#TURN THE CAMERA ON AND CATCH HIM GLOATING!!!!!

[skitskatdacat63]

Mark bragging about Oscar's tire management skills aaaahhh

[wannaeatramyeon]

Meeting Student!Gun Park for the First Time: Part 1

Part 2! G/N. 3.2k. Remember when Gun wanted to get his GED? Well. Stranger to~ Masterlists

"How old are you?"

"20."

Press X for doubt, you think, and that's the exact meme you send over on chat.

"20 like 20 or 20 like you're mid 30s and planning your mid life crisis 20?"

You know you're being rude and making a terrible first impression. It's the first day of a new school year, of a new school in fact, and for some reason the class is held on video call and you're all forced to pair off with a classmate for an icebreaker introduction.

It’s already cringe worthy and awkward enough, icebreakers must have been created as a form of torture. To add insult to injury, you're sure this guy is bullshitting you.

"I'm 20." He deadpans.

Momentarily, you’re stunned into silence. It stretches almost a tad too long before you manage to choke out, “My bad. Sorry."

Wow. You're torn between thinking that's a rough 20, this guy has easily got 40 years under his belt and oh no, when is your puberty and hormones gonna kick in like that.

And that's also the exact moment this 20 year old Gun Park takes a drag on a cigarette and you decide that it's definitely a rough 20.

"So what do you do for fun?" You probe, and you have the distinct feeling he might say something like alimony, planning his third marriage, investing in the stock market - whatever someone in their 50s might say but-

To your surprise and glee, his body language turns shifty. 

He likes to game he says, like it's a dirty little secret. Amongst other things. Mentions something about training and martial arts and you fight to keep a straight face as it turns out you were also right about investing in shares and the stock market.

Gaming, however, is what you latch on to.

"Cute. I bet I could kick your ass."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yes."

And this is how you ended up at 4am on a school night, playing Tekken with your new classmate and getting your ass kicked.

"One more!" You screech down the mic, after the KO sign appears on screen, mumbling something about cheating and how if you can time this combo just right-

There's a huff of laughter coming through your tinny headphones and an amused "Fine."

.

.

Dark circles under your eyes grow. It's been a week of straight losses.

You blame the sleep deprivation on Gun Park, though really you have your own stubbornness to blame.

He never tends to say much during the gaming sessions apart from the odd expletive and you rant enough after each of your defeats for the both of you.

Sometimes this will earn you a chuckle and he will snidely add that you asked for this, you were the one who was supposed to kick his ass. This would piss you off enough for another game or three in the hopes of defeating him and getting to gloat.

Which unfortunately has not happened yet.

With a sigh, you hope your camera quality this morning is bad enough and pixelated enough that your poor sleep habits don't show.

You scan over your classmates, the few that have their camera turned on and find him.

Gun looks completely fine. He looks completely fine in what must be 4k and ugh, you scrunch your nose up in annoyance.

You keep an eye on him through the class. Observe how he's usually paying rapt attention, scribbling and typing up notes every now and then.

It's impressive how studious he is.

In comparison, you're daydreaming. Thinking about lunch, other combos or characters to play to counter his own when you catch on to the back end of a sentence as your teacher mentions ‘this’ is something to pay attention to as it will be on the pop quiz.

Huh? You blink a couple times. What is ‘this’? Unfortunately she swiftly moves onto another topic.

You type out a direct message to the only person you know.

You: I missed that, what did she just say?

Gun: You should have been paying attention.

You: Fuck you man!

You see his eyes dip to the bottom of the camera screen, briefly moving as he presumably reads your message.

He smirks.

That night he kicks your ass again.

Then as consolation, reveals what will be on the pop quiz.

.

.

If Gun looked like that in 4k, nothing could prepare you for how he looked in real life.

You're setting up your laptop and notepad in the classroom, the first actual in-person session, when someone takes a seat next to you.

Initially you feel a surge of irritation that they could have sat anywhere else and chose to sit next to you, then you look at the offender and-

Hold on.

You double, triple-take-

Is that?

It must be.

Shit.

It's fucking Gun Park.

You don't entirely regret your initial comments on his looks because this guy definitely does not look 20 but goddamn he looks-

He chooses that moment, when your jaw is on the floor, to turn to you and give you a nod of acknowledgement.

"Y/N."

"H-hi." You manage, and even to your ears it sounds like a simpering fool.

He must have thought so too if the quirk of his lips is anything to go by.

The cherry on top is that you expected this guy to smell like stale smoke, instead all you get is fresh laundry and something faintly dark and heady like leather and cedarwood.

Fuck.

Control yourself, a disapproving voice in your head says. Even that sounds vaguely like Gun.

It does nothing to stop your wandering gaze, peering at him in your periphery when you think he's not looking.

After you have taken your chance to not so discreetly run your eyes up and down his form, the only thing that makes you feel better is his hair. Because yeah he might be hot, but holy shit that must be a gallon of hair gel in there.

.

.

The other thing, as it turns out, that makes you feel a lot better is that he doodles.

It’s utterly charming.

Someone like Gun Park doesn't look like he doodles, but in between lines of his chicken scratch (seriously, who can even read that), there's little stick figures.

Maybe all the time you thought he was being studious he was just drawing-

Wait. You squint at the picture.

Is this guy for real?

"Are they fucking?" You whisper, using your pen to point at the page.

He doesn't answer straight away. There's a moment of surprise as he reacts like this is another secret of his he has unwittingly let you in on before his nostril flares and his eyes narrow and you grin in response.

Your grin grows when he grits out an answer. "No. Fighting."

He doesn't call you a dumbass but you can hear it loud and clear tacked on at the end.

"Whatever, pervert." You counter. You guess if you squint even harder then you suppose they could be fighting. Although the way one is lying on top of another is very suggestive. You don't hesitate to point that out to him.

Gun closes his eyes and counts to ten.

.

.

Even without a seating plan, one forms.

Places taken by chance on the first day becomes a regular arrangement.

You exchange a few words with your classmates, familiarise yourself somewhat with their names and faces. Pieces of their backstory, why they're here studying for a GED but take your spot next to Gun regardless.

No one really talks to him, you've heard them saying he's menacing and intimidating. Yet when your first encounter of him was mistaking him as someone about to hit mid life crisis, how intimidating can he really be.

Besides, he still doodles his lewd figures that he insists are not in any way shape or form comprising sexual positions. So no, you don't find him intimidating at all.

.

.

Gun, as you have come to know, is a man of few words. He is also unsurprisingly not great at literature.

What you don't yet know is he likes to say what he means and mean what he says. His patience only extends to The Art of War, so all the flowery prose and poetry only serves to irritate him.

If Gun glared at you the way he's currently glaring at the textbook, you think you may either burst into tears or burst into flames.

Luckily you do neither of those things but you do take pity on him. Leaning over, you ask him quietly if he needs help.

He doesn't respond but the pen he's clutching in his right hand snaps in half.

Alright then.

Half an hour later, when the class empties out you ask Gun to follow you to the library.

He hesitates, and you add "if you've got time" to give him an out. In the end he doesn't take it and trudges obediently after you.

You very quickly learn that he really doesn't like literature. You're explaining and working him through the analysis and also mildly offended at the bored look on his face.

"This is a waste of time," he interjects and there's a sullen undercurrent to his words.

"Just memorise the analysis then." Exasperation tinges your tone, "That's all you need to do to pass."

He arches a brow at your words.

"They're testing your memory. So just remember what our teacher says."

There's an angry air of resignation as Gun nods, and you slide your notes over for him to copy.

.

.

Not long after, you have your first minor evaluation on the literature material.

You notice during the test that while the vein in Gun’s temple is prominent and he’s clutching his (new) pen tighter, there’s barely any pause as he fills in the answers.

A few days later, the graded papers are handed back. There's a sigh of relief from Gun.

He gives you a smile, small and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corner.

"You owe me one," you tell him jokingly though he takes it to heart and gives you a stern nod.

.

.

Gun repays his debt, with a coffee.

He places the paper cup on the desk in front of you. Logo of the coffee house to the side but still visible. It's new, expensive, and there’s regular lines around the block.

Of course it would be from there.

The issue is, who repays a debt with an espresso. He didn’t even ask for your drink of choice!

"Thanks for this thimble of coffee," you remark as Gun sniffs in distaste at your comment, placing his own matching cup in front of him and saying something about how it's the best untainted way to drink it.

Of course he would also be a coffee snob.

You tell him you usually like it with a bit more cream and a lot more sugar and he mutters that you sound like Goo.

You think that's an insult.

"Well, at least Goo has good taste," you snipe back with a grin.

Gun closes his eyes and counts to ten.

.

.

You: Are you doodling or actually writing notes?

You: Cos on camera you look very studious but I’ve seen your notepad

Gun: None of your business

You: Still drawing your disgusting pornographic stick men then

Gun: They are not-

Gun: Whatever

.

.

You: Ok, maybe that espresso wasn’t terrible

Gun: I know

You: Who’s Goo anyway?

Gun: …

Gun: No-one

You: Suuuure

.

.

You: Tekken tonight?

Gun: Aren’t you tired of getting your ass kicked?

You: >:(

.

.

You: Do you wanna go over the new lit material in the library this week?

Gun: Ok

.

.

Gun: Thanks for your help

You: :) 

.

.

Gun: You’re tired. You should game less.

You: Spoken like a coward!

Gun: Dumbass

You: Hey!!

.

.

Gun: I’ll bring you an espresso tomorrow. You need it.

You: Does it have to be an espresso?

Gun: Yes

You: …Thanks

.

.

To anyone else, the figure standing in the doorway is just smoking. To you, it suspiciously looks like they’re waiting.

It's not a crime. Gun Park can wait for whatever or whoever he wants.

What really throws you off is his smoking. You've seen him casually take one single drag before throwing the whole cigarette away. Even to you, it seems like a waste.

However, this time he smokes one all the way to the filter before stubbing it out. Then does the same to a second, and third.

Strange, very strange.

You approach him. Taking gentle steps, in case he might get spooked and bolt which is really a ridiculous notion for someone like him. Nevertheless, you keep your footsteps light, yourself clearly in view and you wander over to him.

"Hey," you say, with a somewhat forced smile. He doesn't acknowledge your greeting apart from a brief nod.

"... Everything ok?"

It's a perfectly normal question to ask but a vastly bizarre one for Gun. He doesn't look like the type of person where people casually enquire about his well being.

He must have thought so too if the look he gives you is anything to go by.

In response, he stubs out his cigarette (his fourth!) then asks, stilted and stiffly, if you want to come back to his for a game of Tekken.

At least that's what you interpret as he seems to be crazy cryptic.

"Are you interested in Tekken?"

"...Yes." You wonder what on earth this question is because did you hallucinate all those games you played together?

"Then meet me. After class." 

"Where? Here?"

"No. At mine."

"Where's that?"

"..."

He gives you another look, as if you're the one trying to coax a secret out of him despite him offering.

Gun dips forward, murmurs quietly into your ear his address and some vague directions like it's highly confidential information.

You nod along, thinking what is with this guy. 

.

.

So firstly, what the fuck.

Then secondly, what the fuck.

Don't think you hadn't noticed the designer brands Gun wears. If they're fakes, they're very convincing fakes. But you're almost certain they have got to be counterfeit when he brought you over to a junkyard claiming this is where he lives.

You've seen films like this. Granted, it's less in a junkyard and more in the middle of nowhere in America where college kids meet their gruesome ends in fantastical ways.

You never thought this would happen to you. You have sorely miscalculated. 

Is this Gun Park (if that even is his real name) going to butcher you and leave your body on top of a pile of scrap metal in the corner?

Instead of a night of gaming where you’re the one KO-ing him, he’s actually the one that’s going to chase you around wearing a mask and wielding a knife or axe?

"You’re here. Come in," Gun says, opening his front door just as your inner monologue begins to truly spiral out of control and you're considering doing a runner.

"Eh?" You grunt like an idiot, not noticing when the shack appeared nor when you stepped onto his porch, or the side eyes Gun had been giving you.

He gives you another look, likely regretting inviting you at all, and leaves the door ajar for you to either enter or turn back and go home.

.

.

"This is... nice," you lie, through the skin of your teeth.

Gun sees cleanly through your white lie and exhales a huff of amusement.

It's sparse. Peeks of luxury here and there - the extensive PC gaming rig, the entertainment system and consoles, to name a few.

Apart from that, it's barely a home.

"Take a seat." He offers, and it sounds more like an order. Obediently you sit on his sofa, feeling very much a guest.

"You're not in danger," he says, bemused at how awkward you are in his domain, how tense you hold yourself.

'That's exactly what a killer would say,' you think and when you hear a low chuckle, you realise that you said it aloud.

"Don't worry," Gun reassures and it doesn’t really help before he strides off to somewhere in his house and leaves you sitting alone.

He returns back minutes later as you’re in the middle of admiring his entertainment set up and going through his vinyl collection (because obviously someone like Gun has vinyls) with a coffee for you that looks much more milky and to your taste than the usual ones he offers. 

“Thanks.” you take your drink and return back to your seat.

Taking the first sip, you finally manage to relax. Sinking into a sofa that is much more comfortable than at first glance and you take in your surroundings a bit more.

Sort of. You actually take in Gun Park more. 

He’s casual, in a way you have never seen or even considered. Dressed in a t-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair floppy and the only styling is done with his hands running through his hair now and then to keep it back.

Even during the online classes, he is usually dressed up in an open collared shirt.

If you thought he was hot before, it’s nothing compared to now. There’s an air of domesticity, the drink he made for you cradled in your hands, and the distinct feeling that not many people have had the luxury to see Gun in his natural habitat, so intimate and vulnerable.

You wonder if this is how he looks all those nights you’ve been gaming together.

You catch his eyes, having been caught checking him out and he raises his eyebrows at your blatant staring. 

Blood rushes to your cheeks as he chuckles into his own espresso and takes a sip.

.

.

"Holy shit, I won!"

You're familiar with the KO screen. What you're not familiar with is being on the side of victory. You're usually a hair trigger away from rage quitting, from throwing a tantrum down the mic.

Finally. All your hard work has paid off. Time spent thinking of combos, attacks and defences (which would have been better spent studying) is coming to fruition.

You peer over to Gun, expect the controller he is clutching to maybe have been crushed into pieces with his freakish strength. Expected nothing except for a vein throbbing on his temple.

What you do find is-

Gun looking at you, fondness in his eyes. He's taking in your grin, letting your gloating slide.

Doesn't do more than roll his eyes when you perform a victory dance of sorts around him.

And when you get in his face to tell him that you're the winner, you're the best-

(More words are on the tip of your tongue but your gaze drops to his lip, drawn to the small smile he wears.

It sinks in.

The patience he has, the attention he gives, the way he has opened his home to you.

From the very first meeting, the even-handed way he has dealt with your insults, entertained you to the early hours of the morning on Tekken.)

Gun reaches out, tugs your hand and pulls you into his lap and agrees.

"Yes. The best."

You think it's a lie, an embellishment.

But the way he holds you - tender and precious, and the way he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours - soft, like you might break - can't be anything else but the whole truth.

(Update! Part 2 here!)

[ferrariregina]

champagne kisses | cs55 × reader

pairing: carlos sainz jr x reader

warning: none just pure cuteness, oh just that oc cries. a lot.

summary: after carlos wins the singapore grand prix the first thing he does is run into your arms

the checkered flag signifying the end of the race waved frantically in the wind as carlos crossed the finish line first. your heart pounded against your chest, mind exploding with euphoria. he had won, he had actually won the singapore grand prix! the cheers were deafening, the applause thunderous, but all you could hear was a melody of his dreams finally turning into reality.

tears of joy rolled down your cheeks, subtly blending with the sweat beads that had formed due to the humid singapore weather. you wiped them quickly as if stashing away precious pearls. seeing carlos win was an emotion that words fail to fully capture. it was happiness and relief in the rawest form, a testament to relentless passion, hard work, and an unyielding belief in your dreams.

carlos gracefully descended from his car, his hands raised in victory and his face beaming with pride. his eyes scanned the frenzied crowd, eventually finding your ecstatic and teary one. he ran straight towards the barricades, manoeuvring through his team members who understood who he was looking for. with a gentle push from them, you moved towards the front, your heart pounding like a wild drum.

the world around you became a blur as he shifted his helmet. leaning forward, he removed a stray hair stuck on your lips. his eyes shone brighter than the singaporean lights as he planted a triumphant kiss on your lips making the crowd around you erupt into fresh cheers.

underneath those night lights, with the taste of victory sweet on your lips and carlos' laughter ringing in your ears, you savoured the feeling of unadulterated happiness.

hoisting the trophy above his head, his face broke into a radiant smile, one that lights up the night brighter than the floodlights around the circuit.

and then, as a bottle of champagne is handed over to him, carlos does something that steals your breath away. shaking the bottle high, he pops the cork emphatically. champagne sprays in a golden mist, anointing the triumphant podium while a cheer erupts from the crowd. a moment of deliberate pause, he turns towards you.

with a devilish grin, carlos catches your eye, pointing the champagne bottle in your direction. lifting it to his lips, he takes a pull from the celebrating bottle and then directs the streaming alcohol toward the gleaming podium. he winks, a private celebration of yours own.

a camera zooms on you as you stand amidst the crowd, your face landing a punch of joy, a warm flush creeping up your cheeks. a laugh bubbles from you, choked between tears and giggles. he has won, and he wants the world to know who he is sharing his victory with. lifting your hand to your lips you blow him a kiss. his eyes sparkle with joy and triumph as he continues his champagne shower.

that night, under the gleaming floodlights of marina bay, with the taste of tears and champagne on your lips, you share a victory. embracing each other in the raw emotion, the gloating joy seeps through you.

getting down the podium he runs towards you again, picking you up he places another kiss but this one much more passionate. a kiss that made you go to heaven and back.

p.s.this picture of carlos did something very unholy to me;)

xoxo

[onlineangelsposts]

The Auction

Summary: You needed it, and you were going to get it, one way or another.

An alternate way the MC retrieves the Aether Core.

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63395866

Chapter 1

You stand amongst a crowd of unfamiliar people, they whisper amongst themselves as the auctioneer brings out the principle item of the evening; half of the Aether Core. You grip your number paddle, brows furrowing under the mask you wore. You only needed to be the highest bidder, it wasn’t like the Hunter’s Association wouldn’t provide the cash required to get ahold of it, as long as things didn’t get out of hand you were sure you could secure the Core.

You shift in your place, eyes locked on the case.

“We will be starting the bidding at 1 million.” The auctioneer calls out. “ I have 1.5 million, can I get 2 million…”

The bidding war has commenced, you raise your paddle with each increase. Your eyes scan the room, a taller man with white hair seems just as focused as you are on the Core, Sylus. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to look away. His paddle raises every time you up the ante, you weren’t expecting him, then again, it was silly to think he wouldn’t be here. You breathe deep, anxiety curls in your gut as your limit approaches with each bid. Sylus catches your eye as he looks around the room for his rival. You quickly avert your eyes back to the auctioneer. Shit. You wonder if he recognized you, you hoped your disguise was enough to trick him, at least from this distance. The wig, opposite of your natural colour, mask, and fancy dress were far from what you would normally look like, you even wore a different perfume than usual. You hoped it would be enough.

“Do I have 80 million?” He calls. You can't go on, it's above the agreed limit. “Going once,”

Sylus casts a smug grin your way from across the room.

“Going twice,”

It’s fine, you think, I’ll just have to get it some other way.

“And sold! To the gentleman in the back.” The auctioneer bangs his gavel. It’s over. You lost.

Sylus began to make his way across the room towards you, probably to gloat, or shake you hand. It didn’t matter. You turned swiftly and wove your way through the crowd, losing him in the sea of people, slipping out of the door.

***

“Damn.” Sylus huffed. He lost, he wanted to thank her for an exciting auction, it wasn’t often that someone could go toe-to-toe with him in the bidding scene. Besides, there was something about her that caught his eye and drew him in, he hadn't seen her around the city before. He wanted to at least see her face. But she disappeared into the crowd, and it was likely he would never see her again. He whispered to the bird perched on his shoulder.

***

After the auction ends all transactions and shipping or pick up of goods happen the next day. You stare at the screen of your phone, it's 12 A.M, the auction should be over and the reception hall is closed. Adjusting the holster on your thigh, still in your disguise, you perch on the roof of a building next to the hall. It would be easy getting in, the only security was a few cameras and maybe a trap or two to disarm. For any average thief it may be a problem, but you weren’t just anyone.

You jump down from your perch, landing silently on the roof of the reception hall. Quickly you make your way to the floor below you, anchoring a rope and sliding down, there is a window there you know doesn’t have a lock. Carefully you press your hands to the window, pushing it aside, to reveal an all too convenient entrance. Slipping in, you are careful to avoid the sweep of the security cameras. A small beep and the sound of a crow sound in the distance. You make your way to a panel, typing in the code to silence the alarm. You were glad you had done extensive recon before the mission, and that you were prepared for a situation like this. You look at your watch, a small hologram of the building’s blueprint, along with locations of cameras and traps glow faintly in the darkness. The vault should be below ground. Getting there would be simple, but retrieving the Aether Core would be another issue all on its own.

***

Mephisto sat on his master’s shoulder, the two stood outside the reception hall, Sylus sighed. Who was this woman? Why did she need the core so bad she was willing to break in? He felt lucky that she had asked Mephisto to follow her; this turn of events, however, was unexpected. Sylus idled at the entrance for a moment before breaking in and heading directly to where he knew she would be.

***

You carefully lift the glass on the display case, finally you have it. Stowing it away you turn to leave, but someone blocks your way.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Sylus says. “What are you doing out so late?”

Your hand reaches for the gun on your thigh.

“I could ask you the same question.” You say, doing your best to disguise your voice.

You pull your gun and shoot, the bullet barely misses, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I am leaving one way or another.” You say, “And right not, you’re in my way.”

He chuckles. “That core you have is mine,” He says. “You can leave once you hand it over, no one has to get hurt.”

Sylus takes a step towards you, and you take on back. He looks you up and down, as if assessing your threat level. You pull your purse closer to your body, his eyes immediately lock onto it, and he dashed towards you. You side step, tapping him on the shoulder as you do, weakening his Evol. You holster your gun, switching it for a dagger, you could win this. Incapacitate him or tire him out, then make an escape.

Sylus doesn’t stumble, he makes a quick recovery and pushes his Evol towards you, you dodge it, he’s slower than usual. You don’t typically use your Evol to weaken others, so you take the opportunity to observe the effects. He clenches his jaw, something is off. He makes another move, using his Evol to surround you in an attempt to get you closer.

You laugh as you jump out of the way.

“It’s shocking how receptive you are.” You suppress a grin. He didn't resist at all when you used your Evol on him, some part of him, subconscious or otherwise must be submissive to you.

Sylus glares at you. “What did you do to me?”

He once again tries to envelop you, but he is still slow, and his Evol seems to have suffered as well, reaching out, practically in slow-motion, Sylus isn’t used to the resistance from his weakened Evol, and it seems to take more effort to bend it to his will. You hop back, the grin now fully present on your face.

“Who are you?” He grits out.

“Now why would I tell you any of that?” You ask.

He rushed towards you again, but you don’t have time to react. He’s not using his Evol this time. Your back hits the wall of the vault, taking the wind out of your lungs.

“You’re really starting to annoy me.” He says. His forearm pushes against your shoulders, pinning you against the wall. You can feel his breath on your face. His other hand moved to remove your mask.

You kick him in the stomach, forcing him to stumble back

“Now it’s been fun, but I really must be going.” You say, turning to leave.

A knife whips past your face, the blade slicing the strap on your mask. It falls to the floor and you spin around to face your other attackers. How could you forget about Kieran and Luke? Distracted you try for the gun on your thigh and something sharp pierces your side. How did he get to you so fast? Your hold on Sylus' Evol must have been lifted when you were surprised. You drop to your knees, Sylus bends over you and pulls the knife from your side. Blood begins to pout out of the wound. You press your hand hard against it. It’s hot and it won’t stop.

“Now,” Sylus starts. “Who do we have here?” He crouches to be on level with you, and lifts your chin to look in his eyes. Recognition flashes across his features.

“MC?” He breathes. “What on Earth…”

He steps away, pacing. Worry clouds his eyes.

“What are you doing here? And all by yourself, I thought you left”

You suck in a shuddering breath, it hurts.

“I need the Aether Core.” You say. “It's part of me, I-”

Sylus cuts you off, seemingly deaf to your response.

“Kieran, Luke,” He calls “I’m taking her back, clean this up and get home as quick as you can.”

They both nod, vaguely you feel someone touching your purse, and then your body feels weightless.

“Stay with me.” Sylus whispers.

Then it all goes black.

[yantalia545]

Yandere America Alphebet A-F

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would they get?

This is America we're talking about. Everything he does is intense. America is a man who's also very physical. The man would straight up die if you hung into his arm while out in public together. Constant hugs and kisses are a must with him. He'll look like a kicked puppy if you ignore his advances.

America also loves to show his affection in public. He just goes over the moon and people see how much of a lovely couple you are. An old couple made a comment about how the two of you remind them of their young years, he'll be thinking about that the rest of the day. Of course, you need to be conditioned to be outside first without disobeying him.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get for their darling?

Very dirty. Although he has connections. He has no need to get his own hands dirty. He needs to remain clean for his people after all. Those you know will disappear by a phantom in the night either by imprisonment from planted evidence or just straight up turn up missing and dead in a ditch.

It'll be horrifying for you as soon you'll have no one to run to but him. Run from him, and you'll go missing too.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

America would treat you as if you were an old married couple. He'd drag you around everywhere he goes. He wants you used to being by his side as soon as possible. If you misbehave, he'll hate to isolate you in the basement until you learn your place.

I really could only see America mocking you if he won you over after a war or if he foiled an escape attempt. He'd be standing over you, gloating about he's smarter and stronger than you. How you belong to him now.

Darling: Aside from aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling's will?

America strives to be the perfect couple. Many things from touching to dragging you around in public would be much against your will.

He's a very handsy man. America will most likely have his hands on you at all times whether it's and hand in yours, sitting you in his lap as he works, or a hand on your waist pulling you close.

You'll grow used to it eventually. It's not like you can go anywhere

Exposed: What are they to do if their obsession was ever found out?

America is pretty delusional and doesn’t see his affections with you as a problem.

If someone else is to catch wind of his added affection towards you, America will use influences and power in the world to keep them quiet. Or at least away from you. There’s no need for them to unintentionally ruin his relationship with you by spreading false accusations. Intimidation and threats are America’s go-to in this case. He’d want to keep them quiet in fear of you discovering his feelings.

If you were to get scared or begin avoiding him, then America will up his antics in “protecting” you. This will include, most likely, kidnapping. He just knows that you just need a little more time to see things his way. It may have been much earlier than America had hoped, but what can be done?

Fight: How much would they fight for their darling?

America is a man who cares a lot about his image. He’s worked hard to ensure that others perceive him as a heroic idol that many can look up to and aspire to be. However, he does have a lot of resources.

America has a fresh line a trusted agents at his disposal that he uses swimmingly. Agents are often there to do his dirty work from hiding cameras in your home, keeping constant tabs on you when he’s unable to himself, and , of course, handling his rivals that just can’t seem to take a hint.

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

Alastor seduces Valentino to cuck Vox who he knows is watching on the camera.

-Crack Rodent

Alastor's heat always came at the most inconvenient of times. 

There were no seasons in Hell, per se, no way to mark time save for the big clock at the pentagram's center, its hands now ominously slack thanks to Charlie's work, but even so, Alastor had hoped he'd have more time. Sometimes he went years between heats. He'd not had one since he'd left Hell, in fact.

But now he felt sweaty and overdressed and was starting to hope that Angel Dust would offer to suck his nonexistent dick again, so there was no denying that his reprieve was up. He needed to do something about this.

Bringing in someone new was out of the question. His reputation was already in tatters after his televised humiliation by Adam, and sex workers talked. He'd be a joke in the gossip columns by the morning. He didn't have enough prestation to get something discreet through one of the other overlords, and much as his relationship with Husk was strained at times he had no desire to force himself on the man.

Which left Vox.

Before their fight Vox had been the one he'd taken to bed. A competent lover. Willing. Would hold him close and on occasion croon a slow jazz standard in his ear in a way that made Alastor shivery and tender, voice so full of gravel that one could rake it into a zen garden. And for all their public airing of dirty laundry, Vox had never once hinted at Alastor's lack of manhood, which meant that perhaps he hoped their old agreement still held. After everything.

But there was no way Alastor was going to Vox. He would be made to beg, Alastor could feel it. He would gloat. No, Vox needed to come to him.

It didn't take Alastor long to figure out how to make that happen.

“Greetings!” Alastor manifested grin first from the shadow to sit on Valentino's desk.

“Fuck!” Valentino scrambled backwards, nearly falling out of his chair. He kicked the chair aside, putting as much distance between himself and Alastor as possible as he scrabbled around looking for-

“Looking for this?” Alastor picked up Valentino's glitter encrusted gun from the desk and held it between thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle. “I'm not here to fight, you know.”

“Fucking cañona shit ass fuck,” Valentino snarled. “Then what fuck are you doing here?"

“I have... a proposition for you,” said Alastor, folding one leg over the other. Seduction was not his strong suit, but his heat was doing a lot of the legwork there, his body telling him exactly what constituted a sexy pose as he leaned forward, twirling the gun around one finger.

Valentino tilted his head to one side, catching on quickly. “You and me, radio fucker?” He narrowed his eyes, peering at Alastor through his big pink glasses. “What makes you think I would be up for that?”

Alastor smiled, instincts telling him not to sell it too hard. “Aren't you curious? About which of my qualities sent your friend the picturebox so doolally that he's still obsessing over me years later?”

And obsession was the word. Alastor could feel Vox’s attention on him already, a prickling in his antlers from the security camera mounted in the corner of Valentino’s office. He smiled at it, letting his distortion drop momentarily as he made eye contact, before turning his attention back to Valentino, who was clearly considering the offer.

“Is it true you’ve got a pussy, Radio Demon?” Valentino asked, the lines of his lips shifting from snarl to leer.

Had Vox told him? Alastor kept his smile level. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said, a purr creeping into his voice, and he was dimly aware of a power surge, probably Vox shitting himself in his control room.

“I have nothing to hide, venadito,” said Valentino, his wings pulling back to reveal the dark sequined bodysuit he wore beneath. He was graceful, a dancer as he stepped closer, over the fallen chair, until he and Alastor breathed the same air. “If you let me taste that sweet papaya of yours, I’ll even let you touch them.”

Compromised by his heat as it was, Alastor felt his body respond to the proximity, a surge of arousal leaving him squeezing his thighs together as Valentino leaned over him. Valentino was certainly tall. “Them?” he repeated.

Valentino grinned, with one finger opening a slit in the side of his bodysuit and peeling it open to reveal the satiny purple skin beneath. “Them,” he confirmed, as he peeled the suit open over his groin. Alastor watched in fascination as he revealed three members. The central one could be mistaken for human, albeit rather long, but the two either side, sitting nearly at Valentino’s inguinal crease, were curved inward, long, pale spines splaying from them. “I bet you’re wondering what they feel like, yeah?” he said, grinning, and Alastor wondered how many people that line had worked on. “Now, you, venadito,” he said, a little pink liquid trickling from his bottom lip.

Alastor’s hand went to his belt and the lights flickered with the power glitch this time. Oh, Vox was certainly watching. Certainly pissed. Lovely. Unable to match the showmanship of Valentino’s tease, Alastor opted for simplicity, dismissing his pants with a snap of his fingers, and uncrossed his legs for Valentino, putting the gun to one side.

“Fuck,” Valentino hissed, his good antenna twitching as he caught wind of the smell. “You’re in fucking heat?” He drew close, long fingers trailing over Alastor’s bare thigh, and Alastor shivered. “Big bad radio demon, gagging for co-”

“Val!” Vox manifested from a nearby power socket like a bolt of lightning, looking frazzled, looking more pissed than Alastor had ever seen him. His voice was deliciously dark, pointed teeth showing as an aura of static buzzed around him. Oh, just the sight of him was a heady thrum between Alastor’s thighs. “Get the fuck off of him, Val. He’s mine.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” Alastor grinned at Vox as Valentino withdrew from him, nonplussed. “Nice of you to inform me.”

[itzkingbo]

"worry not, friend" bnha short fanfic! w/ OC Emi Fujikawa {friend fluff!}

[Includes Canon: denki kaminari, eijirou kirishima, shouto todoroki]

[Include OC: Emi Fujikawa, Isamu Fujikawa, random civilians]

[Warnings: fight descriptions, mentions of blood, use of oc]

[Word count: 1,551 + 4 images]

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The view above the city was particularly beautiful today. Civilians looked like ants from this height, moving around nearly aimlessly as they went about their day. It was easier to spot any suspicious activity from the rooftops. A pair of striking yellow eyes scanned the streets like a surveillance camera, back and forth, back and forth. There was a slight hint of impatience in those eyes, waiting for something exciting to happen.

"hey wait! you can't do that!"

Emi Fujikawa's ears quickly picked up the sound of a woman screaming in distress. Her head whipped around in the direction of the call for help. "Over there." She stated, standing up quickly from where she was crouched down on the roof. Without hesitation her large brown wings flapped, lifting her off into the air.

"Nocturn- oh who am I kidding, that kid has zero patience." An older male voice tried calling out to the girl. The man stood up, slower than the girl had, and stretched out his own wings. His were a dark black, complimenting his long jet black hair. Isamu Fujikawa took off after his younger sister quickly.

The two owl heroes dove down towards the streets, in search of the lady who called out.

"give that back! someone help!"

Only seconds later, Emi landed on the ground next to a lady in her mid 40's. The girl's white boots slide slightly on the sidewalk at her aggressive landing, her brother just a few feet behind her. "Ma'am! Which way did the criminal go?" She asked the lady quickly, earning a finger pointing ahead towards an alley. "He took my purse! Be careful hero, he has some weird quirk."

With that, Emi and Isamu ran towards the alley. The moment they turned the corner, a figure could be seen just ahead. The smaller of the owl heroes wasted no time and shifted her form, turning into a Barn Owl. She was quick, her wings carrying her deeper into the alley. The other hero was right behind her, his Great Horned Owl wings let him catch up to his sister and pass her.

The criminal didn't even had time to react before a set of black boots collided with his back, causing him to throw the stolen purse up into the air as he began to fall. Emi quickly swooped in and grabbed the bag with her beak. Isamu, who had shifted back to his human form just before kicking the criminal, readied himself incase he tried to stand back up. Soon he and the criminal began engaging in hand to hand combat, while Emi started flying back out of the alley.

"Not so fast, little bird." Suddenly, what looked like sand surrounded Emi in an instant. She let out a surprised squawk, causing her to drop the bad. 'Sand!? Really!?' She thought as she shifted forms. Her feet landed on the ground, and she ducked through the sand and reached for the bag only for it to be swept away from her. When she looked up, a rather odd man held it. "You like that little trick? My sand storm makes thievery a cake walk." He gloated, watching as the girl in front of him stood up.

Emi was quick to throw a kick to the guys side while he was busy being prideful, but he was quicker and caught her by the ankle and throwing her to the ground.

The next few minutes went by like a blur, with Emi shifting between forms as she fought the man. Her armored shin guards and arm guards made close combat easier for her. Eventually, she grew tired of the back and forth and flew up high in her owl form. She dove down toward him, shifted at the last second and smashing her feet into his chest sending him to the ground.

"Nice work, Nocturn." Isamu said from behind as he walked up, dusting off his clothes. He bent down and grabbed the purse, looking at the man who was now knocked out. "Take this back to its owner, I'll get the cops out here to take these guys in."

Emi sighed heavily and took the bag from her older brother, stepping away slightly. She brought her gloved hand up to her mouth, wiping away the blood that dripped from her lip. "And, go see Recovery Girl. Get that lip taken care of and any other cuts and scrapes. Then go back to your dorm, we're done for the day."

The girl's brows furrowed in annoyance and she looked up. "I'm fine, Isa." She protested, which only earned her a stern glare. So she reluctantly nodded and began leaving the alley.

"Oh thank goodness! Thank you, young hero." The lady from before had a bright and beaming smile on her face as she saw the younger owl hero stepp out of the alleyway. When she had her purse back in her hands she looked much happier, which made Emi smile. "No problem, ma'am. I'm just happy I could help."

With that, Emi Fujikawa made her way back to U.A. She flew high above the city, her short brown hair flapping behind her head. After visiting Recovery Girl, she walked through the front doors of Class 1-A's dorm. Her lip had been busted in the fight, and was now cleaned up. She also has her elbow rapped up, as well as a few bandaids on her forehead.

"Fujikawa! You're back from your work study!" The sound of Kirishima's voice broke her tired trance and she looked up to see the red haired boy moving toward her. "What happened!? Get in a nasty fight?"

"A little, yeah." Emi replied, her voice laced with exhaustion. She had already been tired from a days worth of patrolling, but fighting those two thugs used up the last of her energy. A rough set of hands grabbed at her face, causing her to look up again. "Ah man. Busted lip." Kirishima moved his friend's head around as he searched her for any hidden wounds that hadn't been taken care if. "Shima.. let go."

"Oh sorry!" The boy chuckled, stepping back. Emi let out a small huff of air from her nose and ran a hand through her hair. "I'll be fine, okay? But for now I'd like to go up to my dorm, and relax." She said, looking at Kirishima with an apologetic smile.

"No sweat! Get some good rest, you look exhausted."

With that, Emi rode the elevator up to her floor. Her eyelids were heavy as she tried to focus on the numbers, counting up as she ascended. Finally, it dinged and the doors slid open. "Emi?" A familiar monotone voice spoke as he went to enter the elevator. Seeing his friend looking so exhausted and practically falling asleep standing in the elevator, made Shoto's face soften. He stepped in and poked the girl's shoulder, making her jump. "Oh. Sho, sorry." She was quick to apologize for dozing off and stood up straight. Stepping forward, Emi stopped the elevator from closing again and exited it.

"You look exhausted, Emi. Do you want me to help you to your room?" Shoto asked sweetly as he fell into step behind her. A hum followed his question before Emi's head turned just enough to eye him over her shoulder. "That would be nice." She replied softly.

Shoto's hand soon came to rest between the base of her wings on her shoulder blades as he guided her sleepy figure down the hall. When they reached her room, he reached out and turned the knob. He helped her over to her bed, sitting her down on the edge. Then he untied and pulled her shoes off, setting them aside. Luckily she was already in something comfortable, a sweater and leggings.

The dual haired boy gently pushed her down onto the mattress and moved her legs under the blanket. Within seconds she was already dozing off again, and then asleep. The boy smiled softly and turned away, leaving her to nap.

It was barely sundown by the time Emi's eyes opened again. Weekend work study days often had her reverting back to her night owl routine, so this wasn't unusual for her. With a small grumble of annoyance, she reached over to her bedside table and grabbed her phone. Honestly she barely remembered getting into the elevator to begin with. Her notifications were filled with messages from Kaminari. "Shit-" She groaned as she unlocked her phone.

Earlier this morning she had told Denki that she would join him and the others for a board game night when she got back from her work study at her fathers agency.

When she stood up off her bed, she noticed she didn't have her shoes on. Did she take them off? Was she really that tired that she barely remembered? Recovery Girl's quirk really took a lot out of her. "Oh! That's right, Todoroki helped me.. I should text him."

Emi unlocked her phone again and went to her messages. Upon opening them, she found that he had already sent her a message earlier.

With that, she pocketed her phone and slipped on her house shoes. "Time to go beat some ass at Monopoly." She said to herself as she exited her dorm room.

[angie-long-legs]

The reacknowledgement of Angel's pitiful state after his attempt to dismiss it (complete with harmless teasing) would usually be enough to provoke a bite from the spider. To catch him crying was a criminal offence; to draw attention to it was a death sentence.

And yet, Angel was quiet. Still. He said nothing, simply stared up at his guest with a look of blank desperation, painfully aware of quite how disgusting he must look. Hours of literally bending over backwards followed by a similarly rough play session with a chosen partner did not a pretty spider make - factoring in that he had spent the last half hour bawling his eyes out, Angel could only imagine the atrocity that Alastor was currently the solitary witness of. This was not the sexy kind of messy that played well for the camera. Laid bare for his part-time lover, Angel embodied the ugly truth.

He wanted nothing more than to cover his face and hide.

However, the offer of alcohol to take the edge off was one he would never refuse.

Without meeting the stag's unwelcome gaze, Angel accepted the bottle and brought it to his lips, downing a few generous, clumsy gulps before exhaling sharply and offering it back to its owner. Wiping the clinging droplets from his mouth with the back of his hand, the porn star finally looked up to greet his visitor.

Unreadable as ever. Was Alastor here to gloat at his sorry state? No, offering a nightcap wasn't exactly a sign of smugness. Was he angry at Angel for loving and leaving him? Although, Alastor's rage was usually far less conspicuous than whatever this was.

Angel's eyes widened. His lip quivered.

The Radio Demon was consoling him.

Still nude beneath the blanket, Angel drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin atop them as he tried to stifle his stuttering breaths. Silence enveloped the pair of them, all but for the spider's occasional sniffle as he eyed a stain on the duvet.

"I'm sorry I left."

The silence cracked - the scraps of Angel's composure turned to dust.

"It wasn't you, I just... I don't normally... fuck, Al!" he cursed, tears welling up in bloodshot eyes once again. "I'm sorry, okay?! I'm just... tired. It's been a long fuckin' day."

Booze wasn't nearly enough. Not if he was going to be talking about this. Reaching beside him, Angel pulled out his nightstand drawer and felt around, retrieving a couple of round, white pills and swallowing them. With a sigh, he ran his hands through his hair, lower arms curled around his legs like an anxious child.

"It's just, afta' all that... afta' today..."

How much did Alastor truly know? About Angel, about his work life? Did he know how utterly exhausted the actor was, down to his very bones?

"It... hurts," he mumbled, flushed with a very different brand of humiliation to the kind he had encouraged Alastor to stir up in him only hours before. "I don't want ya ta see me like that. Like... this."

𝐂𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄

@arcanepactguile ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ "ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴏᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀʏ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʀʀʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ." @angie-long-legs

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐒

The voice from the doorway snapped Angel out of his pity party, springing upright to meet the eye of the intruder who had caught him at such a vulnerable moment. It wasn't often that he allowed himself the luxury of a full-on sobbing breakdown, but the events of the night had unfolded as such that there was no other possible outcome. All other strategies had been exhausted: drugs, booze, casual sex, rinse and repeat. And still, it wasn't enough to bury it. No amount of dirt and filth would keep it from crawling into his consciousness - no matter how Angel tried to abandon the pain, it tracked him down with a vengeance. It devoured him.

And so, he had sought comfort of the carnal kind, playing out a kinky fantasy of his with his newly-adopted partner, the Radio Demon himself. And it had worked: it had helped him forget, given him that rush he needed, that catharsis... things were better.

And then they weren't.

The moment their play was over, Angel had retired to his bedroom. After all, what more could Alastor offer him? He'd been willing to indulge the spider in his erotic roleplay. They had both had their fun, and now it was over. Before the Overlord had a chance to ask Angel exactly why he wasn't sticking around for pillow-talk, he had been out of the door without a word. Collapsing in a heap on his bed, the porn star had finally felt able to cry, chest heaving with the ragged gulps and gasps that came tearing out as he succumbed to the ache of everything.

But, apparently, Alastor was not so easily deterred.

The stag himself was standing in Angel's doorway, smile intact, his expression as unreadable as it ever was.

"'M not cryin'," Angel mumbled uselessly, more than aware that there was not a chance in hell of the stag actually believing him. He was unsure exactly how long he had been curled up on the bed, bawling his eyes out, but it was long enough that he could feel his face had become swollen and streaked with tears. "'M just... tired, okay? Some of us down here actually sleep, ya know."

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐄

The voice from the doorway snapped Angel out of his pity party, springing upright to meet the eye of the intruder who had caught him at such a vulnerable moment. It wasn't often that he allowed himself the luxury of a full-on sobbing breakdown, but the events of the night had unfolded as such that there was no other possible outcome. All other strategies had been exhausted: drugs, booze, casual sex, rinse and repeat. And still, it wasn't enough to bury it. No amount of dirt and filth would keep it from crawling into his consciousness - no matter how Angel tried to abandon the pain, it tracked him down with a vengeance. It devoured him.

And so, he had sought comfort of the carnal kind, playing out a kinky fantasy of his with his newly-adopted partner, the Radio Demon himself. And it had worked: it had helped him forget, given him that rush he needed, that catharsis... things were better.

And then they weren't.

The moment their play was over, Angel had retired to his bedroom. After all, what more could Alastor offer him? He'd been willing to indulge the spider in his erotic roleplay. They had both had their fun, and now it was over. Before the Overlord had a chance to ask Angel exactly why he wasn't sticking around for pillow-talk, he had been out of the door without a word. Collapsing in a heap on his bed, the porn star had finally felt able to cry, chest heaving with the ragged gulps and gasps that came tearing out as he succumbed to the ache of everything.

But, apparently, Alastor was not so easily deterred.

The stag himself was standing in Angel's doorway, smile intact, his expression as unreadable as it ever was.

"'M not cryin'," Angel mumbled uselessly, more than aware that there was not a chance in hell of the stag actually believing him. He was unsure exactly how long he had been curled up on the bed, bawling his eyes out, but it was long enough that he could feel his face had become swollen and streaked with tears. "'M just... tired, okay? Some of us down here actually sleep, ya know."

The realisation had dawned on Alastor, once Angel had brusquely skipped the final stage of their role playing: the all-important delving into each other's psychological and emotional well-being, the aftercare. After the theatrical, exhaustive exploration of their physical bodies, the less tangible sounding out of their mental comforts had swiftly been eliminated, Angel gathering his things and leaving his playmate. Discarded, like a used toy. The Radio Demon felt deeply spurned by this course of action — more like inaction, however inexperienced the Overlord rarely admitted he understood there was more to aftercare than Angel the star professed to practise.

Left alone, Alastor had been trying to understand what had gone wrong. Mulling it over in dead silence, the absence of his Mirror Shadow, the allegations Angel's rushed departure invited disconcerted explanations swarming on the buck's fraught head.

Painstakingly cleaning up the evidence of their impassioned affair, uncertainty clouding his eyes, Alastor's movements were deliberated and sluggish. Partial to retire himself, the gear Angel left added to the preparation for a prolonged time-out; the myriad of reasonings the tired buck had fabricated intensified the itch to sift through his sub's excuses for the vanishing act.

Supposing the spider had been too uncomfortable to utilise their safeword, or found fault with his Dom’s role… should Angel have at least had the decency to complain? Disparage his willing lover? Invent new curses and slurs to criticise the deer demon? Throw the butcher's apron and equipment into the fireplace in a fit of regret?

None of them justified the spider demon's unusual actions. Pulling a lounge robe shut after slipping it on, intentionally omitting the belt and any kind of shoes, confident nobody else had a good reason to roam the halls at this time of night, when the door softly clicked shut behind him it had roughly been just over a half hour when the Overlord chose to trace Angel's steps. Naked under the robe, clovenhooves quiet on the carpet, the route to the porn star's quarters went without a hitch.

The walls in the old Hotel weren't so thick to prevent ALL the cacophony of mortifying and curious sounds on other days and nights, coming from a number of rooms, as few as they were… The new Hotel's renovation lent better, soundproofed walls; not exactly perfect, venturing out into the hallway, the Radio Demon had the keenest sense to catch the sounds of his conflicted lover’s muffled cries through the door.

The porn star's room was the first port of call, regardless of whatever Angel had resolved to do at such a mystifying time, it felt like the likeliest place to check first.

Standing motionless within Angel's open doorway, it appeared a simpler puzzle to solve than guessed.

The Radio Demon's plain smile gave no indication of the turmoil bubbling inside. The sight of Angel’s lifted features, his skin flushed pink and wet from…  bawling his heart out, it seemed, didn't conclude anything. Far from it. It stirred Alastor's curiousity, the appetite for secrecy reignited in the wake of their primal fuck. Angel's casual avoidance questionable, brushing off the pointed advice, the Overlord was always in a uncooperative mood.

Whereas the porn star held a wage pretending to lie and put on a mask. Alastor's situation was close to being cut from the same cloth. Approaching the distressing scene with a strained smile didn't mean compassion and tenderness weren't also presented on the same silver platter.

Trust was earned, not dished out carelessly.

“Sleep doesn't work if you're awake and mourning like you're at a funeral,” came the blunt chastisement, the solemn Overlord pausing briefly to slide the door lock into place first before continuing.

Crossing the threshold, Alastor's bold steps forward insinuated a reproachful accusation, the Radio Demon's demeanour strictly austere. The stretched smile’s potency faltering, lowering the pitch of his voice to a gentler tone, a hand was extended in offering from inside his robe — a three-quarters full bottle of prestigious brandy. Holding it firmly in front of his distraught sub's face, the Radio Demon compensated for their awkward height difference crouched in front, head canted to follow Angel's tilted line of sight. Fur/hair tousled, sweat drying it plastered to his scalp, the deer looked breathtaking in comparison to how Angel looked — and sounded — chewed up and worn out, left to rot in a ditch somewhere unsavoury. 

Offering his friend a bleak smile, trace elements of sincerity bleeding through, Alastor waited patiently, shutting off any intermissions from his background ambient radio frequency. It was just the two of them, one of them behaving like he'd just returned from a years’ long war.

“Would you like to talk about it? I've brought you some liquid courage, on the off chance you wanted a good story to explain the morning’s hangover. I suppose nobody heard... what we were doing," he appended the horrific if not true comprehension, squeamish at the thought. Breathing under control after composing his recovery chasing their fun, Angel's appearance befitted a pathetic weakling, the sobs Alastor had interrupted still pervading the deer's inquisitive thoughts even though the spider had caught his breath to speak.

[hungrywriter]

Unexpected (Pt. 1)

Charles Leclerc x F1!female!driver

Uses she/her pronouns

“Last lap, Y/n. You’re in P1 now. Give everything you’ve got.” Y/n’s boss spoke through her radio. Hearing that she was the leader of the race made her more alert. After a quick glance at her side mirrors, she noticed Charles Leclerc catching up. Slowly, she increased her speed, summoning the last of her energy. The finish line was finally in sight for y/n after what felt like an eternity. Her attention was immediately drawn to a red Ferrari just a few metres away, so she drove aggressively. 

She did it! A miracle for the Williams Racing Team this year! Look at how fast she goes! Y/n L/n wins the Singapore Grand Prix!

Her race was over and she had won. After climbing out, the team and audience greeted her with hugs and screams. After a while, she finally got them off and began searching for her lover. That's what you thought, at least. He was sitting there, laughing, surrounded by girls. In a matter of seconds, her happiness turned into anger. She pulled the cameraman who was following her and pointed to the man who was still unaware of her presence. As soon as the cameraman realised what the assignment was, he went over to them to film them. Their shocked faces were broadcast to the world on television. Y/n was finally noticed by her so-called lover, who rushed over to her quickly. He made an attempt to kiss her tenderly, but she turned and walked away. As she left, she threw the necklace he gave her two years ago to him. Fortunately, her boss had sent security to get them out.

Wearing the cap and drinking water, Y/n sat in the cool down room. Due to the fact that she knew there were cameras everywhere, she tried not to express her emotions. Angry, hurt, and tired, all she wanted to do was grab the trophy and get back to the hotel. And possibly cry yourself to sleep. Soon, she heard footsteps and Charles walked in. He had a pitiful expression, which she detested. She doesn't desire sympathy. She was sickened by his stubbornness and stuck-up attitude. And as far as she knew, he hated her too.

“I heard what happened-” He started, a tone so soft she never expected him to have. 

“If you’re here to make fun of me, do your worst. I’m too tired to care”

There was silence in the room which she was surprised with. Charles would usually gloat and mock every time he saw her fail. The silence was so deafening that she was relieved when the announcer had called out the winner to receive the trophy.

After that, the ceremony ended in a blur. The audience's faces were filled with pity as Y/n tried to smile. In humiliation and embarrassment, her cheeks flushed. It was her first victory, but at what cost? As a newcomer, she wasn't exactly familiar with everyone here. The only person celebrating with her is her boyfriend, since her family is a long way away in her country. But now he's gone. In spite of so many people hugging and celebrating her success, she felt so alone. In fact, she did not even bother to spray the other contestants with the bottle. Once it was over, she returned to her hotel. 

Having just finished showering, Y/n wrapped herself in the hotel robe. When she turned on the TV, she saw the Formula 1 channel. There was a picture of her cheating boyfriend with his side chick on the screen. Everyone had seen them by now, and her phone was full of messages from friends, family, and the news asking what had happened. She tossed the phone and fell on the bed. She heard a knock on her door a few minutes later. Standing up and dragging her feet to open the door, she lets out a sigh. 

She expected to see a person standing, but instead a stalk of blue flowers welcomed her. As well as the smell of food. Deep down, she had hoped it would be her ex. But instead it was Charles, standing with a sheepish smile on his face. She was beyond confused but Charles noticed it.

“Um, these are Geltian Flowers. They represent victory.” He stuttered out while giving her the flowers. Y/n could help but snicker at his actions. “I never thought you’d be an expert on flowers.”

Charles seems to recover himself as he hears what she said. He put down the food on the table and turned around, smirking. “Oh you have no idea how talented I am” Y/n laughed and followed him when she shut the door. The duo sat down at the table and Charles took out the food. She noticed it was her favourite food. The Monegasque man was picking up his food with great joy when she looked over at him. She started to see him in a new light, a new perspective. And she liked it. 

A few hours into dinner, and both of them were a laughing mess. She started to learn more about him and she realised that maybe he wasn't that bad after all. Sure, he can be full of himself and confident. But she was happy. He made her happy. Something that her ex struggled to do. She broke out of her trance when his watch beeped.  “It’s late, I should go, and you need sleep.”

“I’m not sure if I can sleep after what happened…” Y/n trailed off as she locked eyes with him. Both of them were staring at each other and she swore she saw his eyes glanced at her lips. Slowly, she felt herself lean in and he did the same. His lips met hers. Her body felt as though it was a teenager again. Her stomach was churning with butterflies and her heart was racing. But something in Y/n’s heart made you pull away. She could see disappointment flash in his eyes as they separated. “Why?” He whispered. 

“I feel bad. I don't want to use you for my pleasure.” She responded, looking away. His palm was on her cheek, pulling her face to look at him. “Mon amour, you had your first victory! You served to be treated like a princess, wait no, a queen! Use me however you want,” That was all she needed to crash her lips into his. Before she knew it, both of them were in bed, naked. 

[rocorambles]

Proving A Point

Pairing: Toji x reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Yandere, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Degradation, Murder, Violence, Gore, Borderline Necro??? But not really??? Listen...there is a dead body and things are done in very very close proximity to that dead body so take that as you will.

Summary: You make the mistake of accusing Toji of being jealous of sorcerers and he proves that he has nothing to be envious of.

Steady...Steady…

You wince as your stomach grumbles in complaint, hunger eating away at your patience and concentration. But you steel your nerves, stubbornly shaking your head and willing away the pangs in your abdomen as you focus on your surroundings, eyeing the cameras and employees, waiting for the right moment…

Skittish eyes. Rustling. Quick movements.

You tamper the pep in your step, hiding the glee in your face as you casually stroll outside of the sliding doors, leaving the grocery store and its shoppers in your wake, baggy sweatshirt much less roomy as you walk away. Your fingers itch to immediately grab the banana tucked inside your bra, but you know better.

Patience is a virtue. Out of sight, out of mind. And you wait, fighting every urge to run far away and dig into your stolen loot, sighing in giddy relief when you finally turn the corner, blocks away from the scene of the crime.

It’s almost animalistic how you practically rip off your hoodie, letting your precious cargo of fruits, bread, and chips fall to the ground. You plop on the ground, hand wrapping around the banana still tucked in the fabric around your chest, but you freeze at the sound of amused chuckling.

Your fight and flight instincts war inside of you, teeth baring, body back on its feet as you gauge your intruder. But your heart drops in your stomach when you take in the large muscular figure, the feral scarred grin leering at you from down the alley.

Years alone and left to fend for yourself have made your survival instincts strong and you know just from a brief glance that you don’t stand a chance against the man slowly meandering towards you. You’re no stranger to using your body for protection, money, just another night under a warm roof and you can only surmise that’s what he wants, that he’s just another predator in search of hapless prey. So you brace yourself, willing your body to relax as it trembles, letting it go limp as he draws near.

But you open your eyes in shock, looking warily on as he plucks the banana still nestled in your bra and peels it open, holding the opened end to your lips.

“Don’t let me interrupt your meal.”

You gape, eyes flickering between the yellow fruit and the amused face of the man in front of you. Back and forth, back and forth.

“If you’re not going to eat it, maybe I’ll have it. I’m getting kind of hungry anyway-”

“What is this? Some kind of weird foreplay?!”

Hunger makes your tongue sharper than you intend as you angrily chomp on the soft fruit before he can pull it away from you, your hands ripping the rest of the banana from his grasp as you quickly shove the rest in your mouth, uncaring of how ridiculous you look. So what if you look like an oversized furious chipmunk, cheeks bulging as you rapidly chew, scowl set in place? You’d be damned if you let someone else take your hard-earned food, even if he does look capable of choking you with his bare hands, and your eyes linger a little too long on the ways his shoulders and biceps bulge in his tight black shirt.

But his next words have you snapping back to attention, nervousness curling inside of you.

“I saw your little stunt back there. Not bad. How long have you been stealing to provide for yourself?”

You immediately deny his words, feigning ignorance, beads of cold sweat trailing down the side of your face the longer he just impassively stares at you as you continue stuttering.

Had you misjudged him? Was he some kind of undercover cop?

“What if I told you I could keep you off the streets, find jobs that would pay enough money to put a roof over your head, keep your stomach full?”

Your head snaps up, hope fluttering inside of you, your voice coming out more desperate and shaky than you wish.

“You won’t turn me in?”

The man snorts, bending down to pick up the rest of your meager belongings and food, not even looking back to see if you’re following as he begins to walk away, arms laden with your possessions, silently commanding you to follow him. And like a duckling imprinting on its parent, you instinctively trail after him without a single question about where you’re going, what jobs he’s talking about, or who he is. But as you exit the narrow alleyway and get ready to merge with the bustling street, he pauses, turning around to gaze at you as he answers one of those questions.

“I’m Toji. No last name. Just Toji.”

Neither of you dwell too much on what exactly brought the two of you together, what had Toji curiously watching as you skillfully and efficiently stole your next few meals and deciding to tuck you under his wing, what had you eagerly following after the man like a lost puppy. The harsh conditions and day-to-day survival of your lives don’t give either of you the luxury of wallowing in loneliness or the warmth that builds in your chests the more time you spend together.

But on nights after a successful job, bellies full of food and alcohol, bodies lazing on a cushy hotel bed where you splurge and rest for the night, neither of you fight the way your limbs naturally entangle, the way your lips meet in the dark, the way it feels so damn right to be together.

You learn about sorcerers and curses, shuddering when you become aware of an entire world that surrounds you. Toji laughs when he gifts you a pair of glasses that helps you see the evil around you and you scream, jumping in his readily outstretched arms, clinging onto him in fright.

Toji learns that aggressive shows of confrontation and brute force aren’t always the best answer (even if they are the most fun option) and he follows your lead, letting you quietly sneak around, swift hands dexterously picking locks, easily plucking and pocketing stolen goods. It’s your turn to laugh when he pouts at not being able to use his blade, strong arms crossed in front of his chest as he impatiently waits for you to finish your task.

But despite the months you spend together, you never get used to the crimson stains he returns with, eyes always averted and looking anywhere else when he deals a final blow. He knows if you had a choice, you’d always opt out of joining him on these specific types of requests. He knows it’s selfish to force you along, to make excuses as to why he needs you by his side as his sword guts yet another sorcerer. He knows he should feel some shame for the way you dry heave and vomit the contents of your guts at the sight of the countless corpses he forces you to look upon.

Yet all he feels is annoyance laced with guilt and fury at the pity in your eyes, the softness in your gaze as you watch him slay another individual who just happened to be born with cursed energy, the gentleness with which you handle the fallen bodies. Maybe that’s why he keeps on dragging you with him assassination after assassination, gloating about his new moniker “Socerer Killer” in front of you despite your clear discomfort towards the title.

But maybe the unspoken punishment is too soft for you, too subtle. And Toji scowls when you begin to question him and his motives, angrily growling right back at you when you raise your voice as you argue with him about his drive to kill every sorcerer he crosses paths with.

You plead and beg for him to reconsider. Sorcerers are humans after all, just with special abilities.

Toji wonders if you’d still think that if you met anyone else from the Zenin clan and both of you back down, your arms wrapping around him in an attempt to soothe and comfort as you see his mind and eyes glaze over in painful reminiscing.

It’s during one of these sessions that you utter the lines that end up being your downfall.

“Toji, do you think that maybe all your hate towards sorcerers is just jealousy? Are you jealous that you weren’t born with cursed energy like they were? Because if that’s what it is, there’s nothing to be jealous about-”

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Harsh language and cursing are all things you’ve come to expect from Toji. But what has you paralyzed with fear and a desperate need to make things right is the pure animosity and seething rage in his voice.

You whimper as a large hand reaches to grip your face, squishing your cheeks painfully, forcing you to lock eyes with fierce emerald orbs.

“I’m not jealous.”

He abruptly lets go of you with that sentence, turning his back on you, slamming the door in his wake. And you know you should be grateful that this is the extent of his lashing out. Yet somehow your heart aches more in his absence and you almost long for more of his heated words, even a spiteful strike as the days drag on without his presence.

It’s embarrassing how much you miss him, how accustomed you’ve grown to him being around. But you can’t help the way you scramble and flail in your rush to greet him as he finally enters your bedroom almost an entire week later. And he snorts when he easily catches you as you stumble and topple into his arms, tightly flinging your arms around him and holding him in silence, nuzzling and inhaling his scent as you bury your head in his chest.

You don’t miss the way a large hand gently rests on your head, the way he lets himself bask in your embrace. But all is not forgiven or forgotten and you warily listen as he barks at you to get ready, telling you he has another job for the both of you, grimacing when a razor sharp grin cuts across his face when he tells you it’ll be a messy one.

If there’s one positive attribute about Toji, it’s that he’s a man of his word. Your stomach churns, nausea swirling inside of you as he uses his bare fists to seemingly break every bone in the target’s body, unnecessarily cruel as he drags out the sorcerer’s death. The victim’s agonized screams fill the air and you clamp your hands over your ears, wishing you were anywhere but here, hesitantly stepping towards the exit, but stopping at Toji’s curt command for you to stay put.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh finally stops and you let out a shaky breath, tentatively lowering your arms as you turn back to face Toji, waiting for his exit plan. But your eyes widen when you see the sorcerer’s chest still rising and falling, still hanging to life by a fraying thread. And realization weighs down on your shoulders like a ton of bricks when Toji beckons you over, pulling your reluctant body until your back is pressed against his chest.

He places the hilt of his sword in your hands before gripping your hips, holding you still as his thumbs languidly rub lazy circles through the fabric of your pants. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he watches the tremble of your arms as you vigorously shake your head side to side, eyes dizzyingly flitting between the half-dead sorcerer laying at your feet and the sharp point of the weapon your holding.

“Toji, I don’t- I can’t-”

“Kill him or be punished. Pick your poison.”

You know there’ll be hell to pay if you don’t follow through and every ounce of self-preservation screams at you to put your own well-being above the pitiful stranger on the ground. But when you lock eyes and see the fear and pain, see him as just another human like yourself, you know you’ll never be able to forgive yourself if you deal the final blow, know that his death will haunt you, curse you, for the rest of your life.

You’re terrified as you begin to loosen your grip, getting ready to let the object clatter to the ground, knowing full well Toji will be livid. But before you can fully release the sword, strong hands wraps around yours, forcing you to hold the blade once more, and you scream as Toji guides your hands, forcing you to cut through flesh, muscle, skin, and bone, the body parting like butter beneath the overwhelming force. Hot crimson splatters decorate the both of you and all you smell and taste is metallic copper.

All you’re cognizant of is the dimming light in the sorcerer’s eyes, the way your hands are still holding onto the weapon buried in your victim’s guts.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

You don’t know anything except the need to flee, to separate yourself as far from the crime scene as possible. And your legs jerk back to life, only to give out on you as you’re forced to the ground, body unable to do much against Toji’s brute strength as he forces you on all fours on top of the still warm corpse, your limbs encasing the figure, eyes unable to look anywhere but straight down on those vacant eyes.

“Take a close look, sweetheart. Still think I’m jealous of a pathetic meat sack like that? Still think I care about having cursed energy? His special little powers didn’t help him much, did they?”

Toji’s laughter rings in your ears as your shaky arms struggle to hold your bodyweight up, trying to create as much distance between your torso and the hardening corpse beneath you, your eyes clenching shut, trying to block out the gruesome scene. You’re so focused on your predicament that you barely register calloused hands pulling down your pants and underwear, leaving your most intimate parts on display.

But Toji’s never been a fan of being ignored, especially by you, and you wail as he suddenly shoves his cock inside of your dry and unprepared hole, the pain and force of his thrust throwing you off balance and fat tears stream down your face as your body falls on the lifeless form beneath you.

Fear, pain, and disgust coil and slither inside of you as you futilely flail and try to lift yourself off the body beneath you, loud sobs escaping past your lips as your face is squished against a much colder visage, your tears and saliva mixing with the congealed blood on the sorcerer’s face. But every time you try to push yourself up, Toji rams into you from behind, and you instinctively tip forward, trying to escape, trying to pull away from him, only to further trap yourself against the corpse.

��God, you’re such a fucking crybaby. He’s dead, get over it. Look. There’s nothing to be so upset about.”

A new wave of salty tears trail down your face as Toji uses one hand to pin you down, forcing your lips to connect with colder, stiffer ones in a mockery of a kiss. He pauses his relentless thrusts to boisterously laugh as you fight against his hold in renewed vigor, fueled by your disbelief and terror.

“Alright, I guess that’s enough punishment for you. Don’t want you to die from shock. Let me make it all better.”

If you thought the ocean of negativity you had been drowning in before was bad, this is worse. So much worse. And a disgust so thick, so potent, so irreversible washes over you, seeping into every part of you, as pleasure begins to flicker and grow deep inside of you. Toji knows every inch of your body inside and out, and it’s pathetic how quickly your pleas for him to stop become lewd moans and wanton sounds as his fingers rub and play with hardening nipples and clit, as he angles his cock at just the perfect degree that has you seeing stars, as his teeth possessively bite down in the junction of your neck.

You don’t want to feel good, not like this, not here, not sprawled on top of a man you had just killed in cold blood. But it’s hard to think of anything else other than the arousal and lust fogging over your morality, over your humanity as Toji turns you into a well-trained mindless slut desperate for him, for pleasure. And he smiles victoriously as you stop resisting, letting your body mold against the corpse beneath you, uncaring of how absolutely sinful and depraved you look as you moan and drool like a bitch in heat, writhing shamelessly against the body underneath you.

He knows the image is going to be seared into his mind for life, fap material for years to come, and his hips stutter, his tempo fluctuating as his balls tighten, his thrusts becoming even more feral and desperate as he chases his end. And when you cum first, convulsing and milking him of all his seed, pushed over the edge by the brutality of his pace, he spills thick white spurts deep inside of you, grunting in satisfaction as he slams balls deep into you one last time.

It’s amusing how you’ve seemingly had a complete change of heart, looking almost at home and at peace as you continue laying on the motionless sorcerer, body twitching and eyes rolled back in your head as you laze in post-coital bliss. His softening and spent cock twitches in interest again as a sticky trail begins to trickle out your used cunt, mixing with the blood of the broken body beneath you. And it takes all his willpower to refrain from having you, tasting you all over again.

You’re still on the clock after all and there’s payment to be collected.

But as he coldly barks at you to get up and tidy yourself up as best as you can, smug satisfaction swells inside of him as he watches you exhaustedly pull your panties and pants back up above your ass, a dazed pleasured look on your face as you quickly make your way to him, tucking yourself closely to his side and leaning into his body heat.

You always were a clingy and needy thing after an orgasm. But he can’t bring himself to mind, sneering as he tosses one last backwards glance at the dead sorcerer you’re leaving behind before finally settling into a self-satisfied smile as he pulls you in closer.

Cursed energy and all...no sorcerer could ever make you feel as good as him.

[aeristudios]

His Muse | KHJ

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: fashion designer!Hongjoong (Ateez) x reader

𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛: Flashing Lights collab hosted by me 

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, smut, established relationship au, fashion industry au

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, masturbating, fingering, oral (f receiving), missionary, nail digging, dirty talk, nipple play, creampie, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.4k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:  It was definitely fate at Fashion Week the way you and Hongjoong met. Inseparable ever since, Hongjoong likes to practice his craft with you as his favorite subject. When the sun goes down he never fails to express why you're a constant source of inspiration.

AN: Thank you to @sugasbabiie​, @eatjeanjin​, and @hobipaint​ for looking over this for me. I really appreciate it 🖤

The sky has reached the golden hour, with the sunlight shining through the windows in your penthouse. You sit on the stool in nothing but a satin button-up shirt. Behind you is a plain white background, and you are patiently waiting for your photo to get taken. You aren’t a model by any means, but you can’t tell your fashion designer of a boyfriend, Hongjoong, that. He is constantly taking pictures of you and adding them to his mood boards. He calls you his muse, his excuse being that you are the most beautiful thing that has ever been created on this Earth. 

You met at a New York fashion week while visiting a show you were invited to by your best friend Seonghwa, who showcased his latest collection. It’s not the first time you went to a show that Seonghwa held, but this event was a collaboration between his and Hongjoong’s, and it was a massive event for him. You came in dressed in your best, expecting to support your best friend on this huge achievement and maybe go to an after-party. But the moment you locked eyes on Hongjoong, you knew you were in trouble. Your plans quickly changed, and you ended the night in Hongjoong’s hotel in his bed, riding him until the sun rose. 

You two have been inseparable ever since; you moved in with him a month later on his insistence, and you started working together as his accountant. You have a masters in accountancy, and his business is ever-growing, so it made sense for him to have someone he trusts looking over his books. You both fell in love fast and hard, and there’s not a day that goes by that he doesn’t shower you with gifts or adore you. Everything he designs has been tried on you first, and he always seeks your approval. He lights the furnace in your heart and fills you up with a love that you’ve never had before. 

“Okay, baby, are you ready?” Hongjoong comes out of the room, his expensive camera in hand. 

“Mmhm,” you hum.

He holds his camera up and the flash goes off before you are ready, your vision temporarily blinded from the brightness. You hear him come over to you and you feel him rub your eyes gently, alleviating the slight pain in your eyes. Hongjoong kisses you on your forehead and waits for you to be back at your 100% before taking more photos of you. You pose the way you usually do, giving your best Naomi Campbell, as they say. He is focused on the lens, making sure he catches you at every angle. 

“Unbutton your shirt for me,” Hongjoong instructs, still clicking away on the camera. 

You do as you're told, unbuttoning your shirt slowly, revealing your stomach while covering your breasts. This new level of exposure starts to turn you on, and you have the idea to have him take your pictures while you get totally undressed. You continue to take off your shirt, watching him bite his lip and take his eye off the camera. 

“What are you doing, doll?” He asks, moving closer to you and lifting your chin to meet his face. 

“I want you to take some different kinds of pictures tonight,” you murmur, fiddling with his belt on his pants. 

Hongjoong leans down and kisses you, his cool hands massaging your breasts. Finally, you manage to unbuckle his pants and slide them down, his member growing hard by the minute. You are tempted to wrap your mouth around his cock, but you have a plan, and you are sticking to it. 

“Come with me to bed,” you direct, getting up from the stool and sliding your panties off. 

You take them and stuff them in his mouth, watching his eyes roll to the back of his head. Then, you walk to your massive bedroom, crawling on the bed on all fours, waiting for him to be fully ready to pounce. He comes in shortly after, undressed with his camera in hand, his other hand palming his shaft softly. You watch him approach you from behind, his fingers leaving his shaft to brush against your clit before he gives it a soft kiss. Your breath hitches, and you cling to the sheets as his tongue slowly licks up your center. 

“Please, don’t stop,” you beg, riding his tongue with his rhythm. 

You hear the camera clicking as he continues to tease your clit and now has two fingers stuffed inside of you. You’ve never been able to last long with this mouth and finger combo, and tonight is no different. You scream his name as your orgasm bursts through you, your sweetness gushing everywhere on his fingers. He pulls his fingers out just to flip you over and lick you dry, your legs buckling from overstimulation. He doesn’t stop until you cum again, his soft lips humming against your clit so softly that you can’t help but give him what he wants. 

“I really want your pretty lips around my cock,” Hongjoong groans as he strokes himself harder. 

Though his tone is dominant, his words come out desperate and needy. The way he bites his lip as he focuses on your body, imagining all the ways he wants to have you tonight. You want him just as bad, but you decide to make him wait just a little bit longer. Just to be a minx, you decide to tease him a little. You slip your fingers down to your sweet nectar, playing with yourself softly without breaking eye contact with him. Hongjoong grabs his camera, taking pictures of you in the moment while he still strokes himself. 

“You look so pretty baby,” he cooed, taking one more picture before setting the camera down. “I can’t wait anymore.”

Before you can react, he spreads your legs apart and slams himself inside of you, lifting your head up so you can see him pummel you. 

“You like this, don't you?” He gloats, slapping your breasts. “You like teasing me until I snap and fuck you to sleep huh? This is what you wanted all day. I know you, my dirty whore.”

His harsh words send you into overdrive, and you kiss him feverishly, grinding your hips to match his pace. His hands grab your throat and squeezes it slightly as he whispers more dirty things into your ear, adding more highs to your already close peak. His face is reddening and you feel yourself reaching your peak, so you grab his camera and set it to record, watching him thoroughly fuck you through the lens as he murmurs your name. 

“Hongjoong… baby I-,” you choke. 

“Are you going to cum for me doll?” His tone is velvety and your stomach coils into knots, feeling yourself about to burst. 

You nod frantically, begging for him to coat your walls with his load. Your nails dig into his arms as you dissolve into pleasure, screaming his name into his shoulder. His legs sputter and he releases shortly after you, filling you up with his load like you asked. You can feel yourself pulsing, your legs shaking uncontrollably as they are still being held in the air. Hongjoong slowly pulls himself out of you, kissing your sweaty face and making his way down to your nipples. 

“I love you,” he leaves one lasting kiss on your right nipple before returning to your lips. 

“I love you more,” you pull him on top of you, wanting to be held. 

Hongjoong holds you tightly, stroking your hair as he watches you fall asleep in his arms. You sound peaceful, your light snores tickling his insides, as he always found that adorable. He slowly gets up and grabs the camera, wanting to take pictures of you in this serene state. He realizes that the camera was still recording, catching everything that happened from the moment you grabbed it. 

“I guess I’ll have to add the pictures we did manage to take into our own little mood board,” he chuckles, sending the pictures to his backup drive. 

Hongjoong turns around and takes one last picture of you, covered in a white sheet like the angel he always thought you were. A lightbulb goes off in his head, and he grabs a notepad, sketching you while you sleep. He decides that his next collection will be a soft collection with a lot of white and soft colors that will be perfect for the summertime. He takes his time, curating the ideas he has onto his notepad, not wanting to forget a single detail and to get this going as soon as possible. 

Hongjoong looks over to you once more, amazed that you came into his life but a year ago and have been the source of all this creative energy. He loves you more than you will ever know, the apple of his eye. His forever muse. 

[ohheyitsokay]

out or in

this takes place in my ‘poly frontier’ universe

pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller, Santiago “Pope” Garcia, Francisco “Catfish” Morales, Ben “Benny” Miller and a female reader 

wordcount: 2.5k

warnings: all fics in this series are 18+, poly relationship domestic, romantic, and sexual intimacy. strong language, both implications of sex and brief explicit sexual content, mostly fluff

summary: a collection of moments about always choosing the ones we love

>>

It’s a romantic little outing – a walk to the park, flowers tucked behind ears, a gazebo by the pond. Santiago looks good with flowers in his curls, and they stick well. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he thinks of the two of you hung the stars, and his broad shoulders look void of weight in the evening sun.

Will can’t keep his hands off of you, which is strange, but not unwelcome. He keeps running his hand through your hair or pulling you into sudden hugs, and it makes Santi smile.

The three of you are waiting for Frankie and Ben to come, settling into the white benches and enjoying the dappled lighting that sways with the vines overhead. Your Ironhead practically pulls you into his lap as your other lover goes in search of ducklings. Watching him, Will kisses your temple, your cheek, the side of your neck.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. It’s mandatory, really, because these moments are few and far between. Soft noises from the nature around you, smells of flowers and the musk of your lover, and most of all, his open affection. When was the last time his confidence overrode his calculating brain?

When you open them again, a woman is walking by, chattering on her phone, and her heels slow when she catches sight of Santi.

The pillars of the gazebo shroud you from her, and Will holds you tight as you watch her hang up, a twitch in her hips. You miss her greeting, but not the way Santi turns towards her, his face polite and neutral.

“I’m just here with them,” he waves and points, and you see an incorrect realization on her face as she glances shrewdly. The two of you are wrapped up in each other, his hands wandering even still – she thinks she knows.

“So you’re the third wheel?” the woman all but purrs, eyes fluttering in a way that makes you roll your own. So fixed is she on the warm tone of his skin and the stubble across his jaw, that she misses both the darkness of his eyes, and approaching footsteps.

“Not at all,” his words are simple and you grin.

“Like hell you aren’t,” Benny says, slipping an arm around his Pope. They came up less than quietly, watching without your patient interest. Will huff’s a laugh, almost proud at the kiss and raised eyebrow his brother gives the woman, who’s stepping back, suddenly uncertain.

She turns to Frankie, mistakes his soft edges for vulnerability, and changes targets. Hes handsome as a warm fall walk, and she drinks him in. All shy backtracking and twirls of hair, she reaches for his arm, playing all the right cards for sympathy.

But his eyes, deep and brown are unwavering as he shifts away. You see his mouth move – a quiet nope, with a p that pops, and the both you and Ironhead shake with silent laughter.

No one explains as she sputters and spins, trying helplessly to say have a good day, and as she near runs away and you feel a little guilty.

Mostly, though, you feel lucky as you see your eager boys making their way over and loved as they’re already reaching for you.

“That was fun,” Will pulls Frankie close to replace your warmth. Arms around Santi's neck you laugh again, feeling matching rumbles at your front and back.

“We should go out more often,” Benny says, resting his chin atop your head. You can hear the mirth in his voice, but of all of them, he thrives in awkwardness the best.

“Great idea, Ben.” Frankie doesn’t even have to roll his eyes.

“It’s fun confusing people,” the blonde defends, pulling back to flap a hand. Of course he thinks so, and of course Catfish disagrees.

“As long as the people who aren’t confused are us,” Will catches Santi's eye, and you feel him rumble again, squeezing you.

“I agree.”

-

Will walks in to see you completely on top of Frankie, sleeping against his chest. It’s a welcome sight, after a long, long week, and his layers shed as Frankie beams at him. The smile is void of gloating or even teasing, filled only with a hard earned joy. He loves the moments you crash into him, drawing out the weight on his mind and replacing it with you.

“That seems a little selfish,” his watcher teases, his deep, dry voice making you stir a little.

Frankie pulls an understanding face and shifts, letting you slide between him and the back of the couch, opening up for the other man. Your eye peaks open long enough to see Will’s smile, before you feel him, warm and close.

He’s taller, but it’s a practiced fit, and the couch was bought specifically for all of their width and height.

The man beneath you let’s out a groaning breath, like the weight of one of his loves hadn’t been quite enough. Silence fills the air, thick and warm as cocoa on a chilly evening, the three of you taking slow, indulgent sips. Hands rub shoulders and slide over unwinding muscles before they still, thankful for the heartbeats just beneath the surface.

And then the moment slides away, as Frankie remembers a story from work – his excitement is contagious. His deep eyes are bright, the lilt of his voice exaggerated by the animation that fills him head to toe, and you climb over them to find a glass of water. You'd already heard the story, and you need to wake up for the evening.

Santi’s in the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket, and hes pulling you by the hip into his arms. His skin is cool from their air outside, and he seeks your warmth with playful pleading, rubbing his nose along your cheek, your neck, and blowing puffs into your hair. The squeaks you make only spur him, happy kisses following the pre-made path, and he laughs, really laughs, for no real reason.

“Come,” he says, after finding your lips once more, “it’s almost time.” And you wake fully, checking the clock. He’s right, and both of you rush back to the others.

Ben’s fight is on the screen, and your boys are sitting, telling you for the thousandth time how rude it is that they cut off spectators.

“I know, I know,” you shush Will with your mouth, a chaste, chiding kiss, and he softens, pulling you back down. The sleepy satisfaction is long gone, dissipated by his talk with Frankie, and their inevitable excitement as they traded bits of wisdom. Now, it’s time to watch his brother, and to feel the bones in your hand creak as Frankie winces at every punch.

The fight is a short one, and you’re almost glad you didn’t drive an hour for it – your sweet Benny hardly gives the other guy a chance. He blows a kiss at the camera, and Santi says, “Mine,” before sticking his tongue out.

“How do you know?” Frankie protests, reaching over to smack him.

“Hush, he’ll call in just a minute,” you scold, snipping a budding argument, and rolling your eyes. “You can ask him then, if you want.”

You were right – and he called you, probably well aware of the bickering he caused. Speakerphone is mandatory, as deep voices shout their approval.

“The kiss was for all of you,” he says. “Minus Will.” He rolls his eyes, as Frankie makes a triumphant noise.

Over the responsive banter you change the topic.

“How soon will you be home?”

“Why baby, the whole crew there, and you still miss me?” Tonight’s win had gone straight to his head.

Will appears behind you, rumbling, his hand sliding up you shirt in a single, fluid motion.

“Watch yourself,” he said, loud enough for the phone to catch it. “I’d say we’re doing just-"

“- Fine,” the others catch his drift, lowered eyelids and knowing smirks making their way around. Just as fluid, Frankie pulls at you, settling your core over his thigh, his dark eyes asking for permission. Denying him is unfathomable – their touches already perfectly placed and hot.

The gasp leaves your lips before you even think to stop it.

“Fuck,” Benny’s voice is lower, even through the phone. “Don’t you dare!” The command falls flat, his damage done. Bra shoved away, Will rolls a nipple between his fingers as Santi’s hand palms you through the fabric as best he can, always eager to join the torture.

“Hurry up then,” he adds, watching you grind and melt beneath them, knowing the other man is already regretting his words.

“No fair!” you hear the slam of his locker and grin, already too far gone to stop their antics.

Frankie coaxes you off his thigh, hands busy as he began to rid your of your clothes. You’re slick with want, holding whatever you can brace yourself against, as they lovingly remind him what he’s missing.

“Would you rather we let you listen, hot shot?” it’s both a taunt and an offer, and you see wide eyes and feel eager twitches.

There was a moment of silence, before Benny’s curse cracks into the air, needy and nearly breathless.

And you’re suddenly glad you got a nap in earlier. If the last five minutes are any indication, it’s going to be a long night.

-

“No, but thanks for checking again,” you say, trying not to sound sarcastic. Benny is using his best puppy eyes, even pulling down the thick scarf his mama gave him to pout at you.

“But I made us the coolest fort, you said so yourself!”

“My love, it’s cold.” You respond, kissing his surprisingly warm cheek. “The others have already tried.”

You wave at Will over his shoulder as he packs yet another snowball for their war. A hit to the back of the head is a fitting distraction, and Ben kisses you quickly before he runs off to his corner of the yard.

And as much fun as it could be to watch, you close the door to the freezing air, knowing if you don’t, the next one will be coming for you.

You end up by the window, catching glimpses through the thick white frost, as you Google new winter recipes. And you’re thoroughly wrapped up in a distraction when a hand slips into yours

“Oh, hello,” you grab at it, trying to warm the fingers between your palms. “Too cold for Catfish?”

He nods, sighing as you try to thaw him.

“Come,” you say, leading him to the kitchen. He’s like a bear, lumbering after you, thickened with winter layers, but with meek obedience and eyes filled with adoration.

“Cocoa, love?” it’s hardly a question.

“Please, Frankie?” He kisses you in confirmation, seemingly growing even lager as he glows with pride. No recipe you’ve ever found gets the spices as perfect as he can, and it’s his joy to brew if for you all.

Before, though he turns the kettle on, heating water for the bottles, knowing any moment what will happen. And he’s never wrong. The door opens with a gust of chill wind, making snowflakes cling to their winter beards.

Just as the hot water bags are filled, and the rest finds its way into a footpan, Santi trudges through the door, huffing with laughter but with spikes of pain shooting from his knees. You help him settle into cushions, resting his joints, as Will and Benny tumble in, shedding soaking layers and telling you the final battle.

Passing out steaming mugs you kiss their cheeks and they know the truth – adventures should be taken and fun should be had, but nowhere was better than right here with you.

-

It happens rarely: waking up perfectly encompassed by your loves. Someone’s elbow was always poking or beard would tickle, and the first to wake would inevitably wiggle and jostle limbs.

But when it does, it’s bliss.

Your tucked into Will’s side – his beard is soft and smells like books and clean linens and the way it feels when rain pours down after weeks of drought.

Frankie is behind him, pressing close, and Santi is near a second skin, he’s sandwiched you so tightly. You can the shape of Benny beyond Frankie's fluff of hair, and for once, you don’t feel the need to move. Deep breathes a contented mid-dream murmurs push away the reminder that one of you must leave – a least for long moments.

But then you notice the pace of the heart beneath your hand, and prepare yourself for the rub of his jaw along his temple. Your Will would never risk the movement of kissing you before he knew you were awake.

“Good morning,” your voice is barely audible, just for him.

“I love you,” his response is just as quiet, but equally filled with love.

Neither of you says anything else, just shifting ever-so-slightly to kiss each other, unable to resist. Then you settle again, cherishing the squeezes and pacified rumbles, and dreaming of drifting off again.

You know he won’t - can’t, with a stupid Saturday meeting on it’s way, but you wish he would. All of you hate when he’s robbed like this, hate that he has to count down the minutes and then untangle himself and climb away. Feeling his heart race pick up again, you know he’s anxious. It goes against his nature to disturb, to break a perfect moment.

“Stop thinking so loud.” Benny groans, quiet, but not quite so in-control. “Here.”

He flops, pawing the end table before finding Will’s phone and tossing it to him, before settling forward against Frankie again. The whole time his eyes barely opened more than a hair, awake exclusively for the greater good.

A small, conflicted noise grumbles in Will’s throat, but then, to your amazement, he frees a hand and begins to draft an excuse.

“Tell them it could be an email,” Santi’s voice is thick with sleep.

“Because it could be,” Frankie adds, reaching for the phone. His eyes are puffy, wincing at the brightness, but if Will doesn’t call off the meeting, someone has to. Huffing, the man beneath you snatches it back, making incomprehensible comments about how he’s the only one who knows what to say.

You shift to kiss him again, shocked in spite of yourself. All this time, he’s never called in sick, no matter how deeply he’s been tempted. But more proud than anything.

It’s a perfect morning – too good to spoil. He sends it and tosses his phone, satisfied sighs and sleepy high fives making him chuckle. And you pull the blankets back in place, tucking in the joy for a few hours more.

>>

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge @horton-hears-a-honk @saradika @zinzinina

[footyblurbs]

Slamming your boyfriends car door to see his reaction. With Declan if you do him if not Dom please?

Declan raises his eyebrow as you slam the car door. “Oh well - all right!” He huffs, putting on a funny voice as he talks to himself, keeping himself occupied by shuffling through your cup holder. The door slam is all but forgotten by the time you’re coming back into the car to grab your purse. He opens his mouth to tease you but you’re already slamming the door again. At this point, your boyfriend being a jokester himself, he’s already looking around the car for your phone. His face lights up the seconds he finds it and he’s quick to pick up the camera and turn the phone to selfie mode. “Congratulations, you played yourself.” He gloats before beginning to list all the times he’s successfully pranked you.

Wondering why you’ve gotten no response from Declan yet, you’re making your way back to the car when he catches you out of the corner of his eye. He’s even more delighted and amused when he sees you return to the scene of the crime and although he’s being smug it’s painfully obvious that he absolutely adores you. “Oi! There she is, the prankstah!” His accent thick and his voiceful of laughter as you turns the camera off selfie mode to film your initial shock. He’s absolutely dying of laughter and you can’t help but join in, your hands covering your face that is now red from laughter and embarrassment of getting caught.

[be-gay-do-heists]

there’s something about the love for things you like (hey trendsetter)

“Hardison, I know the point of this grift was to stand out, but are you sure that’s not a little over the top?”

The hacker smiled at the voice in his ear, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off of his outfit in view of the security cameras overlooking the ballroom, whose feed he knew was currently being displayed to Nate and Sophie in Lucille. He pretended not to hear the wonderstruck whispers of the other guests around him. “Nate, I made these clothes myself, I would know if it was over the top.”

Ok, so maybe hand-made clothes were themselves a little much, but he had been dying to trot out this suit forever. The half-tunic was composed of rich blue and gray silks which he had been particularly excited about because he’d never sewn on silk before, and had gone down a rabbit hole on the technique research alone. The layered panels of fabric hung around his torso in a deceptively simple pattern, and one side draped elegantly down to his knee, swishing as he walked and revealing the brocaded reverse side. The perfectly-tailored white pants were simple enough, even if he had embellished the French seam with a decorative stitch and gold thread. As for the matching white slippers, well… shoes would be the next garment craft he picked up, looking down at them in slight disappointment and imagining how the perfect pair could elevate this outfit to the next level.

Sophie’s voice this time. “It’s perfect. Just start establishing your presence.”

Hardison began moving leisurely across the room, letting his attire do the talking for him. Despite the crowded space, the party-goers around him seemed to move out of his way on their own so they could marvel at him; it was easy to stand out amid the bland tuxes that surrounded him. He looked around the room, scanning for the mark, affecting a disinterested attitude. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar shade of hair and turned just slightly to catch Eliot’s eye. The fighter was working waitstaff for this part of the con, bearing a tray of champagne flutes and a disarming smile, the latter strangely absent from his face for a brief second as he looked over at Hardison. Puzzled, the hacker startled slowly making his way over, stopping by the bar momentarily to look at the fine liquors displayed behind the counter (and not seeing anything nearly sweet enough for his taste). As he approached, Eliot noticed him and Hardison registered the slight delay, the stuttered blink. “Champagne,” the hitter grunted, offering the tray more brusquely than he might do with a different guest.

Hardison accepted one of the glasses and watched Eliot’s reaction as he slowly took a sip, smiling afterwards. “Watch out before you drop that tray,” he said, gesturing.

The hitter recovered himself. “Dammit Hardison,” he growled under his breath in response.

“It’s the suit, isn’t it. You like the suit,” the hacker said, letting a hint of gloating enter his voice and waggling his eyebrows.

Eliot delayed his reply to offer a drink to a passing guest, professional disposition fully back in place. He made sure no one was looking at them before turning back and pointing a finger at Hardison. “You’re distracting me,” he hissed. Hardison just rolled his eyes and let flowing fabric swish a little as he changed his posture. He watched with satisfaction as Eliot’s gaze followed the movement. “Did you really make that yourself, man?” the hitter whispered.

“Of course he did, Hardison can do anything,” Parker said, popping up behind them and startling them both. She ignored their surprised expressions and shook her head to jangle her dangly earrings (Hardison knew she thought the feeling was fun). Shock aside, the way she said it made Hardison’s chest ache. It was like she was saying The joints on this climbing harness are made of a carbon fiber polymer, or Eliot will catch me if I jump out of this window. Like it was a fact. He hid his expression in the champagne glass.

“Ok, enough chit-chat,” Nate’s voice buzzed in their ears. “Fleischman is approaching the bar. Parker, you’re up.” There was a clacking noise in the background, and Hardison could imagine the mastermind pecking at the keyboard trying to get a closer view on the cameras.

Parker shifted nervously, fingers picking at the seam of her evening gown. “There’s a lot of people around. Loud people. I don’t know if I can do this. I need one of you guys to help me.” She murmured the last bit very quietly.

“I’ll be guiding you the entire time, don’t worry, Parker. Hardison, go ahead and walk over with her, and stand nearby at the bar; you’ll be a good distraction for keeping Fleischman’s eyes off of her nerves,” Sophie weighed in.

“Don’t go overboard,” Eliot growled from next to them, readjusting his tray and moving off to get a better angle on the room. Hardison felt the hitter’s free hand brush his back as he left, warm and solid, and knew what Eliot was really saying was Be careful.

He grinned widely as he offered an arm to Parker. “May I walk you to the bar for a drink?”

The thief cracked her neck and breathed out before taking it. “Let’s do this.”

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 19, part one

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff) (Previous Post)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Chilling in Yiling

We start off with Wei Wuxian hanging out in a busy area of Yiling, which is a really dumb place to pick for a fugitive rendezvous.  

He's wearing a fashionably distressed brown robe, and a woven disguise hat, that makes him invisible to his enemies until the moment he takes it off, kinda like the mask he wears in his second life. Unfortunately he is a polite boi so he takes off the disguise hat when he goes indoors to get a bite to eat, and promptly gets smacked down by Wen Zhuliu. 

Xiao Zhan's stunt double is really good at this wire-pull+table-smash move; this is the second time Wei Wuxian goes crashing through a table (the first one being when Yu Ziyuan was beating him). This time he clutches his now core-less abdomen, in a move we're going to be seeing a lot of, going forward. Abdominal surgery is a bitch. OP can personally attest to this.

Wen Zhuliu provides some comic relief by looking at his hand in puzzlement; he clearly can tell Wei Wuxian has no golden core, but he isn't going to bother telling Wen Chao that.

Wen Chao gloats and steps on Wei Wuxian's hand while Wei Wuxian stares at his shoe and OP wonders, not for the first time, how they make rubberized zig-zag treads in Ancient Fantasy China.

(more after the cut)

This is all happening in the Yiling Wine house where Wei Wuxian will later share the most important meal of his life, the one in which A-Yuan lays claim to Lan Wangji, ultimately giving LWJ a reason to live long enough for Wei Wuxian to be resurrected. If that doesn’t deserve a good Yelp review, nothing does. 

Dream a Little Dream of Me

While Wei Wuxian gets ready for his big whump scene, Jiang Cheng is dreaming, and looking absolutely breathtaking in this deceptively simple robe, that's made of a really complex fabric, that catches the light all over its surface.  The lighting here is warm and romantic, giving everything a nostalgic glow.

He looks around the courtyard in his dream, and sees Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian come running in the gate carrying kites. 

A child fetching a kite was the first casualty of the Wen attack on Lotus Pier, so this image may already be a little fraught for Jiang Cheng. In this initial image of his family, Jiang Cheng isn't present as a child, but then his junior self comes running up, to be warmly greeted by his mother.

Jiang Cheng's reaction to the scene playing out in front of him is not a simple one. We've seen him externally expressing his trauma at the fate of Lotus Pier and his family - his anger and his despair - and this dream shows us his private, interior trauma. 

His body has been repaired by Wei Wuxian and the Wens, but his psyche has not.

This family interaction can't possibly be one that ever happened. It's too lively, too affectionate, too comfortable. The family he was part of as a young adult was cold, angry, cracked.  Families don't change that much in 10 years, unless there's a major trauma that alters things in a fundamental way.

Even the glimpses we got of his childhood contradict this image. This warm group is not the family of "I sent your dogs away" or "wait in the cold until Jiang Cheng lets you in" or "I won't tell Clan Leader Jiang what happened" or "I'm only 11 but I'm in charge of soup and bedtime already"

Jiang Cheng smiles at the affection he sees enacted in front of him, but quickly moves to grief. When a toxic person dies, you don't just lose the relationship you had with them; you lose the hope for a better relationship. Perhaps Jiang Cheng has always imagined this version of his family; now nothing like it can ever come to be.

The pleasant scene vanishes into nightmare, as his mother starts bleeding from her eyes, ew. This is like Nie Mingjue when he qi deviates, but dream Yu Ziyuan is perfectly chill about it. 

Jiang Cheng is not perfectly chill about it. 

He turns around to see Lotus Pier burning. When he turns back, his family has been replaced with Wen Zhuliu, who is particularly gleeful as he reaches into Jiang Cheng's chest and melts his core.

Jiang Cheng wakes up on the mountain, alone (as far as he knows), and quickly stands and boots up his new golden core.

It's purple, because of course it is. King. The nightmare is gone and he smiles, maybe for the first time since the attack on the pier.

In a moment that is probably going to feel really embarrassing in hindsight, he kneels and bows toward the mountaintops to thank Baoshan Sanren, who is totally not there. 

Wen Ning, on the other hand, is there, although we only see a little bit of his belt and robe as Jiang Cheng walks off to Yiling to meet his brother.  This entire plotline walks a very weird line in which the audience is told just enough about what’s really happening to be confused, but not surprised.

Do the Whumpty Whump

After some initial roughing up, Wen Chao has his dudes stand Wei Wuxian up so he can question him without actually getting any information out of him at all. They take turns calling each other dogs, with Wei Wuxian saying that when Wen Chao talks he just hears a dog barking. (Of course if he really heard a dog barking he'd be terrified) 

Then he says "isn't that right" to Wang Lingjiao, and Wen Chao gets super pissed; don't disrespect me to my woman. 

He has his minions do a Nancy Kerrigan to Wei Wuxian's knee and then kick him for a while.

Then they kick the shit out of the camera operator.

Wen Chao is really not about fighting his own fights.  He also keeps threatening to have Wen Zhuliu melt Wei Wuxian's core, and Wen Zhuliu keeps popping up his hand and then putting it back when Wen Chao changes his mind, which gets more hilarious every time I watch it. Feng Mingjing’s physical embodiment of Wen Zhuliu is endlessly entertaining, even in scenes where he has literally no lines. 

I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost

Wei Wuxian continues to goad Wen Chao, telling him that more torture is good because then he'll die with loads of resentment. He says that after he dies, he will come back as a ferocious ghost, which is...almost exactly what happens, except he stays alive for the ferocious part. 

They go back and forth about the feasibility of this whole haunting plan. Wang Lingjiao is the voice of reason, for once, arguing the "ghosts aren't real and anyway fuck this guy" position.

Wen Chao thinks that he can’t haunt them because of cultivator security hardening procedures soul-calming rituals, but Wei Wuxian wasn't born into a gentry family so didn't have the anti-fierce-ghost treatment that other cultivators get.

This is the only time in the whole of the show when Wei Wuxian says, himself, that he's the son of a servant. He's using his reputation as a commoner to bolster his threats. 

Wei Wuxian is working hard to put on a scary-guy persona, which works pretty well on Wang Lingjiao but not as much on the rest of the group. Three months from this time, however, he will have become the scary, vengeful creature he's currently spitballing about.  He will also become way, way better at torture than the people who are currently mistreating him. 

Wang Lingjiao and Wen Chao go through a whole sequence of ideas about what to do with him. For whatever reason Wang Lingjiao doesn't insist on chopping his arm off even though she's been craving it for ages. 

She does gleefully burn his burn some more, causing it to bleed directly into the giant obvious bag he has hanging from his belt leaking resentful energy. Which the Wens do not take away or search.

Wen Chao, incidentally, starts calling him Wei Ying during this encounter, which is rude of him. Tch.  Finally Wen Chao decides on a plan, which involves sword-flying effects so terrible that no soul can survive them.

Jiang Cheng is looking for Wei Wuxian in town, wearing a woven hat like Wei Wuxian’s.  This...is not a disguise. If you want to be inconspicuous, maybe take that giant piece of silver off of your head.

He hears random people talking about the Wens being in town, and then he apparently looks up at the sky and sees the Wen dudes flying on their swords with Wei Wuxian, but it looks so ridiculous that Jiang Cheng's mind cannot process what he is seeing.

While they "fly," Wen Chao delivers a massive brick of exposition about the burial mounds, while Wei Wuxian looks genuinely frightened. The VFX of random, undifferentiated mountaintops and clouds do nothing to sell this menace, but the exposition is actually pretty good, creating a real sense of disturbance and threat.

Then they toss him in, and we go from the terrible VFX of sword flying to a visual effect that they mercifully did really well throughout the show - the black resentment smoke. This time it catches Wei Wuxian and holds him for a few moments, before dropping him the rest of the way to the ground. It also apparently pulls the turtle sword out of his belt bag, but we don't see that part.

They Say That Every Man Must Fall

Having seen Wei Wuxian at his lowest point (so far) and dream Jiang Cheng also in deep distress, we go to the Dafan Wen sibs, who have also reached a breaking point. Because they helped Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, they are traitors to their clan - unquestionably so - and are being punished for it, with Wen Ning having been tortured in addition to being locked up.

I see my light come shining From the west down to the east Any day now, any day now I shall be released

You know how Lan Xichen successfully argued for Wen-Clan-Member Meng Yao's life and status, because Meng Yao betrayed Wen Ruohan to help them? Even though Meng Yao killed a bunch of Nie guys? Wen Ning and Wen Qing also betrayed Wen Ruohan and helped the Sunshot Campaign, without killing a bunch of guys. They should have been treated as allies by the four other clans, but they got diddly.  

I’ve Been Dead Once

We return to Wei Wuxian in the burial grounds, where he's lying on the ground surrounded by resentful energy and by strained, desperate voices calling his name. This whole sequence is remarkable, since it effectively communicates the horror he's experiencing, through little more than Xiao Zhan's face and good sound design.

I hang around dying to be tortured  You'll never be alone in the bone orchard

The voices call four versions of his name. A variety of voices call him Wei Wuxian, Wei Gongzi, and Shixiong, which (I think) is what the young Jiang disciples would have called him. And in the midst of those voices, Lan Wangji's voice, low and calm, saying "Wei Ying." Upon hearing that Wei Wuxian starts to drag himself up.

For a show with definitely no zombies in it, they sure do use the visual language of zombie films for Wei Wuxian's first motions after hitting the ground. Starting with twitching fingers, then gradually pulling himself halfway up and crawling, lurching across the ground. Wei Wuxian comes slowly back to life, the very first member of his army of the dead.

He makes his way across the ground toward the floating turtle sword. Along the way he accidentally grabs the world's most bowlegged thigh bone; the lack of sunshine in the burial mounds puts the skeletons at risk for rickets.  All of the skeletons in the show are exactly what you would expect from the practical effects team that made the demon hand and the animatronic dog.

The turtle sword is roiling with resentful energy, and is talking to Wei Wuxian as he crawls toward it, asking if he wants revenge. And what a coincidence, he DOES want revenge. 

He grabs the sword and plunges it into the ground in an explosion of resentful energy. (Ground: why you gotta take it out on me?)

The sequence ends with the most compelling, ominous shot of Wei Wuxian's face...a new man. 

Soundtrack: 1. I Shall Be Released by Bob Dylan 2. Beyond Belief by Elvis Costello  

Writing Prompt: The Day Wei Wuxian arrived, from the POV of a Burial Mounds ghost. 

[intercoursefluids]

This ship WILL sail

“How are sales going?” Jason asks coming back from the coffee run.

“We are almost sold out. When do you think we should tell them about this?”

Dick immediately laughs at Tims ridiculous question.

“Never. We never tell them. Damian will kill us and Marinette will spontaneously combust. To be honest I didn’t expect this to take off like it did. They aren’t even together yet.

Jason chuckles, scrolling thru the #Daminette shirt, hat, and pin sales.

“Key word: yet, do you think we should make posters or stickers? Maybe some bumper stickers? People are really digging this whole Angel/Demon thing they have going on.”

Dick hums turning on the TV to the News station. Never know when a rouge will decide to break out.

He does a spit take when he sees the current livestream going.

“Guys! We’re so screwed!”

Both of his younger siblings turn to the TV, their interest peaked before paling significantly.

“Fuck!”

On the TV, standing in all their glory is a very flustered Marinette, and an agitated Damian.

“Mr. Wayne! How do you feel about your relationship going viral?”

Damian turns to the reporter, Marinette hidden slightly behind him to protect herself from the swarming reporters.

“What are you talking about? I’m not in a relationship.”

Confused murmurs fill the air before Marinette's friends come on screen. All of them wearing shirts, hats, and several pins from the #Daminette merchandise.

“Adrien! What are you wearing?! What the hell is #Daminette?!”

Adrien looks up, snaps a picture of his best friend hiding behind Damian and puts his phone away before answering.

“I know you two aren't dating yet, but I will die on this ship. You two are ridiculously cute together and you may or may not be trending on almost every social media platform there is.”

Marinette makes a strangled sound and Damian wraps an arm around her waist as her face lights on fire.

“I’ll see what I can do to get this to stop. Sorry you were dragged into this, Angel.”

Marinette buries her face in his side as camera flashes go off again.

“It's not your fault, Mon Chou.”

Adrien snaps another picture eliciting a glare from Damian.

“Oh yeah! Fair warning Mari, your parents and Uncle Jay are all on board with this. Your parents put up a banner outside the bakery and according to Kagami your mom is gloating to everyone that comes in that you are her daughter. Nadia Chamak was very excited about this whole thing.”

Marinette groans, banging her head against Damien's rib cage at that news.

“This is going to be worse than that time everyone thought I was your secret girlfriend isn’t it?”

At this point the group of teenagers are completely ignoring the press who continue to follow them as they walk down the street.

“Oh yeah, much worse. I would say sorry but I’m hoping you two will stop tiptoeing around each other and finally get together. Your flirting is unbearable.”

Marinette releases an indignant squawk turning away from the walking cuddle she and Damian were in.

“We have not been flirting, you twerp!”

Adrien raises an eyebrow waving Max over to him who already has his laptop out and open to a document.

“Observe.”

Several clips and pictures are shown on the screen showing the two acting like an old married couple from the time they met to now.

“Oh noooo. Adrien look! There's fanfictions now!”

Chloe turns her phone to Adrien as Marinette trips on a rock causing Damian to catch her with an arm around her waist. Several people coo and snap pictures of the two.

“Come on. You can hide out at the manor until this dies down.”

Marinette frantically nods as Damian leads her over to his car, opening and closing the passenger door for her before going to his side and driving off.

“This is actually really well written. Should we send it to the group chat?”

The camera pans back to the group of teenagers decked out in Daminette merch huddled around a phone.

“Oh definitely.”

The livestream ends, switching over to the weather report.

“Well that happened.”

Sometimes it's better to stay quiet Jason. Sometimes it's better to stay quiet.