#Listen when I tell you that it was near impossible for me to pick images for these lil' shits

[soulsxng]

Enoch Iryin, Left hand to Ahnia's King. Zikiriel Elohim, Lead Ambassador of Ahnia.

Tahariel Elohim, the usurper head of Ahnia's coup.

Sarakael Elohim, one of the Captains of Ahnia's Royal Guard.

[diejager]

God! I love dark price, please write a part of dark price and reader with his son (I want a mini price 😔) I think it would be a boy 😅 but I'll leave it up to you <3 have a good day, best writer on Tumblr <3

Cage Cw: forced pregnancy, forced relationship, MENTION OF NON-CON/DUB-CON, DARKFIC, tell me if I missed any.

“Mama! Mama!” Two, childlike voices called out to you, their tones light and jovial with a child’s innocence, untainted by the horrors of the world.

Rapid pads followed after their screams, running steps heading your way as you turned to look at the source, putting down the knife you used to cut the ripe and fresh carrot for supper. Two pairs of hands grabbed at your pants, wide, blue eyes staring up at you with joy and wonder in their pretty eyes, they begged for attention.

You loved them. You truly did. From the lingering fat on their three-year old cheeks, their round, doe eyes in a stormy, blue shade, their chubby limbs and fingers holding onto you to the soft locks in the shade of your hair. From the adorable behaviour, pliant and obedient, always eager to listen to you if it meant receiving praises and kisses from you, to the innocence in their being, untouched by the cruelty you’ve seen when you were still working. But everything about them reminded you of him, of their father, of your husband. Your boy and daughter were spitting images of their father, only with your shade of hair.

“What wrong?” You crouched to their height, thumb rubbing the blue ink off the fat of your daughter’s cheek with your clean hand, you’d left the both of them in the living room with a box of coloured pens and paper to draw with.

“Hungry, Mama,” Olivia moaned, clutching her shirt with an adorable pout, reaching for her brother for help to convey her hunger.

You cooed at her, picking the both of them up, bobbing them until they sat comfortably on each side of you, arms wrapped around your shoulder as they cried and moaned about being hungry, about their tumtums making sound. You put them on separate chairs, handing them a small cracker to eat while your finished making your soup. Olivia and Arthur - you precious twins - liked the bland crackers, wanting something to bite into while their teeth grew, to stop the itch and discomfort of growing teeth.

“Mama’s almost finished, it’ll be done once Dada’s home, okay?” Your kids were smart, they understood words that most wouldn’t at this age. You chalked it up to them having your husband’s genes, his smart and quick decisions made it nearly impossible to beat him in a battle of wits, you learned that the hard way.

As if summoned by your voice, you heard the lock click, announcing your husband’s return from work. Hearing their father open the door, Arthur and Olivia jumped off their seats and rushed to the door, smiling and giggling, overjoyed to see their father home after leaving early in the morning. He bent down to kiss them, bringing them into his chest and blowing kisses, a few dozen on their forehead, another dozen on each cheek and a few on their pink nose, small and adorable.

“Go on, give Ma and Pa a moment, yeah?” He smiled softly, petting them on the head before coaxing them away, wanting a moment to hold you on his own.

He pulled you towards him, hands grasping onto your hips, strong and unyielding in his hold. He pressed his lips to your cheek, slowly trailing down to your lips with a searing and possessive kiss, demanding your attention and whole being. He nipped at your lip, teeth biting on your lower lip until you let out a small whimper, audible to him and you alone, protecting your children from Price’s darker side.

“John,” you mumbled, panting when he pulled away, your lips swollen from his rough kiss.

When you tried to move back, you were stopped by his grip on your nap, unaware that his hand snaked up to hold you still, keeping your face near his. His stormy eyes brewed with a cyclone, a violent and powerful torrent of emotions that had you shudder in fear and apprehension. He was strung high, pulled tight on the edges, his nerves burned to its core without any relief for him to come back down. You knew you would have to help him relax, to surrender your body to his whims.

“Let’s… let’s just eat dinner and get the kids to bed first, all right?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday

[campgender]

from “Stone Soup” by Elana Dykewomon, from Beyond the Pale (1997)

reprinted in On Butch and Femme: Compiled Readings by I.M. Epstein

image description under the cut.

She took my hand put it to her lips, kissing my fingers. “You are a blessing, Chava, my blessing.”

Far away I heard another girl laughing -- because of listening to us or her own pleasure? I rolled back onto my side, wiping my hand on the bottom sheet of our makeshift tent. Then I lay in her arm, nuzzling her breast slowly. What a pleasure to be naked. Rose stroked my hair, murmuring deep in her throat.

“And you?” she asked after awhile.

“I’m completely satisfied,” I said.

“Completely?” she asked, moving her fingers down to the hair of my vee.

“Completely,” I said, stopping her exploration. All I wanted was to lie there in the calm, feeling the liquid surface of my skin suffused with her body.

“All right, if you say so.”

We played with each other’s fingers for maybe a minute, maybe twenty. Every once in awhile I opened my eyes and saw the firefly blink. “Would you like to hear a story?” Rose asked after a long silence.

“Yes.” I felt some tender place tear open, an unused room, where the doorway was covered in cobwebs. Someone rediscovered it, clearing the debris, opening the shutters, bringing in the world. This was a welcome change, yet each cobweb was attached to a nerve in my breast bone and ached as it was wrenched away.

“Do you know the story about stone soup?” Rose asked.

“Stone soup?” I moved my hand down her side, stroking and pressing into her sweet fatness. Of course I knew the story. Who didn’t? Mama used to tell us.

“You know, where the beggar comes to town and asks for something to eat --”

“A woman or man beggar?”

“I don’t remember woman beggars at home, but for now we’ll make it a woman, if you like.”

“I like.”

“Fine,” Rose said. “So the beggar got thrown out of the first town she went to. The people threw rocks at her. She picked up one of the rocks and put it in a small velvet pouch she had found the week before.”

“Where?”

“In the woods, near where the deer live.”

“Did the deer make it for her?”

“I don’t know, Chava. She found it, that’s all.” Rose poked me in

the side. “Anyway, she comes to the next town and this time shows off her magic stone, which, the beggar bragged, you could put into a pot with some water and make the most delicious soup in the world.”

“What town was it?” I asked, remembering Russia.

“Chava, it doesn’t make any difference. Let’s say it was -- it was a shtetl, just a little bump of a town like you could see for a minute from the train.”

“Okay, the shtetl of Bump,” I said, tickling her knee.

“You’re impossible,” she said, swatting my hand. “Do you want to hear this story or not?”

“Very much.”

“Then let me tell it,” she said, ruffling my hair. “So in the shtetl of Bump the women all gathered around the beggar woman to see the stone. The beggar held up the velvet bag with a big lump in it. ‘From this bag it must go directly into water,’ the beggar said. ‘Ah, if only I had a kettle of water.’

“Then one of the townswomen ran home for her kettle. ‘But the water must be boiling,’ the beggar said. And so the women built a fire and filled the pot with water from their pumps. When the water was boiling, the beggar woman circled the pot with her velvet pouch, mumbling words in a language the townspeople had never heard before. Then she made a quick gesture and the rock flew into the boiling water.

“‘Did you see that?’ the women said to each other --”

“But they hadn’t really seen anything, had they?” I asked. I looked beyond Rose’s breast and could see that now there were two fireflies in the tent, winking at each other in the dark. Something crawled over my toe and I simply flicked it off. Rose nodded and continued.

“‘Ah,’ the beggar said, bending over the pot, ‘this is going to be delicious, if I do say so myself. But --.’ The beggar took a big sniff. ‘What?’ asked a housewife. ‘Well, if we could throw in some carrots, this soup would rival my grandmother’s, of blessed memory.’”

“So the woman found some carrots, right?”

“Of course. And then onions, celery, salt, and finally a chicken. One after another, the townspeople ran and got whatever the beggar woman suggested. Finally, the beggar said, ‘One last thing, and the soup will be done.’”

“What else could she need?” I nestled into Rose even more closely and she pressed back. Not a blade of grass would have found a passage between our bodies.

“Bowls and spoons, of course. And there was enough for everyone in the village as well as the beggar to eat their fill. When they were done, the beggar reached into the pot and pulled out her stone, which of course was gleaming from the soup and the chicken fat.”

The fireflies appeared to be dancing for each other, signaling in some code I thought it might be possible to understand. “It was a miracle,” I yawned.

“That’s what the townspeople thought. A miracle that soup so good could be made from just a stone.” Rose paused and ran the back of her hand along my cheek. I nibbled at her fingers with my lips but my eyes were too heavy to keep open.

“Sweet dreams, my darling,” were the last words I heard Rose say.

[kamil-a]

two households, both alike in dignity

In wonderful Wonderworld, where we lay our scene... Caught between Elliot and Julius, Alice attempts to do what she does best- run from the truth. We hop here, from argument to argument, down to the end, where something will happen whether she likes it or not.

i just feel like at some point it should be impossible for both elliot and alice AND julius and alice to be close. i will proceed to write an unreasonable amount of words about it.

(See the end of the work for more notes.) (oboy are there ever more notes.)

1.

She should not have argued with Elliot about Julius, that much is true. When he asked where she was she should have said a movie theater near the Tower plaza and when he asked if she was friends with Julius she should have said I've spoken to him a few times but I wouldn't say we're friends and left. There are times when you just have to lie to Elliot, and this should have been recognizable as one of them, easily. But Alice was not thinking clearly, not now when it was only less than a time period ago that she had seen a woman look with pure disgust at Julius.

You might assume that shooting mean looks at people are yet another privilege reserved for those with visible facial features, but oh, you could tell. Alice had watched this lady grab her child out of his way and hurry off, behaving as if Julius were a monster about to eat her kid for lunch rather than the person who had directed the previously crying girl her way in the first place. And the little girl, who'd had nothing against him until now, is going to hate him too, now that she's been taught to do it. It isn't fair! It isn't fair! And Elliot bothering her when she was already worked up about this, well. You can see why she did not respond wisely.

So currently, Alice and a pot of tea are both simmering in Blood's office. She's hoping he'll be sympathetic, though in the back of her mind she suspects that as soon as she leaves he'll have their conversation's mirror image with Elliot, if Elliot hasn't beaten her to the punch already.

"Elliot said to remember how he talked to me when we first met, but I'd be prickly to strangers too if everyone treated me the way they do Julius, you know?"

The tea is ready, but Alice's mood continues boiling.

"For sure."

"Besides, it's not like Elliot made a great first impression on me either. A little bit hypocritical of him, isn't it?"

Blood nods, and sets out plates and cups for each of them.

"And it's not just Elliot. Even random people on the street, they all hate him! When he does nothing to deserve it!" 

Strangers not wanting to be near Roleholders is only to be expected, because for the average Faceless the death rate of so much as breathing wrong around a Roleholder is usually, oh, maybe a 50/50 gamble if the weather's nice and the mood is good. But Julius does nothing of the sort. She mentally compares him to the others- he doesn't hack apart strangers with axes like the twins! He certainly doesn't order beheadings like Vivaldi. He does not even sing badly like Gowland. (Alice knows this because she has caught him humming as he worked a few times, in the space between being cheered up by her company and forgetting she was still there.)

"Deciding what others do or don't deserve is a more complicated task than you may think, young lady. Elliot, for example, would have a different perspective."

"Elliot doesn't count. He's... I don't know, he's got a specific bone to pick, that's different."

"Mmmmm." A diplomatic non-agreement Alice has heard him give many a time to Elliot about things like if you were my height our ears would be the same size. "Well, I do agree it takes a lot of courage to go out every day and be universally hated. I wonder sometimes how he can stand it."

"Right?! It's so unfair."

"That said, unfair or not, I would advise you to stay away from him."

"Not you too!"

If he forbids her from visiting Julius, she would have to listen. And that would be that, because this is Julius we're talking about. If she can't go to that tower, she will most certainly never see him again, on account of he never leaves his desk except to go sit at his second desk. But so long as Blood frames it as merely a suggestion, she is free to frown and ignore it.

"Unfortunately." Blood shrugs with an apologetic smile and pours them both a cup of tea. Ladies first, of course. He does a graceful little trick with the pouring that Alice won't even bother to ask the method of, there's no way she could ever pull it off. "It is unfair, though, I agree with you about that. I'm telling you to stay away from the Clockmaker, and it isn't right that Julius Monrey has to get hurt in the process. But that's how it is."

"So this is about his job." her voice is hard.

"It is."

"And if I don't care about his job?"

Blood ignores this to take a sip of his own tea.

"Mm. Perfect flavor."

She rolls her eyes and sips her own.

"It is very good, yes. But-"

"Thank you. It takes careful practice to brew the tea this well. The leaves are-"

"But as I was saying, I don't see anything wrong with his job. Maybe it pays less than some people's, but it's a living!"

He raises an eyebrow.

"Do you know what he does?"

"Fixes clocks? Obviously. I usually watch him work when I'm there. It looks kind of nice to do. Relaxing. Maybe I'll ask him to let me help out sometime."

Blood's eyes widen a bit, and he settles his face back down in a bemused smile.

"This from the girl who won't touch a gun!"

What's one got to do with the other? She could ask, but it probably won't be worth it. Logic in Wonderland is never quite followable. Perhaps it all ties back into whatever Game everyone is beholden to, that guns and clocks are both important items, or something. She fills in the gaps herself. It all comes from her subconscious mind, after all.

"If it's only a suggestion, thank you, but I'm going to keep seeing him."

He puts down his teacup to hold up his hands in mock-surrender.

"Alright. But it's going to send a message to people, one that you might not want to send. Surely, there were situations like this in your world, too..."

His voice trails off. He's leaving the topic wide open for her to pick up on- she knows, logically, her part in this dance is to ask "and what might that message be?", and fill in the part of the puzzle she is lacking. And she almost does, before remembering that person sitting next to her, her friend and employer, is a mafia boss. That every paper she's filed away without looking could've been ordering a death, that every load of laundry she's done likely had money in it. Elliot is worth a warning or two himself. The truly moral thing to do would be to stop associating with any of these people, but they're her friends and she doesn't want to lose them. So she cannot- and does not deserve to- start worrying about drawing moral lines in the sand now.

"The only message I'm sending is that I'm not a snob about what people do for work." She says it with more venom than she means to let slip, overcorrects with joking sweetness on the next sentence. "And aren't you lucky I'm not, Mister Mafia Boss...?"

Blood chuckles and bows exaggeratedly. He knows when to drop a subject.

"I certainly am lucky. Can this Mister Mafia Boss get the Young Lady a pastry to go with her tea?"

2.

"If he ever hurts you, tell me," Elliot mutters as Julius walks away.

"Elliot, he saved me. Well, you both did." She had been walking through the forest with Elliot when assassins targeted the March Hare, and it was only thanks to Julius passing by that she was able to get away- not that she'd ever tell Elliot she was even for a second afraid he couldn't protect her alone. It's not like that, it was just a matter of numbers, two better than one. Okay? They'd lost track of each other for about a time period, and Julius had insisted that Elliot was in no danger, that the big dumb rabbit is strong enough not to die over a few Faceless hitmen, but Alice couldn't help worrying. She certainly couldn't sit quietly with a book in the Tower while Elliot could be out there getting murdered. So Julius put his own work off for later ("I can't concentrate with you pacing and looking out the window like that", was the excuse) and walked with her the whole way, silently holding her hand. At the Hatters' gate she found Elliot waiting for her. He was safe, and healthy enough (after a bear hug and a scritch on the ears) to bother her about Julius again.

"He would never hurt me."

"Don't be so sure." Elliot growls. 

"Fine. Can we not talk about Julius? I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm serious," he says. He moves to grab her arm but stops just short of doing so, flexes his hand in the air instead. "I'm so worried about you. Ugh, I didn't know the bastard had it in him to play nice to get his way..."

"We're just friends, Elliot."

"I don't want to scare you, Alice, no one does, but..."

There's a hush in the air. Elliot looks more serious than he ever has to Alice, chewing on one of his wheat stalks as he weighs his words. The set of his ears and twitch of his nose seem more than ever like a hare, a prey animal checking the trees and skies for hawks. Alice's heart thumps in her chest and shakes her whole body. He is about to say something horrifying about someone she cares about, bring to light the shadowy side that everyone she meets in this world seems to have. She does not want to know what it is. 

"I trust him," she says gently. She takes his hand in hers, rubs her thumb in circles over the back of it. All the outside sounds that seemed to hold their breath rush back in, distant chatter and leaves caught on the breeze and the occasional buzzing fly. She's standing still but still she's running away, the same as how she's been known to change the subject when the other Hatter staff talk about work work, and what exactly has happened to the maids who need Alice to pop in for a substitute shift. "And I trust you, too."

"If he hurts you, I'll kill him. I will, I really will, and I will make it hurt, I already know how I'm going to do it and if he just gives me a reason-"

"Elliot. I promise, I just read books up there."

"Oh!" He brightens up considerably. "Blood has books! You can save yourself the trip!"

"But only Julius lets you drink coffee while you read," she says with a wink.

3.

It is around this point when she learns how the clock gets made.

4.

"There's a story in your world that speaks to your current feelings," says Nightmare, floating outside an ornate building he's dreamed up for her to sigh pathetically at the open window of. "Romeo Vs. Juliet! A beautiful love story between two people hailing from opposing groups..."

"I don't think it's like Romeo and Juliet- And, by the way, not Vs.- even a little bit."

He looks forlorn. He must've thought he really had something, there. That thought of hers makes Nightmare look even more kicked puppy-esque, if possible.

"And I certainly don't want it to end like- wait, do you know how the play ends?"

As it turns out, he does not. The library of outsider knowledge Nightmare is privy to is both as expansive and as incomplete as the sum knowledge of all sleeping people, often leading him to myxed metaphors and misplaced miths. Fortunately, she learned this one in school. It was at a time in her past- she tries to keep this association away from Nightmare, but if she's aware of it herself it is surely too late- that she liked to imagine she was a bit like Juliet, at least in the sneaking-around-to-meet-one's-boyfriend department. She'd rather drink poison than go through that again, but at least she got an A on the essay.

"Ahhhh."

"Yeah."

They're quiet for a moment, his words and her thoughts, before Nightmare says-

"A completed love."

"What-" that's not fair, bringing that up. "I don't want either one of us to die!"

But thinking about it in more detail reminds her not of the rainy funeral day she's described to Nightmare in the past, but of a man's dead body found in the sunshine, swarming with afterimages. A broken clock left behind. Julius, the Clockmaker. If she dies, even for love's sake... what would happen then?

She knows, but she doesn't want to think it. She doesn't want to be afraid of Julius. Besides, she reminds herself, put a hand over your chest. You still have a heart.

For now.

Nightmare smiles fondly, which she hates. She hates this new thing he does, the enthusiasm with which he greeted her discovery of the scariest parts of this world, his joy at her horror that some part of her brain must be uncaring enough to build out a world like this. He's gotten huggy with her lately, as if sharing with her his belief that all people are just lifeless gears in a grand machine is something that creates intimacy and not distance. 

"It's not just my belief," he catches the thought out of thin air, the very moment it's thunk. "It's.... ah... nevermind. I'm sorry if I've come on too strong. If the thought of joining us scares you, you don't have to worry about it." His voice grows gentle. "Remember, it's only a dream."

"I know."

"So don't waste your time in this beautiful dream being upset. Just enjoy yourself."

She rolls her eyes at him playfully.

"I know."

5.

Morning... how long has it been since she's seen a proper morning? Not a Daytime period, but the sun rising and the darkness slowly fading away? It's beautiful enough to make her forget how tired she is, how bad her feet hurt, and want to run to a window and watch.

The Castle halls are full of people in various states of tired and disheveled, scrambling over each other to make it out before the event period officially ends and Vivaldi will be free to kill everyone her eyes land on if she so pleases. Alice is tired, too, and definitely disheveled, but ultimately feeling pretty good. Julius must be somewhere in the crowd, because they'd left their room at about the same time but she can't see him. Ah, well, she needs to meet back up with the group she came with anyway, and he probably feels he doesn't have a moment to spare to say goodbye with the work that piled up over the time he was away from his desk. She can always visit him later.

There's the group. Blood is nowhere to be found, probably sneaking last minute 'free samples' of tea, but the butlers and maids are there, and so are the twins, and...

Elliot.

At the ball she had been dancing with him, as friends, thinking Julius wasn't going to be there. He wasn't the best dancer, but he was a fun partner, and they were just getting the hang of the steps together when Julius showed up. He didn't say a word, just grabbed her and pulled.

And for all her grumbling, she'd still gone with him. And they'd talked it out, and later, uh, kissed it out. And... and it's a no-brainer that Elliot is going to be angry, isn't he. Beyond angry, even. 

Julius wasn't thrilled, either. A criminal, he had described Elliot, snarled it at her in a guest room close enough to her face that she could tell on his breath that he'd first stopped at the bar, maybe for the courage to approach her. Why were you dancing with that animal, (yikes!), that criminal- But, Alice already knew that. If Elliot's a criminal, what is she? She doesn't kill or torture or extort, not personally, but she supports the others, in friendship and employment. And then she buys her boyfriend (boyfriend!!!) silly little gifts, expensive coffee beans and a fancy glasses cloth and pre-sliced bread so he won't chomp right into a whole loaf, with her dirty criminal money. She wouldn't hear any more on the subject. Which felt virtuous of her at the time, look at me protecting my friend's name even to my love (?!) who kisses me (?!?!), but now she just feels kind of sick.

Elliot talks animatedly to Dee (or maybe Dum?) about something until Dum (or maybe Dee?) waves and calls out to her, and he turns around and freezes for a moment. Then he turns back as if he hadn't seen her, ears lowered angrily.

He won't even look at her? Is she, what, tainted by association now? As insulting as it is to her, it must be even worse to be Julius. Alice has lived with the Hatters for a while by now, certainly long enough to see that Julius has no quarrel with any other territory, no need to spy or sabotage or fight for more land, and that his work- though more complicated than it had first appeared to her- is the work of a healer, and benefits all. And yet nobody ever gives him a chance. And then they blame him for lashing out at other people. 

Despite that! She still doesn't want to just abandon her friendship with Elliot, the way he seems so ready to abandon her. She knows he can be kind, funny, caring, knows the pure warm joy of Elliot's good moods, and does not want to lose that. There has to be a way to make both of these relationships work. So she looks right at him and gives a bright smile and a wave, and decides that she will be a friend, even if he won't.

"Good morning, guys! Long time since I've gotten to say that, haha..."

"Did you have fun last night, big sister?" one of the twins elbows her. Elliot frowns even deeper, if possible. Not the icebreaker she would've gone for! Mmph!

"You must've had fun, cause somebunny was jealous."

"Somedoggy, at least. Don't kick him while he's down, brother."

"Ahh, you're right, brother."

"Hey, um, Elliot. Elliot!" He finally looks her way. It's embarrassing to do this in public, but she may not get another chance- "I'm really sorry about last night, okay? I was having a good time dancing with you-"

The twins see Elliot's face, share a look and back away. Smart kids.

"Whose side are you on, Alice?"

"What?"

"Just tell me." 

"I'm not going to pick sides."

"I knew it. I knew he'd turn you against me-"

Blood melts out of nowhere to save the day. Elliot's ears perk up as soon as he sees him.

"Everyone's here, I see? Good. Elliot, you'll be kind enough to lead the group home?"

"Sure. What about you?"

"Oh, I've got a few errands, and so on and so forth," he waves a hand lazily, and Alice is ready to kick him for abandoning her to this mess for the rest of the trip until he puts a hand on her arm. "I need to borrow the young lady for a moment, too. You all can go on."

"I'll see you later?" Alice says, unable to keep the question from her voice while waving hopefully at Elliot. 

"Maybe," he mumbles.

6.

Blood is a real savior here, so much so that she doesn't even complain about the detailed explanations of every last leaf sold at Incomparable Teas from Around the Wonderworld.

"Here," she says, picking out a teacup in the window of the store and shoving it (a little more roughly than you should be with a teacup) into Blood's hands. It's painted to look like a stained glass window, catching the morning light with its beautiful artistry. "I'm getting you this. I owe you for rescuing me like that."

"Don't forget who had to talk to Elliot all night while you were..." he pauses to really let the implication sink in, "Busy. He's a real crier when he gets upset, you know. I had to sit there with tissues, patting his head and encouraging him to drink some disgusting orange concoction of a smoothie he was too upset to touch." Good point. She picks out a matching saucer and a few jeweled spoons. "Ah, I'm only kidding. You don't actually need to buy me anything."

Blood takes a step closer to her and leans in to whisper in her ear, right there in front of the store owner and the street-facing window and everything. His voices drips with flirting, concentrated in both power and effort.

"But then again, I know something you can do if you really want to repay me..."

"Excuse you. I have a boyfriend."

Alice smacks him lightly (there, his repayment- she chose not to bruise!) on the cheek before turning around, where he can't see her blush. He laughs, so she thinks maybe she should've hit harder.

"Oh, you did have fun, hm? Congratulations to the two of you. I suppose you're soon going to be moving in with this boyfriend of yours?"

She tenses. She had been expecting this on some level- there's only so much disturbance she could cause in the upper ranks of a government via method of, let the earth swallow her up for how embarrassing this is, dating a rival leader, before the problem needs to be removed. It's sad, though, she'd grown to love the Hatter mansion. It's a second home to her.

"If you think it's what I should do."

"Calm down, young lady, I'm not kicking you out." She lets out a held breath. "But you should consider your options. Honestly, I'm happy to hear you aren't leaving us, even if... well, I'll see what I can do to keep Elliot's schedule from intersecting with yours."

"Oh, you don't have to do all that." It'd be a bit much. She turns a spoon over in her hand. "...Elliot really cried? Because I...?"

Blood gestures as if to chase her worries away with a flick of his hand.

"Like I said, he's a crier. I'll take care of him," which sounds unbelievably ominous from a man in a business where "take care of" is often code for "murder", but in this case probably means tea (always) and warm carrot muffins and a movie to take one's mind off things and going through anger, depression, bargaining, and denial to wind up at acceptance that utterly disgusting as it may be, he will get cried on by a full grown man chewing a mouthful of warm carrot muffin. "Worry about yourself, instead. You're his enemy now-"

Her stomach lurches.

"I-!"

"Regardless," Blood cuts her protest off almost before it can start. "Of whether or not you dislike Elliot, you are Julius' ally. So, his enemy. And Elliot does not have any patience for his enemies. I can only do so much if you insist on putting yourself in his way."

His eyes give away true worry under the who-cares act. Maybe he's right- Blood knows best that Elliot is dangerous, moreso than someone like her, who's mostly only seen him with his guard down and outside of his violent work. Blood himself has asked Elliot to do things that would sicken Alice to know about. So she committed to never knowing, and continues not to ask, and instead she puts her faith in this worst-of-both-worlds, this horrible slurry of cowardice to know and cowardice to leave.

"I'm not just going to give up on him like that," she says. Looks him right in the eye, summons up all her confidence. What else could a coward like her do? "I'm more afraid of losing my friendship with Elliot than of Elliot himself."

"Whatever you do, just make it interesting."

7.

But she is still a little afraid of Elliot. So when she does track him down to have a conversation it's in broad daylight, outside in the main gardens, with lots of other faceless workers milling about- like a blind date where you're not really sure if the guy is gonna be an axe murderer or not. hopefully at least one or two of her coworkers will take her side if things go south. She's brought a gift, too: carrot cookies, handmade, extra carrot. This she sets down in front of him, testing the waters. He sighs, nothing more.

"Do you have a moment?" Alice asks, very timidly, and his answer is to pick himself and a cookie up and stalk away. Wow.

"I'm busy."

"No you aren't!"

This is getting ridiculous. Her little sister is more mature than this. She chases after him with the plate.

"At least take the rest of the cookies with you!"

It gets a snort out of him. She'll take the victory, small as it is.

"There you go, c'mon, don't act like you didn't laugh-" trying her very best to be lighthearted while also noting, to herself, that Elliot is tall, maybe one of the tallest people she's ever seen and that's before the ears, and that he's very strong and very large and he has a gun, and he's currently angry at her.

"Turn around or I'll eat them myself!"

He turns around, cursing under his breath, and really looks at her for the first time since their dance was interrupted at the ball. he grabs the plate so fiercely he loses most of the cookies, curses at that too.

"I don't want to talk to you," he growls. His voice is shaking with the effort not to shout, and the shout goes into his leg instead, where he stomps at the ground. "I'm trying so hard- Blood doesn't want us to fight. I don't want to talk to you, or we'll end up fighting again."

"Well- um. That's nice of you."

It is. He who is known for shooting first and asking questions later has never actually laid a hand on her, for all his complaining. Whether that's solely on Blood's orders or because of his own affection, she had never considered before. Hopefully, it's at least partially the second reason.

She should not provoke him. She should turn away. But, losing him...

"You're the only one fighting, you know. I'm not mad at you, and I'm sorry about the ball. That's what the cookies were for."

He takes a bit of one of the remaining ones. 

"They're good, I'll give you that."

She walks a step closer, hesitantly. It's like inching up to a feral cat. You hope the food will help, but there's always a chance it won't.

"I just want us to be friends again, okay?"

"Dump him."

"Huh?"

"If you want to be friends."

"I'm not going to-"

"Then I guess there's nothing to talk about."

And he stalks away. Ugh.

8.

"Can you just drop it?" Alice snaps. This is getting to be too much, but she has too much pride to go back and ask Blood to keep her out of Elliot's way after all. The only time Elliot talks to her at all, anymore, is either to grunt in the direction of something he needs her to pass to him or to ask if she's dumped Julius yet. No, actually, she has not! What a surprise! She's tired of this, she is beyond frustrated- he is acting so stupid about it all- who does he think he is- she turns to a windowsill and slams down the papers she was carrying.

"Look. You don't have to date him!" (He recoils at the very idea.) "I have never even brought him inside the gates, I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of it."

"You're dating the clockmaker," Elliot says. His nose twitches with contempt in a way that would be adorable under different circumstances, but it is no longer safe for her to think of him as a big bunny, not when his gun is out of its holster. It's not pointed at her- not yet. But it is in his hand. "I think it's a pretty big deal."

"I don't know why you're so hung up on that!"

"I don't know why you aren't. You're not creeped out?!"

"No!"

Not anymore, anyway, but this is the wrong time and place to admit it.

"You'd think an outsider, of all people..." he grimaces. "D'you hate seeing folks resting in peace so damn much you went all the way here?"

She can feel her heart (she forgets to think at least I still have one), beating faster. She can hear it pounding in her ears (one of the very last times she will; she already hears ticking in her dreams). She feels sick, but stands her ground. Julius is a healer, a doctor, nothing so morbid as what people think.

"I don't know what you're talking about. The point is- it's not about him. I'm sick of you bothering me, okay? I want to be your friend, Elliot- shut up, let me finish, I want to be your friend and I get it, you don't like him- we don't have to talk about him- shut up, Elliot, I don't care for all your choices either but you don't see me acting like-"

It is the wrongest thing she could have possibly chosen to say. She only meant, if Julius has such a repulsive job then what about Elliot himself, his job mostly boils down to kill people, and yet she can look past it! And yet she chooses to see him as more than that! But Elliot has taken his own meaning from the words, and Alice has never seen him so angry, his mouth twisted like this- he screams, wordlessly- and then she thinks ow, and then why does it hurt, and then she sees almost as if it's happened to someone else that it's because he's grabbed her by the shoulder. His gun is pressed up against her forehead. If anyone sees, they do not intervene. She understands. If she were a passerby to this, she'd stay out of it, too. She is pressed up against his chest. It is the last time they will hug.

"My choices! Of course you'd have a fucking problem! Of COURSE!" The tip of the gun jostles against her ear, his hands are trembling, oh my god, she is going to die. Elliot can barely get words out of his mouth. "Bullshit they said about Outsiders- I believed it- Just as bad as the other two-"

"Elliot, stop it!" she shrieks. "Let go of me!"

"Stay out of what's none of your fucking business!" 

If you die in a dream, do you wake up, or do you die for real? Goodbye, Lorina, she thinks, just in case. Goodbye Edith, Dad, Dinah, goodbye friends and even goodbye Ex, goodbye magazine articles I'm supposed to finish proofreading by the end of the week and goodbye moving boxes prepared in the back of my closet where Lorina can't see. Goodbye Julius, just in case you were real after all.

Being dead isn't too interesting, not that she'd know what it's like. It's a lot like the tiled floor of the mansion, so far. This is because she is not dead, just keeled over, not pushed but simply let go of and her legs had turned to jelly. Elliot puts his gun away in his belt.

"Blood still trusts you," he says, like he just remembered it. That's the only thing between her and the bullet. "Blood wants you to live here."

She's still shaking. It was too close a call. She wants to say something, but she can't. Elliot either doesn't notice or care.

"I don't know what happened!!" explodes out of her, loud enough to hurt her own ears. Not between the two of them and certainly not between him and Julius. She's too scared, too angry, to think about what he said about the other two. She's missing a puzzle piece, maybe even several. She ran away from too much and now she will never know. "I don't know what happened between you and Julius, but-" her voice breaks, some distant part of her brain thinks she should be crying but the rest of her body disagrees. The effort makes her throat hurt.

She puts her head in her knees, and then the tears come, belated. Julius has never made her feel this scared.

"Forget it," Elliot says, stomping off. 

epilogue.

"Ohhh, yeah, Elliot and Julius..." Ace grimaces. "Ooof, sorry you had to be caught up in middle of all that! That's a can of worms."

Thank goodness for Ace. They had used to talk a lot when she'd first been taken to Wonderland, even wondered if they were headed for something more than friends, but after they'd decided not to go for it Ace had abruptly disappeared. She appreciated him giving her space at the time, even though he now tells her he just got lost on the way to the bathroom. It happens to everyone, right, he'd laughed. No? No, it really doesn't. 

But now he's suddenly here, just when she really needs someone objective to talk to and that she can, no offense to Nightmare, clearly remember talking to later in the day. Someone from a completely different territory than Hatter or Tower. At least he'll hate them both equally.

"Seriously, don't worry about it, Alice. You didn't do anything wrong, those two just aren't on good terms."

"What happened to them, anyway?"

He tilts his head.

"Oh, it's a little complicated, cause... hmmm..." he tilts his head, sizing her up. "First of all, how much do you know much about the Rules?"

"Not much at all," Alice shudders. "I can never follow along once people here start talking about Games and Rules."

"Ahahaha! Let me spare you the gory details, then! But I will say, at least in my opinion, Elliot was entirely in the wrong. Don't know what else he expected to happen...." He slaps a hand over his mouth. "Oops! Don't tell him I said that, okay? He's a nice guy, great with directions, right, he's always so patient with me! I just meant..."

"No, no, I get it."

It's a weight off her chest for the answer to be what she was kind of hoping for, which in turn makes her feel guilty. Elliot's great. She misses him, her heart aches for the time they used to spend together. But... Elliot shoots first and asks questions later. Elliot almost killed her, the first time they met, and again the last time they spoke. Elliot is clingy and stubborn and won't admit when he's wrong, and it is too easy to imagine him being the aggressor in a conflict while sincerely believing it's the other person's fault. And as long as Alice does not know for sure, then this turn of events is possible, and Julius is safe, at least in her thoughts. He deserves to have at least one supporter in this world, even just one person who believes in him.

"But forget about that, is it true you're dating Julius now?"

"That's not important." She's blushing, though.

"It's so important! Ahaha, did you tell him we kissed?"

"That was ages ago! And once!" And it was more like a goodbye. "Don't you dare tell him!"

"A knight would never gossip!" he laughs at himself, slaps his knee like he's said the funniest joke. She should not believe him, but she decides to believe him anyway.

Because if he's untrustworthy, then...

Notes:

a. [guy at party meme] she doesnt know he has a hitman who kills people if they dont want to be organ donors a1. every different adaptation/take/route/manga etc seems to have a different opinion on how secret ace's whole deal is, which i love. i love imagining the butterfly-effect-like set of unseeable circumstances and minute decisions under the water's surface that decides whether ace says "yup it's me, check out my cool mask" or lets her go on dating him without ever mentioning So I Got This Side Gig, likewise i think that when she lives at the tower but does not date Julius, she knows of ace's presence but the two of them are trying to keep the specifics quiet to not scare her, saving the tell all for julius stay + ace etc etc. a2. in the particular way i played that i'm writing based on, i visited ace at the castle up until their "friendship kiss". for MAXIMUM DRAMA, of course, which i've nodded to here (he otherwise wouldn't appear). but that, as they say, is another story for another time. a2.1. i wanted to try here a situation where Alice is purposely avoiding learning too much. Maybe this is playing up her avoidance into overdrive but i think it still falls somewhere on the line of A Way An Alice Can Be. of course, i want to think that, because i wrote it, lol. so dont take MY word for it. b. literally googling rabbit body language. they can stomp when mad! c. romeo vs juliet is a nod to the quinrose game (op here. it's, as vn ops almost always are, a banger https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1SemHTlQck) (i WISH i knew more about this game.) d. pour one out for blood, who has to watch his two besties fight. this is a situation that always sucks SO bad, and i have nothing but sympathy for him. e. "incomparable teas from around the world" is from Poison for Breakfast, and possibly even real life. f. julius' complaint with elliot being an animal is canon text and after some thought I decided to copy it here to pin it to the canon moment i wanted to write around, even though my thoughts on it boil down to "yikes, lots you could unpack but let's throw out the whole suitcase". i assume it's to create common dialogue between him finding her with boris and elliot, but it also leaves his actual quarrel with elliot entirely unadressed. g. which is why i wrote this fic. lol h. i dont know if the Completed Love reference is in the right spot and i dont feel like checking. in this world they talked about it earlier. Idk. i. 8 parts just like uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (refers to my notes) my loose headcanon for elliot's hour is 8 PM (at least currently). and there's one epilogue because UhhhhhhMMMMMM i think ace is 1PM. nailed it. j. oh god when youre up to note number J (for julius???) i think it's time to stop regardless of what else you might or might not want to add. anyway i was going to make up fake insult words for clockmakers but decided to not be YA novel cringe last moment, like SRSLY last minute you were spared. k. ummmm hope you had fun <3 L. gone back and shortened these notes before i posted, you're welcome. most of what i x'd was just reciting how the events played out in game, which tbh you can just... look at yourself lol, don't need me for it. but the particular structure of linear events+add on events somehow hits EXACTLY a good spot in my brain, endlessly explaining that well route X from Y territory doesn't feature character Z and you can't romance X from B territory is like, one of those big slidey beady things in a pediatrician's office to me. it's usually clearly segmented and fairly uncomplex while still fiddly enough to *feel* complex. aw man i just spent a paragraph explaining how much shorter i made my notes.

[manwalksintobar]

Clip-On Tie: The Diary of a New York Art Museum Security Guard  // David Berman

Relentlessly the minutes, some of them golden, touched. —John Ashbery

I had a real problem with time during my first few weeks of guarding. I sought a way to compress it, to make the six hour shift go faster. I tried meditation but I’ve never been quite sure if I’m doing it right. It always feels like I’m just being quiet.

Now I try not to do any waiting while on post. I use the time to build the useless or impossible things that populate the only intellectual frontier that interests me anymore. Today I started working on an opera about the Ohio state legislature, to be sung in German. After six hours on post it’s starting to come together.

Where the guards lean against the walls, the blue polyester jackets leave stains. Every few months the curators notice these blurry marks and for a few days we are warned not to lean. The older guards get together and moan about their feet. “In Philadelphia,” one always says, “the guards sit in chairs.”

I’m surprised at how many of the museum’s visitors are upset by the distortion of the human form in modern art. Is it the violence? It’s classical structure that always gives me the creeps. The blank eyes, whether stone or metal, always look murdered.

Mr. Demario is the most romantic of the guards. In the middle of a discussion about hat sizes he turns to me and says “I have a very big head … it’s so full of dreams.”

“I want to write unfinished christmas plays” because everyone’s present happiness depends on their image and predictions of the future. “I want to write obscure Danish plays” because everyone’s present happiness depends on the idea that there is a lot out there that we haven’t seen yet.

All the guards know the lady with Tourette’s syndrome. She comes to every new show and, despite her shaking and strange cussing, never gets near the painting or causes any trouble. Its the other museumgoers that look over at us as if to say “why don’t you do something?” when she stands before the priceless Pollock, grunting “nigger … nigger … nigger.”

I painted the back of a nickel and quietly placed it of the gallery’s stone floor. A blue sky and clouds over Monticello. An hour has gone by without anyone noticing it. Finally a little girl picks it up and puts it in her pocket.

I asked Ondre, a Mormon guard, if he looks forward to the Judgement Day. He said, “sometimes, when the city and the job get to be too much. That’s when I say, ‘I don’t care if the Lord comes today,’ even if I’m not ready.”

Over the course of a play, the audience fades and fades until the moment of applause when they take the room back, feeling their presence and power. “We have not been erased.” Clap, clap, clap.

Octavio Torres is the oldest guard of all. He is in his seventies and his body is completely rigid from arthritis. An ex-boxer with a thick Puerto Rican accent, he is barely five feet tall. On his days off he watches Popeye in his South Bronx Apartment. “I like him. He takes punishment. He remind me of Jake LaMotta.”

Torres loves to joke around. In the locker room after work he tells everyone that Mohammed lived in a tree and ate bananas back home in Africa. Mohammed laughs and calls Torres “little Spanish faggot.” Everyone is so happy, so glad to be going home or out into the city. Torres and I look at each other, smiling, and he says “we are men. we must joke.”

II

A portrait is a painting with something wrong with the mouth. —John Singer Sargent

I was operating the elevator when the repairman came aboard. After a lot of small talk he let me in on an industry secret: the “door close” button is not wired to anything. “It’s just a pacifier,” he said.

On a normal day I think in questions: “Should I quit my job? Why can’t I relate to people? Where am I going?” I can never answer them conclusively and only wear myself out. When I’m high in the back of a club listening to Son Seals play I only think in answers: “I’ll move to El Paso this fall. These solos are wandering into every unused space. My girlfriend is pretty good looking after all. I should see about buying a mausoleum.”

A municipal concession to human psychology: The insides of buses are lit at night because people will not sit in dark rooms with strangers.

I bought some greeting cards in a Nungessers junk shop last night. They’re not much more than twenty years old but the sentiments are already foreign. Fluff from other eras always turns my stomach. What if no one feels these feelings anymore. Do they go down in history like famous clothes?

I wonder if Jackson Pollock unconsciously designed so many of these canvases to have the same dimensions as U.S. paper currency, accidentally imbuing them with some concrete power.

Working at the museum is changing the way I look at everyday objects. Eating at an Italian restaurant, I look at the red and white gridded tablecloth and wonder that all the dishes have their owned unnamed coordinates.

All the guards are freaks. That is a fact. Wouldn’t standing alone in a corner six hours a day over many years change you?

After work I head back home to Brooklyn, where the nights smell like burnt hair. I see a mother yelling at her kid for working the candy machine wrong. She takes all the fun out of candy.

Susan’s blind date was a real mess. At the end of the night he walked her home. She was locked out of her own apartment. Frustrated, she asked him to break the door in. He grunted and bucked against it until she was completely repulsed. The sight of him brutally breaking into her apartment frightened her. She screamed for him to get out.

I overhear two tourists walking by my post in the museum: “The Orientals have to invade Paris by 1998.”

Barnet Newman on an Arizona road painting crew. Richard Serra paperweights for sale in the museum gift shop. Did the first impressionists have glaucoma?

Older lady and friend in museum today: “This is my first chinese companion. I am going through a nervous period right now. Thank you … This is my chinese companion.”

I walked into the locker room and catch Tony Pasciucco cleaning earwax off his hearing aid, “Christmas carolers shot dead in Brooklyn last night.”

“What’s that?”

III

I guess you’re a bore, but in that you’re not charmless, because a bore is a straight line that finds a wealth in division. —Lou Reed

An autograph hound: “I get them and lose them or throw them away. I only enjoy the asking. Or I concentrate on one star and get hundreds from him.”

The tired Indian counterman at the coffeeshop saddens me like the Bhopal accident never could. It’s the nearness, of course. As I’m leaving I call out to the manager, “you have shit coffee. Fuck you.”

A woman walks onto the gallery floor. All the guards look over. She appears to be a star, a celebrity of some sort. Finally the word comes around: she’s just rich.

New York is never more beautiful than it is right after work.

Waiting for the subway, I noticed a bit of neatly written graffiti on a movie poster. “Keep a clear head” printed on Rocky’s forehead. Free advice to the city. I’m positive that it’s the same hand that wrote “concentrate” above that urinal in Hoboken.

Burgoyne Diller’s paintings reflect nicely on the glossy floors. These reflections should be the actual works, the paintings could function as the projection devices.

I wonder if Donald Judd got his idea for the wall boxes from the rows of air conditioning units jutting out of apartment building windows.

The Queen of Sweden came into the museum with her entourage today. Across the gallery Mr. Demario’s elaborate hand gestures told me that a “knockout” was at large. She stood in front of the Jeff Koons sculpture as the guide intoned “these two vacuum cleaners, which are hermaphrodites …”

One of the worst things about guarding is having to stand next to tourists that have doused themselves in perfume. Shouldn’t they be subject to ticketing by the police? How is this different from walking around with a loud radio on your shoulder, or reaching out and touching a stranger’s face?

The sense of humor of other ages has always seemed bad.

I kill time on post by studying coins. The detail on the back of the penny is incredible (you can see tourists walking up the memorial steps, and the statue through the columns) but it’s a shame that Lincoln has to be on the front. Why not Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire?

Mohammed has threatened to use African magic to get our supervisor fired. I spend all day encouraging him to go ahead with his plan.

“If I have sex with Kelly while she’s under the impression that I’m rich, it will certainly teach her a lesson, but am I right in teaching it?”

The ceilings of the museum are packed with asbestos that occasionally drops to the gallery floor in small clumps. Museum policy states that the entire building must be shut down and the workers be sent home with pay when this happens. The fact that the asbestos had been regularly falling next to Eric’s guard post has the administration suspicious. Rumor has it that he brings samples to work in a jar.

In the 1940s men often traced the shape of a curvy woman in the air with their hands. Women were known to throw their drinks into men’s faces when angry.

I stepped outside the museum on my lunch break and smelled burning leaves. “Ah fall,” I thought for a second, and then realized my mistake: a building was burning down the block. I wonder how long the mind can be suspended between these two answers, the wrong cause and the right cause, because I like hanging in that split second.

I was surprised to find out that Wittgenstein was gay.

IV

Move a fin and the world turns

—Throbbing Gristle

There is a beggar across the street from the museum. Every time he is given change he looks away and says “thank you, God” just above a whisper. People walk away slightly hurt and angry. Steve hates him.

When I was six, I saw my father nonchalantly rip a dollar bill in half. I could not believe my eyes.

Three people walked into the museum restaurant today. All three wore white turbans. At first I thought they had head wounds, then realized they were members of an eastern religion that I could not quite place. They stood and gazed over the salad bar, considering their strict dietary laws.

Lou giving advice on how to dress: “Now you go get yourself a pair of black shoes and a pair of brown shoes … ”

Kenneth Noland and Brice Marden’s color field paintings are intended to be non-referential but they cause me to imagine strange high school football team uniforms anyway.

Sometimes, out of the blue, I’ll speak in a rigid monotone: “Hello Joan” that really unnerves Joan, whoever the hell she is.

Waiting for a friend at the 33rd street subway station, we look at the map, covered in stops. Steve looks at me angrily and says “what makes you think she’ll be here and not here, or here, or at any of these?”

Two men on TV point guns at each other: “Drop it.” “No, you drop it.” “No, you drop it.” I’m interested in how the director will resolve this loop.

His paintings were like speculations on the future published in the full knowledge that they would one day become obsolete collector’s items.

Mr. Demario has a real talent for writing jokes about great opening lines: “I was at this parade in India … ” or “I was at a roller rink when it began to storm and I missed the last bus home … ” When he finishes he laughs nervously, his lips rolling back like carpets to reveal how wrecked his teeth are.

When looking at Donald Judd’s sculpture, it helps to keep in mind that the polio virus is a perfectly symmetrical twenty-sided solid.

The restaurant next to the museum stopped putting toothpicks out for the customers. One month later they closed down. I had warned them to put the toothpicks back out.

I spend a lot of my day in front of Rockwell Kent’s “The Trapper.” The painting always engages me because I’m torn on whether it depicts a sunrise or a sunset. They seem equally possible and there are no clues in the shape of the snowbanks or in the position of the sun to let me know. The docent tries to convince me that it doesn’t matter, that there can be two paintings. But that kind of lazy permissiveness obscures the third “true” painting.

Lawren shows me her distorted “wanted poster” woodcuts. “But you could never catch anybody with these things.” “That’s the point,” she says. “Your point is that people shouldn’t get caught?”

These pictures were titled “Jackson’s Body” or “Jackson’s Head” but never “Jackson.”

Mr. Demario is having more problems. His wife, a nun who left the convent at age 34 to marry him, has developed a spastic colon. He has invited me out to dinner so that we can discuss his problems in greater detail than we can on the gallery floors. He knows a place where they make a great “sweet and pungent pork.”

With Frederic Church’s paintings, looking one hundred miles into the distance, over mountain ranges and beyond, it’s always difficult to remember that the paint is only a millimeter thick.

Why did jazz turn up its nose at the tuba?

Last night at the Biennial opening, I overheard Frank Stella whispering some wisecracks about the new Rauschenberg piece to his wife. She gently punched him in the ribs as if to say “behave!” and they walked on. After seeing Rauschenberg through the eyes of a peer, I feel more confident about calling his late work “flimsy.”

V

If there’s ever a problem, I film it and it’s no longer a problem. It’s a film. —Andy Warhol

It would be a tragedy to spend your whole life desperately wanting to be something that you already were, all along.

On Fridays the guards are given ten minutes to take their paychecks to the bank. The beautiful tellers have become arrogant from handling money all day. If they have time, they flirt with the big accounts.

European tourists move about the museum half-interested, exactly fifty percent interested. Do they ever spill a drink or piss on their shoes?

Sometimes, when a beautiful Italian girl wanders into an empty gallery I fantasize about walking over and kissing her on the neck. When she turned around and saw that I was a guard, I would straighten up and whisper “no kissing allowed.”

The classicist’s theme is the recovery of the subjective mind, the healing of the subjective mind. Well, our courts are clogged with these minds.

The nineteen year old Cusies are the only twins on the guard force. The girls insist that their spooked grandmother tried to murder them twice during their infancy. First, she gave them diet gum in an attempt to dehydrate them. Second, she sent them new blankets in the mail—the blankets had been soaked in insecticide.

Christ’s message twisted: Only love your enemies.

If the fable of “The grasshopper and the ants” was amended so that the world ended before the turn of winter, then the grasshopper would have been wiser and the moral would have vindicated him. In a story, the location of the ending is very deliberate.

I’ve been photographing the imprints that deck chairs leave on the back of people’s legs.

A lady comes into the museum: “I am a woman on TV. You have never had a TV … now get off my show!” It only took a few minutes of this kind of talk to make me feel like the intruder.

“He” was a sensitive reader, almost too delicate to withstand the commands and admonitions of punctuation.

Two drunks outside the Greenpoint subway: “You better leave an hour early to get there on time.” They are lying, they never go anywhere, I thought to myself. For whose benefit would they be acting? Why am I so suspicious?

John Baldessari burned all his pre-1967 paintings. “I think that’s odd behaviour but I would like to get in touch with him anyway, to see about using the ashes as makeup for this play I’m writing about British coal miners.”

After guarding masterpieces for weeks, it feels good to stand in my dentist’s office before this cheap painting of a ship.

If the world was a bit smaller, just three neighborhoods smaller, maybe things would work out. I’ve heard that there’s a scarcity of luxury. In the movie theatres each person has to share an armrest with a stranger.

What Duchamp did with the urinal no longer surprises me, what surprises me is the idea that they had urinals back then.

I am waiting for the bus when I smell something burning. I turn to the man standing next to me and ask if he smells it too. In preparing to speak he lets a cloud of condensed breath out into the freezing air. For a half second my mind plays a trick on me. “Oh no, he’s burning,” I think.

No one gets hungry at the sight of a lush cornfield or a herd of cattle. It’s enough to tell you that we’re full of education, not awareness.

The painter eyes his subject. It’s a single piece of fruit, yellow and shaped like a lightbulb, split open to show the cavity where the pit would normally be, if the pit were not swirling around inside the painter’s mouth.

[karlamorrigan]

Life is good.

I'm alive.

I'm happy.

I'm stable.

But my mind doesn't believe it. And so it's putting me through this bullshit constant state of fight or flight. No matter that I left and survived.

It couldn't have been that easy, it tells me. Something will be coming for you. This happiness came too easy, and you'll never be allowed to get away with it.

So I walk down the street, my key held tight in a fist, key teeth sticking out between my clenched fingers. Waiting, watching, listening for any sign of danger. Waiting, sometimes--most times--hoping, for someone to do just one thing out of order to hail down on them. Hiding the lanyard of my work badge deep within my backpack because I can't afford giving someone an invitation to try to choke me. And always wearing clothes that allow for mobility, and thick boots to reinforce proper kickback.

That's not normal.

And people here, they would look. They would all turn and stalk with their eyes until I can feel their gaze searing through my skin. Until I want to run, run, run and gouge out their eyes from their sockets. And then there is some people who would look, then rush to drive right beside me. Window rolls down, I block out the words, and just try my best to ignore everything and not start swinging. Always careful not to pick a fight, always conscious to the fact that while I may have impeccable survival instincts, I'm limited. I'm small, and weak, and these are men. And no amount of work I can do with my current abilities can guarantee me a level up.

I'm tired of being weak. I'm so, so sick and tired of being a woman in a place like this. Tired of being looked at like a piece of meat, regardless how modest I was dressed. Unless I go back to covering up every inch of my body, and maybe stop walking in the street altogether, this will keep happening.

I am angry, and helpless, and sad, and at the same time proud for being different enough to set off the norms.

Life is hard, but as a female life is near impossible. More so in a society like mine. Everyone has a claim on who you are or how you are or what you choose to wear or how you choose to wear it. And should you choose to be like me, and godforbid you do that, you can count on the idea that someone, somewhere will be so self-righteous to the point where the aforementioned territorialism shifts from being a look to being outright assault. How can I rest? How can I just relax when I am a woman? How can I stop the anticipation of harm? I'm used to it, but I never wanna go through it again. I'm done being violated.

The thought of being done with violation makes me hold my ground, and with every single time a man feasts on the sight my skin or my hips or my waist or my chest, with every time a man finds it acceptable--wholly on his own terms and not one thought of mine--to force a conversation, or in some cases, ask if I may be open for coveted violation, or if not, maybe he "could make it worth my time and pay me" I rage. To others, this rage is unjustified. Why would I rage, and how could I? Nothing has ever happened, and if it did, it's probably my fault. It's in their eyes, at their throats, and in some outrageous cases, tumbling down their tongues dismissively.

People only pretend when it comes to women and their freedom of self. Whether it's freedom of speech, or freedom of self-expression through how they present their physical forms to the world. They would talk about how much they respect and value us, then call us emotional and prone to fatal outbursts. But it's rarely the women who commit the crimes, it's rarely the women who violate their partners and their children. Never on their own, at least, never without societal or cultural pressure to maintain the image of a celibate lady who values honor above all else.

But truly, what is honor? What are values?

Is it a waltz of denial of oneself and dismissal of one's emotions and desires and dreams and rights? Is it all because of an X chromosome? Or is it more than that? Is the embodiment of honor really nothing more than whether or not a reproductive organ remains hidden and locked away or celebrated and cherished for all the joy it brings? Is that because that's actually what makes women honorable, or is it because the territorialism of men had gotten them to prey on women's freedom for their own satisfaction? A prize, a rarity... Until it's claimed and used and discarded. A reward and a blessing, until it's no longer wholly theirs.

Though thoroughly stressed is the fact that women must not, under no circumstance, give away the keys to her kingdom. Limiting that "kingdom" to strictly that plethora of nerve endings at the apex of lower extremities, ignored, and misunderstood, and misbelieved as it is, and the abilities promised by what lay above it tucked behind the navel, and what layers come in between. A "valuable" life congratulated for having naught but tidings of good life as a wife and a mother. Nestled within these tidings are the stigma of desire, the expectations of gravidity, and the assertion of discipline for outspokenness.

Kingdom. Kingdom because it's nothing more than a wasteland were it not for a king. Kingdom because were it not for a king, it's an open land for just about any man to lay claim to, to abuse and lay ruin to. Forgetting wholly, or perhaps sleeping over the fact that the holy stewardess of that kingdom wasn't born but rather conditioned and molded and scolded into being a mindless follower and a solemn protector of that sacred land. No questions asked, no reservations shown, not a single indication of disobedience tolerated.

And while some may adapt and learn to love their reality, a great many are shocked to find a terrifying reality that is the King's court. Unmoved by the pleas they squeal into the night, unbothered by violation of humanity. Deliberately blind to the agony. And completely blindsided by the uprising.

So I am here, a woman, standing beside billions upon billions of women... Fighting for Queendom.

[phoenixyfriend]

Jangobi 5 for the soulmate thing? Because that would make the fight on kamino just *chef's kiss*

soulmate au prompts

5. the one where you don’t know your soulmate until you touch them.

Apparently there’s never any skin to skin contact in the movie? Because armor? So......... we’re gonna just. Quick little thing.

Also I’ve been doing a lot of “marginally less shitty” Jango, but this is just-as-shitty-as-canon Jango. It’s, uh, not much of a romance, because Kamino. Actually it’s mostly just a lot of angry yelling about human rights violations.

...I’m sure they’ll get together eventually. It’s just, you know... it’s going to take a while.

------

Jango’s heard about this Jedi.

The man isn’t famous, or particularly acclaimed. It’s just that Mandalorians gossip, and Death Watch isn’t exempt, and Dred Priest still has friends in the terrorist group. So do a few others.

(Jango sometimes wonders if he’d have invited Priest, had he knows the monster was only a step away from being Death Watch himself.)

(Probably not.)

(He’d at least have been able to see the battle circles coming.)

Death Watch hates one specific Jedi above all others: Obi-Wan Kenobi.

It’s almost enough to make a man like the pretty bastard, except the reason Death Watch hates this specific Jedi is because he kept Duchess Kryze alive, and Jango isn’t much of a fan of hers, either.

In the moment, though, the main thing this all means is that Obi-Wan Kenobi knows Mandalorian customs.

First meetings, out of armor, mean ensuring the arm clasp has skin contact.

His eyes flick down to where Jango is reflexively pulling up his sleeves, and the man just... does the same, sodden as the beige-on-brown-on-dark-brown robes are.

Jango can’t just play it off. He has to, ugh, arm clasp with a Jedi.

Kenobi probably guesses how unpleasant this is for him, going by the grim little smile that he wears, the one Taun We can’t read and Jango can, but they touch forearms and le--

They do not let go.

“Oh kriff,” Kenobi swears, and then it’s just... it’s too late. It’s too late to stop anything.

“Jetii,” Jango spits as if it’s a swear.

He doesn’t want to be soulmates with a Jedi. No sane person ever wants to be soulmates with a Jedi, but as a Mandalorian, and as specifically Jango Fett, who signed onto this project for revenge against Jedi, the idea is just... excruciating.

“For revenge? Not entirely unexpected, but I’m still somehow disappointed.”

“Stay out of my head.”

Kenobi smiles at him, completely devoid of anything but the blackest of humor. “Are you staying out of mine?”

And, well, no. They’re soulmates. Kenobi has more of an idea on how to control how far his mind wanders into Jango’s, but in this moment, just seconds after being bound together by the universe... Jango’s slamming into Kenobi’s shields with an embarrassing lack of control.

“Is something the matter?” Taun We asks.

“I do believe we need to speak alone,” Kenobi says. “Unfortunate timing, but this is our first meeting, and it appears we are soulmates.”

“Ah. We were informed of the human tendency towards such.” She blinks, too large eyes impossible to read for Kenobi, but entirely readable for Jango after all these years. She’s irritated. “I apologize, but it appears we were unable to remove such unpredictability from the product.”

A wave of revulsion leaks out of Kenobi’s mind and into Jango’s. The man just nods. “I understand. As it is, I imagine that the near instantaneous communication on the battlefield will be a boon, if any are bonded to each other or to active soldiers.”

“I defer to your judgement as client, Master Kenobi,” Taun We hums, still irritable. It’s less visible in her face, but... Kenobi can feel it. “I shall leave you to get... acquainted.”

Aaaaaaaand she’s expecting them to sleep together the second she turns her back. The disgust she feels at the thought of such carnal activities is thirdhand to Jango, but he can still feel it, because Kenobi can feel it, because they’re soulmates.

“Oh, do tell me how you really feel,” Kenobi mutters, sweeping past him into the apartment.

Jango wishes he could slam the door as he storms after the Jedi.

“Listen here--”

“Absolutely not,” Kenobi says, with the kind of bland, impersonal smile that Jango’s heard Dred Priest bitch about at least a dozen times. “I need you to answer me this: why are you selling your children into what is clearly slavery?”

“They’re not my children.”

“You choose to be dar’buir, then?” Kenobi clucks a tongue, acting like he can’t even feel Jango’s waves of hate that are just growing by the second. “Shame on you, Mand’alor.”

“I am not the Mand’alor.”

“No. You are demagolka,” Kenobi says, the sweet words of Jango’s first language falling from his lips like poisoned honey. “They are your children, Fett. Your clones, just as human as you.”

“They are little more than droids, Jedi. The Kaminoans--”

Kenobi laughs, sharp and bitter, and it’s enough of a surprise that Jango stops talking. The Jedi strides closer, and it takes everything in him to not step back at what little emotion the Jedi allows through.

“Let me show you,” Kenobi hisses, putting a hand on either side of Jango’s head and it’s too much this is not a sense he is meant to have.

Kenobi cannot lie to Jango, not in this mental space. Not in this existence. He can cherry-pick what he shows, he can exaggerate, he can hide, but he cannot present a falsehood.

What Kenobi shows him, as he pulls Jango into his mind and drowns him in the sensation of the Force, is how each and every clone shines, bright and unique and so very human, so very sentient, so very alive.

These are your children, Kenobi says, directly into his mind and with no room to pull away. If they choose to disown you for your crimes against them, then that is their right, but until they do, they are your responsibility. You’re playing in denial and cognitive dissonance, soulmate mine. If I have to drag you into caring for your children the way any Mandalorian would, then so be it.

“Kriff off,” Jango manages to grit out in the real world. Kenobi looks unimpressed, when he lets go. The sensations in Jango’s mind, the jangled distaste and horror and anger, those are worse.

“Are you going to be dar’manda?” Kenobi demands. “You, who were once king of your people, have you really sunk so low to be the worst of your kind? To be so horrible that even Kyr’tsad would be shamed? Or worse, approve?”

“You have no place--”

“You are violating one of the core tenets of your culture!” Kenobi shouts. “You are being the worst of what you could be, Jango Fett! The most important, the absolute most important element of your culture, the care and nurture of children, and look at what you’ve done--”

“The clones--”

“Your sons!” Kenobi growls at him. “Your children, Fett. I’ve a student that is, by every Mandalorian standard, my son. I know what it is to take in a child that is not yours by blood, to raise a foundling, and you are cutting off millions that are your blood. You aren’t turning away an orphan to another family because you cannot care for them as they deserve, you are breeding your children for war like bantha to slaughter.”

Jango throws the first punch.

Kenobi throws the second.

By the time the fight ends, the room is in ruins, for all that they do not draw blasters or sabers. Kenobi has Jango on his back, straddling his chest with knees on his wrists, a vibroblade to his neck. Kenobi’s lip is bleeding, and Jango thinks he might have caused a hairline fracture in the cheekbone. Both of them have at least one broken rib, and Jango’s currently blind in one eye from the blood pouring out of a cut on his forehead.

Kenobi’s a good fighter. If it weren’t for everything else, Jango might have even been able to appreciate that.

“You,” Kenobi growls, fisting one hand into Jango’s curls and yanking for emphasis, earning himself a snarl in return. “Are going to fix this mess you’ve helped create. If I have to drag the entire Jedi council, the entire senate, if I have to drag in all of Mandalore to make you fix this, I will.”

There’s determination in those words, angry and a little spiteful, but mostly just... disappointed.

“Of course I’m disappointed,” Kenobi spits out, like the words are hot coals. He’s expressive. Jango wants to like it, but mostly he just resents the trait. “I hoped to never find a soulmate; it just complicates things. Opsec becomes a nightmare and holding to the code is difficult. And now I have a soulmate, and he’s an absolute monster that views his own children as little more than droids.”

“War is going to come for them no matter what,” Jango manages to say, and Kenobi’s look is back to unimpressed. “Don’t pretend you haven’t heard of the separatists. There’s an army of actual droids, metal and code, just waiting for the right moment to pick a fight. It’s too late to stop it.”

“...you’re not only raising an army of your own children, but engineering the war that’s going to kill them?” Kenobi almost screeches, and the wave of nauseous loathing that slams into Jango is almost enough to make him actually vomit. Kenobi didn’t pull punches, not in the actual fight and not in whatever mental battle they’re apparently having via emotions and words.

“I’m not engineering it,” Jango says. “I’m just one part in a bigger machine. I got my payment. The rest is on Tyranus.”

He doesn’t even stop the images from flickering through his mind, throwing the man who hired him under the speeder.

“Master Dooku?” Kenobi whispers, horror growing. “No, no, I killed the--the Sith can’t--I killed the one on Naboo, and the Council mentioned the Rule of Two, but... oh hells.”

“You know him?” Jango taunts.

“He’s my grandmaster,” Kenobi says, and Jango can’t imagine the rest is meant to reach him, but the undercurrent is there.

Count Dooku is, by Mandalorian law, Kenobi’s grandfather.

Jango... suddenly feels a little regret about the taunting.

“I’d rather you feel regret about your children,” Kenobi snaps at him. “Every single one of them is a person, one that you chose to bring into this world, and they are your children.”

The argument is going in circles, but there are still places to take this.

“Your army is all adults, Kenobi,” Jango decides.

“They are ten years old,” Kenobi retorts. “Accelerated aging, sure, but they are children.”

“They’re soldiers.”

Disgust again, the same thing Kenobi has felt every time Jango has reasserted the purpose these children were born to, the same thing Jango has told his son, his sergeants, himself, for over a decade.

“A son?” Kenobi whispers. “Is your denial that strong, Fett? That you would claim one and not the rest?”

“Payment,” Jango says, and lets Kenobi feel the rest, since he seems so karking keen on it.

“Keeping one child in exchange for letting yourself be the creator of a slave army,” Kenobi says, and he doesn’t seem impressed. “Weren’t you a slave? Two years on a spice ship, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t you dare--”

“And you would put your sons in chains,” Kenobi hisses, hands going for Jango’s head again. It’s a sense memory, this time, of dark tunnels and exploding collars and a dar’jetii that... was his older brother. According to the Jedi way of thinking.

It’s a twisting fear and pain and I will die so that others may live while looking at an older man, a Master, who can maybe save the other slaves at the expense of one too-angry Initiate’s li--

“Get out of my head!” Jango roars, and he still can’t move his arms, and his legs are held down by the Force, but he twists his head to bite and Kenobi snatches his hands away.

Kenobi glares down at him, almost sneering with the amount of disdain he has for Jango’s general existence. “I’m your soulmate, and had we met fifteen years ago, I might have even thought that an alright thing... but whatever you are now isn’t something I can abide by. You won’t listen to morality, so let me say this instead: a Jedi does not kill an unarmed opponent, but I have full authority to arrest you, even here. I will take you back to the Republic, to be tried for your collusion with a Sith, and you will go to prison. You can try to run, but I am in your head, and you’re in mine. Once you’re in prison, what happens to your son?”

The implication is there, but even if it wasn’t, Jango hears the thought:

They’re soulmates. The Republic would place Boba with Kenobi.

He refuses to have his child raised by a holier-than-thou Jedi.

“Holiness doesn’t have any meaning in Jedi philosophy,” Kenobi says, relaxing just the slightest bit. “Other religions, yes, but no place in ours.”

“You’re a self-righteous bastard,” Jango says flatly. “Despite threatening a child.”

“You mean threatening to take custody of a child being raised in an unhealthy environment, one where he’s being taught to devalue his brothers, engendering a mental dissonance where he has to convince himself he’s special for a reason and that you won’t just drop him if he fails to be perfect?” Kenobi asks. “I prefer to keep children with guardians who love them, but the argument that he’s better off away from you isn’t a difficult one.”

“Oh, like a child-stealer--”

“My mother tried to drown me when I was a toddler,” Kenobi says, even flatter than Jango had been a minute earlier. “Because I was Force-Sensitive, and it was considered curse on my home planet. A Jedi saved me. Tell me that was a kidnapping and not being saved.”

Jango grinds his teeth. “You’re damned smug whenever you have some sob story that outranks mine.”

“This isn’t about who has the bigger sob story,” Kenobi says, and Jango can feel how he’s just as ready to start clenching his jaw to deal with Jango’s bullshit. “It’s about you doing your damned job as a Mandalorian and a father, and taking responsibility for your children. All three million of them.”

It really, really is a pity they didn’t meet before Jango took this job. They could have been great together.

As it is, Jango goes for the groin shot the second Kenobi lets him back on his feet.

[aminiatureworld]

Disappearance III

Character: Childe, gn!reader

Word Count: 2,581

Warnings: None

Premise: In which there is an argument and the reader disappears.

Author’s Note: Childe my favorite character, how I love to torture you.

But genuinely I really like how this one came out.

Childe

Childe craned his neck to stare at the clock on the wall behind him. Sighing at the lateness of the afternoon he turned back towards the papers in his lap, trying desperately to focus, to not let his thoughts drift off to the argument that had taken place in the morning.

It had started out simple enough. Childe had informed you that he might be gone for some time, as the Tsaritsa had requested a high-level reconnaissance mission, and Childe was to be the one to lead it. He thought that you react much the way that you always had, assurances of his success, light-hearted reminders to stay safe, and a goodbye kiss as you two settled back into a normal routine before the day of departure. Instead however, your lips had slanted into a frown, and you stopped making your breakfast to turn and face your partner.

“Childe, I wish you wouldn’t always take things on yourself.”

“What do you mean darling?” Childe felt a wave of surprise wash over him. After all, what else was he supposed to do?

“I mean that you’re being entirely too reckless Childe. You know that you have too high a profile to be doing stuff like this. I… I would like you to sit this one out. Just this one.”

Childe couldn’t help but laugh, whether out of irritation or genuine amusement he wasn’t sure of. “As much as I appreciate the concern, I can’t do that. No leader worth their salt would send their underlings off alone, even if they are some of the weakest underlings in the world. No one’s been able to pull the wool over me yet darling, it’ll be perfectly alright.”

“You’re not listening to me,” your voice picked up in intensity. “Childe I really try, I try to remind myself that you’re a Harbinger and able to take care of yourself; but sometimes it’s just too much. This is too much.”

“You’re being silly,” Childe said, trying to keep his tone light. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I can’t disobey the Tsaritsa. She wishes me to do this so I will. It’s as simple as that.”

“The Tsaritsa is far away, she has hundreds, thousands under her command. She won’t bat an eye at your safety.”

“Like you said, I can take care of myself.”

“But what if one day you can’t? What if, what if one day you don’t come back. Please, just this once; just this once don’t go.”

“I know that the length of time is upsetting, but you can’t react like this every time I have to go away for a while. I promise that you’ll have me all to yourself afterwards.”

“It’s not about that Childe! Please, please listen to me. I’m worried about your safety. I’m worried one of these days you’re going to end up in a fight too big even for you. What will you do then? What will your underlings do? What will I do? Please, tell the Tsaritsa you have to stay and make sure the Bank stays out of trouble, or that nothing happens in Liyue. Please, don’t go this time.”

“You’re being irrational.” By now Childe was definitely irritated.

“No, I’m being realistic. You don’t take care of yourself enough.”

“You’re just underestimating me. Besides, I’m a better fighter than you’ll ever be. It’s not like you can protect me even if I stayed here.”

“What?”

“It’s not like staying in Liyue would be any safer, better to face things head on. For the Tsaritsa, for Snezhnaya, that is the most important thing. If you can’t see that, you’re just being stupid.”

Although Childe regretted the words almost immediately after they left his mouth he could see that saying that would’ve had no effect. So instead he watched silently as your face clouded over and you stormed out the door, not bothering to grab your food as you slung your pack around you back and walked out. A part of him wanted to call after you, but he knew that even if he did you probably wouldn’t listen. Even if you did, what could he say? After all, he had simply spoken the truth; even if you couldn’t accept it as such.

Now Childe sat on the couch, eyes glazing voer as he stared at all the paperwork that needed to be done before his mission. He had already spent a hectic, uneasy day at the bank. Though he knew that none of his underlings would be foolish enough to try to pull something while he was gone, Andrei would make sure of that and Childe would make sure of Andrei, it was still tedious, boring work. This was in no way helped by the lingering ill will from his fight with you earlier. Though Childe ultimately forgot fights relatively quickly the time right after was always an uneasy one, filled with sudden flashes of irritation replaced suddenly by the wish for it all to have never happened.

He had hoped that you might be home by the time he arrived, but your absence wasn’t truly much of a surprise. Besides the fact that you were still probably angry with him, something Childe couldn’t really fault, you had recently been involved with some project near the Chasm, and it was hardly surprising that something that big caused you late hours. Still he couldn’t deny the fact that he was somewhat disappointed, or maybe disheartened was a better way to put it. He hated fighting with you, especially fights that lasted. Even if he was irritated with you, even if he thought that you had demanded something impossible, he still regretted snapping at you. He just wanted you to come home now, that way he could apologize and explain the situation better. That way he wouldn’t leave with any ill will behind him.

The clock was excruciatingly slow, but the insult of that wasn’t registered until Childe dozed off. Waking up in the middle of the night he was surprised at your continued absence. Though he had expected that sleeping on the couch might’ve happened, your total disappearance was certainly something that threw him for a loop. Making his way to the bedroom and flopping down on the bed Childe closed his eyes, pushing away the anxiety that clustered at the edge of his thoughts.

Perhaps you’d ended up staying with Hu Tao, or maybe you’d gone back home to your family. He had been awfully mean after all, and you were never the kind of person to take his insults sitting down. Still, if that were true why hadn’t you packed more, or come back to collect your things? It didn’t make any sense. Questions and half baked reasonings floated through Childe head as he tried to delay the inevitable pull of sleep. The last conscious thought he could remember was the knowledge that at least you would be back tomorrow.

You were not, in fact, home tomorrow. The Harbinger’s time spent at the Northland Bank was almost completely useless, the meeting with the people he’d be going on his mission with even more so. Though Childe wasn’t necessarily the most attentive listener, often letting his mind wander when his fellow Fatui members fell into arguing about the most insipid things, he knew that paying attention to a plan as a whole was critical to its success. Even so he couldn’t bring his mind to focus on the maps and profiles that sat in front of him. Where were you? It seemed like such a silly question, but the longer it floated in Childe’s head the colder he felt.

Finally the meetings and the menial tasks ended and Childe could go home. Sprinting down the winding streets of Liyue, not bothering to hide the fact he was in a hurry, Childe burst into the apartment. His heart sank as he was met with the same image he’d seen when he’d left that morning.

Afterwards Childe wandered around the docks of Liyue, trying to keep the quickly fragmenting pieces of his mind together. He knew that he was probably overreacting, knew that you were simply staying away because of what he said, knew that it wouldn’t be forever – you would have definitely told him if that were the case. Still he couldn’t help but feel dread crawling over him, saturating the cracks of his brain as he wondered how he’d managed to fuck everything up so much. He had underestimate how much his words must have affected you, and that only made him feel worse. Finally exhausting his walk along the pier Childe set off towards the edges of the city and into the vast wilderness of Liyue. He needed to find something to fight.

The nightmare continued on into the next day, then into the day after that. Childe could barely remember what he did during those days, walking around as if possessed, unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments before his thoughts inevitably found their way back to you. Mostly Childe ended up sleeping, dozing off at his desk or on the couch, papers fluttering from his hands onto the floor. Mostly Childe dreamed of you.

They weren’t dreams of any particular note, their contents incredibly mundane. Not that it matter to Childe; within those dreams he felt nothing but happy domesticity, a calm that washed over him as he walked with you to the market or lay next to you under the stars. Always you would appear in his dreams suddenly, and always he would throw his arms around you, clinging to you as if even an embrace wasn’t enough. Always he woke up with a sense of desolation so vast it threatened to consume him.

Finally on the fifth day Childe couldn’t take it anymore. Waking up at almost the crack of dawn the Harbinger rushed to the Bank. He wouldn’t stay long, only enough to inform Andrei that he’d be out for the day. Then he’d go to the Guild and check and make sure everything was okay. Then, well he’d figure out what to do then. It seemed pathetic to chase after you, not to mention gross. He wouldn’t become a stalker, wouldn’t let himself fall into such pathetic behavior. Still, he had to make sure you were at least okay. As long as he did that, well, the rest could come later.

Striding into the Bank Childe was met with a surprising sight. Normally Ekaterina stayed firmly tucked inside her receptionist cubby, even more antisocial than the likes of the Balladeer or the Fatui that guarded Dragonspine. Now however she stood at the front of the booth, wringing her hands this way and that as she stared at a piece of paper in front of her. Feeling a sudden sense of dread Childe walked up to her.

“Ekaterina?”

“Oh!” Ekaterina whirled around, look on her face one of utter anxiety. “My lord, I was horrified to hear of the news, tell me, do you know if they’re almost free?”

“What are you talking about?” Childe narrowed his eyes.

“Why, your partner. I only heard today from Nadia; no wonder you’ve been so distant recently, if it’s not too much for me to say so. I only hope that they’ll soon be rescued, I’m sure you know about the situation better than I do though.”

“Ekaterina, what in the Tsaritsa’s name are you talking about?”

A shadow passed over Ekaterina’s face, a look of utter dread. Swallowing slightly she stared at a spot in the wall right to the side of Childe. “You partner, my lord, I’ve been informed that they have become trapped in one of the caverns of the Chasm. I thought that you knew about it, it’s been five days after a–”

Childe didn’t hear the rest of what Ekaterina had to say. Whirling around the Harbinger slammed his way out of the bank, aiming towards the nearest waypoint. Cold dread washed over him and with it desperate determination. He’d rescue you. If he had to tear apart the entire Chasm and raze all the mountains in Liyue to the ground so be it.

  Approaching the Chasm Childe felt a rush of adrenaline wash over him. He was terrified. By the Seven, he was utterly terrified. Images of you flashed in his mind, images of you cowering in the dark, stuck at the bottom of an endless pit, lying on the ground with no air or food or life in you. How could he have let this happen? How could he have not known of this before? Anger burned within Childe, anger at himself. He should have never let you walk out of your apartment without apologizing first. He should have enquired after you after the first night you didn’t show up. He should’ve been the first person there for you, instead of the last person to know. He was so utterly stupid.

Approaching what must’ve been the site of the accident Childe felt his stomach drop to his feet at the sight of you. You were covered in dirt, cuts spread across your arms and legs as you slumped against a Guild member, dragging your feet in an awkward shuffle towards the stretcher that must’ve been meant to bring you to the apothecary. There were a variety of Guild members flocking around you, along with one of the doctors of Liyue, who was scribbling notes down furiously. Your expression was utterly dazed, as if you weren’t exactly sure of what was going on, something that tore Childe apart.

Stepping towards you Childe called out your name. At the sound your head jerked up, and you gave a hoarse sort of cry before turning to make your way towards him. Sprinting towards you Childe stepped backwards as you fell awkwardly into him. Steadying you for a moment before wrapping his arms around you Childe felt all his emotions crashing over him, so intense that he couldn’t control them anymore. Ignoring the tears that tracked their way down his cheeks the Harbinger let out a shudder.

“Thank the Seven, thank the Seven you’re safe. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. You don’t have to forgive me, alright? You don’t have to forgive me, but by the gods I’m so sorry.”

“I wish you had been there,” you mumbled softly. “It was so dark, I couldn’t see anything. I thought, I thought that I might never see you again.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said all those things to you, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You should’ve fold so easily you know, you should be really, really angry at me.”

“I don’t want to be angry at you though, I just want you to stay.”

“Then I will,” Childe tightened his embrace around you. “I promise I will.”

“Okay.”

Having apparently said everything that had to be said you let Childe sling you onto his back, refusing to be carried to the hospital in the stretcher. As you appeared to doze off on his back Childe made a promise to himself. Even if he couldn’t disobey the Tsaritsa, even if he couldn’t change who he was, he would never leave you when you needed him to be there.

You would never find yourself needing him to be there without the chance of your need being met. That he promised you.

[angelguk]

so much happens in this it’s such a huge mess omg. the return of the angst plot line of jock!jk (aka pretty boy universe please check ml for the other parts). this time featuring: Angst (with a capital A), miscommunication that makes you want to scream, chayoung’s true nature, namjoon catching stray bullets (figuratively), and lucas being a gem. also jungkook is somewhat semi-violent in this one (in terms of thoughts and some actions but no one gets hurt) so please don’t read this if that makes you uncomfortable. in general just an angry heartbroken boy. also oc is finally doing something good. listen to mess it up by gracie abrams + if we were made of water by banks + i will by mitksi + save room for us by tinashe. roughly 4.2k

titled — old friends, new foes

The spring scavenger hunt is an enormous success, all thanks to your careful planning and Bina’s much needed support. While you excelled at organising, you heavily lacked in the social aspect, something Bina fulfilled with smart marketing and a bright personality that drew in a larger crowd than you thought would appear. It's partially expected–she was head of the Events Committee for a reason–but it felt a little strange to lean onto her instead of Jeongguk. He was the one who usually spearheaded that side of your event plans, more than anyone else, and while planning this one you felt his absence tenfold. Like a gigantic gaping hole excavating through your chest and leaving behind a lonely hollow.

That hollowness surges when you spot him meandering towards the third location at the university courtyard, his fingers tangled with Hyeri’s. You slowly turn away from them, heart aching with each thud against your ribs, hoping they haven’t seen you. Maybe Bina sees the fall on your features because she’s gently tapping your arm, leaning in with a graceful brush of her amber locks over her shoulder.  

“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft, feathering through the late afternoon breeze to reach your ear. 

You’re about to say it, the pained ‘I’m fine' that had become a part of your routine. But then you hear him, loud effervescent laugh hitting the air, the sound striking your false demeanour down. Your vision blurs before you could choke the word out and suddenly Bina’s arm is firmly around you, guiding your heavy feet far away from the presence evoking your pain. 

“I’m fine,” you finally manage to choke up, folding into yourself in the middle of a bench. She stares at you for a moment, before taking a deep breath and sharply clicking her tongue.

“You’re not.” Her eyes are gentle despite the harshness of her words. “I know this isn’t my place, but I do know why you stopped coming to committee meetings.” 

The scoff you let out is instinctive. The jarring sound is a stark contrast to the action of your hand hurriedly wiping away the stray tears staining your cheeks. Of course, you’d avoided committee meetings – why the hell would you go when the president was your ex?

“And,” Bina continues, pointedly ignoring your reaction. Her hand reaches out moving to intertwine your fingers. You focus on the image of her sharp stiletto shaped nails that glitter under the glow of the sun settling on your lap instead of the thumping of your heart as she speaks. “Judging from what I’ve seen, it hasn’t been easy for him either. I know you’re probably thinking that you were the only one who cared about him–about your relationship, but I’m pretty sure he did too. So it’s perfectly okay for you to feel like this, no matter how long it’s been.”

Two months and three weeks, you mentally add. A lifetime and a single blink simultaneously. 

“I didn’t need to know that,” you say, hoping to kill the hope fluttering in your heart. Bina squeezes your hand instead and gives it wings.

“You did. Also, Jeongguk’s kind of an asshole. Sorry if it’s too soon.”

It’s not, and you can’t help the tiny laugh that escapes from your throat. You glance up at her then, suddenly glad for the dazzling glossed coated smile that greets you.

“But,” she continues. “You’re doing the wrong thing too. I know you’re dating Lucas and it’s not fair to him when you’re still hung up on Jeongguk.”

“I know,” you admit. “And I’m going to fix that.”

She beams. “I hope you do. Don’t let him make you pick the wrong choices. You deserve better than that.”

Perhaps it was her words of reassurance that aided in getting you out of the house tonight. (Or it was Bina gingerly whacking your arm and insisting you needed to reward yourself for working hard). But a minuscule part of you is glad you heeded her advice. The music is louder than the words bouncing around your head, sound shoving your sorrow down as Chayoung hands you another drink. Everything is fast, bodies shifting wildly around you and the faint sound of a beer pong game capturing everyone’s attention. For a moment, you begin to forget. But then Lucas’s looming head materializes before you and guilt swarms your heart.

“Hey,” he offers, deep timbre sinking into your bones. You might just throw up.

You haven’t told him about Namjoon. You can’t bear to. But there’s something else more urgent that you need to say to him first.

Chayoung watches through narrow eyes when he leans forward to brush a light kiss on your cheek. He’s so sweet it makes your mouth turn sour. 

“Haven’t seen you around,” Lucas continues, slipping beside you. A steady hand settles at the base of your back. You almost jolt away. 

Chayoung’s face is hard, expression carved out of marble as she stares you down. You know she’s mad at you, rightfully so. Even Sieun hadn’t said anything for a few days after you’d told them about Namjoon. You were mad at yourself too. For what you did–for what you need to do to fix it.

“Been busy. Planning the scavenger hunt and all,” you say, gaze glued to a random lamp at the opposite side of the room. It’s easier than staring at Lucas, who’s still so warm and bright. Practically glowing like he’s got the Sun living in his chest. 

You hope you don’t leave him cloudy.

He weaves his hand into yours, a pleasant noise escaping past his lips. “I know. Great job, by the way. You should be proud.”

Chayoung slinks away at that, the glower on her features burning your blood. You haven’t told anybody yet because you don’t want their advice on this. But you do need to end things with Lucas. It wasn’t fair to him. Yet, it feels nearly impossible when you tear your eyes off the fading figure of your friend and glance up to find him staring at you with the softest smile.

All you do is hurt good people. 

It’s a terrible realisation but it forces you to croak out the words, a rip forming inside of you when that soft smile slips off his face at the sound of them.

“We need to talk.”

But the second they are out you feel something in the world click into place like you’re finally making the right steps toward the correct path even though you need to step on the hearts of others to get there. 

Lucas lets you lead him in silence, the weight of it sinking onto your shoulders when he closes the door behind him, the music giving way to the noise in your head. When he turns to face you, watching apprehensively as you perch yourself at the edge of the bed in the room, it all begins to feel like deja vu. Except you’re on the other side.

“So,” you start, eyes on the wall. The feeling of the mattress dipping as Lucas descends beside you pulls your gaze back to him, heartstrings thrumming when the moonlight leaking through the opened curtains pools into his eyes.

How could Jeongguk have done this?

“We need to end this,” you say, realising as the air leaves your lungs that he did it like this. Like he needed to breath. It feels like cutting an anchor off your ankle, head breaking through furious waters to finally find air.

Lucas pauses, blinking slow. You don’t fill the emptiness with more words, afraid you’ll pour salt into an open wound. He lets what you said ruminate, eyes shifting to the scene around you. A random room, bathed by the glow of the room, and two hearts opposing each other–one already poised to leave. One that was never really there.

“Why?” It’s said lowly. You know why. You owe him this admission, after dragging him around on a sinking ship. But the words refuse to part from your throat. 

“I’m not right for you,” you say instead, hoping he understands. By the flicker across his eyes, he doesn’t. “Like,” you try, your eyes dropping to where his heart lies. “You’ve got a lot of good in you and I don’t. We don’t match.”

Lucas cocks his head, staring at the ceiling. And this his gaze careens to you.

“You don’t think you’re a good person?”

“Well–” you splutter. But Lucas isn’t having it.

“You’re a lovely person, Y/N. With a lot of good in you too. You are kind of shitty for this though but every good person does shitty things.” It’s said factually like he needs you to understand this.

“I know that–”

“You don’t. You put yourself down too much. Why do you think Jeongguk loved you?”

Oh. That seizes that air from your chest, Lucas’s gaze slamming into your own with a surety that stings. 

“Why do you think I like you?” He adds. You don’t know what to do, nervous system spazzing at this information assault. “And I know why you want to end this. You could have said it. I understand, though. The two of you did fight together so well.” He gets up then, towering like a God dictating judgment. “I didn’t expect you to stop loving him immediately, you know.” He’s near the door now, not fleeing but parting a new path. There’s a weird smile on his lips, like the forging of his steps hurts as much yours does. It’s like it’s been hung there, not pulled from his heart like you’d grown used to seeing. 

“What did you expect?” You can’t help but ask.

He pauses, the door half-open. You could tell him to shut it, you could tell him to stay. 

You don’t want to.

“That maybe one day you would love me more than you loved him,” Lucas whispers. He sees the fall on your features, knows the answer on your lips instantly. “But it’s okay that you never could.”

And then he’s gone, honey blonde hair swallowed by the crowd even with his impossible height. He leaves the door ajar, the music seeping into the room. But this time your head is louder, surer. Because Lucas just let you know something you weren’t even aware of yourself. There was no room for anybody else except Jeongguk. And it truly wasn’t fair to offer him your heart when it was half a world away.

—

Half a world away is apparently glaring at the shrubs flanking the back garden. Jeongguk doesn’t know who’s house this is. He doesn’t care either because at the moment he’s considering burning it down. He’d just seen you amble into a room, Lucas trailing behind like a stupid dog and his heart clenching hard in his chest. It took two seconds after the door shut for him to shove Hyeri off his lap and mumble something about needing air.

(What he needed was you).

The coolness of the night ebbed at his boiling blood, but nothing could ease the ache. 

“You look like you need a drink,” Chayoung’s voice feels alien, creeping up his back. He turns to look at her, a polite comment on how he’d like to be left alone hanging on his lips. She interrupts it by handing him a cup, a tender smile gracing her lips. Jeongguk accepts it with a shrug, hoping the burn in his throat will be a distraction. It isn’t. But he forces another sip down as Chayoung slithers outside too, the room behind her glowing as if the building was on fire.

What store sells matches and lighter fluid in the middle of the night? And won’t ask incriminating questions? 

“Why the long face?” She asks, peering at him from the corner of her eye.

Jeongguk shrugs, the words in his head refusing to form into understandable sounds.

“Hyeri not cutting it?” Chayoung murmurs. His eyes snap to her, but she’s not staring at him, her gaze fixed on the dark sky. 

“What do you mean?” Jeongguk is baffled say the least. He thought his act with Hyeri was a little bit more solid proof. He liked her–somewhat. 

Chayoung turns slow, almost sinisterly, a glint in her brown eyes that unsettles him. “I just don’t think she’s in your league.”

The scoff that leaves Jeongguk’s throat burns. He hated that stupid idea of leagues. You should like a person for who they are, not where they stand in foolish social hierarchies. But Chayoung reads his response wrong, suddenly impossibly close, a stray finger trailing along his shoulder. Her nails are talons. He shudders, trying to hide it by leaning away. Chayoung just leans closer, alcohol tainted breath grazing his own. For a moment, Jeongguk considers fleeing back inside to come ask you to collect your drunk friend (a perfect excuse to finally say something to you after months of radio silence) but then he remembers that might potentially end with him walking into the room and finding you with Lucas’s tongue down your throat.

And that would suck. A lot.

But before he can think of another solution Chayoung’s fingernails are scrapping his neck, leaving his skin prickled.

“But then again, do you seem to always pick the wrong ones.” That bristles him and his eyes are suddenly hard and narrow.

“What do you mean by that?” He spits it out, a spark igniting in his chest when Chayoung shrugs. The smile on her face disgusts him.

“You know what I mean.” Her finger is sliding down his shirt and Jeongguk feels branded even through the material. “When you look like this, running around girls like that is honestly a little sad.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He’s hoping he’s hearing this all wrong. That she’s just drunk and acting stupid. But when her eyes lift to him he knows she means it. Every word of it.

“You could do better, Jeongguk. So much better.”

“Chayoung you need to shut the fuc–”

Her lips taste like vodka and cherry lip balm, which is sickening because that’s what you taste like–sans the vodka. Cherry lip balm was your brand. It always was, you’ve got like five of them scattered around your room and a couple more hidden in Jeongguk’s. He recoils instantly, acid climbing up his throat as his hands find something–anything to push away. What he finds are Chayoung’s shoulders and when he pushes he pushes hard. They break apart and the floor beneath Jeongguk cracks wide open, his head spinning violently.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He doesn’t know what else to say, the circuits in his brain frying. Chayoung’s tongue skips over her lips, now wet and a little plush from the force she used to slam her mouth into his. 

“Showing you that you can do better.”

He blinks, taken a large step back when Chayoung moves forward, a little sway in her feet. 

“You’re drunk and acting crazy. I think I should call Y/N to com–”

“Oh fuck Y/N. Such a whiny bitch. Do you really think she deserves you? After all the shit she’s put you through?” Chayoung’s eyes feel like knives, sharp and striking deep with every word. 

“Aren't you her friend? What the hell is wrong with you?” Jeongguk needs this to de-escalate. Chayoung wants to throw gasoline on an open flame instead.

“No–what’s wrong with you, Jeongguk? Moping around for a girl who never realised what she had when it was right in front of her? C’mon now.”

“You seriously need to shut the fuck up. You’re not gonna talk about her like that in front of me.”

“Why not? Cause you still love her? Even when she’s fucking Lucas?”

That stings, his heart bursting in his chest because Jeongguk didn’t know you were sleeping with him. He thought it would just be kisses or something. Not that–not Lucas touching you like he used to. But then Hyeri’s face flashes in before his eyes and he wilts. He can’t blame you for anything, not when he’s been doing the same horrible shit to you. And that makes him pause, the sudden realisation that he’s been hurting you smashing into his head. He didn’t want to hurt you–never. Not even if you were hurting him. He just needed a distraction, something to ease you off his mind. And maybe you did too, but all left you both with was gaping wounds that would never heal. And with other people hurt too.

God, this was a mess. And it dawns on Jeongguk that’s he’s made the worst mistake he’s ever made in his life. 

“You should hate her,” Chayoung continues, venomous. 

“I don’t,” Jeongguk returns, voice levelled. All he hates right now is himself. And Lucas (which is fair). Chayoung blanches, shaken by his firmness. “I really don’t, in fact, I need to talk to her. Right now.”

He moves fast, foot already past the threshold when Chayoung speaks again, her words aimed with intent to kill.

“She kissed Namjoon.”

He feels the nerves in his legs still instantly, before they nearly give way entirely, his grip on the door frame the only thing holding him up as his heart tears out of his chest. 

“I thought you should know,” Chayoung adds. And he hears it then, that vile smugness in her voice. She’s lying. She has to be. You wouldn’t do that to him. And he says that, storming back to Chayoung with his chest ripped open, his body thrumming with barely concealed rage. And fear. Jeongguk feels so scared right now because if you did that means everything he felt–everything he feared–could be true.

“She did.” Chayoung is immovable, standing tall and staring him down. “I’m not lying to you. Go ask Namjoon if you don’t believe me.”

Which, Jeongguk realises as his eyes fall shut that is going to absolutely do. And possibly break a nose in the process. He turns, trying to blink away the blurriness in his eyes, before Chayoung stops him with a single sentence again, this one said a little softer.

“Jeongguk,” she starts, eyeing him down, her brown eyes aflame under the moonlight. “I mean it when I say she doesn’t deserve you.”

—

Someone is attempting to break down Namjoon’s door. Which is bizarre considering it’s almost three in the morning. He has to drag himself out of the comfort of his warm sheets to figure out which maniac is attempting to smash through solid wood with only their fists because it seems like they’re almost succeeding. 

The maniac in question is Jeon Jeongguk, standing rigid when Namjoon swings the door open, moonlight bleeding over his features. He’s mad, staring at Namjoon like he wished his head was rolling on the ground instead of stationed square on his shoulders. But there’s something else there, doe eyes glossy.

“Jeongguk? What the hell are–”

“You kissed her.”

Everything stills, the two men fixated on each other. Jeongguk is so still he could have been mistaken for a statue. Almost as if he was waiting for the words that would break this moment, ease the tension seizing his muscles, tell him what he wants to hear. Namjoon can’t do any of that. Instead, he sighs, a muted, “Oh”, floating from his lips.

Jeongguk snaps the second he realises it’s true.

“Oh? You kissed her and all you have to say is oh?” Hands are digging into the soft cotton of his nightshirt and Namjoon’s feet are no longer on the ground. He’s apparently levitating, lifted solely by this hurt angry boy invading his apartment. His back hits the nearest wall with a thud that vibrates through his bones. When the hell did Jeongguk get this strong?”

“Whoa–relax,” Namjoon wheezes, his strong fingers guiding Jeongguk off him. But heartbreak tends to be enough fuel because Jeongguk pushes back with an ease that unnerves him. “Jeongguk, you seriously need to relax. Let go of me and we can talk about this.”

“Why did you do it?” That is what he gets in return. Jeongguk’s voice wavers, coloured a violent red in the velvet of the night.

“I didn’t do anything,” Namjoon returns, the words delivered gingerly.

“No–no you did. You kissed her. You–”

“She kissed me, Jeongguk. And I can seriously explain all of it if you just relaxed and we talked about it–”

“No, she didn’t. She wouldn’t do that to me–she wouldn’t.” And Oh God No, Namjoon thinks he just heard the sound of a heart breaking. It sounds like a weird mangled bird collapsing from the sky and its wing hitting the ground with a funny wet smash, fragile bones snapping like twigs. 

Jeongguk’s fingers peel from his shirt and bury themselves in his hair, yanking at the cropped strands as his face twists. 

This is far too much emotion for a single person to deal with in the middle of the bloody night.

“Hey–hey, calm down. It was a mistake, I promise you. She was just feeling a little all over the place and made a bad choice–”

“No–that’s the fucking point! She made a choice. She chose you.” Jeongguk’s staring at him in a way that hurts, like he’s attempting to transfer all the pain that’s writhing through his body into Namjoon’s from sight alone.

“What? What are you talking about?” 

Jeongguk is frantic, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from pouring out onto the floor. A flood barely contained. “She chose you first. I was there–I was always there. But then you waltzed in and she saw something in you that she didn’t find in me and she chose you.”

Namjoon cocks his head, staring hard at Jeongguk’s round wide eyes, slowly coming to realisations that he was surrounded by idiotic people.

“I still have no idea what you are talking about, but I have to ask, don’t you remember a single thing I told you the last time we spoke about Y/N? You’re the reason we broke up.” That halts him and Namjoon takes that as a moment to press onward, somewhat tired of being dragged into this awkward mess. “And I’ll say this in the nicest way possible but you’re an idiot if you think Y/N wouldn’t pick you over me any day–over anyone really. I could be drowning and you could have a scrapped knee and she’d check on you first. We broke up because I realised I was just a placeholder until she felt brave enough to tell you she liked you. You were rather intimidating for her to approach. Or have you forgotten your track record of girls? It wasn’t easy for her–especially when she was risking losing her best friend.”

The silence that follows aches, Jeongguk’s eyes flashing like he never considered that in the first place. 

“But why the other guys then? Why not just tell me after you?” 

Namjoon’s going to bang his head into the wall. “You’re her best friend–what about that are you not getting? What if you didn’t like her back and it ruined the most important relationship in her life?”

“But I did–I always liked her.”

“No,” Namjoon nearly groans out loud. “You didn’t. If you liked her you wouldn’t have fucked Chaerin in the back of your car and then gone to report it to Y/N with a grin on your face.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon returns. “Oh. That’s the exact day we broke up too. Such a stupid fight because she was crying and that’s when I put two and two together and realised I was never going to take precedence over you.” 

“I didn’t know I was hurting her,” Jeongguk murmurs, almost distraught. 

A strangled noise erupts from Namjoon’s throat. “You’ve hurt her a lot more than you’ll realise.” But the second he says that and Jeongguk’s face twists into something unrecognisable he wants to take them back.

“She’s too good for me. Maybe we are better off apart.”

“No, no. You’re so wrong actually. This break-up thing has been miserable to watch and I’m not even in the centre of it. I’ve just caught a bunch of stray bullets.”

“You’re not getting me,” Jeongguk’s eyes swing to him. “She came to you at the end of it all. Maybe we are better with other people. Maybe you’re better for her.”

“She came to me because she missed you. She just needed someone to lean on during your absence. I wouldn’t have to do that if you were there. You know, you should just talk about this with Y/N.”

“I can’t, she’s happy with Lucas. I think.”

Namjoon wants to bang both your heads together so bad. Maybe finally the fact that you love each other would get through your thick skulls then. 

“She doesn’t,” he says, instead. “And I know that for a fact. You should really go talk to her. Figure this whole mess out. And also finally get out of my apartment.” Jeongguk’s gaze withers. Namjoon shrugs in return. “It’s the middle of the night and I have a meeting in the morning. I really need to sleep.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s so meek like this, nursing a shattered heart and a confused head. It’s slightly jarring to the image he usually presents, so self-assured and unfazed by whatever gets thrown at him. Never exposed like this, every emotion he holds inside displayed across his face. 

“It’s alright. Just think about what I said and talk to her. Honestly. Not skirting over shit like the two of you tend to do. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, trailing towards the open door. Namjoon had registered a breeze billowing in, but he’d completely missed the fact that the door of his apartment was swung wide open. Jeongguk abruptly stops just as Namjoon’s sense of bearing returns, turning to face him with his face pulled down by shame. “I’m really sorry. For this whole thing. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that I was just–”

“I get it. You love her and it feels like she’s slipping from your fingers. Just don’t do that shit again and stop trying to push her away. I’ll say it again–you were always her first choice.” He sees it then, a slight flutter through Jeongguk’s chest. A broken bird mending. 

“Yeah,” Jeongguk breathes. “Thanks.”

Namjoon sighs, offering a tight smile and shutting the door firmly when Jeongguk finally drifts out. He needs a drink before he hits the sheets again. A strong one.

[the-heaminator]

Ivan, Arthur, and ludwig have gay panic, Alfred sleeps.

1762 words, part of this fic

With a chuckle so awkward it physically pained Ludwig to hear, Arthur "Raised half the world and fucked more of it" Kirkland was awkward around him, of all people.

Something about the world's greatest hoe (Copyright France) being so awkward because he was sleeping with another man was incredibly funny to Ludwig, though he shouldn't be laughing, nor complaining, he could have gotten stuck with somebody much worse, for example, France.

While Ludwig contemplated by the door, hanging there awkwardly, Arthur rushed forward and placed his stuff down on what was apparently his side of the room.

Ah, so he picked the left side, the one by the window which left Ludwig with the right side of the room, closer to the bathroom. Some treacherous part of him thought, privately, that maybe they wouldn't have to be on separate sides of the bed...

Pls stop being like this brain

No

Why

BecauseI'm your brain dumbass I am you.

Right.

"Are you going to stand there like a lemon, or get a move on?"

Snapping Ludwig out of his mental argument against himself, he realised that he was still standing in the doorway, most likely looking very stupid while doing so.

"Sorry England."

Better to remain formal, ways better to remain formal in times like this where just a small slip up would most likely cause such large amounts of misunderstandings that it would be almost impossible to untangle.

Not like that would happen, surely not.

"It better not, I would not wish for some bastard like France to get the wrong idea."

Vaguely concerned but more intrigued "How could he manage to get the wrong idea from me standing in the doorway."

A laugh, not venomous or bitter, but fond came from inside the room "It's Francis, he can pull anything out of that well-sculpted ass."

Unfortunately, his mind had made up its mind that it would be as purposefully annoying and homosexual as possible and his mind very quickly got filled with images of Francis and his indeed well-sculpted ass.

"I would rather not think about that, but if I may ask, how are you and France on first name terms?"

He really did sound childish, but from what he had seen and by what everyone else had told him, England and France fought worse than cats and dogs, and it was a little hard to imagine them on first name terms.

Arthur smiled softly, recalling a memory from long ago, most likely much longer than Ludwig had been alive.

"It would be hard not to be on first name terms with a fucker who raised you for two hundred odd years, would it now?"

Germany did not know about this little nugget of information whatsoever, "Excuse me what?"

After gesturing for Germanny to sit down and "Close the bloody door," he started to talk, figuring that it being near a millennium ago now, it wouldn't be detrimental to tell someone of it.

Ludwig was painfully young, nations from the new world were often double or triple his age, and for Europe he was no more than a babe in arms, some or the older nations being easily well over 10 times his age, and it showed, Germany listening with rapt fascination to the rather dreary tales of France and his abysmal first attempt at raising a child.

Apparently according to most, he really didn't improve much with time and when it came to raising Canada apparently England was a better mentor, and with all the horror stories from many of the waifs that passed through the household, it raised questions on just how bad France was at this.

According to England they used to spar, being the early 1000s it made sense, and apparently England was better at it than France, so the fucker locked him in a room with minimal food and water, yet England still beat him, and poisoned him while they were at it.

Germany took this with a grain of salt the size of Russia because over time things become, let's just say rather embellished, and this was almost a millenia ago, so it was probably quite a bit fictitious.

After that story was over, and Germany counted at least 5 deaths in it, he suddenly asked "Was Gilbert a good parent?"

"I-I think he was, he looked after me whenever he could, teaching me almost everything I know, and the rest of the time I was usually with Switzerland or Austria-Hungary."

"You turned out pretty well in my opinion, so they seem to have done a good enough job."

For some unfathomable reason (really it was pretty easy to fathom just not to someone as utterly dense as he)  Germany blushed at this sentence.

"Plus you've always been well behaved, I wonder what that's got you?"

This would have been a pretty normal sentence if it wasn't for the fact that England has a very suggestive look on his face, a mischievous smile coupled with the raising of one of those impressive brows, which amongst other things, made his knees feel like jelly as he stood by the doorframe.

Germany immediately blushed furiously, indeed both the Italies did like the obedience, a lot. And Japan dressed him up in some rather interesting clothes, not like he minded and tied him up. That was a spiritual experience for both of them for sure, plus that fucking smile oh my g o d help.

An odd sound that sounded quite similar to a croak escaped that throat while he was beet red just thinking about those rather interesting experiences, his face at this point could be used as a stop sign with just how red it was, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"I'm just messing with you, come, sit down." Patting the bed because Germany was still standing in the doorway looking embarrased, and so he did, setting down his stuff and changing his stuffy work clothes into more casual clothes that were loose fitting but holy shit Arthur's brain went at it.

Wydhhshh GAY

STOP IT.

LOOK AT THE FUCKING HAIR ALL MESSED UP JUST LOOK AT IT

I AM AND YOURE MAKING IT WEIRD

I AM YOU

SHUT UP

NO.

After that nothing really happened, they sat down on their sides of the bed and took out their work, completing the stuff they needed to do together at breakneck speed until the sun started to set and Germany had to physically drag England to eat something because apparently three square meals are a must and eating half a sausage roll at 2 in the morning does not count as a square meal.

Both muting their phones due to a very excited Francis yelling at them over text to come to the bar after the meeting, as everyone would be there, neither really wanted to.

All in all it was pretty calm, both of then were having gay thoughts that could be palpably felt, sure, but they didn't manifest into anything much, dinner being a quiet affair in a small cafe down the road, where lots of tea and coffee were drunk and very good sandwiches eaten, there was aa small discussion on the proper baking of a black forest cake and the prior meeting, but otherwise it was a quiet evening for them both, getting back to their room and sleeping late into the night, both busy tapping away at laptops and sincerely hoping that they both do and do not end up spooning in the night

Meanwhile.

"Alfredka, that stupid piggy and I have to sleep with him!" Rather irritated Russian grumbling could be heard but vaguely deciphered, mainly because no one wanted to cross the cloud of doom and vague gayness that surrounded Ivan Braginsky, personification of Russia.

Jamming the lift button perhaps a little too hard to be necessary, he waited, for quite a while in fact, but the lift decided that today it had to service each and every floor above him, which left him to take the stairs.

He did not like stairs very much, especially as his room, their room, was on the seventh motherfucking floor, so huffing and puffing, he eventually made it up, flushed red in his usually porcelain like skin, and ready for murder slightly more than usual.

Opening their shared room, with a throatful of abuse just ready to hurl, but stopped immediately seeing the dumbass naked, and sprawled on the bed, sleeping like a baby, snoring loudly.

Holy fuck hes hot.

HE IS SLEEPING NAKED HOW IS THAT HOT AND HE HAS MAN BOOBIES

BITCH DONT QUESTION ME.

FINE.

Other than having gay panic, Ivan was also wondering how the fuck he had slept so fast, didn't he go up to his room not 10 minutes before him, the fuck?  And how in all things unholy did he manage to get buckass naked in the same time frame, and on top of that why the fuck had he chose to sleep buckass naked when he was sleeping with another dude?

But he was tired, and very warm, either from seeing Alfred buckass naked or from the blasted stairs, so taking off his clothes (not all of them he had an under shirt and boxers on, he had fucking standards) and slept,  until of course France called because he was a bastard and didn't like people sleeping.

Turns out that they had started to hug even though they'd been asleep for about half an hour.

Not mentioning the fact that he was buckass naked and hugging a dude, he picked up the phone, and oh joy it was a video call.

Frances eyebrows were in his hair seeing Alfred and Ivan both on call, one naked the other one not.

"That was quick non?"

Alarmed, as a teen would be, Alfred denied fucking in the way that makes you think that they definitely fucked, Ivan being a bit more reasonable said that they had both just fallen asleep.

After getting that altercation out of the way, Francis invited then to the bar, where a bunch of nations would be at, as his treat.

"Ok we will go, just dont start spreading any rumours, or your face will be unrecognisable."

Alfred gave a nervous chuckle, not exactly sure whether that was an exaggeration because knowing his family and the people he tended to be around, when that was said it occasionally was meant to be true.

"Jesus, Ok Ivan, I won't, I'll be waiting!"

[janghoefett]

Telephone Line (Jango Fett x F!Reader)

Jango needs to provide an, ahem, sample of sorts for the Kaminoan cloners and needs your help via holovid. Please check warnings.

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ Pairing: F/M Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Established relationship with set boundaries, yearning, breeding kink (ish), mutual masturbation, use of toy, instructions, dirty talk, praise kink!! jango is in a soft mood

and perhaps you can consider this as part of the hotline bling universe, apparently i can only write booty call themed fics for jango

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

Metal tools. An examination table. Bright lights. A stiff metal chair in the corner.

Did the Kaminoans really expect Jango to produce a semen sample in a place like this? Well, it’s not like he hadn’t been able to get off in worse conditions, the bounty hunter thinks to himself... and he certainly had been paid to do worse things than jerking off.

Although he had the room to himself, laying on the examination table under the lights would make him feel as if he were on display, like some sort of specimen. He could stand; he does it enough in the fresher. But, no. He’d rather sit and try to get comfortable. So, with the empty cup in his hand, Jango takes a seat in the metal chair. 

He’s absolutely flaccid, there’s a chill in the air, and there is not even a morsel of humanity in sight to inspire the aid of his imagination. Jango unhooks his codpiece and frees his cock, spitting on his hand before giving himself a few tentative strokes.

Jango closes his eyes and sighs. Naturally, his mind wanders to you. 

Stars, he missed you while he was away... he wished you could stay with him on Kamino full time. The last night you had spent together had been replaying in his mind over the last few days. You just felt so good and you were just so beautiful that Jango could still imagine you if he closed his eyes... yes, he could see you now. He could hear your soft moans. He could feel your soft skin. He could smell the fragrance on your skin. 

Jango starts to grow hard at just the mere thought. He wonders what you’re doing, what you’re wearing... he wonders if you were still thinking about that last time the way he was. 

Well, he could wonder about you all day long... or he could, you know, call you.

Jango pulls out his comm and sets it in front of him, his thick fingers punching in a few commands. He does some math and realizes it was late on Coruscant, though he figured you were still awake, and he prays to the maker that you would pick up.

“Jango,” you answer happily, pleased to see the flickering blue image of your Mandalorian. You’re sitting in your bed wearing nothing but a warm sweater over your underwear. Perhaps Jango would be in for a treat tonight, you think to yourself.

“Ner sarad,” he smiles. “Miss me?”

“Of course,” you smile, already feeling your cheeks growing warm. Stars, the things just the sight of this man did to you....

“Listen, I...” Jango starts. “I need to give the Kaminoans another sample. And I’m thinking about you.”

Oh. 

“You’re thinking about me?” you repeat with that wicked smirk.

“Course I am. Thinking about last time.”

“I’ve been thinking about last time too. Stars, Jango...” you sigh. You shift in your seat remembering just how good it was. “Tell me what you need. I’m all yours.”

“Can I see you, pretty girl?” he rasps, his voice turning husky.

You hum lowly in approval, pulling your sweater up over your head as Jango readjusts the range of his comm, revealing his cock to you. You lay back on the bed to give Jango a full view, left only in the racy bra and underwear he had bought you when he went to Naboo.

“Mesh’la, always so perfect,” Jango groans. His grip grows tighter and he tugs. “Spread your legs for me. Let me see that pretty cunt.”

You slip the underwear off past your ankles and spread your legs, inhaling raggedly at the way you were exposing yourself to the rugged Mandalorian. Your hand comes between your legs to spread your folds, rubbing yourself gently. 

“Fuck, Jango, I wish you were here...” you sigh.

“I know, angel. Soon.”

The low vibrations of Jango’s voice send a chill up your spine. You both stroke yourselves languidly, your eyes fixed on the images of each other. The sight of Jango’s fist around his cock is enough to get you wet fast.

“Don’t have much time...” Jango rasps. “I know you have that little toy in your dresser. Use it for me.”

You reach over and pull out the toy with excitement, a plain dildo that came in handy while Jango was away, and grab the bottle of lube next to it. Jango watches you prepare with hungry eyes as he pumps himself. You bite your lip as you watch Jango grip his cock, lining up the toy and slipping it in slowly, gasping at the intrusion.

“Feel good?” he asks, squeezing his cock and trying to recreate the pressure of your warm, wet heat.

“Yeah,” you whine. You move the toy in and out tentatively, breathing heavily. “Wish I could feel you... stars, you look huge.”

Jango chuckles. “It’s all for you, girl,” he groans, watching your cunt flutter around the stiff cock. “Can you move for me? Want to see how you fuck yourself while I’m away.”

You throw your head back upon hearing his words, starting to work yourself slowly. Jango’s hand begins to pump in time with your movements. Your hips buck as you imagine the way Jango was on top of you last, moving the toy faster.

You watch the bounty hunter as he pleasures himself to just the sight of you, and the thought of it alone is enough to push you closer to the edge. The ache between your legs is indescribable, straddling the line between pleasure and pain, as you chase your release. 

Jango’s grunts are audible, nearing quiet growls. “Fuck,” he curses upon seeing your wrist stutter when your legs shake.

“Jango...” you whimper.

“That’s it,” he growls. “You’re close, don’t stop.”

Your hands continue to pleasure yourself just right, your mouth falling agape as you find that spot. Jango pumps himself faster. “Shit, I-” he grunts.

“The cup. The cup, Jango,” you pant. You come with a small cry, stilling your motions.

Jango’s large hand swipes the cup from the table and he angles his cock downwards, reaching his peak with a gruff groan as he empties himself into the container.

The sight of Jango Fett, fully armored and groaning as his cock weeps pearly white tears is one that would you remember for a long, long time. You bite your lip and take the toy out, groaning at the empty feeling.

“So when are you going to fill me up like that?” you sigh contentedly in your state of ecstasy. “I want to make those warriors we talked about.”

“When are you going to leave Coruscant and finally come live with me, cyare?” Jango counters, his voice soft and wrought with desire.

Your heart flutters upon hearing Jango repeat his request, but you don’t have an answer for him. Kamino was the last place you wanted to be, under the constant observation of those long-necked scientists. You knew Jango couldn’t live just anywhere, and while what you had with the famous hunter was special, it was almost impossible.

“Jango...” you sigh.

“I know,” he says, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Jango tucks himself away as you wrap a blanket around yourself to fight the chill of the night air.

“Stars, girl, you were so good for me,” he remarks, reattaching his codpiece. “I have to go turn this in.”

“Will I get to see you soon?” you ask.

“You have my word,” Jango smiles. “Now sleep tight for me, cyare. You’ll see me sooner than you think.”

[slytherinwh0re]

Now or never

Draco Malfoy x Female Reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+ minors dni), swearing, use of the word m*dblood once

Summary: *Draco’s POV* Where Draco admits his feelings for the girl he’s been friends with for years.

Masterlist

*Draco’s POV*

I’ve never felt anything that comes close to this, a desire so deep it keeps me up at night, longing so ingrained into every crack of my soul it’s all I can think about. That’s what she’s done to me, (y/n) (y/l/n), the girl I’ve known since childhood, the one who’s always been there, and the only person who makes me feel alive.

Why she chooses to keep me around I’d never understand. Whenever I ask she says the same thing everytime, “I need you Draco” the response usually makes my heart slam against my chest but what I don’t think she gets is how I’m the one that needs her. Her warmth and kindness is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, I’m a fiend for it, without it life would be dull.

That’s why when she’s around I make sure to be on my best behavior, even Potter and the Weasel can’t get a reaction out of me when she’s near. Well, none other than a dirty look but she’d usually kiss my cheek and tell me to quit glaring cause it causes wrinkles.

One time in second year I’d called Granger a mudblood in front of her and the disapproving look she gave me was enough to put me off the word forever. She didn’t talk to me for a week after that, I had to apologize to the bushy headed scoundrel before (y/n) would speak to me again, it was humiliating but for her I’d do anything. I’ve never used the word again.

The witch has been there for me through everything, she’s always been my dearest friend, and I hers. So when I hadn’t seen her during the summer inbetween third and fourth year I was confused by my emotions when I’d finally spotted her on the train. I’d always known (y/n) was beautiful, I never denied it, but that year her hips had rounded out, her breasts were fuller, and her face looked more matured. That was the first time I’d wanted to do things with her that friends just don’t do together.

It only got worse from there, the older we got, the more attractive she became. She was everything I’d ever desired, it was torture not allowing myself to tell her the thing I wanted to do to her out of fear of ruining the friendship I valued over everything. Instead I sat back, lusting over the girl who didn’t have a clue.

I’d watch her, in class, at the library, while she was with her other friends, my eyes always seemed to find her in a room full of people. It’s pathetic really but I can’t help it, (y/n) took up every thought in my mind. It’s the worst at night, when I’m trying to sleep and the only thing I can focus on is how fucking nice her ass looked in class that day or the fullness of her lips and how perfect they’d look wrapped around me.

Now here we are in seventh year, both 18, and fully matured, our friendship as strong as ever but I’ve just about had it. I’ve watched as other twats got to call her theirs and be with her in ways I’ve only imagined but I’m always there for her, ready to pick up the pieces of her broken heart when they hurt her. The pretty girl was too kind for her own good and she’d only ever blame herself for them being such fucking idiots, how could they not realize what they’d just lost?

I knew she’d have boyfriends, she was too beautiful not to, but I’d never expected it to hurt me so much to see her with another. However I kept my mouth shut, she knew I didn’t like any of them but I never said anything to her about it, it’s her life and if she’s happy than I suppose that would just have to be enough for me. Although I will admit, I felt relieved when they’d break up, it meant I still had a chance if I ever gained the courage to tell her how in love with her I am.

“What’re you thinking so hard about Draco?” Her eyebrow’s are scrunched together and I can’t help but smile at how cute she looks.

“You.” I tell her honestly, reaching across my bed where she lays to brush the piece of hair off her face. The best part of being a prefect is the private dorm, we’d always come here and hangout.

“Me? What about me?” She rest her face on her hands and gives me her full attention.

I take in a deep breath and decide to be completely honest with her. “(Y/n), you know I think you’re beautiful right?”

“Well uhm—you’ve never really told me that before but uhm thank you.” Her face is bright red but she doesn’t look away, her eyes remain on mine and I feel my heart rate spike. “Why are you telling me this now Draco?”

There’s so many ways I could answer that question but I know if I never tell her the truth I’ll live the rest of my life thinking of the what-if’s. I sit up, grab her hand, and beckon her to do the same so we’re facing each other.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful my darling but I’ve been a coward,” I take deep breath, preparing myself for what I’m about to say, it’s now or never, “I’ve been hiding my feelings from you for years now. The way I feel about you is much more than what a friend should feel for another friend.” I grab her hands and hold them in my lap, my hearts going a mile a minute but if I stop now I won’t forgive myself. “What I’m trying to say is, I love you, I’m in love with you, I have been for so long.”

She’s silent for a while, just watching me, and I feel my heart begin to shatter. I start to lift myself off the bed but she holds my hands tighter, not letting me move.

“Oh Draco, you must be blind.” She let’s go of one of my hands and puts hers on my cheek, leaning into me until we’re only an inch away from each other. “It’s always been you, I love you.” And then she’s kissing me, and I think I might be dreaming but she throws a leg on either side of my hips, straddling my waist, and I realize this isn’t an image I’ve conjured in my head, my girl is on my lap, kissing me.

It’s like a switch flipped in my head, my hands find her hips, the same hips I’ve dreamt about for years, and I pull her as close to me as possible. Her tongue tangles with mine and she has her hands in my hair, tugging just enough to make my hold on her tighten. When she pulls away for air I tilt her head to the side, giving my lips access to the skin of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave my mark on her for the next few days, the airy moan she lets out is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. She’s addicting, the taste of her on my lips is like a drug, the sounds she makes give me goosebumps, and I love her, all of her.

When my sweet girl grinds down on my cock I just about lose it, the moan that leaves my mouth would be embarrassing if I wasn’t so caught up on how perfect the curve of her ass feels in my hands.

“Make me yours Draco.” (Y/n) whispers and I have to pull back to make sure I heard her correctly. Could it be that she really wants to be with me in that way?

“You’re sure my love? We could wait as long as you’d like.” She kisses my jaw and I moan as her hands start pulling on my shirt.

“I’m positive, I’ve wanted this for so long.” Fuck.

I flip us over so she’s laying on the bed and I’m on top of her, I pull my shirt over my head as quickly as possible as she starts fiddling with my belt. I place my hands on the skin of her stomach, moving them upwards slowly, giving her a chance to change her mind but she never was one for patience, instead she yanks her shirt off, leaving her in a thin black bra that she has off even quicker than the shirt, then she places my hands on each breast.

God I fucking love her.

The supple skin feels soft under my finger tips, her peaked nipples just begging to be played with so I do just that. I bring my lips around one, letting my tongue roll over the hard bud, listening to the soft sounds from the girl underneath me.

I hook my fingers into her leggings, dragging them down her silky legs, each new inch of uncovered skin makes my already hard cock grow impossibly harder. Her small hands pull down my pants and boxers with one quick tug, making my dick slap my stomach, leaving only one article of clothing between us. She wraps her fingers around me and I bury my face in her hair, the warmth of her hand driving me insane.

I pull her panties to the side, dipping my fingers into her dripping cunt, and the pretty girl moans my name.

“We can do foreplay another time, I need you now Draco, please.” How could I deny her when she sounds so sexy begging like that. I rip off her panties, throwing the destroyed material somewhere on the floor. I pull her lips back to mine and position myself at her entrance.

When I push into her it’s as if her body was meant for mine, her slick tight walls grip me perfectly. (Y/n)’s nails dig into my back as I keep up a steady pace, her perky tits bouncing with every deep thrust of my hips, and I watch as her swollen lips part into a silent moan as I find the spongy spot I’d been searching for.

My hands explore her body, running up the curve of her hips and up her soft stomach, bringing a thumb up to her bottom lip and watching in awe when she wraps her lips around it, sucking lightly before letting it go. I use that same thumb, to rub small circles into her clit.

“Draco, more, please I need more!” I pull out of her, flip her onto her stomach, and pull her hips up so her ass is in the air.

“As you wish my love.” I lick a single bold line up her center and then slam my hips into her. Giving my pretty girl exactly what she wanted. I smack her ass, thanking every God for letting this happen to me. She arches her back and grabs at the sheets, the screams of my name have me holding onto every fiber of self control I can. “You take my cock so well darling, I’ve dreamt about this so many times.” I smack her ass again, thrusting into her at a brutal pace. She’s soaking wet, the warmth of her cunt sucking me in with every jerk of my hips.

“I’m close Draco!” Her legs are shaking and I reach around her, one hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her to my chest, the other massaging her clit.

“Let go my love, I’ve got you.” I kiss her neck, inching her closer to her release. Her walls clench and she screams, my name leaving her lips on repeat as her orgasm rolls through her body. I wait until she��s done to let myself spill into her, my hips stutter and I moan into her hair as she pants against me.

I lay her down, grab a towel, and clean her up. She just stares at me with a small smile on her face when I lay with her, my pretty girl.

“I love you Draco.”

“I love you (y/n).”

*

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[pascalpanic]

Popping Pearls and Purple Skies (Din Djarin x f!reader)

Summary: While in your home system, Din takes you to your home planet for your favorite treat.

W/C: 3.6k

Warnings: food mention, Star Wars cursing lol, mentions of physical fighting, mentions of trauma

A/N: okay. this was inspired by me thinking Grogu would love popping boba bc he loved the frog lady’s eggs so much!! I hope I did it okay :) Siruus, reader’s home planet, is supposed to be a mishmash of cultures, none specifically, I just picked cool elements from a variety of cultures!

One of the delights you missed most from your home planet was, you discovered, practically unattainable on any other planet. You’d scoured far and wide, hoping maybe you’d cross paths with another Siruusian or an admirer of the culture, but found nothing. It was only on Siruus that you could find your favorite drink: a milky tea with popping pearls.

Din knows you miss your home. Late at night, in the hull of the ship, he’d confide that he missed his home planet too. He told you tales of growing up in Aq Vetina, the feather-light and velvety robes that he wore every day, the spicy foods his mother would cook- which later made him a great Mandalorian.

Did you know that the Mandos love spicy food, cyare? We have a whole vocabulary to describe the heat of a dish. It’s traditional. I was raised on it, and the comfort of a burning mouth was a universal sensation: one that reminded me of my real parents and my adoptive clan.

Rarely did the Mandalorian man let his guard down, but never had he completely done so like he has with you. From the moment he hired you to care for his little green son, he’d been entranced by your laughter, the smooth sound of your voice in the language you’d been raised speaking. He caught you teaching the kid some vocabulary, and he’d quiz him on it when you weren’t around. The kid couldn’t speak yet, but he could point and match words to images or objects, which he attributed entirely to you. You were the child’s primary caretaker and kindergarten teacher in one, and Din admired your care and commitment.

Something about you spoke to him, and over time he thinks he came to realize it was the fact that, though you’d never heard of The Way before meeting Din, you were the holistic ideal of a Mandalorian. You valued knowledge and valor, and though you didn’t work in the traditional Mando fields of bounty hunting or working as a warrior, you embodied another aspect: that care for children.

Watching you with the kid was what made him realize he was in love with you. He’d told you everything. When you looked over your shoulder and laughed, the baby watching you too, the gaze was a love Din has never felt but immediately recognized. It hit him and his whole body shuddered, harder than it had when the Maldo Kreis cold had seeped into his bones, even through the beskar. At the same time, he felt too warm in his own skin, like the fever he’d had as a toddler that threatened his life- he’d told you that story too.  Dank Farrik. This was not in the plan.

You had told Din all about your home planet too. You told him of the bright flowers that bloomed in the cold of winter, that released a pollen that made the birds in the area start laying their eggs. He listened intently every time, clinging to every word he told you like he’d never hear that beautiful voice again. He’d hear you singing Siruusian lullabies to the baby, and on nights you missed home.

He’d offered to take you back many times. Any time you were near, there was a standing offer to pop in for a visit. But you’ve always declined; the child and Mando would bring too much attention to your quiet little planet, you explained. That was only partially true, so you didn’t feel as bad lying by omission to Din. You’d neglected to mention, every time, that this was your life now, and more specifically that you never want to leave his side again.

Din really is something. You’d never even heard of Mandalorians before he swept you off your planet, never understood the intricate Creed and their strong beliefs. It didn’t matter to you, that you couldn’t see his face; at least at first. Of course you’d respect the slightly terrifying man’s customs.

But over time you’ve fallen for him, and that’s made everything just a little harder. The man seemingly made of steel was warm and gentle beneath it, with you and the child. He’d wrangle a bounty into the carbonite freezer then tenderly tuck a flower he found behind your ear, calling you sweet names in Mando’a that you didn’t understand. The juxtaposition of the man’s very being- covered in impenetrable, freezing metal to hide an ooey-gooey center like that of a warm pastry- was exciting and beautiful to you.

How could you not fall in love? The three of you became a little family, even as you joined Din on the quest of returning your little green son to his people. You’d treated the baby as your own son, the way Din did too. You’d tried to shepherd him away from the Frog woman’s eggs, only to find him munching on them moments later, scolded him with love and promptly hidden the container.

That day made you miss home even more. The eggs reminded you of the popping pearls you loved so much- no wonder the kid loved them. You’d never eat the Frog’s eggs, of course, but you’d sung the baby to sleep that night in the hull of the ship, another lullaby from your youth. Maybe next time you’d take Din’s offer to visit home seriously. Maybe. There was still another reason you didn’t want to return: if you came home, you weren’t sure you could leave again.

Now you’re in hyperspace, nestled into the small bunk, your child snoozing softly above you with gentle grunts and snorts of sleep. Din is up in the cockpit and you can’t sleep. You wonder if he’s awake too. Maybe you’ll go check.

Sliding on warm slippers to pad your bare feet from the cold metal of the floor, you climb the ladder to the cockpit and see Din sitting in the captain’s chair. You’re unsure if he’s awake or not; it’s hard to tell through the beskar. His shoulders shift a little as he hears you moving and you can tell he’s awake. “Hi. Couldn’t sleep,” you admit as you assume your regular position. The chairs move with the pull of a lever, and you scoot yours closer to Din and prop your feet on his arm rest.

Din nods, resting against the chair. “Me neither. The kid?”

“Asleep,” you confirm and nod, slumping down in your seat.

It’s nice and quiet between the two of you, a relaxed silence as the stars fly past and the Crest hums its low rumble of engines and filters. Just being in his presence soothes you more than being alone in that coffin of a bunk. If you think this is calming, you ponder, just his presence, imagine his arms around you while you sleep. Imagine his warm skin beneath the beskar surrounding you and radiating heat.

He’s thinking the same thing. You look impossibly soft and warm. Your plush skin prickles with the cold of the cockpit and Din wants to put an ungloved hand over it and let the heat of his flushed body sink into yours. He doesn’t. He just stares off at the stars. “We’re approaching your home system,” he murmurs softly. “Would you like to visit?”

Well damn. You hadn’t expected to be confronted with the question so soon, and you’re not quite sure how to answer. “I don’t know.”

It’s quiet again. Din’s silence invites you to speak your inner monologue, to throw your tangled thoughts into the open so he can help unknot them with his nimble mind. In response to his lack of words, which say as much as any sentence, you respond. “I haven’t been there in so long. I don’t know if I want to go back. I like my life now, and I’m scared I’ll want to stay if we visit.”

Din nods as you speak, processing the meanings of your words. “Well,” he begins, “what if I rephrase it like this: would you like us to visit?”

Us. What the kriff does that entail? The three of you, your little family, perhaps? You and Din as friends, as coworkers? Or as something more… your mind spins and you can’t make sense of it, so you give it up. “What does that mean?”

Din turns his chair to face you, moving your legs to drape across his lap. Even through the gloves, he holds back a shiver as he rests his hands atop your shins. “We’ll go, all three of us. If you like your life now, we’ll be your reminders of it.”

Your mouth curves into a warm smile, your body feeling soft and fuzzy all over. “How kind.”

“I’ll even buy you that tea you ramble about,” he offers.

Gasping in excitement, you clap your hands together. “Will you try it? Oh, Din, you’ll love it, it’s the most delicious thing in the galaxy.”

“We’ll see about that,” he chuckles through the modulator, a sound you wish you could hear without the mechanical suppressor.

Popping up, you kiss the top of his beskar-clad head in excitement before you can stop yourself. “Thank you, Din.”

“Anything for you, cyare,” he says with a certain warmth to his voice, a large hand finding your waist. “Go get some rest, lie down. We’ll be there in about half a day.”

“Only if you rest too,” you tell him and your hand rests over his. It’s the most he’s ever touched you purposefully, and now all you want is for him to slide that hand back until he’s wrapping you in his muscular arms. Din nods and you pat his forearm. “Sweet dreams.”

-

The ramp comes down and your mouth forms a soft ring in excitement. It’s a beautiful day, the nearest sun making the atmosphere the beautiful purple you grew up under. The oranges and yellows of the architecture surround you, and you instinctively clutch the Mandalorian’s hand. “Welcome to my home,” you tell him with a grin and lead him down.

Your little green child is strapped to your chest in a baby carrier, a birikad in Mando’a, and he looks around in wonder, squealing excitedly. As you walk through the streets of the small city, vendors call in Siruusian, a language Din is slowly learning from you. He thinks he recognizes a few words here or there.

Venturing to the side, a stall sells small animals made of a gorgeously embroidered fabric. You had many of these as a child; your favorite was a blue and silver bantha, an exotic animal you’d never seen before your adventures with Din. The child coos at the menagerie in front of him and you squat so he can look at them.

“Toata,” you coo in Siruusian, a word to mean little one, “can you pick the frog?”

That’s one of the words you worked on with him. A tiny, green, three-fingered hand grabs a gorgeous yellowy-brown frog and holds it up in triumph. “Good job, cutie! Aren’t you a smart little thing?” you grin and kiss his forehead. “Is that the one you want?”

Din watches from a few meters back, grinning beneath the helmet. When the child nods excitedly and squeals, he almost laughs softly at the beautiful sight. You pay for the frog and Din meanders over, the baby already chewing on a long leg of the plush.

He wants to see you like that for the rest of his life: glowing with excitement, the little kid strapped to your chest, absolutely at ease and relaxed in the place you used to call home. “You want one too?” you ask.

He shakes his head at first, but after a little haggling, Din purchases himself a copper and yellow blurrg and a mudhorn made of silver for you. The symbolism of the mudhorn, of Clan Djarin, is not lost on you. It makes your heart flit nervously around your ribcage as you wander through the market, making your little mudhorn and the baby’s frog pretend to fight. As always, the littlest member of Clan Djarin triumphs over the mighty mudhorn.

An aromatic smell wafts through the air and your face lights up to see a stand selling your favorite beverage. Din spots it too and makes his way over, getting in the line, his hand holding yours once again. This time, he initiated it. You like that. It makes you giggle and squeeze his fingers softly.

“What do you usually order?” he asks you.

You frown and scan the menu. You explain your drink to him, an orange-colored, sweet and herbal milk tea with your favorite citrusy popping pearls in the bottom. He asks what you think he’d like and you pick a drink for him: a blue, warmly-spiced milk tea with the same pearls. “It’s not the proper drink without it,” you explain.

Picking the baby from his carrier to face you, you ask him questions by the process of elimination. “Okay, toata, do you like… mushfruit?” He makes a noise of disproval. You knew he hated that one; you wanted to ensure he was listening. “No? How about…” you pretend to ponder it. “How about panga?”

The baby squeals in excitement. The green fruit has always been his favorite when you and Din require him to eat his fruit. “Wonderful, and a panga milk tea with you. Do you remember froggie’s eggs?” You ask him, pointing to the frog toy he holds. He tilts his head in confusion.

“The snackies I said no?” That clue does it. He nods, cooing and giggling. “These taste like those! You’ll love it.”

The rest of the time in the line is quiet, shuffling forward slowly to reach the stand. “Is it what you’d hoped?” Din asks after a while.

You nod and smile. “As soon as I get my tea, it will be.”

“And you… you don’t want to stay?”

“Nope,” you agree, popping the p with your lips.

He doesn’t know quite what to say. He’s not the wordsmith you are. “Well. I’m glad. I, uh. I’d miss you if you left.”

The words are simple but they warm your heart. “I’d miss the two of you far too much to leave,” you assure him. “For different reasons, respectively.”

Your flirtation is more than mild, but it hangs in Din’s mouth like a spicy Mandalorian food. He knows what you imply, and the thought that you could feel the same practically sends him into orbit, above Siruus’s atmosphere and next to one of its 4 moons. He can’t respond. He just tightens his grip on your hand.

Once you’ve acquired the drinks, Din holding his and the child’s, the three of you make your way back to the Razor Crest so Din can enjoy the drink too. Walking up the ramp, you sigh as the air-controlled atmosphere warms your slightly-chilled skin from being outside for so long in the Siruusian spring.

You unpack the kid from his carrier, and grin as he toddles to his father, making grabby hands for his green drink. “Oh my, toata,” you tease. “Your drink is the same color as you!”

Din laughs softly, and sets the drink on the floor for him. The baby tries to hold it and walk but the cup is too tall to move with his tiny body. You lift it for him and move it so he can sit in a circle with you and Din, cross-legged on the floor.

The baby plops down in front of his drink then realizes it’s too tall for him to sip from the thick straw while seated. The baby makes a little whine of frustration and you scoop up the kid, putting him in your lap. You hold the cup for him, and his two tiny hands grab the straw to drink from. The baby squeaks as he pops a pearl in his mouth. It’s just like the froggy eggs, and he couldn’t be more excited.

Your free hand holds your drink, and you close your eyes in happiness when the first sip of your tea reaches your tongue. You make a content little moan at the flavor, then open your eyes to see the child vigorously slurping up the drink. “Woah, little man. Slow down.”

Din just watches the two of you, smiling to himself. When your eyes return to him, he lifts his drink. “I’m not really supposed to do this,” he admits as he grabs the edge of his helmet. Both you and the child watch in bewilderment as he lifts his helmet just enough to expose the bottom of his nose, his lips and chin.

You’d never really processed that Din would be… well, so human. The strip of his face, exposed, reveals warm skin, dark stubble, and lips that look ridiculously soft. It’s a sight to see, a Mandalorian cross-legged on the floor and sipping tea with popping pearls. It makes you grin, and both you and the baby lean in closer to try and look under the helmet further.

“That’s as much as you get,” Din teases as he lowers the helmet, once more covering his entire face.

You frown, but the excitement of Din trying your favorite treat overwhelms it for now. “What do you think?” You ask.

Din tilts his head and does exactly that: thinks. “It’s very good,” he nods as he looks at the child, nearly halfway done with his green milk-tea. “I really like it. That’s delicious.”

“Yay,” you smile and sip your own drink again, sighing. The three of you continue like that for a while, sitting together and drinking your tea. Every time he lifts his helmet, you consider those plush lips, the scruff coating his defined jaw and chin. When his tea is gone, you frown to realize the moment of intimacy, of seeing just a little of his face, is over.

The kid is tuckered out from his day. You put the baby to bed in his hammock over the bunk, kissing him goodnight and singing him a lullaby as you rock the knit cradle. He falls asleep quickly,  tummy full of a delicious treat very similar to his favorite snack. While you put the child to bed, Din pilots you safely out of the sky harbor and away from Siruus, out of the purple-tinted sky and back into the darkness of space followed by hyperdrive.

You climb up to the cockpit, entering and standing behind Din’s captain chair. “I had a wonderful time today. Thank you.” You put your hands on his pauldron-covered shoulders.

“Thank you,” he insists. “I’d never go there for any other reason. The drink was wonderful and the kid absolutely loved everything about it.” “Maybe we’ll have to vacation there sometime,” you chuckle, spotting Din’s little toy blurrg peeking out from a pocket on his utility belt.

Din turns and stands from his chair, looking at you through that black t-visor. You’re not sure why he does it; in all honesty, he isn’t either. You stare into the helmet, where you suspect and hope his eyes are. “You’re very handsome under there,” you tell him, putting a hand on the divot of his helmet, where the beskar caves inward over his cheeks.

“I’m nothing special,” he shakes his head, a hand covering yours. “Nowhere as special or as beautiful as you.”

Heat rises in your skin, blood flowing closer to the surface. “That’s not true, Din.”

“It is. You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve seen in the galaxy,” he murmurs, his other hand cupping your cheek through leather gloves.

“Well, thank you,” you laugh softly, almost nervously, “but I meant you’re very special. I haven’t even seen all of your face and I know you’re absolutely gorgeous beneath that helmet.” You pause, tracing the curves of the beskar. “What color eyes do you have? I want to finish the mental picture.”

“Brown,” Din breathes out, barely able to control himself with you this close.

“Din?”

“Mesh’la.”

“Can… can you do what you did with your helmet to drink the tea?”

He lifts it just enough, just exposing those goddamn taunting lips and the scruffy jaw. “Like this?”

“Exactly,” you exhale before cupping his soft jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your palms as you press your lips to his. Those lips are a little dry but warm and strong, just like you’d assume the rest of him is. He puts a hand on your waist and pulls you in close, kissing you back deeply.

The beskar right above his lips makes it more difficult but not impossible. He lifts the helmet a little higher so he can tilt his head to the side, can kiss you with the energy and passion you’re putting into it. Mentally, he adds this to his lists of favorite tastes: spicy Mandalorian cuisine, your favorite tea with popping pearls, and you.

It lasts a while before you break away and Din lowers his helmet all the way once more. You breathe heavily from the fervor of the kiss, lips swollen and damp. Maker, he wishes this visor had a photo capability to take a picture of the way you look. “Come rest with me. Please, Din.”

Din can’t say no to that. He retreats downstairs with you, strips himself of the beskar save for the helmet, and snuggles into your side. Your wish comes true then and there, when you learn that he’s as good of a cuddler as you’d hoped. “Goodnight, Din. Thank you,” you murmur.

“Goodnight, mesh’la. Thank you more.”

The baby above you gives a little snort in his sleep. That’s the last thing you remember before falling asleep in his arms.

-

Taglist: @remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain @tacticalsparkles @1800-fight-me

[wheredafandomat]

Chimera 🌌

Part 1: “Good news” Next

Loki x female reader

“In Greek mythology, chimera is some sort of part goat, part lion, part serpent monster thing however, there are other meanings.”

“Such as?”

“Chimera, a thing which is hoped for but is illusory or impossible to achieve.”

“And in a sentence y/n?”

“Why do people chase the chimera of love?”

“Because love is beautiful, it’s poetic, it’s—”

“It’s not destined for me.”

Listening to Thor telling him the ‘good news’, Loki found himself lost in a trance. Just the mere mention of her name had him recalling the memories of her. Her hair, her face, her voice, the feeling of her skin on his. He felt angered, overjoyed, resentful, elated. She was coming back. She’d be back here. He didn’t want to see her but he longed for the sight of her everyday. It had been so long since he had seen her. Something as simple as the scent of someone wearing her perfume brought him straight back to that night. To her.

“Are you even listening brother?” Thor questioned as he waved his hand in front of Loki’s blank face.

“I’m-yea—yes. Absolutely marvellous.” Loki replied with a fake smile as he stood up. “I just need some fresh air” he assured before turning around and making a beeline for the door.

“I do hope you’re not coming down with something.” Thor laughed as he called after Loki who stormed towards his floor of the compound. His breathing grew ragged as pictures of her reeked havoc on his mind. It was easier to forget her when she wasn’t here but the knowledge of her coming back made Loki almost throw up over the balcony once he reached his room. He put his head in his hands as he fell to the floor, slightly trembling. His hands moved to his hair and it made him think of her even more. Why did she have to come back? Why now? Why ever? Hearing the sound of the elevator dinging in the near distance, Loki quickly tried to straighten himself out. Flattening his hair and smoothing over his clothes, he put the conjured images of her to the back of his mind.

“Hey Loki, I’m back” he heard Cassie sing as she walked towards his room. Opening the door, she walked towards Loki with a wide smile. Hugging him, he wrapped her arms around her before inhaling her perfume as she pulled him closer. Vanilla and musk.

“Have you heard the good news?” She questioned looking up at him.

“What?” He asked furrowing his brows.

“Y/n’s coming back.” She cheered.

“Wonderful” he smiled as she hugged him tighter.

“Oh how I’ve missed you” she hummed “the mission was exhausting, I’m so glad I’m home.”

“Let me go get your bags.” Loki suggested as he pulled away from her. Without giving her a chance to reply, he headed towards the downstairs lobby of the compound where he knew her bags would be left. He took a deep breath knowing that soon y/n would be stepping through those doors. She’d be back in the compound. Picking up the bags, he headed back towards his floor. Standing in the elevator, he remembered the feeling of her hand in his as he pulled her into it. The way she looked in the mirror in front of him as their eyes met. He couldn’t believe that she was coming back.

“Thank you” Cassie smiled, kissing Loki on the cheek as he stepped out of the elevator.

“Don’t be ridiculous” he replied, putting her bags down before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into a deep kiss as his hands travelled over her body. She had been gone for what felt like forever. The mission lasted for two weeks.

“I need a shower” she said breathlessly, pulling away from Loki, practically shoving him off of her.

“Oh, alright, yes, of course” he said, lowering his head, slightly embarrassed as he turned away from her “ill put these in the bedroom” he stated.

“Thanks” she replied before turning around, leaving Loki slightly confused with her behaviour.

Taking her bags to the room, he set them down on the floor before deciding to unpack for her. It had been a long mission, she was probably tired and didn’t want to unpack. He’d be doing her a favour he thought as he picked up one of the bags and dropped it onto the bed. His fingers found the zip as he began opening it.

“What are you doing?” He heard from the door.

“Helping you unpack, go and relax” he replied, turning towards Cassie.

“It’s fine. I’ll do it myself thank you” she replied abruptly, picking her bag up and putting it on the floor.

“Suit yourself” he laughed, attempting to break the tension that had somehow crept its way into their room.

Cassie put her bags in the corner of the room before leaving and heading towards the bathroom for a shower. Loki couldn’t help himself from looking at the bags in the corner of the room wondering why she refused his help before his eyes wondered to the floor lamp. Flashbacks once again reverberated through his brain.

“Careful” he chuckled pulling her closer to him and away from the lamp her back was about to hit.

“Oh wow, my saviour.” She teased.

“What would you do without me y/n?” He joked.

She was coming back. He didn’t know if he was ready for that. He had prayed for that.

A/N: Awww look at this gif. Anyways, do we like where this is going? I feel like this fic will be a bit different from the others I’ve written. The italics are flashbacks btw if anyone didn’t clock.

[doormarrow]

The Infamous House of Lamentation Cuddle Pile

Idk if this is a headcanon or a fic, but here we gooooo

The Curious Incident of the Infamous House of Lamentation Cuddle Pile

Let’s just say MC had a no good very bad day. It might have even been a lost-a-bet-and-had-to-eat-Solomon’s-cooking kind of a day

When they got back to the House of Lamentation, it was time to collapse. The floor of the common room looked *very* tempting, but they trudged up to the attic.

It turns out that Belphie was there first, much to MC’s surprise. MC noticed lumps in the bed, sure, but assumed that they were pillows and did their best dramatic flop, squishing the demon in the process. 

You would think Belphie would be startled; But if you think this exact same situation hasn’t happened with Beel before, you’re wrong.

He just lazily turned to MC, long enough to give them a grumpy look, and then buried his face back in his cow pillow. He may or may not have been secretly glad to *be* a pillow, but he would never tell. 

But where there’s one, there’s undoubtedly the other. Beel came looking for Belphie a minute or two later, wanting to relax and watch a movie (possibly with some popcorn). When he saw Belphie’s head peeking out from underneath MC, he smiled a bit to himself and settled beside his two favorite people in the world, propping himself up on the headboard. He’s a careful cuddler, and if he can’t be on the bottom of the pile, he will be as gentle as demonly possible.

MC was satisfied that the attic sandwich was now complete, but now there were voices downstairs, echoing in the entryway. They tried to snuggle deeper in between Beel and Belphie to drown out the noise, but the door burst open.

In came Asmo. He had been looking for the MC ever since he heard they came home tired, wanting to make sure they were alright, and that they got enough sleep last night. He was stopped in his tracks though. He had always thought the attic sandwich was overwhelmingly adorable (and maybe he was just a bit jealous of it as well) but this was a whole other plane of existence. He rushed over, and promptly put an elbow on Belphie to lean over and tell MC how adorable they were. He began to chat about his day, and the best posts he saw on Devilgram, never stopping to acknowledge the occasional snarky comment from Belphie. If allowed, he will absolutely begin playing with MC’s hair. 

Luke shows up a bit out of breath and peering around the door. He had just escaped the commotion downstairs and almost turned around when he saw yet more demons, but when Beelzebub motioned him over he sighed, defeated, and trotted over to the bed. Beel pulled up his knees, and Luke plopped down cross legged in front of him, beginning a tale of being called a chihuahua yet again by Lucifer. And so the pile now numbers 5.

Simeon marched up the stairs to find the very smol angel. Simeon, like Asmo, wholly endorses cuddle piles, albeit he suspects not in the same way. He politely asked to join the pile, and somehow manages to do it quite gracefully, lying side by side with the MC, while staying in head-pat range of Luke. He couldn’t help but think about how wonderful it was that the MC had brought them all together like this, and he began to drift off, wondering about how best to translate that quality into Henry...

Satan came up to try and find a quiet place to study, as now his least favorite demon was tearing up the house, trying to find Mammon. He debates briefly whether or not to move on to the library, but Asmo caught him as soon as he poked his head in the door, and pleaded for him to join the rest of them. Satan sighed, but a puppy eyed look from MC convinced him to settle on top of the headboard and try to continue his reading as best as he could. MC, now thoroughly squished by demons and some angels to boot, was positively beaming. Satan could swear that if he listened close enough they were actually purring, and a smile crept across his face, almost without him realizing it. Once he did however, he used his book to shield his face (and his now very prominent blush) from view.

Levi shows up with a laptop, looking very grumpy. He has been spam texting the MC for the last half hour because they said they would stream the premiere of the new TSL movie with him. He is even more grumpy when he realizes that the MC is sandwiched in a bunch of normies, but when given puppy eyes will begrudgingly set up the projector in the attic to watch the movie there. When he’s invited to attempt to sit on the  now-very-full bed, he gives them all the look of utter horror, but once more pleading eyes from his Henry win the day. Levi gingerly sits on the very edge of the mattress closest to MC, mumbling about normies and covering his face. He startles a bit when Belphie starts snoring from the depths of the pile, but otherwise settles in.

This did not last long. Shortly after the movie starts, in a tense scene between the Lord of Corruption and the Lord of Fools, the door bursts open again, scaring Luke into Beel’s chest. Mammon was doing his best impression of Cerberus’s zoomies, and dove headfirst into Levi, knocking him further back into the pile. He then proceeds to burrow as fast as he can, trying to hide. After explaining in very hurried terms that unless he hides now his future is upside down and attached to the ceiling, he covers himself with the edge of a blanket. His brothers (except perhaps, for Beel, who personally thinks that Mammon is great for hugs and therefore great for cuddle piles, and Belphie, who at this point is mostly unconscious and couldn’t care less as long as the MC remained on top of him) all internally debate kicking him out of the pile, but a murderous look from the MC puts a stop to that. MC grabs another edge of the blanket, and they create a tent to keep in the warmth. Levi.exe stopped working, as after being knocked over he was now directly on top of the MC. He might’ve complained about Mammon, but at the moment his brain was too overloaded from how impossibly cute the situation was. Not even in his favorite team sport anime was there anything that could have prepared him for this. 

Solomon shows up not long after, waving his DDD in the air with a suspiciously familiar picture— Levi nearly shushes him, but when he took a closer look at the picture on the phone, he blushes hard and retreats under the blanket. On his DDD is a selfie Asmo took with the whole pile behind him. 

“Asmo, you called?” Solomon is grinning ear to ear, and without asking sets himself down beside the mischievous Avatar of Lust. Asmo does his best to make room for him, not wanting to exclude anyone from the monstrous pile. Solomon, being a human, takes up no where near the amount of space that, say, Beel does, but his legs just couldn’t quite fit. He solves the problem by making an ottoman himself, drawing some glowing purple rings and symbols in the air beside the bed and crossing his ankles over top of them. He congratulates Levi on his choice of movie, and leans against the pile to watch.

They all get to about the midpoint of the movie, when Asmo feels that he’s somehow forgetting something. Something, or someone important… He was about to forget it when Diavolo climbs through the window asking “dID yOU FOrgET ABOuT ME” appeared in the doorway, looking utterly offended.

He quickly forgives them for apparently forgetting to invite him to the cuddle party, and advances on the bed. He stops, turns around and oh no he’s doing a trust fall—

The whole pile groans and Levi wonders if he’ll be able to breathe again. Diavolo, on the other hand, could not be more delighted, putting his hands behind his head and asking about the movie. 

Barbatos watched, amused, from a corner of the room. No one is exactly sure how or when he got there, but that wasn’t at all unusual for Barbatos. MC asks him to join, which prompts Levi to silently plead for his lungs, but Barbatos politely declines. Being pestered further however, the prince in particular putting up a strong argument, Barbatos gives a slight smile and manages to find a single open edge to precariously balance on. He laughs a bit to himself, at the very least glad that everyone is getting along for once. MC is pleased, but both they and Asmo could still tell someone was missing…

Lucifer was having a difficult day. He couldn’t find Cerberus, who was due for a brushing, and he had begun to worry about the MC, who came in with a face so beaten down that it made him of all people feel beyond exhausted. On top of that, Mammon had the audacity to inform him that he had planned a spur of the moment get together at the House of Lamentation with Purgatory Hall, Diavolo, and Barbatos in which he promised that Lucifer would do the cooking.

Mammon had disappeared, and so Lucifer sat down at his desk defeated. He would message Diavolo in the meantime, asking to perhaps try a different day, or to go out to Ristorante Six instead. He picked up his DDD to do so, but something nagged at the back of his head. The House of Lamentation was too quiet. The last time the house had been this quiet, Satan had rigged a glitter bomb in the kitchen that took several decades to wash out. He still shuddered at the thought of green glitter. He was brought out of his thoughts as the DDD rumbled in his hand. A new Devilgram post? The image that came up was from Asmodeus’s account... 

Mammon was busy arguing with Levi about how no I don’t want ta cuddle with you weirdos, I’m just lookin out for my best interests, s’all. What dya mean tsundere? Look who’s talking scale boi when the poor, beaten-and-abused attic door was slammed open once again. 

Lucifer loomed, putting on his best lecture face. Mammon was so far beneath the pile at this point that Lucifer would have to pry them all apart to get to him. 

“What in the Devildom do you think you’re doing? Being cute won’t get you out of this.” Lucifer begins to explain that snuggling the Prince of the Devildom is improper at a time like this, Mammon should learn not to pull others into his promises, etc. Barbatos is unimpressed. Lucifer definitely thinks this is cute, but he would never, in any time or realm, admit it.

He continues uninterrupted, but something can be heard padding up the stairs. A minute or so into his speech, he is suddenly toppled over, careening headfirst into the pile.

Absolute confusion from everyone involved, and a very, very grumpy Lucifer. Also chaotic laughter from Satan, who is now directly above Lucifer, sitting on the headboard.

Cerberus has arrived, claiming his spot atop the pile. He proudly sits on Lucifer’s chest, as if to say to the MC, look what I brought, aren’t I a good boy?

Lucifer makes an attempt to get up, but then Diavolo, Asmo, Simeon, and the MC began pleading with him to stay a while. He melted a little on the inside, but when the MC grabbed his hand to stop him from leaving he broke, and resigned to stay, just for the moment. He closes his eyes, for once relishing the fact of being surrounded by his family and closest friends. Cerberus curled up on top, content that he had brought the last piece to his puppy pile.

And so they stayed like that for the rest of the night, even after the movie ended, only pausing for Asmo to get his softest blankets and pillows from his room. Satan got drowsy while reading his book, eventually nodding off and moving from the headboard into the pile, and accidentally leaning on Lucifer and Cerberus. Lucifer was more than surprised, but he vowed not to move a muscle so he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping bookworm. Diavolo took the other side of Lucifer resting his head on Lucifer’s shoulder, and even Barbatos relaxed against the pile, folding his hands on his chest, and glancing every once in a while at Luke to make sure he was comfortable. Mammon and Levi shared their spot squishing the MC, heads together and snoring lightly. MC hugged and held hands with whoever was closest by, occasionally shifting their weight to hopefully make Belphie more comfortable. Asmo and Solomon leaned on each other on one side of the bed, Asmo co-opting his magical ottoman and curling up as best he could. Simeon, oddly content with his spot near the bottom at the pile, was dozing away peacefully, somehow still graceful but letting out a small, perfectly pitched whistle as he breathed in and out. Last but not least, Luke had rolled himself into a tiny angel ball against Beel’s chest, and Beel left one hand on his head at all times. Beel was the last to fall asleep. He was too busy smiling, feeling fuller now than he had in ages.

All photo evidence of the event mysteriously disappeared, and that was how the infamous House of Lamentation cuddle pile happened, cross my heart and hope to sneeze.

RIP Belphie

PS Asmo is platonic and non-platonic cuddle king, fight me on it.

[thran-duils]

Doll Me Up (P.1)

Title: Doll Me Up (Part One) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark Mob!Tony Stark. On good days, you and Tony were a power couple. You, a perfect trophy wife with your hands in local charities to promote a wholesome image. Tony, business man but sullied with organized crime. He indulged in his illegal gambling, extortion, and political corruption. And he indulged in his escort business. Hell, that is where he had found you. You were a brat, and he loved a challenge. Words: 2,322 Warnings: Unhealthy relationships, smut, daddy kink, dom/sub, manipulation, death, violence, possessive behavior

Introduction || Part Two ||  Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

There were three voicemails when you turned your phone back on in the airport terminal.

Voicemail, 12:22am

“Y/N, I swear to GOD if you don’t answer your fucking phone the second you land, I’m going to make sure you don’t walk right for a fucking week when I get you back in my hands!”

Voicemail, 12:57am

“I am tempted to leave you stranded without any fucking money! How the fuck would you like that? Having to call me to come bail you the fuck out? I’ll make you get on your goddamn knees and beg. Call. Me.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you snickered.

Tony would never though; you found it impossible. He could not stand the thought of you not having money to shield yourself from the world if he was not there. You needed to be inside, pampered.

You snorted before listening to the next message.

Voicemail, 1:27am

“When I find out where you’ve gone, you bet your ass I’m going to be right on the plane there and you’re not going to like it when I find you! Do you understand me! So, make this easier on yourself and call me back!”

You took the opportunity to text him back.

Y/N, 3:29am

Don’t waste your time or jet fuel. Just leave me alone for a bit. God.

You dialed your friend Xavier, it going to voicemail the first time. Annoyed, you called him again, taking note it was after 3:30am. On the fourth attempt, he answered.

“What the hell do you want, Y/N? If you’re drunk and woke me up—”

Brightly, you told him, “Come get me.”

There was a moment’s pause, before he asked perplexed, “What?”

“I’m at SeaTac.”

“The hell do you mean you’re at SeaTac?”

“I flew here,” you told him nonchalantly as you could. “On a whim. And I don’t want to take an Uber alone. I’ll give you gas money! Promise.”

“Where… what?” He was groggy still.

“I’ll stay at your place for a couple nights?”

He was quiet again for a few moments before asking, “You don’t wanna get a hotel room…?”

“Of course you want to do that.”

“Bitch, I live in a studio. Why would I not want to take advantage of some more space?”

“Point taken. But ugh, hurry!” You whined, leaning against the wall. “I’m in really tall heels and I don’t have a coat. I’m cold.”

“Are you outside?”

“No, in the aiport. The dress is just really short.”

Xavier snorted at this. “Of course it is. Where’s Tony?”

“At home. We got into a fight,” you told him shortly.

“So, you flew here…?”

“Yeah, I didn’t wanna go home and see his stupid face. So, I came here. Straight from the party really. Hold on, let me check hotels in the area.” You pulled your phone down to google and scroll through options. “Ugh, I don’t wanna be downtown though. But that’s where all the nice hotels are at… Oh, this place has a renaissance Brad Pitt photo on a pillow.”

“Please. Get that. Just on principal.”

“Okay but this other place has a better bathroom set up.”

“Is that really important?”

“Yes, I want a relaxing bath. And it has a great view of the sound. There’s two-bedroom suites that don’t require extended stays. But, love, I don’t want to sleep alone… and I trust you for that.”

Xavier chortled, “Scout’s honor. Your pussy does not interest me in the slightest. What’s the name then?”

“Thompson. Get here!”

“I’m moving, I’m moving,” Xavier told you and you heard shuffling in the background of the call.

You added before he could hang up, “And bring your phone charger. And some sweats and a shirt. I meant it when I said I left directly from the party. All I’ve got is my purse.”

“You are ridiculous,” Xavier laughed. “It’s going to take me at least a half hour. Don’t let your phone die!”

Tony was calling again, and you sighed annoyed, sending him to voicemail. By now he would know your phone as at least back on and know you sent him to voicemail yet again.

Y/N, 3:41am

My phone is getting low and I need it to contact a hotel so I’m not going to answer.

Your anger was beginning to subside, but you were not ready to give in just yet.

Dialing the hotel, you waited for the front desk to answer. “Yes, I would like to set up a two-bedroom suite if there are any available? There are? Perfect. Oh, right now, please. I’ve just landed at the airport. Yes, yes of course. My card number is….”

Tony would not even have to call the credit card company at this rate with this new charge showing up.

<><><>

Two years ago…

“Are you sure that’s what you want me to do, Y/N? I could really mark you up that way,” Tony purred.

You peered over your shoulder, giving him a pleading look. You had just asked him to hit you again, wanting him to get your ass good and red before he fucked you unbridled. The clincher was that he had a nine tails he was spanking you with. He had dipped into spanking the first time he had taken you and you would be lying if you said you did not like it. You had been interested in the powerful man and had seen him take girls from the service before. When he had shown up last time, you had made sure to be in his sights and he had taken the bite. Figuratively and literally. He had left some nice little marks along your shoulder and atop your breasts that had eventually faded. You wanted more and it seemed he did too.

“Yes, please,” you said coyly.

“If you keep sounding that cute, I am not going to be able to help myself.”

You stuck out your bottom lip and he gave a throat chuckle before swinging his arm back and landing another blow across your cheeks. You made a strangled noise, jolting forward with the hit. Tony’s fingers came to your ass, dipping between your thighs.

“You like me marking you up?” he asked, his fingers playing. You nodded again. “Bite marks and all?” Another nod and he had had enough foreplay.

Tony groaned salaciously, his fingers leaving your sex and coming to tear your dress down off your breasts. The bra was gone next, your breasts bouncing free. Your dress was stuck around your middle, leaving your bottom and top half exposed.

You whimpered, feeling empty.

“Aww, princess,” Tony mockingly cooed. “Do you want me to fix it?”

You breathed, “Yes, sir.”

His cock pressed against your entrance. “I have such a desire for you… to inhale every part of you.”

“I want you to, sir.”

Tony chuckled against your neck before nipping, causing you to whimper at the pinch. “I know, princess. And that’s what I crave. I’m just simply obsessed with you, kitten.”

<><><>

You woke up to tapping on your face.

Xavier chortled when you startled awake. “Hello, darling,” he crooned.

You slapped his hand away, “Jesus, you creep. Couldn’t you have just gotten out of bed quietly and ordered breakfast?”

“Oh, I did that,” Xavier told you and you scowled, grabbing the blanket to try to yank it over your head. “But I also ordered you some blueberry pancakes!”

At the mention of them, you stilled. Muttering angrily, you threw the blanket back and grabbed your phone, checking the time. It was only 9:30am. You had only been asleep for a few hours at best. When Xavier had picked you up, you had turned your phone back on airplane mode to prevent seeing whatever texts Tony was going to be sending and any calls. You switched it off and surprisingly saw there was only one text from him. He had tried to call a couple of times but he had not left any more voicemails. He was probably testing to see if your phone was back on or not.

Tony, 4:42am

I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish from this other than pissing me off.

You sighed as you got out of bed, padding to the bathroom, taking your phone with you.

Xavier called from the bed, “They said less than a half hour!”

“Noted,” you returned coming to the tub and turning it on. You placed your phone on the counter and began getting undressed.

Kicking your feet up, you relaxed back into the tub. It was so warm, and you settled back in further, a smile coming across your face. There was nothing a hot bath could not soothe. You had been bruised up on your ass too many times to not know that.

Your phone rang and you groaned, knowing who it was. You sunk beneath the water, holding your breath. You could not even have one damn bath…

Footsteps echoed into the bathroom and you opened your eyes seeing Xavier peering at your phone on the counter.

You were out of the water in a second, telling him before your ears had even cleared, “Xavier, don’t—”

He had already pressed answer and held the phone up to his ear much to your horror. You could only hear his side of the conversation.

“Hello? Who’s this? Oh, you must be Tony. A friend.”

“Xavier!” you hissed. “Hang the fuck up!”

“Hmm, no. I don’t think you can talk to her. She’s busy.” Xavier paused and then shrugged as if Tony could see him. “I don’t know. She handed me the phone and she left when she saw it was you calling.”

You mouthed, “Too much!”

Xavier ignored you. “I told you she left. She doesn’t want to talk to you. Are you deaf? I already told you that.”

You were leaning halfway out of the tub damn near at this point, your hands gripping the side of the tub. “Too. Much!” you hissed at him.

“Again, I told you. She left. Don’t know where. She was wearing something pretty skimpy though.”

You were crawling out of the bath by this point and Xavier took a few steps back, a playful smile on his face. He had no idea what he was doing. And it was your damn fault by not explaining anything about who Tony was to him before this. All he knew of Tony was that he was a billionaire and your husband. He did not know his mafia ties or the nature of your relationship with him.

“Hmm, apparently I’ve overstayed my welcome. Anyways, if you want to have this convo again, let me know!” Xavier said into the phone, speaking louder with every word practically. As if Tony was trying to yell over him and Xavier was ignoring him. “Bye now!”

A pet peeve of Tony’s was being spoken over. Another was having someone else play with his toy, which was no doubt the thought going through his mind right now because he had no idea who Xavier was. Great.

“Xavier!” you exploded, standing in front of him naked, water dripping onto the floor.

“Yes? And can you put a towel on?” he asked as he placed your phone down on the counter.

You exclaimed, “That was too much! Why didn’t you listen to me and hang up the phone?” You really were worried.

He was unperturbed by your outburst though, shrugging as you snatched a towel and wrapped it around yourself. “As you told me multiple times! And cause it was funny.”

“Do you know what he would do to you if he knew who you were? No one talks to him like that!” You added for good measure. “Especially when it comes to me.”

“Well, he hasn’t let you see me in over a year!” Xavier pouted. You exhaled sharply. It was true… you only traveled when Tony permitted it. You had not been back home in such a long time. “He deprived me of you. He deserved being left behind. Didn’t you say so?”

“That I did. But next time, let me answer,” you poked him roughly on the nose. To give some insight into your relationship, you told him, “Daddy likes hearing my voice, especially when he’s in the state he’s in. Do you understand me?”

“’Daddy’?” Xavier asked, looking put off.

“Yes, he’s quite good at keeping me in line.” Xavier cocked an eyebrow and then burst out laughing. You shrugged, “Most of the time. I’m usually well behaved for him. He just made me mad.”

“I’m getting some very… dom/sub vibes here.”

“Correct.”

“Hmm, that does shed some light on why you’re so mad about that call then.”

“Yeah, you fuck!” you told him, slapping his arm.

“Well, you’ll just get some spankings.”

“I hope that’s the only thing that happens, you dick,” you snapped, seriously.

“Maybe some orgasm denial for his little… babygirl? Princess?” Xavier grinned broadly when he saw your eyes widen at the name. You slapped his arm again, harder this time, and he laughed, pulling away from you. “Is that what he calls you?”

You huffed as you got back into the tub and admitted, “Maybe.” You leveled him with a glare and said, “I’m serious though. Don’t answer the phone again. He’s already mad at me.”

<><><>

Tony had cracked his phone protector with how hard he had slammed it down on the counter after that little prick – whoever he was – had hung up on him. A million, jealous thoughts were running through his mind. Y/N was off with some other man up in Seattle – he had seen the hotel pending charge this morning when he had woken up from his short sleeping stint. She was pregnant with his goddamn kid for fucks sake, and she had the audacity to sleep with someone else.

That was something he could not abide. This was too far.

~~~

Forever tags: @coconutqueen21