that dealing with Bakugou's violent and aggressive nature simply wore her out to this point, but again, where do we draw the line with using physical violence against your child?? Does being bratty excuse it?? Does having good intentions excuse it?? What excuses it?? It becomes really hard to justify it when you ask yourself those questions.

Bakugou also makes these comments when they're trying to win over the Masegaki kids... confirming that Mitsuki used violence towards him even as a young child.

Furthermore, Mitsuki isn't painted in the best light even outside of Bakugou... some people may disagree, but Masaru and Mitsuki don't seem to have a healthy marriage. At all. In fact, it seems to be almost abusive to an extent.

This seems to be the normal dynamic in the Bakugou household. Which um. Isn't healthy in the slightest. It's ALSO implied that Mitsuki forced herself on him...

"So you couldn't refuse her." Hello?

I will address that Masaru is blushing in that panel, so it could be seen that Masaru was reciprocating with Mitsuki's "flirtations" but still, "pounced" is an interesting choice of words. This is also played off for comedy because we all know how well shounen treats male sa victims.

She also goes as far to say-

Mitsuki is blatantly victim blaming here. Even if she wasn't being serious, or putting on a front for the teachers, this is a horrible things to say to your son who just went through something traumatizing. It's often ignored because of his brash nature, that Bakugou is still a kid. He was only fifeteen or sixteen at the time he was kidnapped. He has to live with the burden of feeling like he was the reason for his idol's fall. That is a LOT of turmoil for a kid to go through. Imagine you're in the midst of dealing with all that, and your mom insinuates that it's YOUR fault. That's awful. Even if Mitsuki was putting on a front, how was Bakugou supposed to know that??

So, it's pretty obvious that the way Mitsuki treats Bakugou is abuse. But, does mean that Mitsuki doesn't care about Bakugou?? No. Of course not. She loves her son, and it's clear she does. To us, at least.

We see her affectionately looking at her son's photo album.

She admits that she was worried about him while loving ruffling his hair.

She absentmindedly thinks about how he isn't a fan of rain when he's away.

Mitsuki loves Bakugou. There's no doubt about that. But unfortunately, kids will only ever see how their parents present themselves towards them. We can see that Bakugou was present when Mitsuki admitted that she was worried about him, but that was still after she had hit him and victim blamed him. And Bakugou in that panel... almost looked used to it. Used to receiving hits and used to having her do a motherly gesture every now and then, giving him mixed signals. That must be a very stressful way to grow up.

Yes, we can blame Bakugou's quirk, how everyone hyped him up for his current behavior... but if we dig a bit deeper, are those really the only reasons he was so violent towards others?? Or is it possible that he was subconsciously mimicking his mother's behavior?? This does NOT excuse Bakugou's behavior, but it does help put things into perspective.

I think that while Mitsuki loves her son, Bakugou will always have conflicting feelings towards her, and that may end up with their relationship being strained as he reaches adulthood.

Honestly, it's concerning how when dealing with the Todoroki family, Horikoshi portrayed Endeavor's abuse in a serious light, showing how it impacted Todoroki and the family. But Mitsuki, her abuse towards her son is consistently plays off for laughs. As a gag of sorts. That's the common pattern when we see Mitsuki act that way towards Bakugou, it's always framed in a comedic light. Why is that when it's a conventionally attractive woman doing the abuse it's funny?

I have thoughts on Masaru too, but that's a whole other post... so for now, I'll say that Masaru is also complicit in Mitsuki's treatment towards Bakugou, but also a victim of his wife.

You are feel free to have a different take on Mitsuki, but this is how I read her character.

[reality-detective]

Some of you may not realize this 👇

I've been on a 5 year hiatus where I've been staying low key and biding my time, waiting for certain developments that I knew were coming.

My posting on social media has been limited compared to what it used to be, and I don't write as much on my Substack, or do as many videos, and some of you have commented on this.

I've been preparing for a whirlwind of activity related to the 'relaunch' of SpyGate.

We're almost there.

There's still a few more things that have to happen before I fully burst out of this shell and shift back into third gear.

For now, all I'll say is this: 👇

There are gonna be revelations in the SpyGate declass that are going to knock people's socks off.

Nobody knows better than me the airtight op sec that was in place when it came to the SpyGate investigations, those that went public and those that didn't.

Durham actually started his SpyGate-related investigations by April of 2017. That did not leak for over 2 1/2 years.

Chuck Dolan's name did not leak in DC for almost 5 years, until Durham was good and damn ready to reveal that this key Clinton family strategist was a source for several of the Steele Dossier's fake allegations.

A federal grand jury being led by... SOMEBODY...was all up in the electronic comms of over 70 key persons inside and around our US Congress from late 2017 thru the early Spring of 2021. The people spied on by this grand jury included Adam Schiff, who was the chair of the House Select Panel on Intelligence at the time, and a member of the Gang of Eight. This op sec was so good, even SCHIFF had no idea he was being surveilled for more than 3 years.

None of this is controversial. All of this is public record. The people handling this... DO. NOT. LEAK.

But now that Trump has ordered the declassification, because the time has arrived and the house has been cleaned, and the right people are in the right jobs...

Stuff that didn't leak for years will now come to light.

It will only come out now that Trump has declassified it.

You will see social media influencers on here screaming the Heavens that 'the public had a right to know!', all pissed off that none of this stuff leaked out in over 8 years.

Too bad, so sad.

It was done RIGHT.

It was done according to the LAW.

It was done so that it will STICK and STICK GOOD.

It was done so that there will be NO escape or any clever lawyering that allows any of these traitors to escape.

Emotions do not come into play here at this level of this deadly game in The Silent War.

Emotions blind you, impatience robs you, and being stuck in a mental loop handed to you by people who frame events the wrong way for you leads you astray.

STAND READY... It's not gonna be much longer now.

They branded me a traitor. History will call me a hero. Stay in the know: 🤔

- Edward Snowden

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Snowed in

Adar x reader

A meeting with Adar took a quite pleasant turn thanks to bad weather.

Winter was in full swing. Most of Middle Earth's lands already covered in a thick layer of snow.

Mordor was next on the list, the reports of a storm closing in quickly spreading from one uruk town to the other. Some had found their settlements already with a light dusting of powdered snow overnight.

Your new home, once Tirharad and now the main uruk settlement where Adar resided, expected a storm soon.

Everyone was expected to either stay in their homes or at their workplace as to not get caught in the freezing snowfall.

And yet here you sat, patiently waiting for Adar to finish up his task before he'd discuss your needed things as advisor of all things mortal.

"Lord Father, Adar.." You stepped up beside him at the table. "You have been at this for days now, at least let me try to assist to we can discuss our planned items."

You wanted nothing more than to put your hands on his shoulders and squeeze. Undo some of the tension built up over days of not leaving his desk to work through winter plans. But you knew better than to touch him without permission, and you were not in the mood to lose a hand over something as small as this.

"Winter will be harsh. Wirh our current ways we will not have enough food to make it to spring." Adar's head hung low, hands in his hair as he let out a frustrated growl. He was the leader here, their Lord Father who had saved them and now couldn't even manage to get them through one winter after finally settling down..

"Adar, if I may.." With a slight tremble you reached for the papers that weren's stuck under his elbows and looked them over. The amount of details that were thought of, calculated and are being actively monitored were some of the most well done you had ever seen.

"Wait, what if we.." You dlid one of the papers back under Adar's nose, getting his attention once more and started laying down ideas. With each one you could see Adar's ears perk up, no longer drooping in a tired manner.

The ancient uruk was impressed, seeing a positive in this mess now. "So, I take you would have men take care of this? As it is their field of expertise. My uruk know nothing of this, so I also hope you will find someone who is willing to teach them."

Scribbling along, you both crossed issue after issue off the list, solving multiple at once with something as simple as what you suggested. You got so into the task it just kept going and going until a harsh gust of wind broke the door lock, making it slam against brick and have you both rush to close and secure it.

Adar watched you shiver and sulk. It looked like you stared at the storm outside through the wood paneling of the door.

With the door secured, Adar led you to the fireplace. It only downed on him now that mortals handled cold way worse than the uruk, and when your shivering wouldn't stop he offered you a large fur blanket.

Adar gave you time to get back to temperature, but quickly noticed you were too tired to continue your previous task.

All the while, you sat with your gaze on the fire. Your mind racing at how physically close you had been just now with your body between him and the door as he held it closed while you secured the lock. Oh you wanted to endlessly daydream about ways that could have escalated if you just weren't such a coward and confessed how you felt for your leader.

Adar had put your combined works aside for now and stared from a distance. Your tired frame, hunched over near the fire was a view he enjoyed. You fit well in his home, and once more he felt like a part of his mind cleared. He always saw mortals as lower creatures. Perhaps it was a remnant of his elven days that never left as he compared them now to the strength and endurance his uruk had.

But the mortals had smarts, techniques and ways of survival he had never in his long lifetime needed. And somehow he had never filed you together with the others. Not with how you presented yourself and willed to help both halves of this community Adar had built.

No, Adar saw you higher than the mortals, and now started to see a positive in having you as his equal.

There, in the safety of Adar's home, two minds raced. Silence took over the place, only the crackle of the fireplace sounding in the corner.

A contrast lay in the room.

On one end, close to the door and far into the shadow where small tabletop candles had burned out. Where the cold creeped through the cracks in the doorframe stood Adar, who's mind fought wether the human would even care for the ancient monstrosity rhat had captured her and forced her to live in his wretched lands.

Words of his children floated by. Words of his affection towards the mortal advisor. He had always dismissed them, for he knew he respected her for her openness towards the uruk, and her clear vision of how the two kinds would live alongside. But his uruk felt it was affection. Some even dared to call it love and it had Adar almost act on their teasing multiple times, but always shut it down just in time for her not to notice.

And on the other, covered in firelight and warmth sat you. Head unable to stop screaming to pull him towards you into the comfort of the blankets you sat on.

Voices of the many female uruk you spend time with spoke all at once. The eldest ones who joked about your longing stares. And the ones who you assumed shared your age, who made every suggestion under the hidden sun to get his attention. To go talk to him and charm him. To wear that pretty dress and seduce him. Surely Adar would be excited to lay with a pretty lady in a pretty dress, as they said.

But why would a being with such skill and life experience, with such knowledge and power be interested in a mere mortal? It was your last thought before your body gave in to sleep.

Adar didn't need sleep as much as you did, so he sat and watched you, read once again over your scribbled notes until he heard something.

You were shivering. The fire had gone down to smoldering coals and he had barely noticed the change in temperature. Yet you suffered in the cold.

With a new plan in mind Adar moved to the bedtoom, where he rid himself of his armor and left him in just his trousers and undershirt. Bare feet padded along the wooden floorboards on his way to pick you up. His bed was warmer, and if he took the furs you had already laid on and warmed with yoir body heat he could make sure you stayed warm.

You hadn't stirred awake during his process which eased his mind, but still you would not stop regain warmth. He had stayed inthe room with you, watching to calm his own mind that cursed at him for failing you so badly.

He thought of his children. Hoe would they respond if they knew their Lord Father was failing at the simple task of keeping the mortal from freezing.

His children.

The youngest ones who'd all pile up together and huddle up for warmth, sharing body heat.

Lords, he was an idiot.

What? No. There was no way you'd be okay with it. You'd wake up and demand to leave, unable to be that close to a foul creature like himself.

He had to. He knew it would work, so pushing every burning curse from his mind he removed his shirt, laid it over the furs you slept underneath and used all he had left of his elven self to be as light on his feet as he could, crawling into bed with you.

You stirred. You woke up and Adar mentally tore himself to shreds for ruining your sleep.

"Adar?" You didn't dare to turn and look, and a confirmed hum made it so you didn't need to.

"You were cold. I hoped to keep you warm." In his anger he disconnected himself from you and earned a sad almost whine, feeling you press your back against his chest once more and grabbing to find his arm and pull it against you.

Adar's arm. The one you had never seen uncovered, always hidden underneath long sleeves and that large gauntlet.

"Thank you." A quiet mumble was all you managed, Adar's warmth already affecting you. Not that he had heard you. Not with his full focus on your fingers tracing his twisted, scarred arm with the most gentle touch he had ever felt.

So there it was. The one action that disspelled his demons shouting he would never be loved by another. You cared for him like he cared for you.

With a soft, shaky breath he pressed his lips against the back of your head. "Sleep well." He uttered against your scalp, pulling you tighter against him and nuzzling into you.

It was overwhelming, how you were being handled so gently and with such love. So your differences never truly mattered after all.

You both slept better than ever. So much that you slept long past the storm outside, much yo the worry of Adar's children.

Glûg was the one tasked with checking on him whenever he did not show up and dared not to wake you both.

Once the two of you had gotten ready to leave the house, the whole town was in celebration of their Lord Father finally having taken home the fair mortal lady.

And the women happily informed you of uruk breeding habits, leaving you red-faced and fleeing the scene.

[toms-cherry-trees]

"Look After You" || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Time and distance cannot break certain promises

Word count: 4.2k

Tags: Mentions of war, mental asylums, unjust imprisonment, mentions of controversial mental health treatments, cross dressing (?), implications of violence against women, illness, no betareading we go in raw

Author's note: You might have seen this post where I mention the life of Dorothy Lawrence. Well this is very loosely based on her life mixed with Tommy's story. Left it very open to a part 2 if people like the premise.

(Yes my people watch me put together moodboards instead of choosing gifs)

Requested tag (hope not to disappoint) @brummiereader @emotionalcadaver

The asylum stood tall and imponent before Tommy’s gaze, its towering central dome and flanking turrets framed by the bright sun rays of a cheerful spring afternoon. The radiant gardens contrasted dramatically with the derelict state of the building itself; rusty and broken drainpipes hanging from the roof, rotten wood frames and shattered window panes, missing chunks of brick on the walls, revealing the inner framing and plaster. Nothing about that place inspired trust to those who crossed its threshold, let alone hopes of betterment. The lamentable exterior stood like the perfect match of the decadence within.  

The smell of rot assaulted him the second he entered. The paint had started to peel off, and moisture stains crawled across walls and ceiling. Most windows in the main hall were shuttered, and the incandescent light bulbs did little to cut through the darkness, casting a sickly shadow over the room. The orderly that welcomed him in the entrance had an embittered face, and he questioned Tommy on his name, whom he was visiting and his reasons to. He patted him down and overturned his pockets, making him leave behind anything that could be used to harm or be harmed. Cap, cigar case, lighter, sleeve garters and shoelaces stayed behind while another orderly led him through long hallways and endless locked doors towards the morning hall where he’d meet the purpose of his visit.

Finally, they stopped before a wide set of oaken double doors with panels of rubbed glass, which allowed him a faint peek of what happened on the other side. The orderly barely opened the door enough to enter himself and told Tommy to wait outside, as if he feared something may escape from within given the chance. After a few minutes he returned, leaving the gap open for Tommy to pass through.

 “Sister Janice will take you to her. Don’t look at other patients. Don’t talk to other patients. If they come to you, ignore them. Don’t take anything they give you”

Perplexed, curious and mostly annoyed by all the delays, Tommy ducked under the orderly’s arm while he held the door open. As soon as he stepped inside the orderly let go, and the door closed behind him with a heavy click.

The sudden brightness hurt his eyes after the unceasing darkness, and Tommy had to squint briefly as his pupils grew accustomed to his surroundings. An ample hall stretched before him, arch windows spanning from floor to ceiling lining the west and north walls. Moth eaten draperies of blue velvet had been drawn back to allow sunlight in, in hopes of insufflating some life into the gelid heart of the asylum.

The room had surely once been a magnificent ballroom, but had now been reduced to the sad, dirty, abandoned alcove where the non-aggressive patients spent most of their waking hours, some engaged in the very few activities offered to them, others dragging their feet and mumbling to themselves like lost souls, their gazes absent and their appearance unkempt. Not one person appeared to have a coherent thought there, and Tommy wondered if it was due to their own ailments, or due to the medicines the nurses forced down their throats to keep them tame and peaceful, albeit stupid. 

As Tommy walked past, he couldn't help but notice the way his presence drew attention from them. The patients stopped in their tracks to stare at him as if he were the most marvellous wonder they had ever seen. They pointed at him, uttering incoherences and laughing at jokes no one else heard. Some tried to get close but were forced back with a sharp gesture by the nun accompanying him, whom only now Tommy noticed, carried a mean looking leather strap, hanging side by side with a rosary from her cord belt.

At long last, she came into view. Slouched on a rocking chair facing the windows, a ragged purple cardigan thrown over a white, floor length dress, resembling more a nightgown than any sort of decent clothing. A white linen cap covered her hair, and Tommy noticed that the ties had been removed, as had been from the rest of her garments. She looked thinner, thinner even than she did in France. She gave no indication that she had noticed their presence, her dulled eyes fixated on the gardens outside.

 “I have it from here, sister” Tommy dismissed the nun with a wave of his hand, dragging a nearby stool to sit next to the woman.

 “I’m sorry Mr. Shelby, but I cannot allow you to be unsupervised with a patient. She seems tame now, but who knows what atrocities a woman of sin like her might commit”

Tommy wanted to snort. She barely looked strong enough to hold herself in the chair, how could she harm anyone?

“She won’t attack me sister” Tommy insisted “Now step back, and I will make sure the asylum is handsomely rewarded for your troubles.”

The nun opened her mouth, ready to argue, but then chose against it. The asylum could do with some extra coin, after all. She straightened up and smoothed her habit, perhaps a way to reinstate her authority that Tommy had so brazenly challenged. 

“You have half an hour” She stated at last before walking away towards a group of patients who were seemingly arguing over a doll.

Tommy’s gaze returned to the woman in front of him, who continued to be absent from the world around her, and who gave no sign of life other than the steady rising and falling of her shoulders with each breath. Thomas allowed the pause to linger between them a few seconds longer, but he didn’t want to waste his allotted time. He wouldn’t put it past these people to drag him out like that; the laws of men did not apply in these sorts of places.

He called her name softly, in a nearly soothing whisper. Once, twice, thrice, yet it did not do to her more than the drafts howling through the broken panes or the maniac laughs of the patients around them. He didn’t want to touch her and risk startling her, but he didn’t want to spend his visit staring at her left cheek. He took his last chance, using this time a different name, a name he had not pronounced since 1915.

“Private Anders”

The name stirred something in her mind. Her back straightened a bit and her features quivered in recognition. Slowly, stiffly, she turned towards Tommy, her eyebrows first furrowing in confusion then rising in surprise.

“Sergeant Major?” Her shock could not be disguised, and she readied to rise and salute, but Tommy motioned for her to remain seated.

“At ease, private” 

~

Tommy recalled perfectly the first day he saw her. They were stationed near Albert, digging up a new front line as they tried to gain terrain from the Germans. The troops from the British Expeditionary Force and the 179th tunnelling company consisted mostly of coal miners, all turned sappers whose task was to ready up the land for battle. The clay rich soil basically melted between their fingers when it rained, making the digging of trenches and shelters a never-ending battle. The dampness crept up their legs and seeped into their bones, and Tommy had seen one too many soldiers whose feet rotted inside their boots. Even the strongest men, used to work from sun to sun in the depths of the coal mines breathing dust and methane, would sometimes succumb to the elements. 

Tommy worked paired with Tom Dunn, a man as thick of back as he was of skull. He could easily lift an adult man and throw him across the field like a sack of potatoes, and legend has it he pulled the coal carts in the mine when the horses couldn’t. If left to it, he could probably dig out the trench with only his hands and his helmet.

He had been the one to introduce Tommy to her. Dunn had hidden that little lunatic in an abandoned cottage, not too far from where the troops were stationed. Somehow, she had obtained a uniform, which she had padded with cotton wool to flatten her curves and broaden her shoulders. Her hair had been cut in a military style, scrapes on her cheeks simulated a shaving rash, and potassium permanganate attempted to sharpen her jaw and cheekbones with dark shadows. 

She slept in a damp mattress, with little more than a threadbare blanket to keep her warm; she had no means of acquiring something better, nor could she light a fire in the dusty hearth for fear of being discovered. Dunn had been feeding her with whatever he could spare from his own rations or snatch from others, which meant she had been eating the minimum for survival, since the woods offered nothing but naked branches at that time of year. 

Tommy had been left thunderstruck, far too much to react properly. A million questions came to his lips, and a million died there as his mind couldn’t exactly put into words what he wanted to know. His gaze flickered between them both, who looked at him pleadingly like a couple of children asking their parents to stay up late. His first instinct was to call up their superior and hand her over to them, for her own safety, but then he thought about it better. The things that could happen to her if he handed her over to the war office…and that’s it, if they handed her over in the first place, or chose to make justice themselves.

No, for the sake of her safety and his conscience, he would play along with them for now.

“What is your name?” He inquired, a simple question to cut through the gelid silence that had befallen them.

For an answer, she handed Tommy papers and a matching dog tag. Forgeries, most likely, and very good ones, which meant she spent money on those. Paying from her own pocket to go to war

They held each other's gaze for endless seconds. At long last, Tommy offered a handshake.

“Welcome to the 179th tunnelling company, Private John Anders. I’ll look after you” 

~ 

Tommy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the meeting. The person who sat before him, hunched and dirty and completely lost to the world, bore no resemblance to the fiery, and perhaps a little unhinged, woman that had gone through every length to infiltrate herself in the front line. Years of memory seemed to have been erased from her mind, but she recalled vividly everything she went through in her time in France. She did not know the day and year she lived in but could easily recite the names of every man she met from the 179th, as well as every technique they implemented to dig out the clay.

Tommy was sure that, if he were to put a shovel in her hands, she would unconsciously start digging. 

He had partly placated his worries by placing a nurse in the asylum, one handpicked by Polly and paid out of his own pocket, to look after her. But that solution felt like not enough. Not by a mile. What that place did to her, what they were turning her into…Killing her bit by bit, stripping away her sanity to erase from her any memory she held of those weeks in the front. He still recalled the tunnel collapse, when the rain-soaked clay began to crumble over them like cold tar, obscuring their vision and sticking their feet to the ground. How the men dragged out each other, coated from head to toe in the reddish paste. She had tripped, her foot had gotten stuck, he couldn’t tell anymore. All he knew was that she had been left behind, and he had re-entered the tunnel for her. Feeling his way through the darkness, keeping an eye on the entrance, calling her name out; her fake name, for even in the face of danger he had the mental fortitude to remember the importance of her cover up. How she dropped her own facade, her fearful voice calling him as she stretched her arm towards him.

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy

“Tommy!” Billowed an angered female voice, dragging his thoughts back to the present time. 

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, attempting to dissipate the fogs of the past that laid over them. Because he was not in the tunnels, nor in the Western front. He was sitting in his office, behind his desk, nursing a whiskey in his hands and with Polly sitting across him, equally angered and perplexed at her nephew’s inattention.

“You know I don’t appreciate my words being wasted”. It sounded like a threat, but half of the things Polly said usually did “If you had no interest in this briefing, you could have rescheduled our meeting”.

“You hate your time being wasted” Tommy pointed out.

“Which is exactly what you’re doing now” She remarked.

Silence lingered in the office while Polly lit a new cigarette and Tommy downed his drink, which had already begun to warm in his hands. He stood to pour another, which he finished almost immediately.

“So” Polly began, exhaling the smoke in an elegant blow “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?” As usual, Polly could see through him as easily as one would do through a clean glass. It unnerved him sometimes, to be laid open so vulnerably under her watchful gaze.

“It’s nothing” Tommy sat before the fire; hands laced behind his head in an attempt to seem relaxed.

“There’s been many things on your mind, Tommy, and nothing has never been one of them”. Polly’s slender fingers ran across the glass bottles on the bar cart before settling on gin, pouring herself a more than generous serving.

“You’re thinking of her”.

Tommy immediately thought of denying it, but what was the point? When Polly knew, no one could tell her otherwise. And as much as he hated others meddling in his business, the words came tumbling before he could hold them back.

“I’m just worried. She’s not the same she used to be. I don’t know what they do to her in that place, but she’s changed. Those medicines they give her, and who knows what else they’ve done. You know the treatments” He shook his head, as if to dismiss everything he said “Just worried” 

“It’s been many years since you last saw her. Everyone changed after the war. God knows you did”.

“This is not the same. They’re killing her there” Tommy stared up at the ceiling, as if hoping to find a solution to his problems in the plaster. Polly only watched him, pondering over her next words carefully. She only hoped she would not regret whatever her nephew chose to do next.

“If her wellbeing worries you so, you have to do the right thing”

He frowned, turning to look at her with confusion clear in his eyes. Polly sipped the gin, swirling it around her mouth as she gave it a last thought. This was one of the far and few times in which Tommy proved he had a heart, and that softened her as well.

“If you are worried, you act. If they’re killing her in there, you get her out”

~

The sun had finally shone upon the soldiers after nearly a week of bad weather, when rain and fog had turned the living conditions in the trenches into nearly inhumane. The soldiers were happy, for they would no longer shiver until their bones ached, and they would at last be able to put their clothes and themselves to dry. The tunnellers were less than pleased, for the sun had dried the clay into a solid wall, forcing them to exhaust their muscles to dig out chunks the size of their heads while the sweat ran down their temples and backs. Their comrades kept them supplied with water, but it felt like pouring water on a bottomless bucket. 

Tommy worked side by side with her. Him. Her. Her identity still got tied in his mind, and he had to think through every word addressed in her direction for fear of blowing her cover. He watched her out of the corner of the eye as she swung the pickaxe with a strength and determination he never expected to see in a woman. Despite her resilience, Tommy worried about her, and kept a watchful gaze for any sign of exhaustion. She could not afford to be taken ill or injured, for a trip to the medical tent would be enough to unravel all her carefully crafted lies. He had to take care of her.

They both worked in the very end of the trench, and the sounds around them would conceal any hushed conversation. Tommy’s curiosity was stronger than his willpower

“Why?”

She didn’t react at first, and Tommy thought she either didn’t listen to him, or chose to ignore him, both of which were valid. But before he could ask again, she whispered back, keeping her manly tone

“Why what?”

“Why come here? What sane person would come here, on her own free will, to be forced into coldness and starvation? Risk your life, and for what purpose? Couldn’t find good places to dig back in England?”

She snorted, the sound quite lighter than any man’s laugh, so she concealed it by clearing her throat

“I wanted to serve my country, same as you. Is there any sin on that?”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night to sleep?”

She stopped digging for a moment, leaving the pickaxe embedded in the clay. She sat in the upturned bucket they used as stool, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. She couldn’t work shirtless, and their uniforms had been made to shield from the cold only. Tommy offered her water; she drank a sip and poured the rest on her head. He noticed her hair had grown again, and curled behind her ears. He made a mental note to give her a trim after nightfall.

“I just wanted to see what it was like. What it really was. They don’t tell us the truth back home. The newspapers make it sound as if the front is almost peaceful and the men are just laying back eating turkey while the Germans fall a hundred a day. I wanted the truth, and I want to write about it. Make a book of all the lies they fed us home.”

Her reasoning didn’t sit well with him. All that effort, that trouble, that risk, just to figure out if war was as bad as she thought? Mad, mad in the head this one.

“And what does your family think you’re doing away from home?”

She scratched her chin, in the same way Tommy did when he got a shaving rash from his blunt razors. She had picked up male mannerisms quite fast, particularly his own

“Not much family left to care what I do or stop doing. I said I’d come to France to volunteer as a nurse, but they most likely think I came as a camp follower. If they knew what I’m up to, they would have me committed to the closest madhouse”

“The madhouse is where you belong” Tommy replied, albeit jokingly, as he stopped his work to pull out a cigarette from his pocket. But he was interrupted by a ball of clay being tossed at his face with masterful precision, dampened for maximum effect.

“Shut up, Sergeant Major”

 ~

Blue skies and a pleasant breeze welcomed them at the gates of Arrow House. Tommy chose to drive this time, taking the advice from the doctor who would oversee her care, who suggested she be exposed to the least amount of people possible during the first days as she adjusted to life outside. Only Tommy, Frances and the nurse who would be her primary caretaker.

She stared at the world around her with such wonder, like a blind whose sight had been restored. Every tree, every bird, the very landscape that surrounded his manor brought such wonder onto her face, like a child with a Christmas tree. Her happiness almost managed to convince him that this was, in fact, a good idea. 

When Polly told him to get her out, he knew she meant to put her in a home of her own, with a caretaker, and allow her to have a life of her own. And Tommy considered the idea, for a while. To place her in a nice neighbourhood, in a house with a garden and a balcony where she could enjoy the sun, with a nurse and maids and a car. But it didn’t sit right with him. She had been alone ever since they took her. Imprisoned until the war ended, and then released only to be taken to the madhouse at first chance. Not one familiar face around her for nearly a decade. No, Tommy wouldn’t take her out of a cage just to put her back in a smaller, prettier one. She needed someone to protect her. And for better or worse, that one could only be Tommy. 

When the car came to a halt, she was the first one out, gaping at the imponent state which Tommy owned. 

“Is this where you live, Sergeant Major?” The wonder was palpable in her voice. But the only thing Tommy noticed was that after everything she still couldn’t find it in her to call him by his name.

“2000 acres of land, of which 12 are just garden, and 750 acres of farming land”

She cocked an eyebrow, and in the amused twinkle of her eyes Tommy saw a glimpse of the one she used to be.

“Are you a farmer now, sir?” She disguised her laugh behind the handkerchief she insisted on carrying, looking down like a bashful schoolgirl.

Tommy pulled out a cigarette; he felt the corner of his lips pulled into the shadow of a smile, pleased to see her spirits lifted.

“My business is more focused on progress and modernity, but I wouldn’t reject the idea. Perhaps one day it’ll come in hand to have crops and cows”

“That would be the bloody day” She didn’t even try to hide her laughter this time “Our mighty Sergeant Major, dressed in overalls and with mud up to his knees shovelling cow shit”

“I find myself more interested in horse shit these days. Come on, I’ll show you around” 

Tommy gave her a complete tour of the house and adjacent grounds, both to show her everything that would be at her complete disposal, and also as a way to show off how far he had come since they were both in the trenches, hunched over a meagre fire lit inside an empty can and sharing a homemade cigarette made from tobacco leftovers. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her fingers running over tapestries, leathers and carved wood with childlike wonder

He saved her room for last. A wide bedroom at the very back of the house, situated in a corner with plenty of windows. It had a view of the back of the state, so she could enjoy the gardens, the horses and the surrounding woods. In the corner with the most sunlight Tommy had placed a writing desk, supplied with paper, pens, ink and a brand new typewriter. Amidst everything sat a bunch of old and worn pages, all of different sizes and materials, kept together nicely with leather cord. She picked it up gingerly, running her thumb over the first page. Even though the paper was stained and dusty, the words could be read as easily as the first day she wrote them.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she hugged the improvised diary to her chest like it was a most prized possession. And perhaps it was. She turned towards Tommy, a mixture of bewilderment and eternal gratitude plastered on her features

“Where did you get it? I thought they would have had it destroyed when they locked me up”

Tommy only smirked, pulling out a cigarette from the golden case he carried “Remember what I told you? Always make sure someone owes you something”

That gesture, so small yet so meaningful, shifted something inside her. Her eyes brimmed with tears she attempted to fight, but they won in the end. She practically jumped into Tommy’s arms, hugging him with the eagerness of a person who has been denied a caring touch for far too long.

“How will I ever be able to thank you enough, Sergeant Major?”

His free arm circled her frame, returning the gesture

“You can start by calling me Tommy”

~

Worry crept up Tommy’s spine as the higher ups did their rounds to inspect the work on the freshly dug trenches. It had been three days since she last showed up, and he would soon run out of lies to cover up for “Private Anders’” absence. 

As much as she tried to deny it, finally the harsh conditions had caught up to her. Her health had gone down a slippery slope with the arrival of winter. First it had been just a fretless dry cough, easily softened with pine tea. But then came the bone pains, the headaches, the constant fatigue. The dampness of her safe haven had seeped into her bones and caused some sort of rheumatism. Tommy noticed the swelling of her hands as they struggled to grip the pickaxe. Her hair began to fall out in clumps.

The shivers and the fever had finally knocked her off her feet. She had been unable to leave her cottage, which in turn worsened her condition even further. Tommy had tried to bring her something more substantial to eat, but she seemed unable to eat more than a few bites of stale bread dipped in some coffee the Americans had given them. Dry, suffocating coughs racked her body until she had to gasp for air, her teeth and lips speckled with blood.

“This is the end line” She had mumbled weakly during the third night, while Tommy tried to desperately convince her to light a fire to warm and dry the place

“No. You are not going to die. I won’t allow it. I told you I’d take care of you” He stated firmly, sitting on the floor by her side with her hand in his, his other one cupping her feverish cheek. He had been in a similar spot, not too long ago. Watching life fade away from a young woman’s eyes. He refused to let her die, not like that, not there where he would have to dump her body in the river.   

“I am not going to die” She stated with a conviction her current condition didn’t match “But to survive, I have to turn myself in”

The idea of handing her over to the war office filled Tommy with panic

“No, no you cannot do that. Do you have any idea what they could do to you? Your best prospect would be to be thrown in jail, to be given 10 years for impersonating a soldier. And that’s if the higher ups are feeling compassionate” He shuddered at thinking what those wolves would do to her “Listen, I get leave tomorrow night. I’ll go to the nearest town, get some medicine, maybe I can pawn some things and get you a new blanket. You-”

“No” With great effort, she propped herself up in one elbow. Tommy couldn’t help but notice the strands of hair left in the pillow “I’ve implicated you long enough. The excuses and lies you have made for me are enough to have you dishonourably discharged and tried. You have done everything you could for me, and for that I am  forever indebted to you, Sergeant Major. This next chapter in my life, I have to write it alone”

She sounded dejected and disappointed, as if she had failed some unwritten expectation of her adventure. But Tommy thought quite the opposite. He only felt admiration for the things she had put herself through in order to tell her story. He still thought she was mad in the head, but in a completely different way

“Will you mention my name when you write your book?” He asked jokingly, helping her lay back down slowly, pulling the ragged blanket up to her chin

“Only if you want to be jailed next to me for helping an intruder” She laughed, but the sound was cut short by another fit of coughing “I’ll dedicate it to you, Sergeant Major. Everything I write and do will be because of you”

~

Tommy awoke with a startle. His eyes were wide open, darting around the room as he tried to locate the source of the disturbance. Everything seemed to be calm in his room. And then it happened again. A dry thud in the wall, followed by a muffled scream.

In a heartbeat he was out of bed, gun in hand. He followed the noises, which seemed to grow louder the closer he got to her bedroom. The door was ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to project in the floor, in which Tommy could see two shadows moving.

He stormed inside, gun ready to fire. But he didn’t find an intruder, no. Just her, on her knees, banging her fists against the wall as she screamed. Her nurse stood by her side, amidst a disaster of clothes and books and other objects, unsuccessfully trying to coax her back to bed

“Miss, please. The hour is quite late. You need sleep”

“No, no. The walls are coming down. We have to get out, the roof’s collapsing!” She yelled desperately, clawing at the wall trying to dig herself out of some dark place that only existed in her head. He saw her nails tear the wallpaper with ferocity. And then he noticed the nurse unlocking a cabinet and pulling out a syringe

“No” He said almost immediately as he put a firm hand on the nurse’s arm “Go to bed. I have this”

“But Mr. Shelby!”

“I said go. Leave me with her”

The nurse doubted, holding his gaze, but chose to exit the room, closing the door behind her.

Tommy walked towards her slowly, afraid he would startle her. He gingerly touched her arm, but his presence went as unnoticed as a speck of dust. He called out her name, again and again, without success. The mud had seeped deep in her brain, as it had done his, and blocked her senses from the outside world. In order to get through, Tommy had to get into the mud with her

He stood tall, in martial position, hands behind his back

“Private Anders!”

Quick like a lightning bolt, she stood up and saluted in a firm position. Tears streaked her face and her entire body quivered like an autumn leaf

“Sergeant Major sir!”

“At ease, private. You are relieved of your duties. Time to go back home”

Like the lifting of a spell, her eyes glossed over as she blinked slowly, looking around her from the bed, to the things she had thrown around in haste, and finally towards Tommy. Her lower lip quivered

“What is happening to me?”

Her knees faltered. Tommy lunged forward before she could hit herself, coming down to the floor with her held in his arms. She burrowed herself in his chest, her fingers clinging to his shirt as she wept, her body racked by sobs. Tommy shushed her quietly, his fingers carding through her hair

“Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you”

[sirfrogsworth]

Mr. Frog, I have a thought experiment I thought you might enjoy chewing on?

My friend has a copy of Speed on VHS, a VCR, and a CRT tube TV. I challenged him to stream Speed to us over a Discord video call by pointing a webcam at the CRT, and he said it wouldn't work because the lighting and reflections would make it too difficult to see the CRT screen.

Ignoring the artifacts introduced by streaming a CRT (screen flicker/frame roll/whatever you call it, compression artifacts, etc), how would you light one to be recorded with enough clarity to be able to watch the content being played on the TV? In this case, the TV is on one of those ceiling mounted racks in the corner of the room, like what used to be in some classrooms and waiting rooms back before LED/LCD panels got cheap.

TVs are emissive, so the trick is not how to light them, but how to block light from causing interference.

The easy answer is a pitch black room, but that isn't always possible.

But even a moderately dark room is usually fine. The closer the camera is to the TV, the brighter the TV will be relative to the other lights. And since light is competitive, if your room lights are fairly dim, and your camera is close to the TV, it should capture pretty well. The light from the TV will outcompete all the other room lights.

That won't stop specular highlights though.

These are direct reflections caused by light sources. They ignore the competitive light thing due to fancy science.

So you may have to play with angles. If you can make sure all light sources are behind the screen, that would be optimal. But you just need those specular sources to not be reflecting directly off the TV and into the camera. Photographers have to play with angles like this to photograph people with glasses. We just move the lights around until we can't see them reflecting.

If that isn't possible, you may have to create a hood for your display. You can google "monitor hood" to see the typical design, but you can just use cardboard from a shipping box. Just tape a square to the side or sides that need to block direct reflections.

You could even put a blanket over the TV and camera.

And if you do want to get rid of flickering and banding...

The best way to capture CRT is to match frame rate and shutter speed.

NTSC (North America) is roughly 60Hz and PAL (UK/Europe) is 50Hz.

So you'd need a camera that can do 60fps and has the ability to adjust the shutter speed to a multiple of 60. 1/60 or 1/120 usually. Not all webcams have this control, so you may not be able to cancel out these artifacts.

There is a great video about it here...

[quillneriine]

Beneath the Surface

D-16 is desperate. Due to his inability to transform and his easily-exhausted condition, he can't quite hold down easy security mech jobs. When he receives a strange idea to apply to the Iaconian Archives through a dream, he finds himself meeting the eccentric head archivist, Orion Pax. Pax though… He knows more about Dee than the mech could possibly ever imagine.

Me: You can't keep writing fics that only a few people will understand Also me: well watch me do exactly that

So uh yeah, this came about because we talked about the Primes being eldritch beings over at the OPMeg server and I just went ham with it lmao. Plus, I should write about OPMeg considering that was the whole point of me writing fanfics in the first place lmao.

Also, because I cannot be stopped, D-16 is still a Primatronus child here. Optimus, on the other hand, is Alpha Trion's child with another Prime who I shall not name cause to be fair he was not mentioned here at all lmao.

So yeah, enjoy me going crazy in this fanfic because I needed to write this (even though I should be resting because it's the weekend lmao.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63873463

next

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Megatron.”

D-16 jumped, helm snapping upwards to meet blue optics glowing from within the darkness of the head archivist’s office. The chill - which seemed to emanate from the archive’s very walls - sunk deep into his frame, but he refused to shudder as he took a single step forward. His yellow optics stared straight ahead, forcing down the popups in his HUD that screamed ‘danger.’

“Thank you, head archivist, but my designation isn’t Megatron.” He stopped in front of the barren metal desk, a part of his processor wondering why the head archivist would not have any datapads on it. He let out a small vent. “Were you… expecting anyone else?” A momentary spark of fear jumped within his spark, which was ridiculous since Dee knew that he would have to compete with other mechs for the job position.

But it had been astroweeks since his last freelance security work, and he needed a stable full-time position. It was all he could do not to break down and beg.

And he would rather offline than suffer that indignation.

“Huh? What are you—” The head archivist cut himself off, and an awkward silence engulfed the room. 

Dee tried not to fidget as he turned his helm slightly to the side, wishing that the room had any light source. Unfortunately, as the secretary had mentioned, the office was nearly covered in shadow - the only source of light filtering through the door panels that led to the hall, and the head archivist’s blue optics that seemed to scour his entire face.

“Oh, right… Sorry, so much information, you know?”

Dee didn’t know what the head archivist meant, but he laughed along with him when the other mech chuckled. 

“So! D-16… Hm, I still think… Well, you’ll get used to it later. So, D-16… No… Okay, I’m going to call you Dee.” Before he could protest, the other mech continued on. “Congratulations, you’re hired!”

Dee felt his fans kick up, his processor trying to catch up with the other mech’s words. He didn’t understand what just happened, but he wasn’t going to ruin this. “R-really? Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll work twice as hard as any other security mech—”

“Oh, you don’t have to push yourself, Dee! I want you to be comfortable with me— I mean, comfortable in the job.” He heard a noise from within the darkness, those blue optics disappearing momentarily as the head archivist shifted. “It’s a full-time job since you’ll be my personal security, but I promise that you don’t have to do anything, just stand there and look— Uh, I mean, stand guard beside me.”

“...Personal security?” He felt his spark sink inside his chassis.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not a hard job. I rarely leave the archives so we’ll mostly stay here—”

Dee supposed he should have expected the catch. 

While he was desperate for full-time work, he couldn’t handle full-time personal security. After looking through many job applications, Dee has come to understand that such work usually meant that he had to stay near his employer. To any other mech, a full-time job that had live-in benefits would be a dream, but that was not what Dee wanted. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think I’m fit for this position.”

“And I’ll be a great conju— boss. Wait what?”

Dee let out another vent, turning his face away so that the head archivist wouldn’t see his embarrassment.

It was his own fault.

Who decides to send their resume because of a dream they had?

It was just an incredible coincidence that Dee had sent his resume at the same time that the head archivist was searching for security personnel, but Dee should have looked through the job requirements instead of impulsively sending a message.

This is why he planned because he didn’t want to embarrass himself like this.

“I can’t, sir. I’m sorry, I… I sent my resume on a whim without checking the job requirements. I really can’t do this. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Without another glance behind him, Dee tried to quickly rush towards the door panels.

It was times like these that he felt so uncomfortable in his own frame.

It didn’t help that his pedes were beginning to hurt after running through the archive to file forms for the job. Pair that with the long walk from the Kaon district to the main center of Iacon, and Dee’s frame was beginning to suffer from exhaustion.

Before the door panels could slide open, a blue servo slammed itself against the wall beside his helm. Dee jumped back, weapon systems nearly activating before he realized that it was only the head archivist. With his back turned to the door panels, he felt trapped though he could tell that the head archivist was at the same height as him. Those blue optics stared straight at him.

Maybe he felt fear because despite being close to the door, Dee still couldn’t see the head archivist’s frame, as if the shadows were cloaking him—

“You’re perfect for the job though.” 

Dee would have laughed at how the other mech whined, but his spark was thrumming too much in his chassis.

He choked out, “I’m flattered, sir, but you don’t have to lie. My resume warned you about my… condition. It’s a good offer but I can’t do this work for the entire solar and lunar cycle. And… I can’t move to the archives to accommodate you. My carer—”

The head archivist must have known about his condition. Dee had no choice but to put it in his profile.

This was why he could never hold down a full-time position for too long.

Who wanted a security mech who couldn’t transform and easily exhausted?

But the head archivist should have already known that.

The closest excuse he had, and it wasn’t an excuse because Dee would never have agreed to any full-time job with a live-in position even without his condition, was that he didn’t want to leave the home that his carer had raised him in.

Terminus may not have been Dee’s real sire or carrier, but he could not abandon the old mech and the memories they’d had. The old mech may have offlined cycles ago, but Dee refused to leave their home.

The reason he was so desperate for work was because the rent was due, and he needed the shanix.

He was sure the head archivist could pay him well, and the live-in benefits were great, but that wasn’t what Dee needed.

Slowly, as though forming from the shadows themselves, a face neared his.

Dee could feel his cheekplates rush with energon.

The head archivist was… pretty.

His voice box let out a small burst of static as he glanced away. “I’m sorry, but I need the job to keep my carer’s house, and if you need a security mech that’s with you constantly then I can’t—”

“But your house is so faaaar.” The head archivist whined, and Dee’s optics widened as the other mech used his other servo to cage him in. “I want you to be comfortable but I can’t have you making that trip every solar cycle. How am I going to impress your creators if I let you suffer that way?” “What?” The fear had given way to confusion now. He reached a servo to grasp at the other mech’s arm, wanting to push the head archivist away from him. “Listen, I don’t know what this is, but if you think you can intimidate me.”

As soon as his servo wrapped around the other mech’s arm, a jolt of electricity surged through his frame, and he let out a scream. He felt his frame shudder as another presence made itself known inside his processor. Servos grasped at him, and no matter how hard he tried to summon his cannon, he couldn’t get his weapons system to activate.

“No, no, I already ruined our first meeting… It’s okay, Optimus, you can still turn this whole thing around.” He felt himself be lowered gently onto the ground, the head archivist’s frame settling right on top of him. “If you remember this later, please don’t tell your sire what I did. I haven’t quite mastered scrambling processors, but I promise this won’t hurt… I hope… Primus, I hope it doesn’t.”

He felt cables latch against the sides of his helm, and Dee let out a scream.

The last he heard before his systems shutdown was the head archivist crooning down at him.

“It’s okay, Megatron. I’ll take care of you.”

—

Dee scrolled through the datapad, though the words didn’t register in his processor as his yellow optics kept flicking towards Pax.

Sunlight poured in from the windows, brightening the head archivist’s office, though if asked Dee might say that the sunlight was nothing compared to Pax’s bright smile.

He turned his gaze away as soon as those blue optics looked up at him, embarrassed to have been caught staring. It was difficult not to though, not when Pax was only a table away from him. 

He let out a vent, which he really shouldn’t have because that made Pax jolt from his seat, his own datapad nearly flying from his servos.

“What’s wrong? Do your pedes hurt? You could go back to your quarters if you want—”

“Pax, I’m your bodyguard.” He rolled his optics, placing his own datapad on Pax’s desk. He leaned his back against the soft back of his chair. “And we haven’t moved from your office since we got here. I’m fine.”

It endeared him, really, that Pax despite being his employer - though Pax insisted they were friends - cared so much for his comfort. In his previous work experiences, he had to stand by his former employers for joors on end. At the end of most solar cycles, he could hardly feel his pedes by the time he went home. Pax had refused to let him stand when there wasn’t a reason for it.

Dee had protested the plush chair that Pax had ordered specifically for him, but that was short-lived.

All it really took for him to agree was Pax suddenly carrying him and gently placing him down on said chair.

Now, he didn’t doubt that Pax couldn’t handle himself. But Dee was a bulky mech, and he really didn’t expect Pax was capable of actually carrying him.

He did not want a repeat of that incident again.

“If you say so, Dee.” With great hesitation, Pax sat back down, blue optics still focused on him. “If you want a break though—”

“I’m fine.” He could feel an ache starting in his processor. Dee can only hope that Pax dropped this. Once Pax got started on something, it was difficult to stop him.

If he wanted Dee to rest more, he would insist until Dee finally went into recharge.

If he wanted Dee to have a meal with him, he’d insist until Dee was eating energon with him at the roof of the archives.

If he wanted Dee to sell his carer’s house and move in with him then—

“You know, I’ve been thinking about you…” He glanced up, and Pax’s cheekplates lit up with energon as he realized how that sounded. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about your condition and—”

“Pax, you’re one of the most brilliant mechs in Iacon, but you’re not a medic.” Dee laughed, shaking his helm as he lowered his optics. “I appreciate it but you should stick to being an archivist.”

A part of him did not want Pax anywhere near the medical bay.

For the sake of Cybertronians everywhere, Orion Pax should never become a medic.

Sweet as the gesture was, and Dee could feel his spark thrum at the thought of it, Pax could spend his time researching on much easier subjects.

There was nothing he could do for Dee.

Dee had never felt comfortable in his own frame.

Since he’d first gained sentience, a part of him always felt wrong.

Terminus had loved him despite it but Dee could never erase the unbearable itch deep within his frame and buried underneath the wires. It was within his code.

There had always been something terribly wrong.

The countless medics that Terminus had managed to scrap enough shanix to send him to couldn’t find the source for his condition.

There had been nothing like it in the medical databases.

Bots who couldn’t transform did exist, but that usually happened due to missing or malfunctioning t-cogs. Dee’s was completely fine, but no matter what he did, he was just unable to turn into any other alt mode.

As for his unexplained exhaustion and aching pedes if he stood or walked for far too long, they couldn’t find a reason since most of his systems were in perfect working order.

They didn’t know how to fix him.

Dee had spent a long part of his life accepting that.

It didn’t make his life easy, but it made it hurt less.

He was created differently, and he learned to live with that.

“Okay, but Dee… Just hear me out.” He shook his helm, breaking away from the thoughts in his processor just as Pax slid his datapad towards him. 

Dee caught it, optics scanning quickly at the screen before he gave Pax a disbelieving look.

The head archivist gave him a cheeky grin, as though what he just showed Dee wasn’t the craziest theory he’s ever heard in his life, and Dee has had to talk to many medics in his life.

“Merformers.” He could feel his processor begin to ache. Maybe he did need that break. “Pax… merformers are… myths. I know I told you I’m a fan of the Prime mythologies but this is—”

“Oh come on! Just think about it, Dee!” Pax suddenly lunged forward.

Dee couldn’t help but jump, though he didn’t leave his seat.

Sometimes, he couldn’t help but think that Pax moved… weirdly.

As though the metal of his frame was… shifting in ways that no mech’s frame should move. He was quick in ways that sometimes made Dee need to process that Pax had moved at all.

“Just read it, okay?” 

He let out a vent, trying to ignore Pax’s pout, but it was too late.

He glanced down at the datapad in his servo, shaking his helm. Why did he feel so compelled to do what Pax wanted? They had only known each other for a few astroweeks and yet…

Dee’s yellow optics followed the sharp sketches of merformers on the datapad.

He did know a few facts about them, mostly because he was interested in the Prime mythologies and his favorite among them was Megatronus - who had been described to be a leviathan.

“Okay, Pax, but I am not a merformer. There are no such beings like that in Cybertron.” He laughed, the sound seemingly captivating Pax who had moved past his table and had settled right next to Dee. The chair he had ordered was big enough to fit two mechs, a fact that Pax exploited since if he could help himself, he would insist on sitting right next to Dee all the time.

The head archivist grinned, blue optics seemingly brighter than the sunshine as he settled his chin against Dee’s shoulder pads.

“I don’t know, Dee. I think you’ll find that some myths are based on history.” He tried to keep his optics on the datapad, but it was hard when Pax was leaning against him.

His processor felt fuzzy.

“Just trust me, okay?” He could feel Pax’s grin against the side of his neck cables. “I know.”

He didn’t know why, but he felt his optics shut down as he slowly began to fall into recharge.

“...Dee? OH, NOT AGAIN!”

—

“Ughhh, it’s so unfair!” Optimus let out a vent, his frame collapsing against the metal table as he closed his optics.

The lunar cycle had begun, and the entirety of the archives had settled back into darkness. Aside from a few of the security mechs that roamed the premises and Megatron who had gone to recharge far too earlier than intended, Optimus was completely alone. Carefully, he felt his frame begin to shift, releasing the cables and wires that he was forced to tuck inside too-tight metal during the solar cycle.

The cables quickly latched onto the ground and onto the walls, his processor whirring happily as he felt himself be connected once again to the archives - and to his carrier, Alpha Trion.

‘Patience, Primeling. I adore your energy, but I warned you not to get so attached so easily, not when Megatron is still unaware of who he is.’

“But how could I not? I know him!” ‘In the dreams, my Primeling. Dreams he does not remember yet.’

Optimus let out a groan, feeling the top of his helm unlatch as the wires in his processor latched onto the metal table.

It wasn’t great to be his Cybertronian alt form, but he doubted that Megatron - or Dee as he apparently went by - would react calmly if he saw Optimus’ real form.

No, he could save that for when they were closer… like maybe when they were conjunxes…

‘Primeling, you will have to wait a few more cycles for that. Then there is the matter of Prima—’

“Megatron adores me, I’m sure his creators will feel the same.” 

Especially since Optimus would be bringing him back to them soon.

He enjoyed the few astroweeks he had spent with Megatron, but he knew it couldn’t last long.

It was a coincidence really.

Optimus hadn’t even meant to stumble into Megatron’s dreams, but as his carrier had been tutoring him on entering Cybertronian’s processors, he had been drawn to Megatron’s immediately.

Alpha Trion’s presence had been with him, and it was his carrier who had realized who Megatron really was.

While his carrier couldn’t do anything for Megatron, Optimus could.

It had taken a long time, but Optimus had finally managed to get Megatron to remember one dream, to convince him to come to the archives so that Optimus could watch over him until he could bring him back to his creators.

But since it had taken so long, Optimus had come to… know Megatron through his dreams.

How could he not love him after a lifetime spent within those dreams?

Which is why it would be so difficult to let Megatron go, now that everything was prepared. Optimus had found a good route to get Megatron into the energon lake. It had taken a few processor scramblings but he got the path cleared. By the time the senate realized that there had been a breach, it would be too late. 

Optimus can only hope that this time the senate didn’t decide to take Megatron out of the lake because they got lucky the first time, as his carrier said.

The senate was lucky they hadn’t woken Prima or Megatronus (or even both!) when they had removed Megatron from the smaller lake inside the mountain Prima was currently in.

“You don’t think Megatronus would wake up once I…”

“He will, but he will not harm you. He will return to stasis once he understands there is no immediate threat.”

“So can I introduce myself—”

“Let them have their reunion, my Primeling. You have spent your time with Megatron, and you will have more time.”

Optimus rolled his optics, a frown settling on the dermas of the face he wore during the solar cycle. His real face was hidden underneath the wires and cables, and it didn’t quite have dermas.

“After so many cycles of waiting. I can’t even visit him in dreams after this because his creators will be there.” He let out another vent.

“Cycles will pass by quickly. Until then, there is much information to be archived and processed.”

At least Optimus had that to look forward to. It was his life’s passion, his very being.

That’s why he enjoyed playing the role of head archivist even if he didn’t really need to. 

His carrier had chosen to become Iacon’s archive, and Optimus could have remained within the walls himself, but he wanted to understand the Cybertronians closely. It was why he’d created and used his Cybertronian alt even if it felt wrong.

He wondered how Megatron could live like that, living underneath a frame that wasn’t right.

But, he’d never had the chance to know his real form.

At the thought of it, Optimus felt his wires rattle against the floor and the walls.

“What’s wrong, my Primeling?”

“I’m just thinking of Megatron.” He could feel himself shudder, and if he didn’t contain himself, it could cause a major disturbance among the databases. Optimus tried to force himself to calm down. “It must hurt, right?”

“Yes, and so it is necessary he be returned to where he belongs.”

Optimus could understand why his carrier was insistent about it. 

Aside from the Primes being close, even after millions of years under stasis, his carrier had a secret that Optimus knew - though Alpha Trion probably never wanted him to know.

When Optimus had first emerged, a Cybertronian had found him hiding deep within the archives, a sparkling seemingly abandoned.

He had nearly been taken out of the archives before his carrier had realized what was happening and had… intervened.

He wondered what his life would have been like if his carrier hadn’t saved him in time.

Would he be like Dee?

Optimus shook the thought away, immersing himself instead on the limitless information within the archives.

This was why he needed to bring Megatron back.

Even though he hated that he’d have to be away from his future conjunx - a fact that Optimus had decided would happen a long time ago in one of their many dream adventures - it was the right thing to do.

Besides, when the solar cycle comes that the Thirteen Primes are awakened once more from their stasis, they’ll have eternity to spend together.

And maybe by that time, Megatron can finally love him back.

—

The stars greeted him as he opened his optics.

A haziness had sunk into his processor.

He could hardly feel his frame.

The floor beneath him shifted, as though the ground itself was moving. 

A familiar face blocked out the night sky.

“Pax…?”

“You’re supposed to be in recharge, Megatron.” The other mech let out a soft vent, reaching down with a servo. He felt the chill of it against his cheekplate, and Dee couldn’t help but lean his helm into it. “I wanted this to be a surprise but… it’s my fault, you got used to the processor scramblings.”

“What…?”

Pax leaned closer, servos reaching for his arms as he felt himself be hauled up and leaned against the side of… his optics reset, and it took him a while to realize where they were. Even underneath the darkness of the lunar cycle, Dee could see the moving waves as the large body of energon they were on shifted.

“Don’t freak out! I mean, you should be happy, you’re finally going home!” Pax went on as a fear began to settle in Dee’s spark. “Well not yet, but once I get you into the lake then you’ll be okay!”

“Pax, no— What are you doing?!” He could feel the strain in his voice box as the other mech began to push him backwards. Stray splashes from the energon lake hit the back of his frame, and… Dee can’t lie, it did feel familiar but—

“It’s okay! It’ll be okay!” Pax’s voice wavered, his blue optics - bright, always so bright in the darkness - widening as he continued to push Dee off the boat.

Panic and rage began to settle in, but like before (Before? He didn’t know why but he’d done this before, right?), he couldn’t access his weapon system.

“I’ll miss you, Alpha Trion said it might take cycles before we meet again but I’ll wait for you. Maybe then you’ll remember all those dream adventures we went on.” Pax grinned, and this time Dee could feel the lake fully against the top of his helm.

Pax’s servos were latched onto his waist plates.

All he needed to do now was let go.

Dee choked out more static, his voice box whirring wildly as he struggled to grasp onto the side of the boat. “PAX! P-PUT ME DOWN! This isn’t funny! I don’t.. I don’t know how to swim!”

Because this had to be a joke, a sick joke.

Pax wanted to test his ridiculous merformer theory and Dee just had to go along with his stupid antics.

But this wasn’t stupid anymore.

Instead of being apologetic, of feeling ashamed for pushing Dee into one of his crazy schemes again, Pax only smiled down at him.

“You do. You always did.”

Then, as if to apologize, Pax leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss against the side of his helm.

Then he let go.

And all Dee felt was the cold energon engulf his entire frame.

It was…

Comforting.

.

.

.

.

.

.

As he sunk deeper into the lake, large blue optics emerged from the deep gloom.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Shouldn't the portraits and ghosts see the Basilisk or Sirius Black in his animagus form roaming around the halls of Hogwarts? I mean, Nick already saw the basilisk, but of course, he turned out petrified. But then there's so many portraits in the hallways. And then there's the other ghosts that roam the halls, too. It's kinda surprising that any of them didn't see a giant snake or a dog walking around...

They would see the basilisk if they stumbled upon it, but the ghosts move around a lot, and there are areas with no portraits.

We know there are no portraits in the trophy room, or in many of the hidden passages around the school. Many halls and chambers are not mentioned as having portraits.

The hall Mrs. Norris was found in doesn't seem to have any portraits either:

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

(CoS)

So, it's possible the basilisk wasn't seen — very lucky, but possible. The castle doesn't have portraits everywhere, just along the corridors, not entire walls covered in them. There were few enough of them that Harry could ignore the fact they were whispering and pointing:

He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. 

(PS)

And the Fat Lady is in a corridor on her own, as it seems there are no other portraits there:

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

(PS)

Sir Cadogan also hangs alone on a landing; there are no other portraits nearby:

“There’s — got — to — be — a — shortcut,” Ron panted as they climbed their seventh long staircase and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of grass hanging on the stone wall. [...] Harry was used to the subjects of Hogwarts paintings moving around and leaving their frames to visit one another, but he always enjoyed watching it. A moment later, a short, squat knight in a suit of armor clanked into the picture after his pony.

(PoA)

I think the movies gave us the wrong image of some Hogwarts corridors, as it seems many of them have one or two portraits and not entire walls covered in them. Additionally, the portraits often stand empty as the people in them move around to other portraits. So, it's definitely possible to move around without being seen by the portraits if you know what you are doing.

And if anyone would know how to hide from the portraits and which passages are portrait safe, it'll be one of the Mauraders, so it makes a lot of sense Sirius could make his way up to the Fat Lady without being seen.