#also this is unedited lol

[justanotherfanwriter]

devotion

something for @soulxmakaweek I saw the first prompt was devotion and ran with this Bad!Ending au I came up with. It's an idea I'd want to flesh out more, but I feel this is okay for a prompt week! :)

fair warning this is a one-sided soulxmaka fic, but I love when devotion turns into an unreciprocated obsession. So, expect angst.

t/w: gore, violence, murder (but at the very end)

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Maka wasn’t the same after the moon, though, to be fair, none of them were. She hid it well, the slight shift in her personality, the distant stares, her moon bathing. Soul only knew because he heard the way she cried at night when he was stuck fighting his own demons that never quite went away, tucked in the shadowy recesses of his mind, begging, pleading, to come out.

If insomnia hadn’t plagued him, he would have believed all of her heroic puffery, the way she stood at Kid’s side, proud against his naysayers, and her belief in the change they were set to make after the battle on the moon.

The way her gaze flickered to the moon was just a trick of the eye if he didn’t know the way she cried.

She lasted three weeks—and so did he—before she cried herself sick, and he found her in their shared bathroom, her head in the toilet, retching up mucus and lingering specks of black blood. No words were spoken between them as he grabbed her hair and held it for her.

She was sick until the sun came up, and when they fell back against the bathroom wall, sitting together on the floor, tired but not sleeping, she finally spoke, voice cracking, “I just want them back.”

She didn’t say their name, but he knew she was referring to Crona. It was the way she had said them as if said with reverence, referring to a god and not the monster their friend had become. No, them was not used to symbolize the thousands that had lost their lives, but the one who had sacrificed theirs for them all.

The sound of her voice pierced his heart, breaking it in two, confirming everything he had dreaded, and knew, and ignored, and he fought hard against the lump in his throat because that was how he spoke of her, and he understood what it meant.

He wouldn’t be getting what he wanted, but that didn’t matter, did it? He had made a promise a long time ago, hadn’t he? When he said they wouldn’t be like her parents. Of course, liking her had never been the plan—nothing had gone to plan—but he wasn’t the kind of guy to go back on his word.

“What? You’ve already given up?” He said to the tile floor, speaking gruffly as he swallowed his tears. He stood up, offering her his hand, “Don’t be stupid. We’ll get them back. I promise.” 

“How?” She stared up at him, her hand hesitating above his own. She looked drained and defeated and every bit as heartbroken as he felt, staring down at her.

“Why are you asking me?” He snorted, rolling his eyes, envying someone trapped on the moon, “You’re the smart one, remember? I’m just the guy who saves your ass when shit hits the fan. So do what smart people do, okay?” He took her hand and yanked her to her feet, “Go read a book.”

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Maka took his advice very seriously. Textbooks, tomes, manuscripts, scrolls (cursed and uncursed), newspapers, academic journals, and stray internet conspiracies she had printed out littered every free inch of their apartment dedicated to the Gods, the Occult, and Madness. She worked tirelessly, leaving no stone unturned.

From the little spot she had left him at the kitchen table, he’d stare at the sheer volumes of books with wonder. They were like a fungus that only continued to grow. Even his bedroom was unsafe from them. There was a time, years ago now, when her book hoarding was a point of contention between them, and he had forced her to sell a few for extra cash. That had been before she had met Crona. Now, he wouldn’t even dream of it. Sometimes her books were the only thing that kept her going. Not even he could rouse her from her grief anymore.

As the years progressed, Maka had only become more desperate. The world around her had moved on from Madness, adjusting to their new normal, which now included witches, a few werewolves, and one black moon.

Except for him, of course.

He had a few romantic partners in the years that followed the War on the Moon in a self-antagonizing quest to be rid of Maka. It didn’t work. At one point, he was gone for two years. He left without a single word, and when he came back, he was surprised to find she hadn’t even noticed his absence, while he, on the other hand, noticed every single second.

She had smiled up at him from a circle of books like he had only popped out to run a few pointless errands, and his heart had ripped apart and stitched itself back together again in seconds. He looked around their cluttered apartment and asked if she had seen Blair.

“Uh, I haven’t,” She blinked, “but let me read you this. I think…it may be something.”

“When did Blair leave?”

Maka twirled her finger in one of her disheveled, matted pigtails, reading the passage out loud around the pencil eraser she was chewing. She didn’t bother to answer his question. In fact, she acted as if it had never been asked. The most he could hope was that the cat had made it out alive, that he wouldn’t find her buried under a pile of books.

He never did find out what happened to Blair in the two years he was gone. Instead, he sighed, pushed the kitten out of his mind, and slumped his bag down to the floor before turning to pick up the spoiled plates of food she had piled and misplaced on the stacks of books.

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let Maka die this way. So, he didn’t leave again. He stayed.

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Kid wasn’t the only god people prayed to, though obviously, he was well worshipped. There were many gods and goddesses that had domains in this world. Some governed over concepts like death, their only absolute order in the chaos of life, other gods represented the seasons.

Some were equated to the Moon.

Maka had become the Moon’s most zealous follower. Every new moon, she paid tribute, lightening candles and whispering prayers. Swirling clouds of incense would fill their apartment, turning her into an ethereal misty mirage.

Maka didn’t make the same tributes to Kid, but this didn’t offend their Death Lord. It wasn’t uncommon for Kid to turn sacrifices, precious goods, and money away. Sometimes Death was a blessing, but he preferred letting nature run its course.  He was only interested in the people that defied him.

It always boggled Soul’s mind that Kid was a friend and still his timeless enemy, but in the end, what did it matter? He wasn’t afraid of Kid. His demons lived in his head, not on a clock, whispering insane circumstances, trying their hardest to draw him back into the black room. He resisted, but nights were still hard, listening to her cry over the moon.  

His friends were more supportive of Maka’s religious obsession. Tsubaki still lit a candle at her brother’s altar for the moon without fail every evening. Black*Star thanked the shadows when she was in earshot. Patty and Liz would occasionally moon bathe with her to keep her company. Kid couldn’t do much without disturbing the power balance between all things, but he didn’t chastise her when she used DWMA resources to further her research.  

Soul, on the other hand, did not participate in her religious endeavors. It was his one act of defiance against her, and if his friends noticed, they never said anything.  

Soul prayed to a different goddess entirely. She was a sound. A “G” note. Solid and reliable and there. If he prayed hard enough, maybe the mirage of her, the ghost of her, haunting these halls filled with books and eye-stinging smoke, would become solid again, forced out of the shadows of the moon and back into the sun where she belonged.

Thoughts of that once-sunny girl consumed him when he stared at the moon priestess on top of their apartment roof. She was whispering a mantra to the rock above them as she held her hands out in prayer. She looked so delicate, bathed in the rays of the weak moonlight that still penetrated the black shroud covering its face, that if he reached out to graze his fingertips down the spine of her back, he was afraid his hand would pass right through.

Instead, he watched her from the stairs, memorizing the lines of her, the sharp angles, and soft curves, remembering when she was once brighter than the sun.

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

There was a monk who, according to legend, knew all things. Kid had heard of him once, stating that his father had spoken of the man with venom in his voice. A rare mortal who had defied death and gotten away with it. He knew nothing more, or rather, he disclosed nothing more and, with remorse in his eyes, turned Maka away when she begged.

She, along with Black*Star, was still his best agent. Her obsession to free Crona had spurred her up the ranks of the DWMA Agents, allowing her more access to classified information. He, of course, followed after her.

When Kid turned his back on them, she cursed his name and left in a storm of rage. This wasn’t abnormal. She oscillated between denial, anger, and depression, and bargained whatever she could to gain favors, holy or unholy. Acceptance, he noticed, was never in the queue.

She pulled a few of those favors she had long since gained and found the Monk Who Knew All Things. Soul had never doubted her ability to do so, but it seemed that others hadn’t either. A group, a splinter cell of some sort, had been watching and waiting, allowing her to do the hard part and crack the code, and then swooped in at the last second to steal her prize.  

It was futile on their part. Together, he and Maka cut the group of men down without hesitation, and Soul enjoyed the sick feeling of them being sliced open. The black blood sang, and the room came nearer, but he had learned to ignore its call, focusing only on Maka and what she needed.

A blood bath laid in their wake, and resting upon a rock, waited the monk. His beard was well-trimmed but long. He was old but not frail. And in his eyes was the sweetest sorrow Soul had ever beheld.

He stayed as a scythe as Maka explained herself and her righteous cause.

“Tell me,” She begged, falling to her knees. He slipped from her grasp and clattered to the ground. He no longer complained when she did that, instead mourning only the loss of her touch. He could have transformed back into a human, but because she had not requested he do so, he stayed as a scythe within hand reach.

“Please,” She continued to plead, “how? How do I free them?”

The old man thought for a moment, staring up at the Black Moon, “It used to be such a lovely sight.”

“It still is,” Maka sneered. “Now, tell me. I saved your life; you owe me that much.”

His gaze fell back to her, and he sighed, “There’s nothing a mortal like yourself can do. This is a job of a god. Of divinity.”

This chilled his blood and reminded him of a recent conversation he had with Tsubaki prior to their trip. She had grasped him by the elbow and stared at him seriously with more authority than he had ever had the pleasure of seeing in her.

“Then, I’ll become a god,” Maka hissed, nonplussed by this revelation. “Tell me how.”

“I know that look in her, Soul.” Tsubaki had stated, “I’ve seen it in Black*Star—”

“You already know,” The Man Who Knew All Things said with a sad shake of his head, “and I beg that you do not follow this path.”

“It’s too late for that,” Maka spoke softly with tears in her eyes. “I promised them I would get them back.”

Madness was an interesting concept. Power, greed, order, grief. Just about anything could drive someone mad, and with the lingering pulses of Asura still permeating their atmosphere, Maka was—had been—at her breaking point. Once a beacon of human endurance, even she had lost herself in something.

Though he was still a scythe and could not see the look in her eye from the ground where he lay, he could feel the energy of her soul through their wave link singing a broken, mournful tune. It awoke something deep in him, and his soul began to reach out, harmonizing every other broken note as something dark pounded on the locked door in his mind.

“—she is going somewhere you cannot follow—” Tsubaki had warned him.

He had no time to react when Maka snatched him from his place on the ground and brought him down on the Man Who Knew All Things.

“Maka! No!” Was all he could cry as his blade caught the old man’s neck, slicing it clean off. She let go of him, and he went flying away, innocent blood staining his blade as he again clattered to the ground.

It was silent as the head of the monk rolled to a stop before her, and as he transformed back into his body, she covered her mouth in horror and shock, falling back to her knees with a horrible moan before crying out mantras and prayers to her Moon and its inhabitant, pleading for mercy and forgiveness, and a way to get Crona back.

He only felt sick. He had no prayers to whisper. Maka, his beloved, dearest Maka, had just committed the worst taboo. She had reaped a pure soul, one not on the Shinigami's List, and she had used him to do so. They had defied Death himself, and Soul knew Kid would not forgive her, not for this.

He should have run, like the coward he knew he was, but as tears streaked down his own face, he stayed. He had made a promise like that to her once, hadn’t he?

Tsubaki’s voice continued to echo in his head, “—and you will lose yourself entirely if you do not resist her.”

He sucked in a breath and knew their friend was right. A decision had to be made, but unfortunately, as he looked over at Maka, he knew he had already made his decision a long time ago. He didn’t fear death, he had his own demons, and they were devoted to a girl who was devout to the Moon.

He opened his mouth wide as Tsubaki’s warning played on repeat and swallowed the Monk’s soul whole. He stood there a moment, feeling it slither down his throat. The texture was the same as always, and for a moment, he was overcome with this incredible realization that a sound soul was no different from the unrested.

Slowly, he crawled his way toward Maka. When he reached her, he pulled her shaking form into his, and she didn’t resist as he began to rock them gently, smoothing down her hair. “Shush, shush, it’s okay.” He cooed, “We’ll be okay.”

He pulled away from her slightly and pressed their palms together as if in prayer, and slowly, so, so slowly, spoke as he finally started to feel the effects of a sound soul course its way through his body. He had been wrong, mistaken. A sound soul was not the same as the unrested. The black blood consumed it with vigor, and he knew now his hunger would be satisfied with nothing less.

“I told you, didn’t I?” He said barely above a whisper, looking past the tears in her eyes, as he shifted his fingers, interlocking them with hers, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

[ohbo-ohno]

happy new year's eve @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's another version of the purge au (4k) that i forgot i finished in the process of trying to get the first one done lol

(also when i said "it's essentially the same thing but with different smut" i meant... no smut. i didn't post this one bc i couldn't figure out what to do with the smut. but this has some kidnapping and overall rough creepiness!)

cw: noncon touching, kidnapping, graphic murder, blood & violence, unedited bc im lazy

The soles of your feet burn against the hot asphalt, even though the sun’s been set for hours. The flames roaring from the burning high school alongside you are enough to heat the ground, enough to leave you wincing with every step and trying your best to walk on your toes.

You’re not sure if the wetness on your cheeks is tears or blood, or some sick combination of both. You’d wipe it off to see, but your hands are covered in red, and you don’t want to smear it across your face.

It’s impossible not to flinch at the sudden sound of cackling laughter, some indeterminate distance away but clear as a bell. The laugh cuts off abruptly, followed by a high-pitched scream that makes you wince. You speed up as much as you can, breath shuddering in your chest. You feel a few tears slip down your cheeks, just adding to the tacky mixture already covering your face.

The street is crowded with Purgers, people wearing all sorts of different gear to make themselves seem as terrifying as possible. You’d feel lacking in your black pants and shirt, if you wanted any attention like them. Instead you pray that whoever’s looking for fun won’t focus on you, that you’ll disappear with so many other distractions out tonight.

The sound of a chainsaw revving makes you shudder, and you tuck your arms close to your chest. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to come out on Purge night, but there’s no use dwelling on that now, not when you’re still blocks away from home with absolutely no way to defend yourself.

You should’ve known your friend - your now very dead friend - didn’t have good intentions. She’d invited you out with her to vandalize your most recent ex’s house, and like an idiot you’d agreed and walked yourself right into a trap. Your only defense is that you’d had a few drinks before leaving your perfectly safe apartment, in hopes of forgetting all the screams you’d hear outside. It’s the only reason you can think that you were so quick to agree when you’ve got absolutely no way of defending yourself.

Her blood is still wet on your hands. You don’t feel bad about her death, and that makes you feel sick. You’d never thought you’d be the kind of person to actually partake in the Purge, let alone kill during it, but here you are - stumbling home covered in blood with two deaths on your hands. The fact that it was self-defense isn’t nearly as much of a comfort as you need to make your heart beat less erratically, to make the blood stop burning against your skin.

The quick flashes of their deaths won’t stop playing on repeat in your mind - you would’ve died if you’d been any less lucky, and you doubt your piece of shit ex would have made it quick. 

If you hadn’t caught them together - your friend fucking him in the bed you used to sleep in, that fucking bitch - you might not have had the anger necessary to kill them. Might not have had the rage, the energy, to stab them both until they stopped screaming.

Your arms already ache from the force you’d used. You can’t stop seeing your friend’s face, torn to shreds beneath you, blood splattering up onto your own face and neck while your ex’s corpse cooled beside you. You’re not sure if you’re hearing her screams still, or if someone nearby is suffering just like she had.

The only thing you can bring yourself to regret is leaving behind the knife. It would come in handy now, as you walk alone down one of the poorest neighborhoods in your city.

It would come in especially handy as a hand grabs your shoulder, yanking you to the side and into an alleyway, shoving you against rough bricks and ignoring your yelp.

“Well, well, look’it you…” the man drawls, his face hidden by a bright red skull and a black hood covering the rest of his head. “Wha’s a bonnie lass like you doin’ out tonight, all alone?”

You can’t speak, heart thudding painfully at your ribcage as you blink up at him. He’s all you can see, just a bright red skull floating in place.

“Please,” you manage to gasp, hands shakily raised in front of your chest.

“Please? Please what?” His words are sharp, almost bitten off, and he leans closer. “Haven’t even threatened ye yet, pretty thing. What’re you beggin’ for?”

You whimper as he leans closer, hardly inches away from your face, and a loud boom from somewhere nearby shakes the wall at your back. You still can’t tell if it’s blood or tears dripping down your face. You jump at the sound, and your chest hits his. Before you can move back, his hands are on your shoulders, keeping you pressed to him.

“Oh, did that scare you?” He coos, patronizing and mean. “You a little scaredy cat, all alone and afraid?”

You sob, hands pushing at his chest, and he makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a laugh, pushes you against the wall without pulling even an inch away.

“No, no, you’re not goin’ anywhere. ‘S not safe out there for you, kitty. It was so easy to grab you, you want someone else to get a hold of you? They won’t be as nice as me, I can tell you that.” 

“Get- get off!”

He laughs, loud and rough, right in your face. “Oh, I’ll be gettin’ off, kitty. Might take some teamwork, huh? A good way to get to know my new friend-”

He cuts himself off with a sharp Oh! as your knee jerks up into his crotch, the man doubling over in pain and groaning as his head comes to rest against the wall by your face. You barely have enough sense left in you to duck out of his way before his body goes limp against the wall, hand cupping your target.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” you hear him hiss, right before you stumble away, legs weak as you put all your energy into not tripping over your own feet. Your only thought is getting out of the alley, even though being more exposed is probably riskier than just taking your chances with the man in the red skull. Still, there’s some instinct at the back of your mind telling you go, run, and you’re not stupid enough to ignore it.

You hardly make it five steps away before you hit a wall - no, not a wall, a person. 

It’s almost comical, the way you bounce off of him and stumble backwards, losing your balance on weak knees and sending yourself straight to the ground. He’s a monolith above you, a massive figure clothed in all black, the light from the flames behind him almost making him glow. He’s all black cloth and white mask, a skull hovering well past six feet in the air.

The sight of him makes your heart stutter, brings everything into acute focus around you, slowing the world down to a near stop. That same instinct at the back of your mind tells you this man is worse than the last, that you should’ve taken your chances with the red skull. 

You’re jerked back and to the side, shoved roughly against the brick wall. Your face scrunches up at the rough texture against your cheek, your torso flush against the wall and the first man flush against your back. You manage to open one eye and track the new man, your other forced shut from the way your head is angled.

The white skull tilts, and its wearer steps closer. You can’t help the small cry you let out, the way you flinch back into the first man like he’ll do anything but expose you more. His hands are rough on you, one hand locked around the back of your neck and the other harsh on your hip.

The body behind you laughs, push further into the wall regardless of the stinging pain as the white skull steps closer. He stops hardly a foot away, when your vision is eclipsed by only him. You try to struggle against the hands holding you, whimpering when they dig in more harshly.

“You got her?” A voice asks, and it takes a minute for you to realize it’s the new man in front of you.

“Yeah,” the first man pants, holding you close and alleviating some of the pressure against your cheek. “Woulda caught her without you, y’know. She just caught me off guard.”

The white skull rumbles low in his chest, a rejection. You’re not sure if he’s got faith in your ability to escape, or doesn’t trust his partner’s ability to chase. He’s close enough that you can only see the black of his chest, close enough that you can watch him breathe.

“I’m sure. You got a good hold on her?”

The hands squeeze, you can’t help but make a sound disturbingly close to a squeal, and- “Yeah, course, got her tight to me, Ghost. She’s not goin’ anywhere.” There’s an air of desperation in Red’s voice, a strained tension underlying every word. He’s almost eager, but it’s all directed towards the man in front of you - Ghost - instead of towards the prospect of hurting you.

Ghost doesn’t respond, but he steps close enough to press his chest against your shoulder. The three of you are all less than a foot apart, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to get away. Another tear slips down your cheek.

You can feel Red’s chest heaving behind you, and at first you can’t understand why - he hasn’t had to chase you, hasn’t had to fight, there’s no reason for him to be out of breath.

It hits you when you feel the hard plastic of his mask press into the top of your head. He’s eager, and it’s making him pant like a dog. You’d bet he’s drooling behind the mask and the thought makes you shiver.

You flinch when a gloved hand cups your chin, tugging your face up so you’re staring into the eye sockets of the mask.

His eyes are dark brown, so dark that you almost can’t see them past the shadows and the paint over his skin. The flames roar behind him, giving him a monstrous glow.

“Pretty thing,” he hums, chest rumbling against your side. You try to push away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. “You’re gonna be our little toy for the night. Things’ll get worse for you if you try to run. You hearin’ me?”

It’s pure instinct to nod, to give this man what he wants, but you know you’ll still try to run the second they look away. 

“Alright then. Let’s get you home. Johnny,” the man steps away, jerking his head in clear instruction for Johnny to follow and turning away. “Come.”

“Right behind ye,” Red - Johnny - assures, that same eagerness in his tone as he tugs you away from the wall, trotting behind his partner. “It’s gonna be a great night, lass. You and I are gonna have fun.”

You can’t help but whimper at that, letting your body go nearly limp as the man drags you by the elbow. You can’t even fathom the horrors they’ve got in store for you, what fun is to two men hunting for lone girls on Purge night. 

You try to let your feet drag, but they hurt too much for that to last long. You consider going limp, making them carry you, but you’re too scared that they’ll just drag you across the concrete and let you bleed. 

You only manage to keep up with Johnny because he doesn’t give you another choice. You’re practically hobbling from the pain in your feet, forced to walk on the balls of your feet and lean your weight into his hand where it’s wrapped tight around your arm. He doesn’t give you any slack, doesn’t even seem to notice when you struggle to match his pace.

The three of you have walked several blocks - you can’t quite focus enough to count - keeping to the sides of buildings and dodging other people, when you’re tackled to the ground out of nowhere.

It’s impossible to stop the blood-curdling shriek from leaving your throat. Your bare arms feel torn to shreds as you slide across the ground, head bouncing off the ground and leaving you with black spots dancing across your vision.

You’re hardly able to blink, body alight with pain, and the heavy weight over you only serves to make your panic worse. You moan as you roll your neck, staring wide-eyed up at the dark sky and praying the ringing in your ears isn’t permanent.

Your vision is just starting to clear when the man on top of you - and he’s definitely a man, he’s not even wearing a mask and his expression is mean and you find yourself glad you can’t hear what he’s saying - jerks back, his head pulled back until all you can see is his bared throat. 

You can hardly even register what’s happening in the next few seconds. Some distant, detached part of you can recognize that someone slits the man’s throat, that his blood comes gushing out and covers your face.

The first sound you can hear again is your own screaming - it’s an ear splitting sound that melts from the ringing in your ears. When you gasp underneath the man, the corpse, you can feel his blood falling into your mouth. Every breath tastes like iron, and the world is tinted pink from the drops of it falling from your brows.

You can do nothing but pant and shake when the corpse is thrown off of you, replaced immediately by Johnny. You can hardly focus on him, are only really aware enough to know he’s there.

“Hush, bonnie, yer fine,” he scolds, one big hand coming up to cover your mouth, pinky and ring finger holding your jaw shut. “Wanna draw people over? Ye wanna see me and Ghost kill someone else for you, ‘s that it?”

You shake your head on instinct, tears running down your temples, dampening your hair. Your chest aches with the force of your breaths, nose congested from all the crying. 

“Then hush,” he hisses, face so close that you can feel the breaths from his nostrils. You flinch at the loud sound of gunshots disturbingly nearby, desperately pushing against his body to try and see what’s going on. You can hear grunts and moans, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground, and your heart races.

Then, the sounds stop. It doesn’t go silent - not with other Purgers still out, still killing - but the area you’re trapped in is quiet again. Johnny drops a little more of his weight onto you, making it even harder to breathe. 

You have to focus on every breath, deliberately making sure you get enough air so that your lungs stop aching. You only notice the movement on top of you after nearly a minute of slow breathing.

Johnny’s hips grind slow and steady against your stomach, and it makes you sick to realize you can feel his erection through his pants. His chest rises and falls with harsh breaths, and his movements are just harsh enough to force your body to move with his.

There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Not with shock settling in, his weight holding you pinned to the ground, and the pain in your head shifting to something closer to a migraine. All you can do is focus on your breathing and stare up at the stars.

“Johnny,” Ghost eventually calls, and you can hear him kick what you can only assume to be a corpse out of the way. You can’t help but whimper when he crouches nearby, his boots splattered with blood. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Need-” Johnny gasps, hips stuttering against you before working even more quickly. “Needed to feel her, fuck, Ghost, she’s so fuckin’ soft. Can’t wait to be inside, to fuck her full, feel her squeeze-”

You whine against the hand over your mouth, trying to pull your face away from his grip and only succeeding in dragging your sensitive head across the harsh concrete.

“You’re gonna fuck her out here, where anyone can see? Doubt you’ll be able to keep her safe when you’re pussydrunk.”

Johnny moans above you, dropping more of his weight on each thrust. “Tha’s why you’re here, yeah? To keep me and the lass safe?”

Ghost grunts, fisting a hand in the strip of hair left revealed by Johnny’s mask. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat, Johnny. You know I don’t have to do shit for you - either of you. Maybe I want to see my mutt get all defensive, growlin’ over his girl. You ever think about that?”

The whine that slips from Johnny’s throat is nothing less than pathetic, his pace becoming uneven as his eyes screw shut behind the mask. “C’mon, Ghost, I’m close, just let me… just watch for another minute, yeah?”

The scoff from Ghost is mean, and even you feel the absurd desire to try and placate the man. He stands abruptly, stepping away from where you’re pinned and leaving you staring at the cooling corpse of a man you don’t recognize.

“You do whatever you want, puppy. Stay here and get yourself off or behave and heel. You know what you’ll get either way.”

You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows as Johnny hisses out shit above you, hips working desperately against you for a few long moments before he drops his entire body weight onto you, knocking the air out of you.

“Okay,” he whispers, seemingly to himself. “Okay, alright, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

He pulls himself away from you with a long oan, pushing up until there’s no place the two of you are touching but you’re still entirely caged in by him. He takes his hand off your mouth to hold himself up and you wince at the string of blood between his hand and your lips.

“Not gonna fuck ye yet, kitty,” he tells you, staring into your eyes with an intensity you don’t quite know what to do with. “Ghost’ll make the both of us regret it, and ye don’t deserve that on your first night home.”

You hardly manage to bite back a whimper. “Please…”

His eyes crease, like he’s smiling beneath the mask. “God, yer so scared, aren’t ye? I can fucking taste it in the air, kitty. It’s delicious. Cannae fuckin’ wait to have you on my tongue.” You shudder, eyes dropping to his neck when his gaze becomes too heavy.

He forces you to stand before you’re ready, leaving you to lean on him if only to avoid crumbling to the ground like a ragdoll. You ite your tongue against a sob at the sight of three corpses around you, a twisted sense of appreciation and disgust warring in your mind.

Johnny herds you like a dog, pushing you by the small of your back and your shoulders as he tries to catch back up with his partner. You’re left stumbling in front of him, unsure and terrified, not quite strong enough to think running away would be a good idea. It doesn’t take long for you to spot Ghost’s large back on the street in front of you, and a part of you resents the fact that he’s already so recognizable. 

He’s an overeager shadow, unable to decide if he wants to tug you forward or chase you from behind. He ends up almost circling you, shifting from your back to your side to your front and back again, always moving, always rushing. It leaves you unstable and nervous, unable to predict what he'll do next.

Chills run down your spine at the thought of this man… taking you. If you’re this terrified of him fully clothed, you’re loath to think of how you’ll react when he gets you where he wants you.

The two of you only manage to catch up to Ghost because he stops for a cigarette. His pale jaw is exposed when he tugs the mask up enough, and you try your best to memorize the scars covering his face, telling yourself that you’ll remember him, that you’ll never let him near you again once this night is over.

The look he sends Johnny is approving, the look he sends you is distinctly smug. It makes your teeth grind, makes you really wish you still had that knife so you could lurch forward, thrust the blade into the solid center of him and twist, pull out again and aim a little higher, then again, then again, then again-

“Made your choice, then?”

“Yes, sir. Wanna be good.”

Ghost hums, flicking the butt of his cig then dropping it to the ground, the cherry still glowing. “Settin’ a good example for your girl, huh? That’s my boy.”

The sound Johnny makes is animalistic, and despite the harsh grip he’s got on your arm you try to lean as far away as possible. There’s a building energy under his skin, a twitch in his fingers, that unnerves the animal part of your brain in ways Ghost doesn’t. 

“‘Course. Gonna teach her how to be good, too, gonna keep her perfect for us.”

Ghost is completely stoic with the mask tugged back over his face, nothing but his heavy gaze as he stares you down. It’s hard not to jerk away from Johnny and run, no matter how futile you know the effort would be. 

He reaches out a big, gloved hand towards your face, moving quickly enough that you can’t fully flinch away and hide your face in your shoulder or chest. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, smearing the sticky mess of liquid across your face and huffing a sound just loud enough for you to hear.

“Cat got your tongue, girl?” He rumbles, a faint note of something in his voice lost in the sounds of anarchy behind you.

You try to shake your head, unable to manage anything more than a, “Please.”

Johnny scoffs beside you, wrapping both of his massive arms around your shoulders and holding you close. “Broken record, this one. Hasn’t said much else since we nicked her.”

“That’s alright,” Ghost rumbles, give Johnny one firm stroke over his mohawk. “I’m sure you’ll drag all sorts of pretty sounds out of her tonight. Now, let’s get goin’. Don’t want your little toy gettin’ her nerve up and earnin’ herself a punishment so early in the night. Come, now.”

Johnny laughs, loud and harsh as he tugs you to follow him and Ghost. You know you should be upset about what he’s said, know he should be doing exactly what he warns against and try to get away.

But you’ve got no energy left to fight. Everything hurts, your system is overrun by fear and just the tiniest drop of adrenaline, and your best chance of making it through this night is passing out and forgetting any of it ever happened.  

A few tears, stragglers, drip down your cheeks when Johnny tugs you beside him. The places his fingertips squeeze against your arm have gone numb, and your feet feel like they’re on fire. Your arms are sluggishly bleeding and you’re not convinced you don’t have a concussion.

It’s hard to hold back sobs when you think of how much worse it’s going to get. Staring at the broad back of Ghost, feeling the feral energy of Johnny hardly contained by your side, all you can hope is that they let you survive the night.

You close your eyes as Johnny guides you, take a deep, steadying breath, and pray for your own strength. You tell yourself that maybe next year you can seek them out, find them at the very start of the Purge and get your revenge.

It’s a comforting enough daydream to lessen the aches of your body, to shine a spot of light after the hurricane of your future. 

[ellsieee]

I think a compilation of Jaemin and Nami eating ramen for 3 minutes is a good way to celebrate the Blue Boys Part 2 announcement.

Between their chemistry, the desire, the sounds, and the mukbang, Jaemin and Nami's kiss scenes are hotter than a lot of actual nc scenes.

Then in contrast, we have Jaemin being the cutest thing.

I wish they had included this in the actual episode instead of cutting to Sol's jealous bitch face. Jaemin acts like he's annoyed with that little nose scrunch, but his happy smile says otherwise. I can't wait for June.

[aelinschild]

Dropping this and running away.

Regular evenings seemed to come less frequently these days.

Aelin remembered when the drip of some leaky floorboard was the sole pace of her shifts. The dripdripdrip a marker of seconds passed. Ticking in the back of her skull like a pulse she'd long forgotten. A beating heart settled - put down. It's gentle sounding no different than a petulant child. Itching underneath her skin like the uncomfortable scratch of wool gone too long without washing.

She had grown fond of the noise, though. Like the hand of a clock steadily raced forward, so did that godsdamned floorboard. Racing against time, or the composition of the building in it's entirety. She didn't know. Didn't care.

Much of what she did here was just for the wad of cash slipped under worn tables. Hands cracked and peeling - slivers near her nail beds. The blood lasted on the money, so long as it stayed with her longer than a night.

It was why she was still here. Still watching the same game of poker begin for its thousandth consecutive time. Roucous chatter drowning out the drip. The sound of heavy coins denting the rotted wood.

Funny, how it was strong enough to pierce her skin and simultaneously bend to the weight of a piece of silver.

She didn't take well to the irony.

Her shifts had for so long been the same routine. Serve the regulars. Pocket a coin from the gaggle of grannies, crammed into the recess in the wall. A little alcove. Made great shadows to conceal the trick of fast hands and faster tongues. Wipe down the tacky residue that accumulated faster than she could keep track of. Argue with the old man from across the street - he didn't like the (outrageous) fractured neon lights. Pity for him, because when he was knee deep in his points, face red from exasperation, pulling out a chair had the most similar movements as a sly hand into a pocket. Cool cash crawling up her sleeve. He'd leave in a huff and Aelin would be a little lighter when she missed back behind the bar. Then the night would roll in on itself. Drunkenness a curse of this corner of the Earth, she was only powerful enough to keep her head above water and do her job. Close the bar. Count the cash. Wire it away and consider mourning the loss. Until she wouldn't and was back behind the counter.

That was her normal.

And so when her flagging gaze swept across the floor, the appearance of a new piece on the board made her falter. She wished there would be more reaction than the stuttering of her eyes, wished that she felt something deeper, drawn from newness, but there was nothing.

Nothing walked closer to her. She had the thought to smile, make herself pleasant, but the action didn't follow. Nothing laid large hands upon her bartop, the one to her right (nothing's left), crawling with whorls and scribbles. Like a child had gotten a hold of a tattoo gun. How unfortunate. Those hands - large, uncomfortably so - were attached to arms. Shocking, she supposed, as her eyes crawled up along the weaving tattoo. Golden skin and visible definition could have heated something in her. Maybe it did, maybe it had been so long she no longer knew what heated her core.

"...neat,"

Hm?

The dripdripdrip was gone. And with it took the clarity borne from acute annoyance. Hands, arms, shoulders... Was she warm? Or was she losing it?

"Love."

Like a fog had descended over her minds eye, snapped away as quickly as it had formed at the call of that petname. Love. What?

She balked. "Pardon?"

He - nothing, nothing of nothing who is nothing and of no effect to her - pursed his lips. Rolling the flesh between teeth, tightening the hinge of his jaw. Gods, there was definition there too. The angle of that jaw raised to high chedckbones, a tinge of red, pulsed with life. An overwhelming urge to follow that rise and fall, trace the hollows and contours. Feel along the strong brow that framed pine green eyes. Eye that sparkled. Eyes that tightened. Eyes lined with mirth...

"You work here?" He gruffed. The smirk in his eyes didn't reach his voice. But that voice... She'd love to compare it to crashing waves, smoothing over jagged rock. Endlessly leaving a print on what was considered impenetrable. But it instead stroke along a frayed edge in her. Breaking, rather than soothing.

A pause. Where were her words? "Yes."

"Right," he murmured. Muscles flexing as he rapped his knuckles along the worn bartop. She wanted to tell him to not. Grab his fist in her own and hold tight above the shitty wooden slab. Cover it with her own. "Then I'll get a whiskey. Neat."

Crawl over the tanned skin. "Of course." Trace the inked designs. "Just give me moment." Litter a marking somewhere.

Something tangible.

-

"Yes!"

She didn't know how it had really happened.

Well, she did. She had played her part, and now was enjoying the outcome. Somewhere along the lines of him ordering the whiskey, leaning only lightly against the barstool, delicately draped like he was ready to spring up at a moment notice. She had wandered around. Who knew that dust collected so quickly on tables that were just cleaned? Repetitive movements only let her drift into the sensation of green eyes pinned to her back. Lower, even.

She needed extra cleaner from the back. And it was only an accident that her hand grazed his upper thigh. She had practice in the deft movements that could steal a pretty coin, but her fingers didn't dig in, clasping around valuables. Rather, she had grazed the worn jean. Lighting a blaze, trailing the fire down to his knee.

It had pulsed in her core as she walked to the back room. The bar quieter, different to the usual rowdiness of a Saturday. She had swayed her hips a little more. Sensual machinations coming back like the flip of a switch. She felt a buzz in her head, unlike a dripdripdrip of a leaky floorboard.

It was stuffy. Her face so close to his, the height difference didn't serve them well at first, until he had hoisted her up around his waist. Her legs locking her tight. She had felt the heat of his body. Felt the heat through the clothes - get them off - felt the heat from her body, emanating out in a pulsing rhythm.

She had been panting. Breath coming out faster and faster as she wiggled her hips to tuck deeper into the hardness she felt pressing into her core. Writhing would get her nowhere when he was holding her in his arms. Her mouth found the underside of his jaw, and she sucked hard.

His groan was music to her ears.

Her apron fell. Ripped apart by those large hands. How much could they hold? He was surprisingly deft with unbuttoning the front of her dirty blouse. Button after button, down until he could rip it from her waistband, and shuck it off her shoulders.

Her bra was nothing special. Some department store sale piece, but it didn't matter, because it was off just as quickly and she was bare from the waist up.

"Off." She tugged at his shirt, taking a break from marking up his neck. She wanted to feel him against her. Skin to skin. She needed the contact more than anything. She was burning.

He had leaned her back, still in his hold. A little rough, her head nearly crashing into the wall they were pressed up agaisnt. She'd forgive him though, when he snaked one arm behind his head and expertly peeled the shirt from his torso.

Gods. Gods above, was this her lucky night. The tattoo wound all the way from his wrisr to his neck, matching like a puzzle along his chest. Corded with muscle, Built from genuine use, she could tell. This man was not built of aesthetics.

Her fingers found the hardened planes of his stomach, pressing lightly along the muscles. It tightened under her hand. Palms pushing agains the tautness of his abdomen, she didn't know whether to trail back up to his mouth, or push lower.

"Hold on," he bit out. Breathless just as she was.

She dug her nails into the shoulder she was tracing, his hand snaked to the button on his jeans. Her breaths came more rapidly now. Blood rushing through her ears. It was hands and tongues and teeth and no other thoughts. Nothing but what would come next. Nothing at all.

The zipper was so loud amongst their panting. But it was pulled down, and Aelin made a effort to shuck off her pants as well. But where her thighs were stretched around his waist kept her from making any further moves. She wanted nothing between them.

"Hurry up," she hissed, pressing herself back against him.

He shuddered when she pulled him tight, nails digging deeper. She hoped they would mark him. Stay with him longer then this moment. "Gods." It's not soft the way he shoves them closer into the wall. The way his hand is under her nondescript panties in seconds. Burning a trail along the most intimate skin. He stalls there for a second. Aelin is pulsing; in her head, in her blood, in her cunt.

His eyes find hers. Green and vibrant and swirling and dark. All blown wide with lust. He keeps her trapped there, pinned by his gaze while his fingers swipe along her folds. Through them, deeper until they wetten with the arousal she surely though was dripping down her leg by this point. He traces along for a moment, and she has half a mind to snap at him to hurry it up when his thumb is pressing into her clit so hard she sees stars.

She squeaks out a breathless yelp.

"You're soaking," he drawls, mouth coming down to the skin at the coloumn of her neck. He breaths into her, breathes her in. "Just waitin' for me, weren't you? All pretty behind your bar top."

She would roll her eyes if they weren't already at the back of her skull from the pleasure. He kept a steady hand on her clit while rough fingers slipped back through her folds, down to where she needed him most. Yes. The roar in her head heightened.

"Please..."

He hummed. "Please what?" A smirk, in voice or against her skin, she could not tell "Please who?"

Fuck. She hadn't gotten his name either. They had tumbled into the closet so quickly, bodies pressed so close, that introductions had been skipped. She thought she could make it throigh without his name. But this bastard was going to hold it over her head.

Fingers traced around her entrance; probing, waiting.

"Please... Sir. Fuck me."

He laughed. She jostled with the movement and his fingers pushed against her just right. "I'll let it slide," and with little pause, he pushed in. Slicking in quick, easy, the slide only assisted with the way she was falling apart in waiting for him. Two - two - fingers stretching her wide and pushing that rising wave higher. She keened a breathy whine when he curled those rough fingers. Pressing hard into that spot inside of her she could never reach herself.

His breath curled around her ear. He bit the shell of it before murmuring "But you better call me Rowan. No Gods or Sir. I want to hear my name from those pretty lips."

She nodded, feverish for more. He bared his teeth in a satisfied smile, increasing the pace of his fingers inside of her. She had hardly noticed when he swapped his thumb for the heel of his palm against her clit. But she felt it now. Pushing against her whole he slicked up her panties. The wave rose higher and higher.

"Rowan!" She cried. "Ah! Don't stop... Please."

"Wasn't even thinking of it, love." He kept her trapped under his gaze. And she wanted to look away when her jaw dropped in white-hot pleasure but something in his eyes promised to hurt if she did. "There you go, pretty girl." She moaned at his comment, riding high after the crashing of the orgasm. She could feel every press of his fingers inside her as he stilled them, still sensitive even after the rush of pleasure.

And oh, was she riding a fine line. Legs a little shaky and breath hurried. But when Rowan pulled out - to her displeasure - and brought those hands to his face, to his mouth, and licked her clean off of them.

She whined. A pitchy sound that worked its way out of her as he stared into her eyes, licking along the crevices between fingers. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he quickly shoved those same fingers against her tongue and pressed down. Freezing her there.

"Taste like heaven, love. But that was only the first course"

Jeans ripped off and pants pulled down. She swapped the wall against her back for cold air. Stiffening nipples to an even harder peak than what they had come to in post-orgadmic bliss. More more more, she changed in her head. She was so sensitive and so ready and so-

She squeaked. He had pulled himself from the confines of his underwear. She has missed it. Blissed out with the feel of him against his chest, but he was there, notching against her entrance in hasty movements.

He eyes met hers, "Condom?"

Fuck her. "I'm on the pill."

His grin was feral. His grip tightened to a near bruising hold. She felt his cock prod at her entrance, and he pushed it around, catching on the arousal she had spilled. At least he had prepped her. She hadn't seen his size, had felt it, yes, but this man seemed like he was blessed, if only judging by what she had already seen.

The moment spans, and her what desire jumped thrpigh her at a rushing pace came to a near stall. The dripdripdrip threatening to return, when the air was punched from her lungs as he pushed up, up and into her in one stoke.

"Ah! Rowan!" She choked. Stretched so full she felt him in her stomach. Tears brimmed her eyes as the stretch ached. Gods, the prep wasn't enough, and the tight grip on him must have let him know, as he held still, caressing her back and down to her ass, before his hand snaked back around to her clit.

She moaned, sharp little breaths as he circled his finger with enough pressure to relax the tightness in her body. She hadn't noticed, but when she looked up to his eyes, wanting to see him fully, his jaw was tensed so tight that the muscles of his neck pulled. Was he in pain?

"Ah... Rowan, wh-whats wrong?" Her tears brimmed and fell over. A loosening in her core and a rushing through her mind. Every sensation was a fire lit inside of her, so much so that she didn't notice as the pain morphed into pleasure, and how she could feel every ridge, every vein, of his cock inside of her. Inside of her, gods, he needs to move.

"Nothing," he gave a shallow thrust, Aelin keened. "Jus' squeezing me so fuckin' tight I can barely breath."

"Y-yeah?" She laughed, salty lines tracing down her face. "Gonna come?"

The words were out of her mouth before she had really considered the implication of them. She was no sadist, liked the high better then the route there, but something in her tingled (beside his cock, nudging deeper and deeper with every breath) at the fire that lit in his eyes.

He laughed, a deep rumble from within, and moved. Soon, they were back up against the wall. Aelin squeezed him so tight, wanting some pleasure and wanting it now. And maybe she was egging him on more. But when Rowan tossed her legs up above the crook of his elbows - rendering her immobile - and pulled out, she almost came again there.

He pushed back in with so much force that her hands came up to cover her mouth. He set a relentless pace, hair falling over his brow and beads of sweat beginning to form at his brow. He leaned over her, pushing closer and closer and testing the limits of her flexibility. Aelin was still moaning, but it was punched out in a yelp every time his cock shoved deeper inside. The slick noises only added to the lewdness. "You gonna come? Huh, love? Gonna come for me now or do I need to fuck you harder?"

He was teasing her.

He leaned down, she dropped her hand, expecting his mouth to close over hers. But he just smirked. When his tongue traced the lines of her tears, licking all the way up her face, she closed her eyes and let go. Falling deeper into the sensation.

It wasn't long before he bored of licking her face. His mouth did finally come to her, and she let him into her mouth so fast that her head was spinning. He still thrusted in, a relentless thwap at every entrance inside of her, and she felt the wave rising again. She traced up his abs, winding around his shoulders to grip onto his hair and pull, just as he pushed in so deep she saw stars.

"Come," he growled. Tiny little movements only to plant himself deeper inside. The roaring came back to her head and she nearly screamed when it hit her. Harder than anything she felt before. Harder than she knew how to handle. Rowan groaned above her, and that was it.

He came inside her. Flooded her cunt so thoroughly it was actually uncomfortable. And it dripped down when he pulled out with little celebration. She whined at the loss of him. Whined more when he set her on her feet and stepped away.

"Thanks, love." He said, breathless and reverent. She felt lost in the aftermath. Head empty and body shocked.

"Yeah. Yeah, no problem...?" It came out as a question and she didn't know what to think. He grabbed a tissue from someplace and offered it to her. Well, at least he did something. Strange and beautiful man. Rowan, oh Rowan.

"Fucked you so hard you forget how to think, huh?" He smiled. Less feral than before, but still the edge of a knifes blade inside of those green eyes. She just nodded, reaching for her clothes that had been scattered on the floor.

She guessed that he was giving her space to come down, giving her a moment. But it crashed into the dirt when he gripped her chin between his forefinger and thumb and searched so deep into her eyes. He held her in his grip, both naked and reeling, and said, "don't shut me out, love." Before he pressed his lips to hers again. Kissing the roaring in her head to a stop and breathing something into her. Something she'd like to hold onto.

"I'll be back. Proper date and all soon, alright love?" He said as he stepped into his pants. Dressing with all the grace he had exhibited while fucking her a moment ago. What? He just moved for the door, shucking his shirt back over those beautiful shoulders and hiding the length of his tattoo. "Don't wander too far away anytime. I don't want to waste my time chasing."

The door opened, just a crack, "I'll see you soon, Aelin."

When Aelin was clothed and less in mental limbo, she pulled on the conversation (one-sided). Some deep, darker part of her was satisfied to see the nails marks she had driven into his back. Some tangible sore he'd no doubt have to clean up, if he wanted the blood off. She smiled to herself.

It wasn't until she was stepping out of the backroom that she realized Rowan had called her Aelin. Had said goodbye to Aelin.

She had never told him her name.

[composeregg]

wanted to join in on that meta post by saying yeah, even if we view joker’s and akechi’s relationship as special compared to the others, akechi is still written under the constraints of p5, and an antagonist to boot. like. vanilla had his confidant as automatic bc (iirc) they thought they couldn’t fit it in properly! which is crazy, even tho the automatic rank ups have an interesting implication (such as, akechi will always be rank 10 by the end no matter what you do). i understand that ppl probably wanted someone to talk sense into the thieves for their unwittingly callous actions, but not by the guy who decided to go thru with his 11/20 plan lol

(this post)

YEAH like, I love Akechi. I adore him. But I have SO many OPINIONS about this mans. like. I'm not going berate anyone for how they write characters, that's the freedom of fandom, but I am going to stand over here with my opinions and contrary thoughts and chitchat about them in my space

I know that very often it is because people want someone to refute what canon has shown us (because canon's writing disagrees with it's desired goals as mentioned in that post). They want someone to go "Look at Joker, look at what's happened to him, don't you care? How risky this was?"

But okay I'm actually going to back up a bit!

(this got long)

What other choice was there for 11/20?

Because the answer is not "they could have taken Akechi in a fight."

The goals of the interrogation room/metaverse plan:

Escape with Joker alive

Trick Shido and the conspiracy into believing Joker has died

and you know? you know? you cannot do that latter bullet point if you just beat up Akechi

So enlighten me. How, exactly, were the thieves supposed to come up with a different plan in under 20 days? One where Joker would live, where the conspiracy would believe he had died, and importantly, one that at that point in time cannot count on Akechi being a turncoat. They have no reason to trust that he would

"Don't you care about how risky this was? There had to have been other ways."

We don't get Shido's name as Akechi's employer here until after the phonecall reporting the death, I believe. They cannot change Shido's heart in time to avert this because they do not have the information. The interrogation room plan, genuinely, was one of the smartest ideas they had. It accomplished exactly what they needed to. These are teens in a life-or-death situation, who notoriously have MANY trust issues with adults for good reason, especially since society is so corrupt that a hitman can easily walk into a police department and assassinate a high-profile criminal and get away with it with help (remember the guard at the door?) The other options are basically "change your identity and flee the country" or "literally actually die" lets be real here!

SO

Akechi, let's be honest with ourselves here, would primarily be pissed off that the thieves got one over on him! And if he is concerned about the lasting trauma of it all, or how risky the plan was, he is seeing this and approaching it from the angle of knowing it worked.

(Better options for sense-talking: Sojiro! Sojiro is right there! Takemi! Iwai! Kawakami! Yoshida! All important responsible adult figures to Joker and at least some of the thieves.)

In my opinion if Akechi wants to snark at the thieves about the plan in any way regarding how much it fucks up Joker and how it was risky, they are more than allowed to fire back shots at him for making it necessary and shooting Joker in the head in the first place.

I think people often use it as a shorthand, to show that Akechi cares about Joker, but also as a way to emphasize the importance of Akechi to Joker (compared to the rest of the thieves). It's easier to ignore the fact that he killed two of the thieves's parents when it comes to Joker being in a relationship with him, as long as it can be shown that he's the one that really cares. That he wouldn't put Joker through something so fucked up with his care (hilarious, laughable, he shot Joker in the head). It separates "Akechi and Joker" from all the phantom thieves in a way.

(Honestly sometimes it feels like ship bashing/character bashing but for ALL the phantom thieves with how intensely some people write it! beyond even the point of exploring Atlus fucking up characterization to pretend to have a blank slate silent protag)

BUT like I said in the post, it also points out a major flaw with convincing players that the rest of the thieves DO care in the game. Because the thieves are never really given a chance to show that. It's implied, and it's clear the game wants you to believe they care, but we don't get scenes addressing specific stuff like this enough.

Joker is confident, and cocky, we see that with that bastard smile in the interrogation room after getting "shot" in those cutscenes. It is genuinely a plan to be proud of, and it hails back to his original persona being Arsène. Arsène, who escaped from prison simply by disguising himself and pretending he had already escaped and put a body double in his place. Arsène, who pulled off a robbery while in jail. Arrogant and self-assured and cocky, the interrogation room plan is genuinely something the likes that would be worthy of Arsène's name.

He can be proud of the plan, and also traumatized by it. But he actively agreed to this plan, probably helped come up with it (where does everyone get the idea that it was Makoto's plan? genuine question). Joker is not a hapless victim of other's whims, he also had agency. So many of the parallels between Joker and Akechi are how they exercise what agency they have while being stripped of traditional power and victimized by society.

Honestly? Honestly? In my personal opinion, having Akechi berate the thieves for the plan is disrespectful to his rivalry with Joker, along with his own characterization.

He holds Joker as his equal. Equal in agency, in skill. If he looks at Joker and says, "why would you go along with such a foolish plan?" if he looks at the thieves and says "why would you ever put your precious leader through this?" he is taking away Joker's agency and choices. One of Akechi's focal points is agency. If he sees Joker as equal in this, and he denies Joker his agency, he is also taking it away from himself.

Akechi's cocktail of emotions regarding the assassination can manifest in so many different ways, and he can translate that to anger at the thieves rather than himself for putting Joker through that, but that would be his emotions regarding himself being misdirected more than anything.

Akechi has too much respect for Joker to deny Joker his agency in a plan that was good enough to fool him.

Respecting agency and admiring a brilliantly crafted plan also doesn't mean ignoring trauma that ocurred from actions taken under duress.

(At least, it doesn't mean that as long as you're not Atlus)

[seven-winged-liar]

✨Happy Star Wars Day!!!!!✨

[oceanwithouthermoon]

OKAY im posting this crappy wip kubosai one-shot because ive been lagging severely on writing... sorry if its cringe, its completely unedited rn</3

this is roughly 1800 words.. the actual wip is about 4000 LOL but i skipped a couple parts so this is about half the wip i guess..

Kusuo was sitting at his desk with his legs curled to his chest, glaring at nothing, when his phone dinged next to him. Already not in the best mood, he sneered as his eyes snapped over to the device. The noise had disturbed one of his favorite pastimes; being moody for no reason and doing nothing, and the bright light was equally disturbing. When he looked over, it also shone the time as "1:36am" which ruined his blissful unawareness of how long he'd been brooding. His unusually accurate internal clock could have told him that, really, but Kusuo would never pass up an opportunity to be mad about something stupid.

His eyes softened significantly when he caught sight of what the notification actually was. A text from contact name "Kuboyasu Aren" with no contact picture. Yeah, that was how Kusuo kept all his contacts. Super boring and super normal.

He clenched his teeth, trying to bring his anger from before back after realizing how much and how easily his mood lifted just reading his classmate's name.

His phone had gone back to a black screen before Kusuo could read the actual contents of the message, so he begrudgingly unfurled himself from his position with a heavy sigh. He planted his feet back on the floor just a bit too aggressively and swiped up his phone as he stomped over to his bed to flop himself down on it.

When he finally turned his phone back on, the notification read “3m ago” and he clicked on it.

The message read, “hey princess when u wake up do u wanna hangout ??!? could i come overrr tomorrow please”

Annoying lack and misuse of punctuation, but Kusuo has learned that this tends to be the norm in texting, especially with other teenagers. In all fairness, the way Kusuo texts isn't very conventional either. He made fun of Toritsuka’s severe overuse of emojis once, and then immediately got ganged up on by all of the self proclaimed ‘PK psychickers’ because he tends to overuse emoticons in the same way. He doesn't know how else to express himself over text, alright? He learned to text only from his mom, Akechi, and Aiura and this is just how it turned out.

And for your information, the stupid princess pet name was just some silly thing Kuboyasu had gotten in the habit of doing lately. Trust Kusuo when he says it's much more embarrassing when he says it out loud, especially at school, than when he texts it, though knowing that his name in Kuboyasu’s contacts was “My Princess :)” was probably even worse.

Anyway, Kuboyasu had clearly made the assumption that Kusuo would be sleeping at this hour. Well, usually he would be. Kusuo LOVES getting his sleep in, but he just so happened to have taken a very long nap earlier that day, so he had a late dinner, and subsequently a late dessert. So, his usually abnormally fast metabolism hadn't quite been rid of all the sugar and caffeine he'd consumed not long ago. A series of unfortunate events, really, which culminated in him not being tired enough to sleep yet. At least he got to get in his usual ‘angrily staring at nothing for no reason’ time that he accidentally skipped because of his nap, although that did just get interrupted too.

So finally, he responded to Kuboyasu with, “I'm awake. (-.-;) Sure, I guess.”

Kuboyasu read the message and began typing unnervingly quickly after it was sent. “really ?!?!? also y r u awake lol i thought u would be asleep hours ago”

The poor guy probably wasn't expecting him to say yes immediately. Kusuo usually would argue about it for a bit before giving in to the teasing and pleading of his self proclaimed friends. It was way too late (/early) to play that game right now though, he knew he would just say yes in the end anyway. It had nothing to do with him actually wanting to see the dumb former punk who he had been unusually close with lately.

The taller boy just GOT him in a way other people never did. His undying loyalty and honesty was a refreshing contrast from many of the other people the psychic was often forced to be around. Loyal, honest, strong, romantic, protective. Not that those last few things affected the way he interacted with Kusuo or anything…

Kusuo replied again, “Yes. And I usually would be, but… too much caffeine. (￣^￣)”

Another quick response, “lol thats totally something u would do.. since ur up, r u down to call right now ?”

“To call? It's almost 2am. ಠ_ಠ Why are YOU awake anyway?”

“lol i know i know but im so bored… i just cant sleep.. we can be quiet on the call, but id like to hear ur voice right now :)”

Good grief, ew. How disgusting. “Hm… okay. ∩(｡-_-｡)∩”

(Don't you dare ask Kusuo why his internal monologue is so different from what he actually replies with. It's definitely not because he's an unreliable narrator who doesn't want to admit to himself or anyone that he actually wants to talk to a boy. Why would that be the case? Don't be dumb.)

Kusuo forgot to turn his ringer off before Kuboyasu could call him, so despite entirely expecting the phone call, the loud ringing startled him into dropping his phone on his face. How embarrassing, all-powerful psychic drops his phone on his face at almost 2am.

He scrambled to pick it back up and answer it so that the noise wouldn't wake up his parents. It would be really easy for him to just lull them back to sleep with his telepathy the second they wake up, but it would be inconvenient and his dad might complain in the morning. About either remembering waking up or just about not getting a good night’s sleep.

He finally clicked the answer button, luckily before his parents could wake up, and held back a sigh as he held the phone up to his ear.

“Hey, princess!” Kuboyasu was speaking in a whisper yell, probably also a room away from his sleeping parents.

“Hello.” He tried to speak in a way that wouldn't give away the fact that he was recovering from a smack to the face. Phone calls were a bit awkward for Kusuo, since microphones didn't pick up on his telepathy so he had to use his actual voice to speak over the phone. He always just hoped people wouldn't notice the extra rasp to his voice, but the late hour might work in his favor in this situation.

“So what have you been up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Up at 2 am and you're just sitting there, doing nothing?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I've been doing. What else is there to do at 2am?”

“Well, I've been making the most of MY time, personally.”

“And how have you been doing that, exactly?”

“Thinkin’ about you.”

“...”

“...”

“... *snort*” Okay, how could that NOT make him laugh? He took the phone slightly away from his face and laughed into his hand.

“What?? It's true!” The idiot couldn't hold back his laughter either.

“Yeah, yeah, okay… whatever, you're such a pain…”

“Yeah? Am I?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you're here talking to me at 2 am just because I asked you to? Admit it, you love it.”

“Tch. You really need to get over yourself, you know that?”

“Well. Humor me for a bit longer, will you?”

“You're desperate.”

“For you.”

Kusuo muttered into his hand, “Oh my god.”

“I wish I could see your face right now, I know you're blushing.”

“Yeah, right. Not like you can prove that.”

“You want me to?”

“What do you mean?”

“You want me to come over there and check?”

Kusuo could hear the smirk in Kuboyasu’s voice. The jerk knew Kusuo couldn't say no to him. They both knew this game. Kusuo would deny him just for show, even though they both know he wants to say yes, and Kuboyasu would tease the truth out of him. Well, fine. Kusuo could play this game.

“You want to sneak out of your house and into mine at 2am just so you can check how successful your teasing is?”

“Mhm. Not just that, I would do anything to see my pretty princess’ face right now. I'm bored, you're bored, the only solution is for the knight to rescue the princess from this ailment, obviously.”

“You're an idiot.”

“You want to see me, I know it.” And he did. Kusuo could hear shuffling over the phone. That asshole was probably already putting his shoes on, knowing Kusuo would say yes. “What, you scared to prove me right? You don't want me to see your pretty pink face right now?”

… Kuboyasu was good at this game. He knows that husky voice is fucking irresistible. To Kusuo, at least. “... Okay, okay. Only so I can prove you WRONG.”

He knew Kuboyasu was smiling, but then the mood settled a bit. “You serious, Saiki? I know I'm messing with you, but I won't pressure you if you don't wanna sneak me in. I mean, that's kinda a lot to ask now that I'm thinkin’ about it. I really wanna see you, but I wouldn't make you do that.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, I've already made up my mind. Are YOU sure? You realize how late and dark it is, yeah? You can't just stroll the streets at 2 am, you're gonna get hurt.”

“Awee, you worried about me, princess? No need, your knight in shining armor can protect himself just fine.”

"... Fine. Just stay on the phone with me."

"Hm? While I walk?"

He figured Kuboyasu wouldn't want to have a conversation over the phone in favor of paying attention to his surroundings, but... Kusuo couldn't help but be nervous about his friend's safety at this hour. He just wanted to make sure he was fine the whole walk.

"We don't have to talk, just... stay on the phone with me..."

Kuboyasu snorted. "What, you gonna miss me in those, what, ten whole minutes?"

Kusuo scoffed quietly. "Don't be so full of yourself. I'm just making sure you don't trip and fall or something at 2am on the way to my house. Wouldn't want the blame to fall back on me." He somehow still managed to convey snark in his almost monotone voice despite his whisper.

Kuboyasu chuckled softly, as he snarked back teasingly, "You know I can take care of myself. Can't believe you're still worried about me~."

Kusuo did know that. It didn't change anything. And he WASN'T worried, he just knew that his various nuisances tended to get into trouble when he wasn't there to monitor them. He was always getting them out of trouble even in broad daylight, so there was absolutely no reason to think that walking alone in the middle of the night would prove to be an exception.

"Just shut up and don't hang up, alright?"

He heard the quiet creak of a door closing and shutting, barely drowning out Kuboyasu’s attempt at muffling his laughter. "Alright, sweet boy. I'm right here."

-

EWWWW CRINGEE EW THEY HAVE COOTIES

[valeriianz]

hdjfjdhfs i love your first prompt! here’s another one if you’re up for it: ❝  you’ve got me in the palm of your hands.  you could crush me and i would still thank you for touching me at all.  ❞

hope you get well soon!!

“You’ve grown old, Hob Gadling.” 

Hob tensed at the all too familiar voice. A voice he’d never forget, despite the years that had passed since he’d last heard it. The melodic, rich voice that transfixed many, Hob being no exception. He swallowed as he turned, knowing the voice could hear it, could hear his heartbeat suddenly in his ears.

“Tends to happen to mortals, you know?” Hob regarded him in the darkness. He was a shadow on the wall, peeling away and floating towards him now.

Morpheus glides until he meets Hob at the window he’s stationed at. The night is cold and bitter, snow has begun to gently fall, like ash after a bonfire. After a public execution.

“Have you come back to me, my one?” 

Hob’s breath hitches as Morpheus slips into his space, a cold hand, pale as death, presses against his chest, long fingers clawing up and around his throat. Hob swallows again, feeling his Adam’s apple bob along Morpheus’ feather soft grip. His blood races in both fear and excitement. Hob sees the way Morpheus’ eyes darken, his brows narrow, enticed.

“Your blood still behaves for me.” Morpheus leans forward and Hob forces his eyes to remain open, his body going still. “I wonder if your body would, as well.”

His voice soothes like balm on a burn, cool and soft and healing. But they’ve played this game many times, and Hob knows not to give in so easily, even if his very skin screams at him to resign himself. To crumple under Morpheus’ intense stare. To bare his neck.

“I’m here on a job, Morpheus.”

Morpheus’ head tilts curiously, like a cat. His hand remains at the base of Hob’s throat, his fingernails lightly scratching the hairs at the back, sending gooseflesh dancing up Hob’s arms.

“Oh?” A ghost of a smirk pulls his lips up. “Come to finally kill me, then?” 

“Not you.” Hob answers too quickly. Never you. Even if the gods demanded it of Hob, even if it meant his own demise, he’d never allow harm to come to this ancient, gorgeous, dangerous creature before him.

“I’ve been called to abet,” Hob presses on, finally coming back into his own skin and stepping away from his old friend. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders.”

Morpheus lets him turn, but his hand remains on his coat, falling onto his shoulder. Hob faces the open window once more, observing the night, watching for activity. He has weapons hidden on his person, a pocket pistol loaded with silver bullets, wooden stakes and a plowshare, holy water given to him by a priest just this morning, and a long necklace tucked under his shirt ornate with a heavy cross.

“Mm,” Morpheus hums, his fingers lightly trace down Hob’s back, he can somehow feel his touch even through the layers of fabric. “Yes. I am privy to them.”

Cold panic seizes Hob. His head swings around to meet Morpheus’ black eyes. “You’re not–”

“It’s not me, Hob.” Morpheus says, almost offended, and leans forward again, his lips at Hob’s ear. “But I know who.”

“Tell me.” Hob’s eyes study Morpheus, taking in his wild hair and sharp features. Somehow, Morpheus is even more handsome than the last time they met. Vampires never age, of course, they are no longer among the mortal realm. And their beauty is effervescent, ethereal, intoxicating. Hob had fallen for that heady tonic more than a decade ago, when he was still young and honing his craft.

Morpheus was cunning and persuasive, almost divine with it. Refusing him felt like a sin and Hob knew it wasn’t with pretty words or a hypnotizing voice that lured him that first time, or the second, or the countless, countless others he’d freely given his body to him. Morpheus was a rare breed. Dangerous and devious of course, but also distinguished and demure. Hob was smitten from their first meeting, before he knew of his true nature. 

He’d never taken Hob’s blood. Morpheus had gotten close, so close that he would shake with it, writhe and growl, testing the waters with fangs against Hob’s pulse points. On his wrist, his thighs, his throat. Hob would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thrill of it, the danger. 

“You’ve got me in the palm of your hands,” Hob had said once. “You could crush me and I would still thank you for touching me at all.”

Hob had been a fool, of course, lying with a vampire. The consequences of which were innumerable, forcing him to flee. Run away from his mistakes, his heart, screaming and clawing in its retreat.

“No.” Morpheus spoke, flat and final. “He is dangerous. We are handling it ourselves.”

Hob blew a long, harsh breath through his nose, glaring at his friend before finally brushing his hand off him. 

“If you won’t help me then I suggest you leave.”

Morpheus’ hands are back on Hob before he can blink, forcefully turning and shoving him against the dusty windowsill. 

“I will not have you hunt him, do you understand?” He hissed, fangs long and glinting in the moonlight.

Hob’s eyes blew wide. All his years of training, of killing, never prepared him for this. Facing his own conflictions. Seeing Morpheus again brought out old, buried feelings of want and lust that Hob had tried so hard to bury, to destroy. Putting a distance between them hadn’t helped at all. If anything, with the vampire standing before him now, his hands finally, finally, back on Hob, where they belonged, he realized the separation had only stoked the flame. Made Hob want more.

“You must stay hidden, safe.” Morpheus’ grip turned painful, deathly serious. “Until I rip his throat out myself.”

Hob took a shuddering breath. The cold breeze at his back was biting, but not so much as Morpheus’ breath on his face, his body so close to his own. Tantalizing, teasing him. Everything inside Hob screamed to close the distance between them, to reacquaint their bodies, to touch and mark and bruise.

“Morpheus…” Hob spoke his name slowly, an omen to himself. “Who is he?”

Morpheus doesn’t speak for a while, the silence is thick, punctuated only by Hob’s labored breathing and certainly his heartbeat, which he’s sure Morpheus can hear.

“He was one of ours…” Morpheus starts, hesitating on every word. “A young rogue we couldn’t keep under control.”

Hob remains silent as he listens, watching Morpheus’ expressions for a hint of change, of deceit. 

“His name is Corinthian.”

“Corinthian,” Hob repeats, shelving that information away.

Morpheus’ glowers at him. He can read Hob all too well. It’s Hob’s biggest weakness, opening himself up to Morpheus, bending to his whims and desires. Or it had been… though Hob wondered what the point in leaving was, if he knew Morpheus could find him anywhere. Could sense him even in the daylight, as soon as he’d stepped off the train and walked among his territory once more.

Morpheus presses his body flush against Hob’s and Hob nearly comes undone, biting back the pleasure, the sheer ecstasy that radiates off Morpheus, threatening to penetrate him. His lips part without his command, his blood hot and running south. Morpheus dips his head, his breath hitting Hob’s lips, sinister and inviting.

“Do not. Find him.”

“Will you stop me, Morpheus?” Hob taunts, cocking an eyebrow. His breath has gone ragged, almost desperate. He tilts his chin in defiance. “I could put you away once and for all.”

Morpheus grins, deadly. He nudges his nose along Hob’s cheek, making him gasp and then groan, unbidden, as ice cold lips caress up his jaw and down his neck, settling at his jugular and biting gently. So gentle, a promise, a devotion.

“I would love to see you try.”

from this prompt list

[razrogue]

imitation is the sincerest form of flattery (Ascended Astarion, His Majesty)

“So the thief has come to grovel before me?”

Astarion stared at the cat, stretched across the burgundy velvet pillow situated in the corner of the room. When they had arrived at the tavern, it had insisted on having the biggest pillow placed near the sunniest window. The sun loved its features it had proclaimed but the dreary shadow lands had dampened its style.

“Thief?” Astarion tutted at the smooth cat laying leisurely before him, barely giving him so much as a glance.

His Majesty stretched and yawned before finally deciding to sit up and give Astarion a modicum of respect. Whether he would retain it during their conversation was another matter entirely.

“I heard you chatting with the short one.” His Majesty leaned his head slightly, pointing towards the person seated near the fireplace.

“I’ve inspired you so that you’ve taken to speaking like me,” the cat retorted as it licked one of its paws. “Allowing them to speak to you, much like I’m doing now.”

Astarion crossed his arms and glared at the cat. He’d stolen a lot of things from a lot of people but never anything from a damn cat. He was insulted at the insinuation.

“I beg your pardon??” 

“You’d do well to remember where you hear such things in the future.” And with a final yawn, His Majesty began kneading the pillow to return to his nap. The conversation was over as far as it was concerned. 

“You’re dismissed,” he said as he curled back up, his tail wrapping around him.

“Don’t you take that tone with me. Remember who fetches your milk, feline.”

Astarion was left standing there in silence, irked that a cat had just scolded him. His Majesty had already closed his eyes and gone back to dozing in the sun beaming across his pillow.

[artingstarvist]

Pros of finishing the fic's rough draft before ever posting:

No worries of it being left unfinished/ abandoned

Cons of finishing the fic's rough draft before ever posting:

I wanna post it all right now immediately

[shadow-the-crow]

it's currently 3 am and i'm so tired that i'm convinced my laptop has been taken over by the Spiral.

I'm obsessively scrolling through tumblr. A few minutes ago, there was a post i really wanted to like. I thought i had liked it. It was not in my likes. I scrolled back up to find it again. It's gone. I swear it's gone. My laptop or tumblr keeps glitching. It's making me scroll past every fanart 2 or 3 times.

[hergrandplan]

Little snippet from the next chapter of Suburban Legends

(because this scene has been living in my head for too long and I'm excited I can at least partially share it now)

Simon’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he scrambled to get it. His elbow accidentally hit the glass of lemonade, causing it to fall down on the table with a soft thud, the contents spilling all over the table - and down Simon’s shirt.

“Shit!”

Simon looked down, dumbfounded. His no-longer white shirt was soaked through. It clung to his stomach, and Wille could see the brown, smooth skin beneath the fabric.

Wille forced himself to keep his eyes trained on Simon’s face. He couldn’t think about how his t-shirt now hugged his waist, or how, in some other universe, he might have made a stupid joke that Simon might as well take his shirt off, as nothing was left to the imagination anymore. Or how he might have taken him to the bathroom to rip his clothes off himself - 

Bathroom. The bathroom might be a good idea anyhow. 

[burning-academia-if]

What would ??? Want to experience if I let them possess my body for a day?

What an absolutely terrible idea! :)

            By principle, you hadn’t let The Voice have any control over you more then necessary. The seed of doubt nestled in the back of your mind would never allow it. But as time passed and fall stole the leaves from the trees, the seed withered along with it all.

            “Hey,” you asked one day, bent over your computer, a half-written essay glaring at you from the screen, “Can I ask you something?”

            The response was instant, ‘Of course.’

            “About the whole…” You trailed off, struggling to find the word. Possession never felt right because it wasn’t like they were a dead thing clinging to you. There was no other word that felt like it fit. “…Body control thing you do, have you ever seriously thought of taking control fully?”

            ‘That’d be impossible, unless the host is fully willing. If not, it’d be an endless battle of control.’

            “Which is why you’ve never tried?”

            Their laugh was soft, washing over you like a blanket, ‘I never tried because I care for you.’

            This wasn’t the fist time they’d claimed such. It normally never served to make you feel better. Not when there had been instances of them moving you like a marionette, pulling at limbs and fingers like you were connected to strings. But the more you thought about it, the more the discomfort eased. Of all the times they took control, it was a brief instance, and only to protect you. To yank a hand away from a fire, to sidestep the raised concrete of the sidewalk you’d almost tripped over.

            Maybe it’d be a terrible question. An admittance to how you were willing to give up more control than The Voice might have thought. It doesn’t stop you from asking, “So, all I’d have to do is let you?”

            ‘…What are you asking?’ They ask, after a beat of silence. They press into farther, although you get the sense they don’t mean to. There was a quiet warning to their words.

            It should have stopped you, but it didn’t, “I mean, if I gave you one day—today—to take control, would you?”

            They don’t respond, not with words. Instead you felt the twitch of your fingers, as much a question as a challenge. Can you really do this? If what they said was true, all you needed to do was take back control. You let your eyes close, and you stopped your instinct to fight.

            As your control slipped away, you felt them test every limb. The movement was wrong, and you didn’t realize how personal it was in the way you raised your hands, moved your wrists, extended your legs. But The Voice moved in ways foreign to you. There was a coating of awkwardness there, too, as they adjusted to how different the shape of your body must be compared to their own.

            After a few minutes, they opened your eyes.

            When they moved to stand you felt the protest. Panic was sloshing around in your brain at the way you were moving without telling your body to move. You tried to pull back, and the both of you took a deep breath.

            Lightly, they placed your hand over your heart, “I’ll be gentle.”

            Even your voice sounds different when they use it. The cadence and inflection isn’t the same, and they pitch your voice at a different register. While their voice was formless in your head, hearing them use yours made it easier to imagine. You hadn’t expected it to be so soft.

            They get used to walking first. It took a few quick interventions from you before they learned how your body held your weight and how long your strides needed to be. They were quick to pick it up, and soon they were exiting your dorm.

            ‘Where are we going?’ Apprehension hung over you, but you kept reassuring yourself that it’d be ok. You could rip back control any time, they said so.

            “Not far. Your fear is far too strong to allow for that.”

            You wanted to protest, but you knew they were right. It was too unnatural to be here, feeling yourself move and speak without being the one doing it. Like a bout of dissociation, but you retained your awareness through it.

            They take you past the campus and into the gardens in the back. You knew this place well by now. The Voice had always retained a fondness for the second garden. Normally you’d use it as a space to read or study, one of the few of the Voice’s requests you didn’t mind honoring. Now though, they took you somewhere specific.

            In the corner of the garden, was a fountain which hadn’t been used in ages. The stones are cracked and the water long turned off. Now, they sat you on the grass in front of it. Your hands reached out and your nails sunk into the grooves of one of the stones.

            “Did you know one of Vales Grove’s superstitions was that if you write down your wants and wishes and placed them behind the stones of the fountain, it would come true?”

            ‘No, how do you know that?’

            They smiled, a clear indication that it was another one your questions without answers, “It reminds me of my childhood, in a way. If I only asked the world kindly, then maybe all my dreams would be given to me. There’s nothing to wish for now.”

            The brick finally slides lose and with it a collection of scraps. Notebook paper and sticky notes and pamphlets written on in a hurry. They gather any that falls out the hole, and carefully places them back inside. Instead, they reached into your pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper you hadn’t even realized you’d had.

            “Even so, I sometimes like to pretend I’m that child again. Like I can get back those years lost to isolation.” They paused, and then, softly, they cupped your hands together and brought them to your lips. A barely there touch before they pulled away. “The reason why I never asked for full control is because this is enough for me.”

            ‘No, it’s not.' You protested. ‘I know it’s not.’

            “It is from you. Your companionship, no matter how forced upon you it was, has acted as the one thing tying me back to my humanity. It’s why I must ask you this—Never allow me to do this again.”

//

            You gasp, sitting upright in your bed. It’s dark now and when you look at your hands there is dirt and grime under your nails. There is a soreness to your body, the kind you get from moving for longer then you should. Their warning is the last thing you remember. It takes everything in you to steady yourself.

            “What…what did you do?”

            ‘I thought if anyone deserved a wish, it was you.’ Is their reply. You try again and again, asking for what they mean, but they go quiet and you no longer feel them with you. All they leave you with is the dirt on your skin and the fear in your heart.

[sexynetra]

WIP WEDNESDAY

The people have been reacting well to cunty dame so have some more :)

~~~~~~

All this to say – Nicky leaving was putting a major crimp in Dame’s lifestyle. She plucked a glass of champagne off a tray, taking a long sip and surveying the room from her perch near the window. Tia and Kam were deep in conversation next to the food table, while Nicky — as the guest of honor — was in the middle of the room, surrounded by a gaggle of their coworkers.

Kam walked over a moment later, a small plate of hors d’œuvres in hand. “So, are you planning to go talk to your girlfriend?” She asked conversationally.

Dame rolled her eyes, plucking a canapé off of her best friend’s plate and popping it into her mouth. “Nicky’s not my girlfriend.”

“Try telling her that,” Kam retorted, giving Nicky a polite wave and a smile. Nicky smiled back at her before turning her gaze to Dame, smile softening.

“She knows,” Dame said. “I’ve told her. I’m not the girlfriend type. It’s just a bit of fun, nothing more.”

“Yeah well, the trail of brokenhearted girls you leave behind shows that well enough,” Kam shoved her playfully.

Dame pursed her lips to hide her smile. “You’re just jealous,” she teased, finishing off her champagne flute and stepping forward to greet Nicky who had made her way over.

Dame leaned over, placing a ghost of a kiss on each of her cheeks. “Nicky,” she murmured. “Lovely party. Shame it's goodbye.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You could come back to Paris with me.” Nicky looked up at her hopefully.

Dame plucked another flute of champagne off the tray of a passing server, letting out a noncommittal hum as she looked away, meeting eyes with the Spanish woman who worked in reception, flashing her a wink and a smile. “Better not, I’m quite enjoying London,” she said flippantly.

[essektheylyss]

I have been grumpy with my Essek voice while writing this week so I'm watching the last supercut and honestly it's so funny that Essek somehow ended up with the highest number of eyes of the Nein except for Beau and Caleb despite not even having been present when the book was first foisted on them, because he got targeted that many times by the Somnovem eyes during the last fight.

[ne-umeyu-tancevat]

Picnic date with Norman Bates <3

for @perfectlullabies and @littlegreenfag

The day was hotter than expected when you first planned this little outing. The fine, hot Californian sun beat down overhead, and though you were in the lightest and airiest linen you owned you were sweating beneath your sunhat, underneath the unrelenting weight of the sun’s rays, making as if to press you into the earth and bake you dead where you lay. Norman, however, walked light and easy as you both trekked through the landscape, hills and farmland, completely unbothered, his face and arms already nicely browned though summer was just at its start. You were the one who knew where you were both going but he, on his long legs, almost left you trailing behind, even as he carried with him the picnic basket you’d packed.

It wasn’t that long of a walk to the spot you found, though it was made long by the heat. You were huffing and puffing and suffering as you crossed the last stretch, coming over the apex of the last hill.

“There!” You pointed ahead. “Oh my god, I thought we’d never reach it!” In the little valley between hills was an old tree with sprawling wide branches, surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers in midsummer explosion, a veritable oasis amid a sea of food monocrops. You both paused for a moment, you caught your breath as he stared down at the sight before him.

“Wow! How beautiful!” He turned back and smiled at you, more dazzling than the sun. “I-I-I never even thought there would be a place like this so close to my front door!” He glanced at his watch. “Barely twenty minutes, it’s not even 2:30 yet!”

“Twenty minutes?! I thought it was like, an hour,” you fanned your face with your open hand. “I thought we were lost!” 

He laughed and, looking down at the steep decline in front of you, tentatively offered his hand. “Shall we? I’m hungry from all that walking…” You smiled up at him and put your hand in his, it was big and warm and his skin was soft, and your heart thudded in your chest. Hand in hand you carefully descended into the valley, wading amongst the flora until you came upon a perfect little clearing in the shade of the great old tree. It was already noticeably cooler. 

He set down the picnic basket at your feet, and you spun around, taking it all in, the rustling grass and leaves overhead, the bright and shining green hills standing all around you. “Isn’t it just lovely down here?”

He was standing with his hands held loosely in front of him at waist height, he brought them together and interlocked them nervously as he looked at you. “Y-Yeah… it is.” he breathed out, smiling as he quickly nodded.

You crouched down and opened the basket at your feet, taking the folded blanket from the top. “Here, help me spread it out!” You took the loose corner and the whole wide surface spilled free. He bent down and took the other end, finding the adjacent corners and spreading it out wide as you both stepped apart, moved to find the perfect spot and bent down to smooth the blanket of any bothersome folds. “Alright, now sit down!” You told him, and went over to retrieve the basket, kneeling down opposite to him as you flipped open the lid, setting aside the plates, cutlery, and glasses. “Okay… are you ready to see what I have prepared for us today?” You said with a flourish of the hand, grinning.

“Oh yes, I’m ready!” He nodded eagerly, sitting criss crossed in front of you, looking so sweet and patient.

“I tried to make things I think you would like…” You said, and now you were a little nervous, but you listed them out as you took each container and set them aside neatly on the blanket: an assortment of cured meats and nice cheeses sliced thin, cut fresh fruit, salad with fresh greens and vinaigrette dressing, and an assortment of sandwiches cut into quarters, light cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese, egg salad sandwiches, cold cuts with lettuce and tomato. You smiled up at him through your lashes as you brought out the last thing in the basket: a tall bottle of red wine.

His eyebrows raised, his mouth parted as he mouthed “wow” and then smiled again. “Wine! I’ll admit, I don’t really drink…”

You felt a little anxious and sheepish in the assumption you made in bringing it, you clutched the bottle in your hands and moved to put it back in the basket. “Oh! Well, that’s perfectly alright you know, i-if you don’t want to then we won’t open it!”

“No, no, I mean - What I mean is, I’ve never really… drank alcohol before. Mother would never approve…” He laughed nervously, his eyes flitted to the ground for a second and he paused, thinking. “But I’ll have some today, if you brought it!”

“Well, alright then! You can at least try it, here,” you reached over and took the two glasses, setting them in front of you before you fished the corkscrew out of the basket, screwing it into the top until the two levers on either side were raised, and pushed them down, wiggling until you released the stopper with a distinctive POP! You smiled, smelling the sweet and astringent aroma from the opening, and poured a roughly equal amount into the two glasses before handing one off to him.

You sipped and watched eagerly as he sniffed at the rim of the glass and quirked an eyebrow. Then, tentatively, he brought it to his lips, and drank deeply, deeper than you expected, and your eyes went wide, eyebrows coming together in astonishment. “Okay, well, don’t go too wild with it,” you started, then watched the journey of conflicting emotions play across his face, unable to escape but to either swallow the mouthful of wine or to spit it back into the glass, and you almost thought he would, until at last he tilted his head back and swallowed with some effort, gasping for breath, he coughed and made a face.

“Well, Norman, how was it?”

“It’s good, not bad,” he choked out, looking and sounding pained. “It’s sweet! But I wasn’t expecting the way it would taste so strongly!”

“Well, you also knocked back half the glass in one go, silly. You’re supposed to sip it,” you smiled affectionately and pointed at him: “Unless you wanna get really drunk really fast!” You laughed again.

“It feels… It’s really warm in my stomach.”

“Well, here then, you’ll need to have some food too,” you reached over and took the plates and cutlery, set one of each in front of him and then yourself. “Let’s eat!”

He reached over and matched a translucent-thin slice of prosciutto to a piece of provolone and ate it in one bite. Plate in hand, you took a sandwich and an assortment of fruit. Norman, holding the salad bowl with a serving on his plate in front of him, held it to you in offering, and you lifted your plate closer as he spooned a good helping over, smiling kindly in a way that made your heart throb. And then, satisfied, you both started to eat.

Partway through your first plates, with his glass empty and his face pink, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, Norman looked up and said, breaking the silence: “You know, I really love sharing meals with people.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!” He paused, gathering his words. “I started cooking all by myself fairly young! It was pretty much the only thing I could do well that would make my mother happy.” He said this humorously, but it left a sour feeling in your heart that you pushed down, away from your face. “I think people are just happier when they’re eating…” He giggled, lifting his shoulders.

“Well I hope, I really hope we get to share a lot more meals together, Norman,” you smiled warmly at him. “I’m pretty happy right now!” You reached over, placing your palm over top of his hand for a moment before you pulled away.

You talked as you ate your fill, and as the bottle grew emptier, about books, about art, and movies (you told him about movies, Norman didn’t go to the theater at all), about your hobbies and the places you’ve traveled to in your life, and about the many kinds of people he’s seen check into his motel, and the funny things they sometimes left behind. When most of the food was gone, you picked at the remaining charcuterie, and there was a weighty sort of momentum to your movements, a spinning sensation you hadn’t quite noticed in your reverie that proved you were more than a little tipsy, sun-drunk and wine-drunk and love-drunk too, and so very happy. Full, you lapsed into silence, a silence that was comfortable. The sun had moved, uncovering the half of the picnic blanket that Norman was sitting on from shadow, and he laid back to rest in the warmth, closing his eyes against the mid afternoon rays, and looked more content than you had ever seen him before.

You moved the empty plates and containers back into the basket to make room, and then sat just looking at him, taking him in as much as you possibly wanted, that he wasn’t looking at you all the same, making you nervous under his gaze. His lithe body looked so relaxed with his hands interlocked and resting on his stomach - he was always so tense! His dark hair, wonderful thick brows and dark lashes, his exquisitely structured face, straight nose, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. The mole on his upper lip, and oh, oh the lips themselves, that you had imagined kissing so much. Well, now you were a little anxious, and there was the strange notion that he might even read your thoughts, know your desires from the intensity of them alone. You moved to lie down next to him so that you didn’t have to look anymore, that you only had to enjoy his presence in the sun, in the heat, with the rustling of grass, magenta and yellow fireworks exploding on the tops of leafy wild plants, the buzzing of insects, butterflies drifting from flower to flower and crickets calling out for mates amongst the thicket.

But your mind was still in the orbit of kissing, thinking of how much you wanted to kiss him and how easy it would be to just kiss him. It was your third date, and that was appropriate, right? Really, you’d wanted to kiss him almost from the first moment you saw him. He was exceedingly skittish when it came to these things, the physical intimacy, he was already practically shaking the first time you held his hand. You would have to ease into it…

You sat upright, and twisted yourself to look at him, still lying with his eyes closed, and asked: “Norman, have you ever kissed anyone before?” …Regretting it immediately as tension filled his whole figure, was it too quick, too forceful? And you knew he probably would have never kissed anyone before anyways. What is wrong with me? The wine, it’s the wine making me so bold… Your gut cringed as his eyes shot open, fearful, and for a second he was still before he shook his head “no.”

“Oh well that’s completely fine you know I’ve never really kissed anyone before either,” the words dribbled out as you turned away, looking out into the meadow in front of you with a grimace, feeling troubled as you ran your hands on the fabric over your thighs. But you didn’t want to make a scene being worried about it, to make him feel bad or scare him, so you laid down too, trying to mirror him, trying not to think of the small distance between you two. Looking up into the sky, you were dizzy, and there was the sun scintillating through the rustling leaves, and billions of shades of green in all different states of illumination.

You laid there for a couple minutes, a completely restless and futile attempt at relaxation. He looked so scared. Did he understand what you wanted? Did he want it too? Would he ever ask on his own? You sat up again, hugging your knees as you watched all the life going by in the field ahead.

You turned your whole body around that you were facing him, lying on your hip and supporting yourself with one arm as you looked down at him. He didn’t look quite as shaken up as you felt he might be, or as you were from the itching desire to be closer. His eyes again were closed, you almost wondered if he was sleeping. But the sound of your movements got his attention enough, this time his eyes fluttered open gently, and he met your gaze with a sweet, closed mouth smile that you couldn’t help but match. From somewhere over your head, a butterfly came and circled clumsily, both your eyes followed it until it - you gasped - landed on the crown of his hair.

“Don’t move! It landed on you!” You half-shouted, not wanting to scare it away, and his expression widened in surprise. “Oh, that’s wonderful, I wish I had a camera!” Norman was frozen, even trying not to breathe too hard, and looked up as far as he could. It was a brilliant orange creature against the backdrop of his dark hair, smattered with black spots, edged in white, it flexed it’s fan-shaped wings open-closed, open-closed, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the loveliness of it. You inched closer and reached over slowly, trying not to frighten it away, holding your hand out, thinking that maybe if you were gentle enough it might crawl on your finger but - too close! The butterfly took flight again, bouncing aimlessly away on the air. “Aww no, I scared it away, damn it!” You were disappointed, but laughed as you said it.

“Was it really on me? I couldn’t see!” He asked, and you nodded down at him, smiling. And your heart started beating fast, because you had moved pretty close in trying to get the butterfly, closer and more intimate here lying down than you had ever felt before. Maybe you had been physically closer, but here, lying on the blanket, his flushed and smiling face below you, you could just lean in and kiss him for the first time right there. You pictured yourself doing it. Your face fell, unable to smile convincingly so flustered as you were, so hesitant. Norman caught the change in mood, his face matching your seriousness, his eyebrows pinched just a bit in concern, a question in his eyes.

“Norman, I want to kiss you…” You murmured, and his face took on the same flat neutrality of terror as before as you spoke: “Norman, can I kiss you…?”

For a few seconds, there was no answer, no reaction, just the same deer-in-headlights look on his face, and you felt a moment of piercing rejection through your heart. You pulled away just barely, feeling pained, although you were still watching, still waiting for him to say anything.

Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

“Really?” You breathed, halfway disbelieving. But he nodded again, whispered “yes” so softly he might as well have just mouthed the word. Now your heart was racing in your chest, the blood was rushing in your ears, the sound of pure excitement, as you looked from his eyes to his mouth, brown eyes to his lips, slightly parted…

You moved in, stroked the side of his hair that was combed nicely behind his ear, placing your palm flat next to his head and bracing your weight on your hand as you leaned in, bridging the distance, closing your eyes until finally, you made contact, pressing your lips to his, soft and warm and unmoving, and stayed there for seconds that felt like minutes with glorious fire burning in your chest, until you puckered your lips slightly as you pulled away, the small, wet sound of suction between you. 

You made just enough distance between you that you could see the dazed, glassy-eyed look on his face, and you felt the shuddering, trembling breath he let out against your lips. You searched his eyes, and when you moved to kiss him again, this time he lifted his head to meet your lips and kissed you back, clumsy at first before he caught onto the rhythm - kissing, pulling, suction, breathing. He unfolded his arms beneath you, and you felt his arm go around you, palm flat against your shoulder blade as he stroked your back softly up and down; his other hand came up to your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek, before his fingers went to comb through your hair, fingertips brushing your scalp then carding through to the ends, creating a delightful frisson sensation until his hand found its rest at the back of your head. You felt comfortable to let your weight lean into him a bit, your chest pressed warm against his, and it freed your own hand to go to his face, feeling the ridge of his cheekbone, poky stubble just underneath the skin, the motion of the sharp edge of his jawline as your lips glided over each other, breaths intermingling in the space between you. the sensations raking up brilliant sparks of pleasure that exploded in your chest, lighting the delicious warm ache of hunger throughout your body that made you press yourself into him more. Until gently, you broke away for rest, to catch a full breath, and you saw him follow you up, wanting and needing more, until he realized you were pulling away and let his head fall back, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes, shining kiss-swollen lips as he took deep, heavy breaths.

“Are you… Are you sure you’ve never kissed anyone else before?” He asked breathlessly, dreamily, with a smile.

It was all you could do to laugh and kiss him again, and again, and again.