#aside from smoking hes also breaking the rule of not taking his makeup off when not performing

[iknowwhatthatis]

hi what if ronbo isnt actually human. what if hes not breaking the clown code of ethics bc hes not legally a clown hes just Like That

[aliwritesfic]

The Night Shift Part 6 (F!Reader x Frankie Morales)

Summary: It's Saturday, your dickhead boyfriend is out of town, an old friend is in town, and it's time to get drunk!

Warnings: Drinking, mention of drug use, crippling self doubt

W/C: 4.3k

Spotify

Part 1 Part 7

Somehow, the week went exceptionally well. You bugged Frankie each day for the photo he promised you, and each time he grinned and told you that good things came to those who waited. On Wednesday you received a call from the vet telling you the kitten was going to be fine, and she would be put up for adoption when she was old enough. You were initially crushed that the kitten wasn’t going to be yours, but told yourself it was good she was bound to go to a good to a family. You couldn’t give the kind of life a cat deserved.

But most of all, you were almost unreasonably excited for the weekend. You bounced with excitement every time you thought about it - hell, even things with Kurt seemed to be going better. He had planned a hunting trip up north with a few of his friends, and would be gone from Thursday til Monday. He had brought you a bunch of flowers when he ‘broke the news’, not your favourite kind but it was the thought that counted. An entire four days to yourself was more than enough incentive for you to almost force him out the door on Thursday afternoon. With a kiss and a packed lunch and a promise to call, he was gone and the apartment was blessedly empty.

Even better, your best friend Sara was in town.

Fifteen minutes after you watched Kurt’s car pull out of the apartments parking lot, watching the window carefully to make sure he didn’t come back, you called her.

“Can we do something on Saturday? Get drunk, do bad things, anything?” You said by way of greeting.

“Oh hell fucking yes, I’ve been waiting for you to be fun again!” Sara said. You knew that was a not so subtle jab at how much you had changed since Kurt entered your life. You ignored it, like you usually did.

“Saturday sound good to you? I work Friday night and I can’t take it off.” More like you didn’t want to take it off.

“Saturday sounds fantastic. There’s a big fight night happening, and I wanna watch some hot sweaty guys pummel each other.” Sara said. “We can get drunk at the same time. Also I can get some molly if you want.”

“I’ll think about it,” you said, not entirely opposed to the idea of spending the night high as shit. Especially if Kurt wasn’t going to be there to yell at you for it.

“Let me know, sooner rather than later so I can sort it out with my guy,” Sara said. “Anyway babe, I’ve gotta jet, I’ve only got five minutes left on my break and I haven’t eaten yet, love ya!”

“Love you too,” you said, meaning it with your whole heart. Out of all the friends you once had, Sara was the only one who had stuck around after you started dating Kurt. At first, you had choked it up to jealousy, convincing yourself all your other friends were envious of your perfect relationship with a perfect guy. Now looking back, you could see what really happened: you had ditched them. Completely and utterly. Kurt had taken up all of your time, convincing you to stay in when you had plans to go out, telling you that the girls you would have trusted your life with only barely put up with you and it was just so obvious to anyone with an outsider's perspective that they didn’t really like you. You were grateful for Sara, more than words could say.

~*~

Saturday came quickly, and before you knew it, Sara was slamming her fist on your door, a bag stuffed with alcohol slung over her shoulder.

“Bitch!” she screamed in greeting when you finally opened the door, still wrapped in your towel from your shower. She was already dressed, in a tight gold 70s style jumpsuit that made her dark brown skin look like it was glowing from the inside out.

“How do you manage to look so good all the time?” You said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Witchcraft,” Sara said, pulling a bottle of prosecco out of her bag and popping it open. “And like, this whole thing took me all day. Why aren’t you ready yet?”

“I’ve been sleeping all day,” you said, plucking the bottle out of Sara’s hand and taking a swig. It was cold and crisp and filled your partly empty stomach. You continued to take small sips as you got ready, occasionally asking Sara for her girly wisdom on what to wear. She picked out your outfit as you applied makeup. It felt almost foreign, using something other than a mascara and brow pencil. The use of colour and shimmers almost felt like breaking some unwritten rule you had created for yourself since dating Kurt.

“What happened to all your fun clothes?” Sara whined, going through your wardrobe. You shrugged, carefully applying bronzer. Honestly, you weren’t sure. Sometimes things just went missing - you didn’t really question it anymore.

“I’m a miracle worker.” Sara declared after almost fifteen minutes of searching. You looked up at her, then at the small bundle of clothing in her arms. She grinned and flung the pile at you. You held up a black pleather skirt that you hadn’t worn in almost a year, and a black body suit that dipped low in the chest.

“Christ,” you muttered.

“What’s wrong with it,” Sara sounded exasperated, like she had been expecting this from you.

“It’s just-” you hesitated. “I’m not going out to get dick, you know? What’s wrong with a pair of jeans?”

Sara rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong with a pair of jeans? I’ll tell you what: everything. You don’t have to have dick as the aim of the night to look cute. You can look cute for yourself. You know just as well as I do that skirt makes your legs and ass look amazing, especially when paired with the shoes I’ve brought for you. Plus, if someone out tonight decides you look cute enough to buy you drinks, then even better! Because free drinks! You don’t have to fuck them as a thank you, you can just turn around and walk away. So, get dressed and stop complaining.”

You considered Sara’s words for a moment. She was right. After you changed, you admired yourself in the mirror. Your ass really did look amazing, and the strappy black heels that Sara had loaned you accentuated your calves magnificently. Sara stood next to you, arm linked through yours, almost a foot taller in her platforms and with her afro teased to the high heavens.

“God, we’re sexy,” she murmured, taking another swig out of the bottle. “You’re absolutely wasted on Kurt.”

You didn’t bother with your usual retorts to that kind of comment. She’s wrong, you’re lucky to have someone to love you like that at all, no one else would want to if they got to know you, you told yourself. It’s what he had told you over and over again, the words searing themselves inside your brain to repeat each time you began to truly doubt with him.

You finished off the prosecco while you waited for the Uber to arrive, enjoying the warm buzz it left you with. Sara whipped out her phone and began to take photos of the two of you. At first, you shied away from the camera, the words Kurt had said once in a throwaway comment, surely not designed to hurt but did anyway, rang in your ears. You don’t look very good in photos, why do you take so many? After that, you would spend hours staring at old photos of yourself, the flaws that were invisible now glaringly obvious.

Tonight though . . . Tonight you felt pretty. You posed for the camera, following Sara’s instructions as best you could. You took photos of each other throughout the entire ride to the venue where the fight night was taking place.

It looked a little shabby on the outside, overgrown hedges snaked up the walls, covering the windows. A smoking area was off to the side, crowded with people. The inside was even more crowded, with bodies pushing up against the horseshoe shaped bar and surrounding the ring. Two women were in the ring, both bloodied and swinging.

“God there is just something so arousing about hot people consensually beating each other up,” Sara said, unable to tear her eyes away from the ring.

“Babe, you’re drooling,” you joked, stepping in line for the bar.

“I can’t help it, I have an overactive salivary gland,” Sara sighed, tearing her eyes away. “At least my dentist says so.” You grinned at her and ordered three vodka sodas each. It was a tradition with the two of you that you would always order three drinks at a time. Less back and forth, you had reasoned. Although, usually as the night progressed, three drinks were downed in the same amount of time it took to drink one, so it really cancelled itself out in the end.

As tradition warranted, you and Sara cheersed and swallowed your first drink in one breath.

Several more fights occurred, the divisions eventually changing from women’s to men’s. Neither you nor Sara paid much attention to the first few fights: “amateur hour” Sara had said to you “I’m waiting for the good stuff.”

The good stuff, it turned out, started almost an hour and 5 drinks after you arrived.

“Next fight, King V Miller!” The announcer shouted into the microphone to the cheer of the crowd. Sara’s head shot up as if she could sense the sudden change, and she grabbed your hand, tugging you closer to the ring.

“Oh, my god look at him,” Sara said, gesturing to the ring. You knew instantly which one she was talking about. He was tall, with shaggy blonde hair and lean muscle corded over his body.

“He’s pretty spry,” you said, and instantly cringed. Spry? Really?

“I wanna fuck him tonight,” Sara said. Then her voice took on a determined edge. “I am going to fuck him tonight.” Manifestation, Sara called it. If you told the universe what you wanted, the universe would deliver.

Apparently.

“I am going to get more drinks,” you told her. She nodded, not tearing her eyes away from the fighter. You went to the considerably less crowded bar- it seemed like everyone was now watching the fights- and leant against its sticky surface.

You shouted your order over the noise of the crowd, and scanned the bar as you waited. Most faces were familiar in the way that you knew when you had seen someone before, but you didn’t know when or where. That was, until you landed on one dazzlingly familiar face, standing almost right next to you.

“Frankie?”

~*~

Frankie startled at the sound of his name. He looked around, expecting to see one of the boys or maybe an old work friend from the mechanics. The last person he expected was you. But there you stood, looking so good that he was momentarily lost for words.

“Frankie!” You said again, with a huge grin on your face this time.

“Hey!” He grinned back, “what’s a girl like you doing in a dump like this?” His tone held a flirty edge, one he wouldn’t dare have used if he hadn’t already had several bourbon and colas.

“Oh you know, I plan on accosting the winner tonight of all their prize money and taking off into the night, never to be heard from again,” you accepted three drinks from the bartender as you spoke. “What about you?”

“My friend Benny is fighting tonight. He’s actually up right now, the blonde one.”

Your jaw dropped. “No way! My friend wants to fuck your friend.” You pointed your chin towards a tall black woman, dressed like she had wandered out of Studio 54. “Is he single? Can we play wingpeople?”

“He is, we can.” Frankie nodded confidently. Maybe it was the alcohol controlling his brain, but any excuse to spend time with you seemed like a good excuse. “How should we do this?”

“Does your friend Billy-”

“Benny.”

“Benny stick around after the fights?”

“Yeah, he gets free drinks,” Frankie said. You nodded approvingly, taking a sip of one of your own drinks. Frankie watched amazed as you somehow held the two others in one hand, your fingers curling around the hard plastic cups.

“How do you do that?” He asked.

“Do what?”

“Hold your stuff like that,” he gestured to your fingers. You looked down, confused.

“Whatta’ya mean?”

“With your fingers.”

“Oh! Um, I dunno, I just do.” You shrugged and placed the now empty up on a random table, and started on the next drink. It occurred to Frankie that you were well on your way to being very, very drunk.

The crowd cheered loudly as Benny knocked out the other guy with a bloody grin. Frankie whistled his support and Benny caught his eye, saluting tiredly. Santi also caught his attention, and even across the room Frankie could see the wicked grin form on his face. Frankie looked away quickly, not willing to give the bastard any ideas.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Frankie asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Some stupid place doing some stupid hunting,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “Fuck him anyway he never lets me do anything fun.”

“What do you mean ‘lets you’?” Frankie said, his brow furrowing.

“I mean, he’s a controlling dickhead!” You said, then slapped a hand over your mouth. “Don’t tell him I just said that! Please!”

“I won’t, I promise,” Frankie said.

“Just forget I said anything,” your voice had taken on an almost desperate edge.

“It’s forgotten,” Frankie lied. He didn’t know how, but he was going to bring it up later. The idea of your boyfriend ‘not letting’ you do something had taken root in his brain, and somehow it made him furious. He took a deep breath, counting slowly to calm himself down.

“Who’s that guy who keeps making faces at you?” You asked, gesturing across the bar. Frankie sighed.

“Santi.” Frankie rolled his eyes at his old friend and waved him over. His curly hair friend bounded over, flashing you with a brilliant white smile.

“Well, hello there,” he said, winking at you. “Santiago Garcia, but you can call me whatever you like.”

You smiled sheepishly and gave him your name, “I work with Frankie.” Santiago’s grin widened at this piece of information, and Frankie groaned internally.

“You’re the girl Frankie told me about.”

“Chatting shit, I’m sure,” you laughed, but Frankie didn’t miss the questioning glance you sent his way when you spoke.

“Santiago was the one who took that photo I told you about,” Frankie said quickly, not wanting you to get the wrong idea. You nodded and leant over towards Santi.

“He keeps promising to show me but he’s yet to deliver,” you said, winking at Frankie. His stomach jumped, breath caught in his throat. He knew you were joking but he couldn’t help but feel like he had disappointed you somehow.

“That’s my fault,” Santi said, “I keep meaning to get him a copy but since he’s sleeping all day I haven’t been able to.” You nodded and turned to Frankie.

“I should go find my Sara before I lose her for the night,” you said, looking at Frankie. “Come find me - I mean, us later? With your Benny?”

“Yeah, of course,” Frankie said, watching as you disappeared into the crowd. The urge to grab you and kiss you grew with every second, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t that kind of guy, and no amount of drinks would make him think it would be a good idea to do that to someone. Let alone you.

~*~

Frankie’s head was cloudy with alcohol, he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your ass looked in that tiny skirt, how he wanted to plant his face directly in your chest.

“Fucking hell, get a grip,” Santiago said, shaking his friend by the shoulder. They were back in the locker rooms, Benny was buzzing with his win. He and Will were going their post match ritual of smacking each other on the back and releasing loud “woo”’s.

“I’m fine,” Frankie insisted, and Santi scoffed.

“You’re full of shit,” he said. “Ironhead, tell this idiot he’s full of shit!”

“You’re full of shit, Fish!” Will said automatically. “But what’s he full of shit for?”

“He’s in denial about pining for the chick he works with,” Santi said. “Look at the poor bastard, it’s written on his face.”

“Fish, you’ve never been good at keeping a straight face when it comes to emotional crap,” Benny said. “All other stuff, you’re great. Just not when it comes to matters of the heart. Or the dick.”

“You should’ve seen the way he was looking at her,” Santi laughed. “And the way she was looking at him, making bedroom eyes at each other.”

Frankie rolled his eyes, ignoring how the last comment made his heart leap. “You’re all stupid, she’s just a work friend saying hi. Nothing more.”

“Full of shit!” Benny cackles. “Look at his blush!” Frankie groaned. They were right about him at least. He had it bad for you.

But that didn’t matter. You had a boyfriend, and even if everything Frankie found out about the guy made him resent him a little more, he couldn’t change that one important fact. And he wasn’t stupid enough to ruin the beginings of his friendship with you over a stupid fucking crush. He just wasn’t.

Benny showered, singing You Belong With Me and switching out the pronouns as he did. The man was an unashamed Swiftie, claiming that she had a song for every situation. Frankie pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep swig of his beer. Will sat beside him and nudged him gently.

“What are you gonna do?” he asked.

Frankie frowned. “What? I’m not gonna ‘do’ anything. She has a boyfriend, end of story.”

“Sorry to hear that man,” Will said, sounding sincere. He knew Frankie wasn’t the type of guy to wreck someone else's relationship for purely selfish reasons. “You’re a good man.”

Frankie wished he wasn’t.

Benny changed into his regular clothes quickly, and said something about needing a drink. The four of them left the locker room and made their way to the bar, and Frankie couldn’t help but look around for you. When he couldn’t see you, he bit back the slight disappointment that sank in his stomach. Benny brought a round for the group and they found an empty table to sit at. The employees of the bar were dismantling the ring to make room for a dance floor. Loud, thumping music started playing and within moments the floor was packed with bodies.

“Frankie! And Frankie’s friends!” Frankie looked around at the sound of your voice, which was high with excitement. You bounded over, clutching the hand of the friend you had pointed out earlier. You introduced yourself and your friend Sara to the group and pulled up a chair for you and Sara each. Frankie didn’t miss how you placed Sara’s chair next to Benny, or how Benny was staring at Sara with his mouth slightly open. He also noticed with a slight pang how you sat yourself between Will and Santi, directly across from him.

What he didn’t was how much you kept looking at him. Lucky for him, Santi and Will noticed plenty.

You and Sara spent a few hours with the group, until a not so inconspicuous Benny and Sara both disappeared, Sara throwing a wink towards you as she left. Will left not long after, saying that his bed was calling his name. Santi stayed a little longer, flirting with you much to Frankie’s annoyance. To his credit, he didn’t show you the catfish photo. Frankie wanted to show you that one himself, when you were both sober.

“I better head out,” Santi said as it rolled past three in the morning. “I’ve gotta babysit Lee tomorrow, and you know how hyper he is.” He turned to you and kissed your hand. “It was the deepest pleasure meeting you, don’t be a stranger. Frankie.” Santi raised an eyebrow and shot him a meaningful look.

“Good night,” he said a little forcefully, shoving Santi towards the door, mainly to get him to stop flirting with you. He knew the flirting was just incentive to spur him into some kind of action with you, but it wasn’t going to work.

“Your friends are nice,” you said, struggling to connect the straw of your drink with your mouth.

“They’re assholes most of the time. They’re just nice to beautiful women.” Frankie regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Shit! Now she thinks I think she’s beautiful. She is! But she doesn’t need to know I think that! Frankie finished off his drink to avoid looking at you.

“I’m attractive til they get to know me,” you said with a snort.

“What makes you think that?” Frankie asked, confused as to how that could work.

“I don’t think,” you said, “I know. It’s a fact. One that cannot be argued.”

Frankie was about to argue with you about this when you turned away, stumbling as you did. She’s super fucking drunk, Frankie thought, grabbing your arms to steady you. Your skin was so much softer than he anticipated, sending a jolt through him. He let go quickly, mouth going dry as you beamed up at him.

“You saved me!” You declared, then finished your drink quickly, emitting a small burp. “To thank you, I must give you a token of my gratitude. I know! A drink! Three drinks for the kind sir! And three for me!”

“Jesus, how much have you had?” Frankie asked, laughing.

“Only a little bit,” you shrugged and thought for a moment. “Maybe like, a dozen vodka sodas and some shots and also half a bottle of prosecco. And also a teeny tiny bit of molly, but that was hours ago, so it’s basically gone.”

“Maybe I should walk you home,” Frankie suggested gently, amazed that you were still upright let alone getting served. You shrugged.

“I can just get an Uber or something, it’s fine.”

“No, no, don’t waste your money, let me walk you.”

You looked up at him with slightly unfocused eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

The cold air outside hit the both of you like a wall. Stars scattered across a moonless sky, leaving Frankie wonderstruck for a moment, until he noticed the goosebumps on your arms. Without a second thought, Frankie took off his jacket and placed it gently around your shoulders. You looked up at him, a surprised look on your face.

“Frankie, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so, I have this friend, right? And she’s been dating this guy for years now. They live together, no kids or anything. But she told me a little while ago that she’s been feeling . . . trapped.”

“Trapped?”

“Yeah. Like, she doesn’t think she loves her boyfriend anymore. At least, not in a way that she should. And he’s so mean to her, too. He doesn’t hit her or anything, but he’s also not super nice to her, and-and she doesn’t always know what she did to deserve it. She doesn’t know what to do.”

“Can she leave?” Frankie suspected you weren't talking about a friend, but he didn’t press beyond what you were willing to tell him.

“Not easily, I don’t think. She doesn’t have enough money for her own place and- and she’s afraid.” Your face flushed.

“What’s she afraid of?”

“Being alone. Unloved. She doesn’t have any family or anything and her boyfriend is the closest she has to that. So um, if she was your friend, what would you say to her?”

Frankie was thoughtful for several moments. He didn’t want to fuck this up. If his suspicions were correct, you were talking about yourself. “Well, first of all I would tell her that her boyfriend is a massive dick, even if he doesn’t hit her, boyfriends shouldn’t make their girlfriends feel like shit. I would tell her to talk to her friends, ask for their help. I would also tell her that being alone doesn’t have to mean lonely, and it certainly doesn’t mean that she’s going to be unloved.”

You nodded thoughtfully at this. Frankie took this as a good sign. “She can’t know for sure what her life will be like, but my guess is that it will be better if she chooses to leave this asshole.”

The rest of the walk was spent in silence. Frankie knew you were thinking about what he said. He too, was lost in thought. Trying to figure out a plan to help you in any way he could. All too soon, you arrived at your apartment building.

“Thanks for this,” you said, taking off the jacket and handing it to him. Frankie nodded.

“You needed it more than me,” he said simply. “I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow?”

You nodded, and then as if you weren’t entirely sure if what you were about to do was a good idea, you wrapped your arms around him. Frankie stiffened for a moment before hugging you back, holding you to him tightly, breathing in your scent of perfume, sweat, and alcohol. You were warm and soft and everything in him was screaming don’t let go.

“Thank you,” you whispered in his ear, and he knew you weren’t talking about the jacket.

Taglist: Taglist: @hnt-escape @sharkbait77 @1800-fight-me @annathewitch @darnitdraco @frankiecatfish @punkerthanpascal @nakhudanyx @gracie7209

[amazingdriverfics]

if your requests are still open, can i ask for Pale with the smutty “you aren’t taking me to bed….ever.” ‘who said it had to be a bed?’ i think it’d be ... FUN🗣

A/N: Sure thing, sweetie. I hope you like these, I love writing requests and I love Pale very very much too :)

warnings: smut and cheating

Request?  My masterlist

It is an important event, woman and men spin together in the dance floor, while others , like yourself, watch. Your husband was too busy talking business with some stupid CEO’s to notice you, because of that you are sitting in a chair all alone, slowly sipping the bubbly champagne filling your crystal glass. What a waste of time you think to yourself, you are dressed in your most beautiful dress - a shiny silver dress which hugs all your curves perfectly, the right amount of sexy and elegant -, your hair is in your favorite style and your makeup highlights your wonderful face and yet you are alone wishing you had never gotten out of the house. 

Your marriage was dying quickly, you were pretty sure Jack had an affair with someone at his office and you could barely force yourself to talk to him without wanting to puke, but nights like these were all about appearances, tonight you and Jack are the perfect couple, you are beautiful and smart and he is a businessman. God, you hated patriarchy. 

The sound of the heavy chair next to you moving takes you out of your head, without thinking you put a smile on your face ready to face the husband you swore to love, but as you turn to look, your smile dies. The man sitting in the chair isn’t Jack, you had never seen him in your life, he had a shoulder length black hair, dark eyes, red full lips, a constellation of freckles and moles in his face and for the first time in forever you felt desire.

“I hope this sit isn’t taken”  his deep voice seem to echo in your head, increasing the fire starting to burn in your stomach, but you were a married woman and there was no way you could give into it. 

“It is” you reply dryly, keeping your face in an annoyed expression.

“Too bad I don’t give a fuck” the unknown man states, eyes shining with amusement as his hands wonder in his black suit reappearing holding a pack of cigarettes. 

“I’m sorry, do I even know you?” as the question leaves your lips, you spin your head around trying to find Jack, but, unsurprisingly, you aren’t able to locate your useless husband. 

“No, I’m Pale, nice to meet you” he mumbles, cigarette in between his teeth as he ignites it on fire with a beautiful gold lighter which you notice matches with a chain around his strong neck. You don’t reply keeping a straight face, behaving as you were expected to. 

“I was fucking tired of those snobs and this hellhole of a party, dance whatever the fuck this is and as soon as my eyes landed on you I started to believe in destiny, or whatever those hippies call it, because you might just be the one thing to make this whole shit worthy of my time”  Pale continues unbothered by your lack of interaction. 

“Look, I have a husband” the clarification makes him laugh, smoke leaving his nostrils as a hoarse laughter spreads the fire in your stomach to your intimate parts, it had been a long time since anyone but yourself touched there.

“Well, let’s add it to the list of things I don’t give a fuck about. It’s not like I’m looking for romance” he purrs, eyes filled with malice as they stare yours. 

“Let me rephrase it so you get what I mean. You aren’t taking me to bed...ever” as the words escape your mouth you can’t help but wish it wasn’t true. 

“Who said it had to be a bed?” he talks back with a smirk in his perfect face “Look, y/n ” Pale takes you by surprise and you instantly open your mouth ready to ask from where does he know you. “Stop acting like a brat, let me finish” he interrupts you “Your jackass of a husband is cheating on you with his secretary and, since you’re not fucking dumb, I’m guessing you already know it and I’m also guessing he hasn’t pleased you ever, because he doesn’t know how to take care of a woman” he leans into you before finishing, placing his mouth right next to your ear “Now, I know how to take care of one, so lemme take care of you, I’ll make you cum so fucking hard that you’ll be ruined for anyone else”. 

All the rules you were supposed to follow and your will to remain faithful do Jack suddenly leave your mind, as wetness starts to gather on your underwear. The man by your side made you feel desired after being treated like shit by the husband you had come to hate for months. 

“I’m taking your silence as a good thing, follow me” he says before standing and as you take a look at his body, which seemed about to tear the white shirt he was wearing under the suit, your thoughts become all about how tall and hot the mysterious Pale is.

Pale doesn’t wait for a reply - which wouldn’t leave your mouth anyway from how amazed you are - before passing through the crowd of people dancing and entering a corridor you had never been to before, and you? You follow quickly, not enough for anyone to become suspicious, dying to enjoy whatever he was planning to do with you. 

He stops in front of a mahogany door and his dark eyes filled with lust take a quick look at you before his hands open it, revealing a library filled with thousands of books, a beautiful indian carpet on the floor under a fluffy crimson couch. You watch as his figure enters the room and sits on the couch, legs spreaded and his trained eyes on you once again. 

“Come in, close this door and strip” he demands without stuttering causing you to obey. Slowly, you enter closing the door behind you. As soon as your body is in the middle of the room, your hands find your zipper bringing it down, as the dress falls to the carpet, your nipples - hardening from his gaze and the sudden change of temperature - and underwear are exposed to his hungry eyes. 

“Now come, sit in here” he taps roughly to his thighs before taking the top part of his suit off. Once again, you do as your told, giving into your needs letting your worries outside the library. Your bare thighs meet his covered ones as your nipples are pressed against his shirt lightly making you squirm with anticipation, your arms rest by your side since you are not sure you are allowed to touch him. 

“You’re such a whore, aren’t you? You’re husband is outside that door and you’re here showing these pretty fucking tits to me” Pale states as his hands travel on your sides, passing your hips, waist, ribs, before landing on your breasts where they stop, roughly, he squeezes them, causing you to close your eyes as a breath leaves your mouth. “I bet you’re fucking loving it, bet you’re all wet for me” he continues. 

And it was true, you couldn’t even remember the last time you had been this wet, you feel like a horny teenager all over again, Pale had barely touched you, however you are already ready for him. 

Too distracted by the sensation of his hands on your tits as his fingers provoke your nipples, pulling your nubs before massaging it, you don’t feel as he gets closer, only noticing it when his lips meet yours. Surprised, you open your mouth and Pale takes the opportunity, his tongue entering in it and dominating yours in a demanding and rough kiss. Out of instinct, your arms wrap around his neck, nails lightly scratching his covered back.

Against your covered hole you can feel his erection, from need and desire you start to gently move your hips back and forth, trying to create a relieving friction to your ache. “Eager, are we?” he mocks, disattaching his lips from yours and making you nod anxious for his touch. “Get up” Pale orders taking his hands off your niples and slapping your ass, the ‘smack’ noise echoing through the walls.

As you stand on your feet, you feel like you’re going to fall any minute, your legs are weak and a little bit shaky and the way he is looking at you doesn’t help at all. However, before they failed you, he gets off the couch towering you before quickly sitting you on it, forcing your legs to stay in a similar position his had been moments ago, exposing your wet underwear to his eyes. 

Still standing, Pale starts to get rid of his layers, not intentionally making a show out of it, but watching it, you have to fight the urge to run your fingers in between your folds imagining it wouldn’t please him at all.

As soon as his cock springs free, its red head slapping against his belly and the veiny extension proudly standing, your mouth waters and you can’t wait to feel it filling you up, you had never seen one as big as his. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll fuck your tight cheating pussy with it in no time, but first, let’s get you ready for it or I’ll break it and we don’t want your husband to know someone is actually taking good care of you, do we?”

“No” you test you voice and it comes out hoarse and submissive, in this moment you are sure that you would do whatever he commanded you to. He rubs your cheek with his fingers before pressing his thumb against your lips and you don’t think twice before allowing it in and sucking on it, seductively pressing your tongue on it.

“Get it nice and wet for me, slut” he spits and you do as your told, covering his thumb with spit happily lapping your tongue on his finger over and over again. “That’s enough” Pale’s deep voice says and with a sad moan you let his finger go. 

“Hey, don’t you complain, whore. You’re going to take what I give to you and you are going to like it, are we fucking clear?” he asks and you nod, not trusting your voice to satisfy him with an answer. 

“Good” he purrs as his fingers starts to make its way down, his figure bending a bit so he could access your dripping cunt. Pushing your panties aside, Pale press his wet thumb against your swollen clit, instantly making a groan escape your mouth as your hands fly to his arms, hyper aware of his touch. 

Slowly, he starts to rub it, a smirk on his face as his eyes watch your face, seeing how his simple touch is already making you melt under him. When his middle finger starts to ease into you, your walls clench already eager for more of it, getting the message, he inserts one more, curling them on your inside and hitting your sweet spot. 

“R-right there” you stutter, pleasure ripping through your veins. And without answering, Pale continues to hit it every time he curls his fingers before taking them off your hole as his thumb continues the lazy pace on your clit, the pressure not enough to make you cum, but enough to make you wetter as you feel you juices coating his fingers more and more, until he is finally capable of inserting one more of his thick fingers - which were about one and a half of yours each - in your greedy cunt. The only sound despite your moans and whimpers filling the room is the sloopy sound of your pussy being filled and then emptied. 

When Pale thinks you’re ready, he takes his fingers away placing them in his mouth and eroticly cleaning them up until there is no trace of your juices on it. “You’re taste just as good as you fucking smell” he says causing you to clench on nothing, aroused by his praise. 

He walks to you and adjust your figure on the couch, making you stay on all fours as his weight push the top of it down just behind you. Keeping one hand in your waist, Pale guides his thick cock to your folds, running it up and down coating it with your juices before placing its tip against your hole. 

As he eases into you, impossibly stretching and filling you, you start to be unsure if he’ll really fit, it seems like his dick will rearrange all your insides, but his moans and loud breaths encourage you to relax. “Fuckfuck, your pussy is so tight, I bet no one touched in a while” he gritts through his teeth, and you nod, aware it was true. 

When his erection is finally completely inside of you, he stays still for awhile giving you the necessary time to adjust to his size, but you eagerness doesn’t comply with his action and before you can stop yourself, you squeeze his cock with your pussywalls a sign for him to start moving. Your action makes a groan fill you ears as his hands close harder on your skin and as he starts to slowly push back, keeping only his tip inside of you, before slamming it hard back inside. Just this one action makes you aware that it was true what he had said, Pale was going to ruin you for any other man. 

He sets a merciless pace, filling you up completely and hitting your cervix again and again, as his balls hit your clit and his stomach hits your ass roughly making it red and reducing you to a mess of cries for more and moans.

And even though it seemed impossible he gives it to you, the slap slap of his skin becoming louder as his cock gets in and out in an inhuman pace, his sweat falling on your back as yours accumulated on your hairline, the effort of standing on your hands and knees as he pounded into you becoming too much by the second, as your orgasm starts to get closer. 

When it finally hits, your mouth drops open as your eyes close, and your walls clench milking his cock and making him cum. The time seems to stand still as you are completely aware of every inch inside of you, of the way his hot big load mix with your own release, of how tight his hands are gripping you - which will probably bruise - and just how satisfied you are. 

“See slut? I made you cum, bet you’re snob husband never did and now you will need me all the fucking time to fill you up this good, aren’t you?” his hoarse voice from the orgasm declares and you whisper a ‘yes’ knowing he was fucking right. 

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

The event is ending and you are once again with your husband, his arm around your waist bringing Pale’s grip on it to your mind, but nothing in your appearance gives what you did away and since Jack was too busy talking business or whatever, he hadn’t noticed your disappearance.

“Before we go, love, I want you to meet the new manager of our franchise” Jack’s annoying voice gets you out of your head and you politely nod, faking a smile as he guides you to one of the hundreds of people you had met tonight. 

“Pale, this is my wife y/n” your husband says and although your face remains neutral, the air stops in your throat as you realise how Pale knew so much about you and Jack. 

The tall man turns around, face unbothered as usual as he looks at you like he had never seen you before. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you” he says taking your hand in his before giving it a quick kiss, which sets you on fire all over again. 

“The pleasure is all mine. Since you are the new manager guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot from now on” you reply, a chast smile on your face as you mind wanders through all the possibilities.

[iamartemisday]

Pepperony Week Day Seven- AU

A/N: This will be a Nanny AU. Hope you enjoy and I hope you all had an amazing Pepperony Week!

**

Everyone hits rock bottom sometime.

For Pepper Potts, rock bottom was standing on the porch of an Upper East Side Manhattan townhouse ready to hock cheap makeup products to another bored housewife. Either that or get the door slammed in her face. Currently, she had a three to ten ratio.

"This is why you don't take a job in your cheating boyfriend's law office," she told herself again, just in case she didn't get the message the other six thousand times. "This is also why you don't date cheaters."

She knocked on the door and listened for footsteps. A tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes answered. He was dressed in what she'd come to find was a standard butler uniform. Great. One more door in the face.

"Hello," Pepper said, her well-rehearsed sales pitch ready to go. "My name is Virginia Potts, and-"

"Yes, we've been expecting you. Right this way, please." The butler stood aside, motioning for Pepper to come in.

She gripped the make-up case tighter, blinking stupidly for a moment as she processed the wide expanse of white marble interior and the well-dressed British man expectantly watching her.

"Uh… okay." There was a script for this, but she'd only skimmed it.

Entering the home was like walking into a cave. As Pepper took in the winding staircase and cathedral ceiling, she felt like going back outside just to check that the house wasn't bigger on the inside. Through one doorway was a dining room with a table built for twelve and an elegant chandelier. The living room was to the left. A boy sat on an onyx couch by the fireplace. It crackled merrily even though it was early August. The flow of central air didn't seem to be coming from a vent. At least, not one Pepper could see.

As she marveled at the sheer scope of this fairy tale dream home, the boy glanced up from his book. "Who's this?"

His tone wasn't rude, but it wasn't warm either. Pepper's first impression of the boy was aloofness, a common trait among teenagers if she remembered correctly.

"This is Virginia Potts, Harley," the butler said. "She's here to interview for the nanny position."

He glanced at Pepper to confirm. As she was now occupied with a decorative mirror on the wall which she was sure she'd seen in a movie somewhere, all she could do was nod her head. She barely heard the exchange anyway.

"I'll let Mr. Stark know you've arrived," he said, gliding down the hall as graceful as a gazelle. "If you'll wait one moment please."

There were no chairs anywhere except in the living room. The boy had returned to his book and didn't acknowledge Pepper when she stepped over the threshold onto the lushly carpeted floor. She didn't know if she should say something, or if she should even sit. If her grandma was here she'd coat this whole room in plastic covering and then never set foot in it again.

A second boy raced down the stairs, reaching the sixth step and jumping to the bottom. "Harley! I got it working. Now we can-" He stopped short of running into Pepper. In her heels, she was half a head taller than him, but he looked no younger than the boy on the couch. He also looked like he'd just broken about fifty rules. "Uh… sorry. I didn't know we had company."

"She's the new nanny Dad's going to hire to keep track of us," said the boy on the couch. "Because it's not like we're teenagers who can take care of ourselves. No, just have to get us a handler."

"Maybe he's still mad about the alpaca thing," the second boy mused.

The boy on the couch scoffed. "He was just pissed that we thought of it first. If anything it was the riverboat thing at the Summer gala last year."

As they ran through a list of unintelligible incidents which might have led them to this point, Pepper replayed the word 'nanny' in her head a few hundred times. Try as she might, it never sounded like anything else.

A door opened and a man stepped out. He wore an expensive suit, yellow-tinted sunglasses, and a thousand-watt grin made for magazine covers. "Good morning, you must be the new applicant Jarvis was telling me about."

Pepper shook his hand, trying to act as though he was a supervisor at the makeup company and not Tony Stark. The actual literal Tony Stark. Ridiculously rich genius inventor all of her friends had at the top of their celebrity crush lists. The last time she saw his face, he was on Ellen. Now he was talking to her.

"Hi, I'm Pepper," she said, forgoing all formalities. "It's… nice to meet you, Mr. Stark."

He grinned wider. "My reputation precedes me. Awesome. Let's talk." The doorbell rang. Jarvis approached but Tony stopped him with a hand. " That will be my daughter and her escort. Give me one second Ms. Pepper."

"Ms. Potts," she said, but he didn't appear to have heard. He opened the door and a pale young girl with a bright red pixie cut and a dark purple hoodie stood sullenly at the entrance. With her was a police officer.

"She was tagging dumpsters," the officer said, arms crossed.

Tony pursed his lips. "Thought she'd graduated to bridges. Guess I was wrong."

"That's the third time this month, Mr. Stark. Any more and I will have no choice but to arrest her."

"Hey now, let's not use the 'A' word in front of impressionable children, huh?" Tony stepped aside as the girl stomped past him. "This is a phase and she'll grow out of it. Now I'm sure you have lots of grocery store robberies to stop and kittens to rescue from trees, so I'll just let you go."

"I'm serious, Mr. Stark. Keep her in line."

"I assure you, no child of mine would ever cut in line. See you later, Stan." He shut the door and locked it. Pepper thought she heard a beep like a computer booting up. "Okay, that was exciting. Let me introduce you to your potential charges-to-be. Over there is Harley-"

The boy on the couch raised a hand but didn't wave.

"-this right here is Peter-"

"Nice to meet you," he said, his smile lighting up his face in such a way, Pepper had to resist hugging him.

"-and this bundle of sunshine is Nebula. Hey Neb, say hi to Ms. Pepper."

The girl was already halfway up the stairs with no signs of stopping. She mumbled a quick, "hello Ms. Pepper," and then she was gone.

"Don't mind her. It's a teenage thing. She'll write a few goth poems and be right as rain by tomorrow." Despite his dismissive tone, his eyes lingered on the top of the steps, as if he thought maybe she'd come back down. When she didn't, he rolled his shoulders and sighed. "Okay, let's go talk in my office."

Pepper followed him down the hall past a number of doors until they reached one hanging open. Inside was a room full of metal parts with bookshelves lining every wall. A couch and coffee table added a homey feel and by the windows was Tony's desk. A man and a woman stood by it. The man was tall and lean with sharp, handsome features. The woman petite and skinny, with a face that would make most men look twice.

"Hey guys, you mind if we take a break?" Tony sat in his plushy desk chair, spinning it once for good measure and propping his feet up. "Need to do a job interview. Ms. Pepper, allow me to introduce Loki Odinson, my business partner, and Dr. Jane Foster, our favorite benefactee."

The man, Loki, nodded politely but had nothing to say. Dr. Foster, by contrast, smiled and took Pepper's hand. She was overall quite personable and Pepper didn't miss the way Loki kept looking at her.

"I can bring you more information about the project tomorrow, Tony," Dr. Foster said. "I think this might be the big one."

Loki chuckled. "Yes, with a little hard work and elbow grease you'll finally defeat those baking soda volcanoes at the science fair."

Dr. Foster blew air out her nose. "Gee, thanks. Anyway, I need to head out. Have to be at the university in an hour to discuss my lecture and you know what Manhattan traffic is like this time of day."

"Be careful you don't get stepped on," said Loki.

"Don't mind them," Tony fake whispered as they glared at each other all the way out the door. "They act like they hate each other, but it's really just unresolved sexual tension. Pretty soon they'll snap and fuck on my desk or something."

"I can hear you," Dr. Foster shouted.

"That's good. Use a condom," Tony shouted back. He took his feet down and laced his fingers together, slipping into business mode like it was a second skin. "Okie Doke. I assume you have a resume somewhere in that makeup kit."

As it happened, she did. One never knew when they'd pass an office building with a help wanted sign in the window. Pepper had learned long ago to always be prepared for anything, and she hadn't made an exception here. Opening the case she whipped out a folder full of crisp white linen pages listing all the qualities that would make her an exceptional businesswoman. She handed it to Mr. Stark, hoping it could get her a job in childcare.

"Hmmm…" he rubbed his chin as his eyes raked across the page. "Mmm. You're in grad school. Working on your thesis, I see."

"It's a process. I'm almost done, but you know… one day at a time."

"Business management." Mr. Stark dropped the page. "I guess you could say raising a family is like running a business in a way. Communication and cooperation are key. We've all got to work together and respect each other."

"Of course," she said.

"We can't be afraid to let our colleagues know when they've made a mistake or are getting ready to set off a homemade explosive in the house."

"Yes sir," Pepper nodded. "I mean… what?"

She caught a whiff of the air. Ashy like something burning. A trail of gray smoke floated down the hall. There was a popping sound and one of the boys cursed. Pepper crossed the hall to find Peter on his knees tinkering with a miniature rocket booster. Said rocket was currently cradled in Harley's arms.

"Why don't these figures ever add up," Peter groaned, typing furiously.

"Did you carry the one?"

"Yes, for the hundredth time. I always carry the one."

Pepper looked to Mr. Stark, mouth wide. He maintained total serenity and motioned for her to step up. At first, she wanted to scream. He was the parent, not her. It was his job to stop them.

Except it would also be the nanny's job, and she was the nanny.

'I knew I should've taken the west end,' she thought, shuffling forward on uncertain feet. Neither boy acknowledged her until the toe of her shoe bumped their device. "Hey guys, you can't set that off in the house."

"Have you checked telemetry?" Harley asked Peter as if no one else had spoken.

"Everything's running normally. If I could just get this thruster to work."

"Excuse me," Pepper, kneeling to Peter's level. "Do you really think it's a good idea to launch a rocket indoors?"

"It's not dangerous," said Harley, rolling his eyes.

"It's just supposed to fly into the kitchen out the window and land in the yard," Peter explained. "We've calculated the distance based on the positioning of the booster and triple checked our math. There's no possible way this could go wrong."

"Well as long as the fuel doesn't leak out, but that probably won't happen," Harley interjected. "I'd say we have about a ninety-seven to ninety-eight chance of success."

Peter grinned innocently, trying his best to look cute and unthreatening. To his credit, he was good at activating those motherly instincts, but he was about seven years too old for it to stick.

"Okay, how about we try this another time?" Pepper pushed the booster into the wall, well of course for its intended trajectory. "Maybe out in the park would be better."

"It was made for this house," said Harley.

"The whole point is to get it out that window," Peter argued.

"And what if you miss and break something?"

"Dad won't mind. Right, Dad?"

Harley shot his father a pleading look, and to Pepper's consternation, Mr. Stark did not immediately shoot him down and send him to his room. He had a hand on his chin and seemed to actually be considering it.

"I don't know. Maybe it'll work." He eyeballed Pepper. "You sure they can't do it?"

There was that grin again. Either he really was screwing with her or her expression was just that hilarious.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, forgetting for a moment that she was talking to a guy rich and powerful enough to destroy her life with a snap of his fingers. That was the other thing about hitting rock bottom: you just plain stopped giving a shit. "They could destroy this whole house! Burn everything to the ground. They are not shooting that damn rocket in here." She rounded on Harley, who took a step back in surprise. "Give me the rocket."

He held it tight to his chest. "It's mine. I spent weeks working on it."

"Then you should've gone outside. Give it to me now."

"No!"

"Harley. Now!"

The moment seemed to drag on for hours. Harley stared defiantly at Pepper and she stared back. If he thought his scrawny teenage self would cow her, he should've spent a night babysitting her sister's kids. After that, there wasn't a child in the world who could bring Virginia Potts to her knees.

After a while, he seemed to realize that. Even with Peter offering silent but steady encouragement, his stance had weakened and his grip on the rocket's base had grown slack. Slowly he unfurled his arms. The rocket was heavier than Pepper expected and appeared to be full of liquid. Whatever it was, she didn't want to know.

"Let's go, Peter," Harley grumbled.

The two boys scurried upstairs without another word. Doors slammed and that was the end of it. Pepper let out a sigh which was cut short as she remembered the children's father standing right behind her.

'You just told off a pair of kids you just met like you're their mother,' her inner voice said. 'Are you ready for a tidal wave of pissed off entitled rich parent crap? Because you're about to get it.'

Except when Pepper turned to face the music, Mr. Stark was not scowling. In fact, he wasn't angry at all.

He was smiling.

And then he clapped.

No, he was full-on applauding her.

"Perfect," he said, that world-famous grin returning with a vengeance. "Absolutely stellar! You are exactly what I need, Pep!"

Pepper held her breath, but it never came. "Y-you're not mad?"

"Mad?" Tony laughed. "How could I be mad? What do you think I need around here, a yes man who will roll over and let my kids do whatever they want? Or someone to be, y'know, responsible and mature? And tell them 'no' when they have to?"

"I…" Pepper swallowed. "Family is built on cooperation, right?"

"Exactly!" Tony put an arm around her and led her back to his office. "Now, if I haven't made it clear, you're hired. Let's go discuss moving you in and the six-figure yearly salary I'm going to pay you."

"Well, I still have a few months left on my lease," Pepper said. "I guess I could break it, but I'd really rather… I'm sorry, six-figure salary?"

"Uh-huh," Tony spun and struck a pose against the wall. "I compensate my nannies very well for dealing with my children's antics. Let me make it clear, they're not troubled. They're all good kids at heart, but they're smart. Like, really smart. The trick is to always stay one step ahead of them. Are you up for it, Ms. Pepper? Or would you rather go back to selling makeup door to door?"

Her pink, heart-shaped makeup case stared at her from the desk inside, as if issuing a challenge. Pepper refused to look at it. Inanimate object or no, she'd never give it the satisfaction. "Yes sir, I am."

Tony pumped a fist. "Great. Let's talk contracts. Also, feel free to fall madly in love with me and have a whirlwind romance that ends with you properly joining the family."

Pepper gawked at him, a laugh bursting forth. "That is not going to happen, Mr. Stark."

He shrugged. "It might."

"It won't."

"But it might."

"But it won't."

He smirked at her but didn't respond. The next hour was all business with a few well-intentioned barbs thrown in. As Pepper signed and initialed a dozen pages, she wondered just which kind of insanity she was getting herself into.

Either way, things were finally looking up.

[blackjack-15]

The Force of Nature and the Cackling Madman: What Hux Should Be (and What ROS Won’t Be)

Warning: two mentions of the leaked/newish pictures. They will have spoiler warnings bracketing it, along with the appropriate tags connected to the post. You’ve been warned.

INTRODUCTION

With RoS mere months away, this meta really can’t be delayed any longer before it becomes moot, so here we go!

TLJ was a lot of things — some good, some bad —  but what it wasn’t was surprising (unless you count just how shockingly bad 90% of Finn’s storyline was). This is generally a good thing in movies nowadays, where surprises come not from clever writing, but from enormous missteps in the writing or the desire to feel clever by putting in a twist that isn’t foreshadowed, or even just by breaking the rules of your universe.

Ignoring all but the main storyline — which is about Rey and Kylo Ren and their obstacles/conflicts — TLJ didn’t bring any surprises, but instead followed on the lines that TFA set up. As this is obviously the storyline that’s been hashed out from the start and is the point they’re building to, it’s thus safe to say that RoS is simply going to do the same, and follow the lines that TLJ set up.

SPOILER WARNING BEGINS

(Side note: this is why, when the absurdly stupid tuning-fork-lightsaber of Rey’s showed up in the first looks at RoS, it was immediately obvious that she was going to be able to “break” off half of it to give to Kylo when his saber is ultimately gone/self-destructs. Not only does the spoiler picture all but confirm this, but it’s also the obvious trajectory from the two fighting over a lightsaber in TLJ and breaking it in half.)

SPOILER WARNING ENDS

Anyway, with this framework in mind, and with the knowledge that every Star Wars media since the OG trilogy is in some way an adaptation of the OG trilogy, let’s examine what this means for the villain.

TERROR AND STAR WARS VILLAINS

There’s really no getting around the fact that one of the weakest facets of any Star Wars movie — yes, the OG trilogy is included here — is the villains that accompany them. A few SW video games fare a bit better in this, but most follow the movies’ path. This isn’t shocking — Star Wars is a Hero’s Journey, and in a Hero’s Journey it’s the presence of a villain, not the nature of the villain itself, that’s the important part — but it is crucial to understand.

Darth Vader is by far the most iconic and scariest villain that Star Wars movies can boast of, and for those born after 4/5/6 came out, he’s not really that scary, because those viewers go in knowing who Vader is and that he’s (at least partially) redeemed through his sacrifice. The greatest contribution that Rogue One made to that viewership is the scene with Vader at the end, where he is legitimately an object of terror as he was when 4/5/6 were first out.

This leads to a discussion of Palpatine-as-villain in RotJ, where the best that can be said for his status as terror-inducing villain is that at least he has Vader to do most of the heavy lifting for him. As a villain, Palpatine is just not scary. Maybe it’s the makeup, maybe it’s the fact that he gets thrown out like a sack of garbage to his death, maybe it’s the cold ham delivery he gives to what should be properly menacing lines.

Darth Maul’s visuals in TPM alone are scarier than all of Palpatine in RotJ, and, before it’s brought up, Palpatine is even less scary than that in the prequels, so I’m not even considering that part.

The thing that most Star Wars villains have in common (aside from Tarkin, who is my person favorite movie-verse villain) is that they’re forces of nature; they have the force and/or use lightsabers, they’re larger than life and beings of immense power and reputation, and they’re there to sort of loom over movie, causing overwhelming-yet-non-specifc terror to motivate the plot in a “avoid the bad guys” sort of way.

This is especially obvious in the prequel movies, where Darth Maul (ignoring his awesome visual effect), General Grievous, and Count Dooku are all basically meant to Stand There And Look Menacing, rather than having anything about them that’s actually interesting.

And here’s where the interesting things in the sequel trilogy begin.

WHY SMOKE SNOKE?

There was never any way that Snoke was going to live past TLJ, just like there was no way that Hux wasn’t going to survive TLJ. Remembering that the sequel trilogy is in a lot of ways an adaptation of the OG trilogy (as all Star Wars movies are), TFA was trying to get you to think of Snoke as Palpatine — an overlord that survives until the last bit of the last movie and Hux as Tarkin — the non-Force user who is Evil and all but dies b/c he’s too smug and petty.

But neither one of those things were actually true. Because that would position Kylo Ren as the Vader analogue, and all of TFA is dedicated to showing just how wrong that assumption is.

Because Kylo’s not Vader, Hux isn’t Tarkin, and Snoke isn’t Palpatine. Thus, Snoke has to die, because we can’t go into the last third of the trilogy with competing big bads (and no, Kylo and Hux don’t count there, either — Kylo isn’t a big bad at all, unless you think that the Big Bad Villain’s job is to fall for a British honeypot with a lightsaber).

I’ll admit, I was a bit smug when Snoke died and left only Hux alive and kicking out of the Three Bad Guys (as Kylo/Ben isn’t even pretending to be a bad guy anymore), because that’s what I had predicted — a fake-out with a Palpatine-style, force-of-nature villain only to reveal that the real Big Bad was with us all along — a mortal; a cackling madman: General Hux.

PLOTTING WITH PALPATINE

When spoilers first indicated that Palpatine would instead make yet another appearance in a Star Wars film, I was optimistic. Optimistic not in the “hey the Rebels will totally win” sort of way; no, optimistic in the “these kind Jedi will definitely free the slaves and not just take the kid because They Must Deal Kindly With Illegal Slavers”. AKA misplaced optimism rather than genre-savvy faith in the heroes to prevail.

Because actually bringing back Palpatine would be a stupid move all the way around, I tried to figure out why they’d advertise it and not try to hide the bad idea in a Secret Twist.

So here’s where we get the interplay between the Force of Nature and the Cackling Madman.

In a world where the Force exists, it’s easy to imagine that those without it feel rather powerless — or at least overshadowed — when near those who do wield it. Certainly, that’s true for most of Tarkin’s council, and true of Hux. 

Over and over again in TFA and TLJ, we see Hux trying to prove that he’s every inch Kylo’s Equal. Even after Snoke’s death, he uses no deference to the new Supreme Leader and repeats his commands so he can believe that the First Order soldiers are following him.

Hux’s scene in TFA where he’s commanding the troops shows Hux at his finest (and most evil); apart from any Jedi/Sith/Force influence, he is himself to a glorious extreme: the Cackling Madman.

THE CACKLING MADMAN

I don’t use this title to say that Hux is insane (though he’s clearly a bit off) but rather to show the difference between a villain like Hux and a villain like Palpatine. Unlike the Force of Nature villain, a Cackling Madman is usually present over the entire story, seen as a person rather than as a shadowy figure, and is allowed to fail and succeed at multiple times during the trajectory of the story, rather than only failing at the very end when the heroes triumph.

In short, Star Wars has never had, in the movie-verse, a Cackling Madman as the main villain. The prequels play at it for about .5 seconds with Senator Palpatine, but he’s still the Force of Nature, ultimately, just pretending to be a Good Guy.

As the sequel trilogy, is, once again, and like any other SW media, an adaptation of the OG trilogy, I was really excited for this shift in formula — it would play on audience expectation that Snoke would just be Palpatine 2.0, only to reveal — with the proper set up, as shown in TFA and TLJ — that the true villain was there all along, just unnoticed for what he was.

THE FACADE OF THE FORCE

So where would the intervention of Palpatine go in this shift from the formula?

Hux as the ultimate Big Bad would know that he would need the support of a powerful force user — or, at least, the appearance of support of a powerful force user.

And, in the Star Wars universe, you could do worse than to claim the support of (in the EU) the eternally clone-happy Emperor. Hux’s only problem is that the Emperor is dead, and thus not really up to supporting a ginger with dreams of Ultimate Power.

So any support would have to be a facade. And how is Star Wars uniquely equipped to handle facades?

We’re talking holograms, baby.

Holograms of a weakened yet still powerful Emperor — maybe missing a hand or something, a few attacks “directed” by the Emperor meeting wild success, manipulation of the Holograms to say Hux’s name and offer support of him as his Preeminent General or whatever, and Hux has the galaxy at his feet.

IMAGINE MY DISAPPOINTMENT (SPOILERS HERE AGAIN)

And then the spoiler pictures of Palpatine came out and — disappointment was prevalent, but I wasn’t surprised.

The big problem with the Sequel Trilogy is that it has one well-plotted plot line — the main plot line with Rey and Kylo/Ben — and then every other plot line is pretty much left up to the whims of the moment. It’s especially evident in Finn’s TLJ plot line, but it’s present to some extent in every other plot line throughout the two movies currently out.

What Hux should be is the danger lurking in plain sight; the villain seen but not understood, and the evil present but not accounted for. That alone would add a dimension to the Sequel Trilogy that it’s lacking right now — and lacking even more with the advent of Palpatine’s return. Not only would it acknowledge its freedom as an adaptation to play with audience expectation, but it would demonstrate something that both it and the Prequel Trilogy lack: trust in its audience.

THE ULTIMATE CONCLUSION

What RoS should be is a movie that delivers something new but still authentic to the Star Wars universe. Ultimately, that’s all it would take to please the majority of its audience, because those who are watching the ST without having seen any other Star Wars media are few and far between. 

The shame is that what RoS will be is a movie that (wrongly) doesn’t trust its audience to consume  nuanced media, and instead tries to placate them with false advertising (trying to give off the air that RoS will be a trio movie with Finn, Rey, and Poe when everyone knows it won’t be) and with the return of old characters and the descendants of old characters. It’s like adding blue flashing lights to an old snow globe and declaring that you’re recaptured lightning in a bottle.

[zaraegis]

Come At The King| Part 1 | T

Fandom: Cuphead

Pairings: Ride or Die QPP Wheezy & Dice

TW: haha, blood, violence, descriptions of injuries, unhealthy alcoholism, underage drinking

Notes: Female pronouns are used for Dice in flashbacks before transitioning, just to be clear.

Next

/King

The one time that he spoke with someone about being King Dice as a child, they didn't even look up from their rifle scope as they crushed his dreams.:

"Girls aren't Kings, stupid. Men are are Kings."

He can't recall half his childhood as well as he can recall that conversation.

-

He enjoyed the dresses, the makeup, the careful application of things to accentuate his eyes or his figure. He loved it.

He never had a problem with that. It was other people that he grew weary of.

-

"What's wrong with being Queen, then?"

"Nothing, really." Dice sighed, twenty years old and already extremely tired of it all. Her favorite playing partner chuckled at her, as he upped his ante. Sucker.

"Don't like the dresses?

"No, they're cute enough I suppose."

"You know Queens ruled alone as well right? They didn't need a husband."

"Yeah. I just- there's something about being King. I want to be King Dice." She threw two cards into the discard pile, they overshot and hit the man's drink.

"That's it then" her partner shrugged, rescuing his drink from further assault. She pouted but listened to him. Souse and trouble-prone he may be, but he's always had good advice. He continued after an irritating slurp of scotch.

"You just want to be king." She knows, she's been saying it for years now."So become King, you'll hit your stride then, I'll bet anything on it."

Dice looked down at her cards, tempted to scoff at such simplistic advice. But… he's never steered her wrong. And she had him to thank for the job at the bar they work at now. A steady income is always nice to buy better cards and nicer clothes. And sharper knives.

"I'll think about it. I have reservations about your bets you know, you've lost to me how many times now, Wheezy?" She smirked, laying out her cards.

Wheezy shrugged and let his hand scatter on the table between them, graceful as ever in his defeat to her.

"Yeah yeah, you're the gamest in the bar King."

Dice laughed, delighted.

/Being King

So she uses her next check to buy her first suit. A fine black thing she wears to their weekly poker night.

It costs so much, she barely makes rent that month and she has to tailor it herself, but it makes her shoulders wider, and the loose sleeves make it easier to hide things.

She looks in the mirror and smirks, standing proud and springing cards between two gloved hands. There is something relaxing in her finally, a tense coil unwinding her shoulders until she can almost slump.

"Lookit you!" Wheezy whistles in such a sleazy way that half the waitresses working the bar that night twitch instinctively with a frown at them. Then they see who it is and roll their eyes. Well used to ignoring any shouting, scuffles and death threats when Mr.Wheezy and Dice start up their weekly poker game.

Dice preens, allowing Wheezy to pat his padded shoulders, and raise judgmental eyebrows at the gold heart cufflinks. It was worth it.

"Well King?" he leers, blowing smoke away from Dice to keep his new suit from smelling like ashes. There were some new faces in the crowd, sneaking glances at their table.

Dice blinks slowly at the fresh meat, before a smile crawls up his face, a sneer really, showcasing some truly alarming canines. Wheezy feels a shiver of fear up his spine, at that terrifying competitive streak no longer being slyly hidden with distracting clothing or a closed lip-sticked smile.

But that fear has always been there, in the back of his mind, since a little slip of a girl beat him in poker, proceeded to tell him how she cheated and then bought him a drink with his winnings. It was a nice change from the usual thugs and lump heads that hung around to play cards with. He's learned to be amused at how frightening his friend is, really.

Later on that night, Dice huffs out a breath.

"It's easier to move in this as well too," He muses aloud, carefully using his handkerchief to wipe the blood from his brass knuckles.

Wheezy is holding onto his suit jacket to keep it from getting wrinkled like the considerate person he likes to pretend he isn't. Someone on the floor groans in pain but doesn't get up when Dice tilts his head at the sound. Smart man.

"Hope to see you at the next poker game everybody!" He calls out as he makes his way to the front of the alley where they were jumped by their new friends.

"No one I have to help you drag to the doctors this time?" Wheezy asks, not turning to see the aftermath. Blood and violence makes him queasy. Dice notes the black velvet of his suit hides the blood stains pretty well.

"No, they were just kids anyway." All of them were several times his age.

Wheezy despairs at someone who actually knows how to fight ever deciding to go after his friend. He'd be useless in a fight and Dice would probably either end up in the hospital or in a grave.

The thought makes him nauseous, and he flicks open his lighter and lights up, every exhale now accompanied by a plume of smoke. Dice notices, of course, and steers him to his place.

"Did you drink too much again?" He asks, voice thankfully free of any opinion on his sometimes over indulging. Wheezy collapses on the familiar couch, the terrible thought of Dice carking it, the gross sounds of pain and fighting, and the scotch in his stomach churning uneasily.

"I- maybe," He hedges, taking the cool glass of water Dice hands him and cautiously sipping at it. He averts his eyes at the look in those poison green eyes.

He worries Dice sometimes too, he can tell. He's a horrible friend really.

Something heavy landing on him jolts him out of his musings. It's a towel and a change of clothes he's left here after waking up on this couch too often.

"Go shower, you smell like a bar."

"We work in a bar Dicey."

"I said if you ever called me that again I'd put you out with my HEEL, Wheeze."

"At least you're not wearing those six inch pumps right now."

Dice's neighbor hits the wall until they both stop laughing like idiots at 4 in the morning.

-

Dice of course, makes a point of wearing some truly horrifying high heels with his suits for the next week. Just to make Wheezy sweat.

/Gifts

"Birthday?" Dice parrots back, holding the box like one would a dangerous but amusing bomb.

"Yeah, isn't it coming up? I gotcha a lil' something. Not every day you turn 21 and are officially able to go into your own place of work."

Dice's fake ID pops up between his fingers, smiling fit to burst. "I don't know what you mean, I'm as old as you are!"

"Oh fuck off," He keeps smiling even as Wheezy tries to smother the man with his hand. He has to give it up as Dice easily, insultingly so, pries it off his face.

Damn the guy, Wheezy's seen his morning regimen, no one should do that many pushups before the sun is up. But that's besides the point.

"Yeah yeah, open it already."

There's a pause as those eerie eyes take him in. And then Dice opens the flat rectangular box. In it are several bow ties, high quality silk, or so the tailor told him.

"For your suits, I thought you'd like 'em." The last time Wheezy wore a bow, he'd been at his first job interview. God he feels old. He's only nine years older than Dice though, which is fortunate as King acts older than both of them at times.

"I ..I don't know how to tie one." There's a softness in him at that, as he picks one up to admire it in the light. It's a bright red, and Wheezy may or may not be having a flashback to the last time he saw certain unsavory people threaten the bar for protection money while King Dice was in hearing range.

He shakes it off and they spend their break tying on different bows until Dice keeps a purple one on for the night. The other employees and bar regulars, now having known Dice for five years, are able to finally spring a successful surprise party as soon as they step back in from the break room where Wheezy was stalling him.

It's a small cake, and a free drink for everyone, since they are all still working, but a round of "Happy Birthday" is sung/slurred/bellowed for a stunned Dice.

-

"Hey."

It's dark, and they're in Dice's apartment again, with Wheezy spending more of his time here than in his own home. He's also almost completely sober, aside from the shot he had as they sang for Dice. It's probably why he's still awake.

"What?" he whispers back to Dice, whose been sitting on the opposite sofa in the dark for an hour now.

"I'm glad you're my friend Wheeze." is the whispered reply. Wheezy doesn't look over to see if the other man is showing another emotion other than smugness. That seems like something he shouldn't see.

"Me too, Dicey."

There's a sigh, "It's just a shame I'm going to have to kill you because you keep calling me Dicey."

A silence. Wheezy is trying to keep a straight face.

"Please make my headstone out of as much gold as you can Dicey."

There's a snort before a cushion pelts him square in the face.

[lisatelramor]

Not Left To Stand Alone Ch4

The next two days passed quickly. Takumi didn’t test him Tuesday, spending the day watching him instead, but Wednesday brought another prank and a strike on Takumi’s record. Saguru could feel Takumi’s eyes on him, challenging him to do his worst, but that was part of the problem. No one knew what they could and could not get away with yet, and until they did, there would be students like Takumi testing Saguru’s limits. Teaching in Japan was very different than England, but it brought back nostalgia along with a healthy helping of sympathy for his teachers. There was all the more reason to appreciate the attentive students when students fell asleep, passed notes, or blatantly read manga, used to this being mostly ignored. Saguru planned to introduce the manga readers to English comic strips. That way if they read in his class at least it would be something English related.

Troublemakers aside, things were settling into a pattern the way things always did. Saguru always felt better with a routine. His currently routine wasn’t the healthiest of patterns at the moment. He woke up, had tea and breakfast, went to work, came home, sat in a daze, made dinner, and went to bed, but it was a pattern nevertheless. Kuroba’s presence was welcome as a variable in the pattern. He could see the year stretching ahead in a set formula, and it might not be where he thought he’d be a year ago, but it would be a stable formula. That was what Saguru needed most at the moment.

Saguru heard sirens that night as he sat up, grading his first homework papers. They went on for half an hour, passing in one direction and then another. Saguru was sure Kid was leading the task force on a merry chase. Ten minutes after midnight as Saguru laid in his futon, he heard Kuroba return. He only noticed because he was listening for it, the light click of a door opening, a few seconds of water running on the other side of the wall. There was a series of faint popping noises Saguru classified as the glider being packed away. The tiny, quiet sounds next door continued for another ten minutes and then all was still. Saguru wondered if Kuroba still had a partner. He had had one during high school, but now? Saguru could only hope Kuroba had someone watching his back that he could trust not to put a bullet in it.

***

Homeroom had been suspiciously quiet. In the past two weeks, Saguru had found that homeroom tended to be a bit chaotic. After morning tasks were over, students tended to chat and, inevitably, Saguru would find Takumi studying him across the room whenever classmates weren’t occupying his attention. The most intent scrutiny would eventually lead to a prank, something small, like the chalk going missing from the blackboard or pens replaced with odd colors some time during his English class. Twice Saguru had caught Takumi pulling something more elaborate, intercepting a glitter bomb before it made its way into his desk and easily tracing back the hoard plastic spiders that fell from a propped ceiling tile to their source. Takumi didn’t seem to be trying hard to hide his efforts, and his classmates seemed torn between humor and confusion.

It was enough to guess that this wasn’t usual behavior.

Which meant Takumi definitely didn’t like Saguru or was trying to prove something, and it wasn’t clear what that was yet.

But today had been quiet and Saguru was on edge because of it. Takumi had focused on his desk instead of staring him down, and the break of pattern was enough to have Saguru braced. Saguru’s back was to the class, diagramming a sentence with notations in Japanese. He reached the end of the line, the itch between his shoulder blades leaning toward paranoia, and turned in time to see the room fill with a puff of smoke. A light weight settled around him, barely noticeable except that his senses were on overtime. When the smoke cleared, Takumi wasn’t even bothering to pretend that someone else did it. He met Saguru’s eyes and smirked. It was such a Kuroba expression that Saguru wanted to laugh. Unfortunately that would be both inappropriate and counterproductive at the moment.

The classroom was so quiet he could have heard a mouse run across the floor. Then one girl toward the back of the room started giggling, trying and failing to stifle the sound as she slumped down in her desk.

Saguru sighed and pulled out the hand mirror he had in his pocket just in case he needed it for moments like this. There was a thin, rather tastefully done layer of makeup on Saguru’s face and a chin-length wig on his head which explained why his head felt heavier and his cheek itched. For the life of him, Saguru couldn’t figure out how Takumi—who sat in the middle of the room—had managed to put a wig and makeup on Saguru in ten-odd seconds it took for the smoke to disperse without Saguru feeling him do it. Surely he should have felt the lipstick at the very least? Then again, Saguru had never figured out how Kuroba managed to dye his hair green on multiple occasions and (a memory that still had Saguru feeling embarrassed) dressed him in women’s lingerie during a Kid heist. So it was an impressive prank, and were it to someone else at another time, Saguru would have appreciated it for the skill it held.

Instead, Saguru snapped the mirror shut and pulled a wet wipe from his briefcase to clean the makeup off. He took the wig off, a bit amused at how it had brought out his resemblance to Mum, and made a notation in what he’d heard at least one student call the ‘black book.’ That taken care of, he let his gaze travel across the classroom, one eyebrow pointedly raised. Their giggling trailed off uncertainly. Obviously they expected an explosion. He wasn’t giving them one. “Kuroba-kun, please see me at the end of the school day.”

“Sports tryouts are today, sensei,” Takumi said, shoulders rigid.

Well he should have thought about that before choosing today to pull that prank, Saguru thought. Outward, he smiled thinly. “Then please come see me during your lunch break.”

He turned back to the blackboard and continued on with the lesson like nothing had happened. The class was quiet for the rest of the lesson. Takumi spent the whole time slouched at his desk with a scowl breaking through the edges of an imperfect impassive face. If it was Kuroba, Saguru would be worried that an escalation of pranks was coming at any moment, but Saguru hoped there was more of Aoko’s temperament in Takumi than Kuroba in this regard. Aoko had disrupted class in high school too, but it had always been in an attempt to control Kuroba and follow rules.

***

The rest of the morning passed without incident. It was quiet enough that Saguru had to wonder if rumors were flying already. When he reached the teacher’s room for lunch, Takata was already at her desk, flipping papers idly.

“So, rumor has it you stone-walled your way through a prank and kids are throwing rumors that you wouldn’t react if a bomb went off.”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Saguru sat heavily at his desk, rubbing at his bad knee. It was doing better than last week, but a persistent, dull ache wasn’t much better than the sharp and sudden pains that over-stressing it brought about.

“Did a student really get a wig on you?”

“And a face of makeup.”

“Damn.” Takata looked impressed. “I’m glad he’s in your class not mine.”

Saguru snorted. “I doubt he’d give you problems; I seem to be the only person he takes issue with.”

“Well that sucks.”

At the door, Saguru could see Takumi debating whether or not to walk over. “Speaking of said student, I need to have a talk.”

Takata followed his eyes. “Good luck.” There was an aborted motion that probably would have been a supportive pat on the shoulder, but it was reigned in almost immediately. If they were more familiar, he doubted she’d have thought twice, but after years of teaching and living in Japan, she was probably more hesitant about casual contact. The thought was appreciated though.

Saguru made himself comfortable and waved Takumi over. Takumi crossed the space between them with his head held high and his shoulder braced for whatever might come.

“Well?” he said once he was next to Saguru’s desk. “I have three marks now. What’s the penalty?”

Saguru waited a moment before answering. Takumi had relaxed into a casual slouch beside Saguru’s desk, but he was no expert in hiding body language; his shoulders were curled forward a bit and his hands in his pockets to still any instinctive fidgeting. He had a faint bruise on his chin that was only noticeable this close, probably from lacrosse, and his jaw was too tight to be anything but nervous and defensive. He was probably ready to be indignant no matter what the punishment was. Saguru laced his fingers together in his lap and sat back.

“For one, I plan to speak with both of your parents. While it is your responsibility to control your actions in school, I prefer to speak with family as well as my student when an issue arises.”

Takumi snorted. “Good luck getting them in the same room long enough to listen.”

“I can speak to them separately just as easily.”

“That’s it?” His shoulders relaxed minutely.

Saguru narrowed his eyes. “No.” He pulled a printout from the meager pile of papers on his desk. “If you can translate this by the end of the week and answer the questions on the back, your count will return to zero and you’ll gain an extra credit point.”

“And if I don’t do the sheet?” Takumi asked.

“You lose a point from your grades and have a detention after school. In addition, your count remains the same—meaning we’ll be having a lot more discussions with any future class disruptions.” At Takumi’s disgruntled expression, Saguru added, “I will also be less likely to consider your convenience in scheduling future talks.” It wasn’t a perfect system and Saguru knew it could be exploited. It was more to make his students think before they kept acting out. With an added bonus of small rewards for cooperating. If they didn’t, well, Saguru’s translation projects only got harder as the checks increased.

He held out the worksheet. Takumi took it with a scowl. “I’ll be calling your mother tonight, and I can meet with your father at his convenience. Do you want to be present for either discussion?”

Takumi looked at him like he grew a second head, all silent defiance gone in a moment of teenage horror. “No. I’d have to put up with Kaa-san’s eye rolls and Tou-san’s thumbs up whenever you look away. Tou-san likes when I play pranks.” Takumi went red and clamped his mouth shut like he hadn’t meant to say any of that.

Saguru raised an eyebrow, laughing inside even as he kept as straight a face as he could. That sounded like Kuroba all right. “Unless your mother has changed a lot over the last sixteen years, I can’t imagine she’d be near as...supportive as Kuroba.”

Takumi frowned and after a moment Saguru realized he must have been puzzling over the lack of honorific and whether it signified intimacy or a lack of respect.

Saguru cleared his throat. “That’s due Friday at the start of homeroom.” Saguru waved a hand at the paper getting wrinkled in Takumi’s grip. “Before you leave, may I ask why you decided to pull these pranks in my class?” They weren’t for attention, though Saguru supposed that could be at least part of the motivation. The fact that it was only Saguru getting pranked meant it was something personal, a challenge perhaps, but he wanted to hear Takumi’s motives in his own words.

Takumi looked at Saguru and for a moment there was a glimpse of emotion in his expression, something like desperation and anger and hurt before it was locked away and Takumi’s eyes flickered between Saguru’s light-colored hair and bad leg.

“You’re different and I don’t really like you,” he said, but the words didn’t hold any of the emotion hidden under his bland expression. They rang hollow, false. Gut instinct said it was a lie, but Saguru didn’t call him on it. “Can I go eat lunch now, Hakuba-sensei?” Takumi asked, for all the world looking like nothing more than a petulant teenager with nothing more complicated than irritation at authority going on.

Saguru sighed. “You may go.”

Takumi left with only the barest sketch of a bow, walking away like he was afraid Saguru might try to pry his secrets from him.

“Wow,” Takata said once he was gone. “I hope he isn’t like that for me next year.”

Saguru hummed, noncommittal. She wasn’t likely to have any problems with Takumi at all. Whatever this was, it was personal, and until he figured out what to do about it, he would have to see where events would unfold.

***

“So,” Kuroba said from Saguru’s chair when Saguru arrived home. “I hear Takumi got in trouble at school?”

Saguru blinked at him, one hand still on the light switch. He sighed, continued the motion of stepping into the room and dumped his briefcase on the counter. “It is nice to see you’re still consistent in your breaking and entering, Kuroba,” he said, going and filling the kettle with water and preparing things for tea.

Kuroba pouted, looking remarkably similar to when Takumi interacted with a friend that afternoon. “You didn’t even jump.”

“I’m more than used to your antics,” Saguru replied with a small smile. Or at least he used to be and some part of his brain still expected the unexpected with Kuroba. “Well. At any rate, this saves me the trouble of asking to meet with you.” Kuroba looked comfortable and immovable in Saguru’s chair. “You’re not giving up the chair are you?”

“Nope,” Kuroba said. There was the tiniest bit of sadism in his cheerful smile. Saguru sighed and went to the bathroom for painkillers to go with the tea. Because he needed them after so long on his feet without any sign of resting his bad leg in the near future. If he tried to sit on the floor, Saguru was sure he wouldn’t be able to stand back up because his knee would lock up. Kuroba watched the process and didn’t budge an inch from where he lounged in the chair. Saguru really needed to invest in another chair.

“So,” Saguru said once the tea was prepared and steaming from two Sherlock Holmes-themed novelty mugs students had given him some five or six years ago. “How did you find out? I haven’t called Aoko yet, and Takumi-kun isn’t likely to tell you without prompting.”

“I keep track of the school gossip network. And I might be friends with some of the other faculty due to happy coincidence of being in a hostage situation with them at one point or another.”

“As yourself or someone else?” Saguru asked to cover for his discomfort at the thought of anyone holding Kuroba hostage. Actually, no, he pitied anyone who tried. They probably regretted it quickly.

“Myself thankfully, so it’s not strange to keep in contact with them as Kuroba Kaito.” Kuroba rested his chin on his hands, his cup of tea set aside for the moment. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.”

“No, it isn’t.” Saguru let the mug warm his fingers, wishing the warmth would sink into his bones so that maybe they wouldn’t ache. He leaned against the counter awkwardly, balancing the curve of his spine against it so that most of his weight was on his good leg.

“What did Takumi do?”

“If your rumor network was any good, I would think you would already know.”

“Oh I do. I just want to hear your impressions of it.”

Saguru scowled at him. Kuroba looked entirely unrepentant. “Takumi-kun performed a series of pranks against my person that disrupted the learning environment, presumably with intent to humiliate me publicly. I do not believe that was the original intent of the first prank. That was more of an initiation to test my reaction, but subsequent pranks were aimed at me in a personal manner.”

Kuroba nodded. “And?”

“And today he magicked makeup on me and waited for a reaction. He’s trying to test something, and I think he dislikes me for reasons beyond me being his English teacher and… being ‘different.’”

Kuroba sat up straighter, looking serious for the first time. “He said he pranked you because you’re different?”

“Yes.” Saguru took a sip of tea, letting the sharp taste roll along his tongue and down his throat. Good thing, tea. It was a constant no matter the rest of Saguru’s life being turned on end. “I do not think you need to worry about him becoming a bully,” Saguru said, following the troubled expression on Kuroba’s face to a line of thought that would be its cause. “It might be the reason he gave, but I doubt it was the actual reason. Now other students I can believe it from, but it doesn’t ring true with what I’ve observed of him in other situations. He gets along with just about everyone else so far as I’ve seen. Including the eclectic group in the literature club and its leader.”

“You met Shiemi, then?”

“I’m the literature club advisor.”

“Oh.” Kuroba tilted his head. “Well that’ll be interesting. Shiemi’s a force of her own. Takumi’s been friends with her since they were born more or less. She was a pretty quiet kid. Don’t know what changed, but she’s...definitely not quiet now.”

Saguru chuckled into his teacup. There was a story in Kuroba’s expression, but he wasn’t going to dig now. “I gave Takumi-kun two passes where he did not get any punishment, and the third lead to parental discussions and extra homework. I think I’ve been more than fair in the situation.”

“Three strikes you’re out, huh?” Kuroba sighed. “He doesn’t usually act out. I can count the number of times we’ve gotten complaints on one hand for him disrupting class with magic. I was getting calls every other day and the only reason I didn’t get kicked out was because Kaa-san had connections.”

“Could you perhaps talk with him about it?” Saguru asked. “Perhaps you could find out what is bothering him.”

“He probably won’t talk with me.” Kuroba shrugged. “He thinks I don’t take anything seriously.”

“That is likely your own fault, Kuroba.”

“It is.” Kuroba shrugged again. “It keeps him from looking too closely, and sometimes it’s better that way than him finding out all the secrets Aoko and I have buried between us.”

“Takumi-kun is your son, I am not going to judge you for how you raised him.”

“Sure you’re not.” Kuroba stretched and hopped out of the chair. “All yours. Sorry for the inquisition. Had to make sure you weren’t projecting me on Takumi.”

“When have I ever judged someone for their parents’ behavior?” Saguru asked mildly. He moved to the chair and sat. Blissful relief.

“You haven’t had a history with anyone quite the same way you had a history with me so far as I know.”

“Point.” Saguru finished off his tea. “By the way, you’re back early.”

“I took off early to talk to you. I have plenty of time off saved up. I can get away with going home early every once in a while.” Kuroba stretched and yawned. “You’d better call Aoko soon. She can tell when Takumi is in trouble and will get his whole story from him by the end of the night.”

“I was planning on it after dinner.” Saguru glanced at the clock. Six thirty-four. Another late meal then.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I have to make my own dinner.” Kuroba waved and sauntered toward the door. His empty mug was left near the dish drainer. “Oh,” he said from the doorway. “I got your groceries. You should really go shopping once a week rather than letting the list get that long. You can’t get all that in one trip with that leg.”

He took a step out, then popped his head around the corner. “One more thing; that prank. How did it rate?”

Saguru blinked at him. “...A four using you as a measure.”

Kuroba grinned. “I knew he was working on something new. He inherited the talent. Later, Hakuba!”

The door clicked shut behind him. Saguru stared after him before levering himself up and opening his refrigerator. Sure enough there were fresh vegetables, strawberries, and takeout ramen with a note on top with a Kid caricature grinning up at him. It was a bit surreal and reminded him of high school when he had gone home after a heist and found cold medicine on his desk with orders to take two pills before going to bed to keep the case of sniffles he had had that day from becoming a full blown cold. The cupboards were similarly stocked. Saguru returned to the note in the fridge and found that it was a list of prices and an explanation that Kuroba had borrowed his bank card to pay for the cost. Delivery was “free of charge.” Saguru wasn’t sure how to feel about Kuroba getting ahold of his bank card.

Saguru reheated the takeout and ate it feeling safe that Kuroba hadn’t dosed it with anything this time at least. He wouldn’t have bought Saguru groceries just to drug takeout ramen. He would have to ask Kuroba where the ramen came from. It was better than most places he had tried and, if the price next to it was any indication, it was much more affordable than his first choice for ramen in the past—a place that might not even exist anymore.

***

After washing the takeout bowl (it could always be used to store leftovers) Saguru called Aoko. It took a bit of searching to find her number. When Saguru was assigned his homeroom class, he was given their phone numbers, but he hadn’t memorized them, and the paper was stuck to another one with rice. He couldn’t fathom how rice had gotten on the paper as he ate neatly and did not leave his work papers lying around, but by the time he finally found it and dialed Aoko’s number, the only thing Saguru wanted to do was sleep. And really, really not think about how he hadn’t even pretended to get angry at Kuroba for breaking into his house and buying food with Saguru’s money. Not. Going. To think about it.

The phone picked up on the other end after the third ring. “Moshi moshi, Kuroba residence, Takumi speaking.”

“Good evening, Kuroba-kun, is your mother available? It’s Hakuba.”

“Oh.” The other end of the line went silent and for a second Saguru thought Takumi had hung up, but then there was a sigh. “Just a minute.”

Saguru yanked his ear away from the phone as it shrieked, coming in contact with some surface as it was set down. There were echoey footsteps and then voices, just far enough away from the receiver that only the inflection could be heard.

“Hello? Hakuba-san?” Aoko said on the other end of the phone. She sounded tired. It might have something to do with the Kid notice that had appeared in the paper this morning. Her task force would be running around deciphering the note and preparing security the best they could.

“A—” He stopped. He had no idea how to address her. Kuroba-san? Nakamori-san because that was how he knew her in school? Aoko—especially without an honorific—was too familiar and disrespectful even if it was how he thought of her in his mind. “Hello.”

“It’s been a long time,” she said, taking the problem of words out of his hands. “You’re Takumi’s English teacher aren’t you?”

“Yes. It seemed…best to leave England for the time being. I had a teaching license.”

“Ah.”

It wasn’t like with Kuroba. Maybe he had never really gotten to know Aoko. Back then he had found her cute and mostly overlooked her. She was a factor in understanding Kuroba so he had gotten to know her only so far as he needed to learn more about Kuroba. Saguru regretted it a bit now. He never saw what Kuroba did in her, and he doubted he would get the second chance to get to know her.

He cleared his throat. “I’m calling because there have been a few incidents in class with Takumi-kun. Of, ah, our high school days variety.”

Silence from the other end.

“Na—Ku—damn it, how should I address you?”

Aoko made a noise, one that sounded alarming over the phone without an expression to reference against.

“Are you all right?”

The noise became recognizable snickering. Saguru frowned at the wall trying to figure out what on earth was going through her brain.

“And all—this time,” Aoko said between giggles, “I thought Takumi took more after Kaito except for his disciplinary record. I guess not.”

“Ah.”

Aoko’s giggles trailed off with a not so happy sigh. “Call me Aoko-san. I’m sure it’s a lot easier than trying to think of me as a Kuroba.” She sighed again. “So Takumi was doing magic tricks in class. Do I want to ask how bad?”

“A four on Kuroba’s scale of mayhem,” Saguru said, trying to keep his voice light. “They were directed at me, however, which both disrupted the class and undermined my position of authority. I expected to have students test me, but Takumi-kun’s methods tend to attract more attention than most students who act out.”

“I see. I’ll have a talk with him. He knows what I think of him getting his father’s record. I can’t promise that it won’t happen again.”

“I don’t expect you to promise that.” Saguru felt a smile on his lips, genuine and nostalgic. “I think living through Kuroba in high school prepared me for anything.”

“You’d be surprised. Takumi has caught Kaito off guard before.” She sounded sad again, though with the same nostalgic tone Saguru had. “Was there property damage or…?”

“No, nothing like that. Mostly flash and dazzle. No injuries or destruction, and no hurt feelings.” So long as no one was counting mild embarrassment as hurt feelings.

“I’m glad.” Silence hung heavy through still air. Static crackled faintly. Saguru listened to Aoko breathe, slow and steady. She cleared her throat. “Um, Hakuba-san…I’m sorry I never believed you in high school.”

Saguru clenched his phone tight enough that the plastic creaked against his ear. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why are you apologizing?” She laughed, and it almost sounded like it rang true. If he didn’t hear the slight catch in her inhale, he would have believed it. “You knew. Before anyone else figured it out you knew and I suspected, but I pushed that suspicion aside. It was Kaito. How could I have trusted your word over his?”

Something in her voice made Saguru want to hug her. To hold her and tell her that it would be okay, not in a romantic way, but because she sounded like a woman who had had the rug pulled out from under her. He had met people who sounded like that on murder scenes with their loved one the victim. But he couldn’t give her a hug, and even if he had been by her side, he doubted she would have accepted. Aoko was stubborn and had her pride. He couldn’t deny her that. Instead he said, “You loved him.”

“I still do,” she whispered. “I just hate him more.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Don’t.” Aoko sighed. “You aren’t going to arrest him are you?”

“I’m just an English teacher,” he said gently. “I haven’t been a fully licensed detective in almost fourteen years.”

“He’s mine,” Aoko said, strangely calm now. “If he gets caught. If he gets shot by anyone. It’s going to be by me. Okay?”

“Yes.” He had long given up any claim in chasing Kid.

“Good. It’s good to hear from you Hakuba-san. I hope we can talk again sometime. Keep an eye on Kaito. Just in case.”

Saguru felt a bit cold. ‘If he gets shot…’ “I’ll do that. Have a good evening, Aoko-san.”

The phone line clicked off on the other end. His cell phone beeped at him. He hung up. The phone slid through his fingers and thudded against the tatami. Saguru ran a hand through his hair. There was a spill on the table in a crescent shape from his earlier bowl of ramen. Next door was the murmur of a television, kept thoughtfully low in Kuroba’s apartment, and more cheery pop music coming from the other neighbor. Saguru ran a finger through the spill. Now it looked like a circle; a full moon that Kid favored. He smeared the circle across the table with his palm. Now it was just a wet streak, no meaning at all. Saguru leaned from his chair to pick up his phone.

Nearing nine. He had homework to grade. He would do it tomorrow morning as he sipped his tea and tried not to think about the tin of coffee in his cupboard he never drank but had bought from habit. He’d try not to think about the person he had been as a teenager and compare him to the person he was now. He would try not to remember how stubbornly Aoko had defended Kuroba or how desperately Kuroba tried to keep his identity hidden…or how eagerly he, Saguru, had crowed that identity to the world. Saguru pulled out his futon, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. There was always morning.

OMAKE

Momoi wasn’t quite what Saguru was expecting. For one, she was tall—she almost met Saguru’s eyes, and he was taller than most people in Japan. For another, she wore her hair in braids—which for most people it made them look younger—that were short and fat and somehow reminded him of ram’s horns from the way they poked forward. They framed her thin face right at the level of her cheekbones and seemed to aide her frown directed toward the books Saguru had brought in case the literature club needed any ideas. The other members were closer to what he had expected, more introverted than their peers, but the type that would open up around friends. There were two more women than men, also not a surprise, but Momoi Shiemi projected confidence and control Saguru didn’t see often with teenagers.

“So you’re Yumi-sensei’s replacement, huh?” Momoi said, eyes narrowed behind wire-rim glasses.

“Hakuba Saguru, yes. I’m—”

“I know who you are. There are rumors across the whole school about you.” She smiled, thin and challenging. “Most are crap, but from the reputable sources I see they got it right about you once being a detective. You sized us up when we got here. You notice details.” She shook her head and her braids tapped against her cheeks. “You have terrible taste in books though. You’re not going to get anyone interested in Faustus here. Well, maybe Kenta, but he plans on studying foreign literature.”

“Your group read Shakespeare,” Saguru said, bemused. “Marlowe is his contemporary. It isn’t that much more difficult to read, though I will admit that this particular translation is a bit antiquated in its word choice.”

“But Shakespeare is Shakespeare.” She shook her head. “I give you points with The Hound of the Baskervilles though. That is a good book even if Conan Doyle can’t seem to keep his canon straight.”

Saguru bristled. “I beg your pardon? Sir Conan Doyle wrote one of the most iconic characters in detective literature.”

“Doesn’t change that Watson had a traveling wound.” Momoi stared him down. Saguru scowled back. The other club members shifted nervously, but made no effort to intervene. Saguru swore one of them, the girl toward the back was rolling her eyes.

The door rattled, and someone entered saying, “Sorry I’m late I had—oh.”

Saguru broke his staring contest. It was Takumi at the door. They blinked at each other. Momoi grinned.

“About time. Takumi, help me get Sensei to understand that Doyle sucked at keeping details straight.” She slung an arm around Takumi’s neck, using his shoulder as a prop.

Takumi groaned. “Are you serious? Argue it yourself.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Saguru twitched. He…he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be the advisor of the literature club anymore. A Kuroba and Momoi—who looked like she was getting ready to rope the whole club into attacking Saguru’s favorite author’s writing—were going to make his life…interesting. And worse, they seemed to be close. God, if they were like Aoko and Kuroba in high school, Saguru was giving the club to someone else, responsibility, pride, and faculty opinions be damned. He cleared his throat. “Well. My apparently poor taste in literature aside,” he speared Momoi with a frown, “please give me a list of new members from the involvement fair, and if you need any help or resources, do not hesitate to ask. Yumi-sensei led a book discussion once a month about an English book, and if you are interested in continuing that, I am willing to lead a discussion as well.”

Momoi sized him up. “If you can come up with something that won’t put us to sleep, then sure. Go for it. If you suck leading a discussion, we’ll just discuss it on our own.”

Saguru grit his teeth. Takumi looked at her like this just made his day. She didn’t even have a reason to dislike Saguru yet. “Fine. Please keep me to date on what your group is reading. I’ll continue Yumi-sensei’s list.”

“Until she gets back,” a short girl with cat stickers on her notebook hiding behind a tall, long-haired boy murmured. “From maternity leave.”  The others looked at her, some shrugging, some nodding. Momoi looked sad, like she didn’t expect her teacher to return. Yumi-sensei might not return, or at least not until after the group had graduated. Saguru could remember teachers that left on maternity leave and then never came back, deciding to stay home to raise their child instead. It was more common in Japan than England, but he had seen it often enough both places to feel a bit sad for the students. Yumi-sensei must have been a good teacher to have so many students that liked her.

Takumi coughed. “Yeah. Until she gets back.” He glared at Saguru over Momoi’s shoulder. Did he really think Saguru would tell the girl otherwise?

“So!” Momoi said, cutting through the uncomfortable silence. “Everyone brought their lists right?”

Each club member pulled out a slip of paper, some longer than others. Book lists? Saguru supposed they must come with ideas and vote. Momoi grinned.

“Takumi, the cards.” Momoi held out a hand. He placed a deck of cards in her hand. She walked over to the club room’s table and bridged the cards while shuffling like a pro. Saguru’s eyebrows crept up into his hairline. Well. This was going interesting directions. “Sensei,” Momoi said through a shark’s smile as the club members took seats around the table, their lists in front of them. “How are you at poker?”

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, HARANA!

You have been accepted for the role of DRUVIK JADEJA with a faceclaim change to Toni Mahfud. Admin Rosey: My sweet, beloved, incredibly flawed Druvik. I am absolutely thrilled to be entrusting him into your hands -- how could I not, after reading this beautiful application? From your promises to bring him to his knees, to your para sample that captured moments of his life more accurately than I could have imagined. Those moments, for me, were one of my favorite things about him. His moments with his family, under the blessing of the stars. Those, and the little headcanons that gave me a peek into what more there was to Druvik, are what sealed the deal. Thank you so much for beautiful application and welcome to Rule&Ruin! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Harana / K

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CST ! And I’m on summer break so i can get on pretty much every other day. Sometimes daily if the muse is strong enough. Weekends have a habit of being iffy for me (especially when the husband is home from deployment). But tbh I’ve never had issue with keeping up activity. If something RL comes up I always keep open communication with admins if I need to take a hiatus.

TRIGGERS: OMITTED

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS:

http://orionmassetti.tumblr.com/ (active)

http://havenromulus.tumblr.com/ (defunct)

https://militansdeo.tumblr.com/ (active)

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Druvik Jadeja

D R U V I K : Musical, friendly, dynamic–named after his grandfather. And it was ill-suited for the man. Druvik’s grandfather was prone to drawn out bouts of silence, often sitting apart from the family with a pipe hanging crooked from the corner of his mouth, letting the smoke spill in lazy waves from cracked and parted lips. He preferred to leave Druvik’s grandmother to fill in the spaces of conversation.

But unlike his grandfather, the name suited Druvik. As a baby he’d toddle to the knees of strangers, charming patrons with his deep-set dimples and a wide toothless smile. And as he grew older, the meaning of his name dazzled in the crowds he captivated (dynamic), in the friends he caught, tangled, kept close (friendly). Even his most simple and innocuous movements seemed to follow the beat of some quiet song only he could hear (musical).

J A D E J A : The stories of the Jadeja clan extended as far back to the first stones set in Os Alta. The earliest have them in Caryeva, where the tales claim a golden goat blessed their family with their first herd, five animals for five sons and their families. From there, the stories traveled to Keramzin where the stars taught them to dance. In Os Kervo, the moon shared it’s music, the solid, slow slap of their feet keeping time in the dirt to the sweep of their arms and the swaying of their hips. Then Novo-Kribirsk, where the ocean waves gifted them with sea glass to sell and shells to weave in fabric and fine jewelry. The stories of their family flowed from Vlensk, Tsibeya, Os Alta, Poliznaya, then back to Caryeva again. While some of the nomadic families eventually settled in cities and small towns, the Jadejas made the entirety of Ravka their home, and would have continued to follow the path the stories of their forebears had set for them if it wasn’t for the Fold.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

Okay. I have a type. I enjoy them spoiled, over dramatic, clever, prone to exaggerated displays and using five words when one would have been enough. Granted, Druvik doesn’t fit all of those traits. But really–when I read his bio, I immediately added it to my bookmarks and said, “Yes. This one. Good.” Because I usually know after a first read if a character will fit my writing style. And Druvik will only bring me joy and pleasure to write.

And it helps that he has flaws I relate to. His impossible attempts to please and win everyone over. His difficulty saying no and his attempts to do the right thing, despite it not being exactly what is needed or even wanted in the moment. Druvik’s pursuit of personal pleasure has made him ignorant to the repercussions of his selfishness. And this leaves me with so much to work with.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

I.  DRUG TW: The drug was called Magha. It came in small, clear and corked bottles, the liquid inside it a deep shade of violet, nearly blue while held up to the light. When shaken–glittering particles bubbled up from the bottom and swirled silver through the drink. Magha had a sweet flavor hitting the tongue. Not too cloying, more fluid than syrup but thicker than water. And once it settled in the stomach and seeped into the nervous system, saturating veins and weaving in with blood–oh, the impossible dreams it dragged out.

It was a clever little concoction. It’s makeup was based on a traditional Suli herbal remedy. But Druvik corrupted it’s natural makeup with the small science. It was disrespectful–tainting a medicine meant for healing, all to make a pretty coin. He was spitting on the history of his people. But Druvik didn’t see it that way. He’d convinced himself he was doing the people of Ketterdam a service. Magha dragged out pure joy from the most bitter of hearts. Any outside touch was pleasure. Any flavor to the tongue bursting and ripe. And for this small favor, wasn’t it his due that his pockets were made heavy with coin? The fingers that worked to bring them pleasure, surely they could be forgiven for bearing their weight in silver rings and milky and iridescent opals? And so Druvik lounged guiltless on his small fortune, a lazy and rapacious dragon. And his admirers slammed their fists on his doors, begging for more, always more, just one last taste of Magha.

And he abandoned them.

I want this sin to follow him to Os Alta. I want him to be forced to face the repercussions of his naive selfishness (he never intends to hurt). Druvik has strolled through life without a care of those caught in the wake of his self-centered world view, and I want it shaken by his past. He can only willfully blind himself for so long. There is a price for vanity, and perhaps it’s time for Druvik to pay it.

II.  All Druvik wants is comfort. After half his life spent suffering as a nomad, ill-suited for the sparsity of Suli life, he finally found it in Ketterdam. But he’s been forced to abandon it, slipping back to Ravka at the threat of discovery–both for being Grisha, and for manufacturing a drug so potent and addicting that once taken? Reality forever paled without it. And just the name of his new home–Little Palace–charmed him. Surely he would live like a prince? Instead, Druvik found himself slaving and sweating over poisons, his nails blackened by gunpowder and forced to serve in the Second Army as if he were something expendable and his face was meant to be scarred. It was too much like his past–the traveling, the grit, even if the Grisha were afforded a shabbier glamour.

So Druvik is terribly unmotivated. Careless and haphazard with his work. However if properly pushed, he is capable of creating weapons of extreme potency. Poisons that steal away the senses, and gunpowder that seeps into human skin, turning them into living bombs. But those moments are scarce. And he cannot always have someone at his side to push him to do his work.

So this can lead to dangerous consequences. Either his weapons backfiring and causing danger to those he works with, or his poisons proving unreliable, abandoning his fellow Grisha to precarious situations. He is a soldier now, and I want his eyes opened to the part he really plays as an Alkemi of the Second Army.

III. There is conflict between the First and Second armies. A rift between Grisha and those that see them as aberrations. But Druvik can’t be bothered. He thinks the rivalry is petty. He considers it something easily risen above, not even bothering to dissect the deeply rooted and historical reasons behind the division.

Druvik simply believes he is being the better man. That by befriending and loving both humans and Grisha indiscriminately, he is an example to be followed. But ultimately, he is Grisha. His usage of the small science will not endear him to everyone. I want him to trust someone who isn’t Grisha. To adore them, only to be used and discarded. For a man who abandons indiscriminately, I would like him to taste how bitter it is to be left behind, tossed aside, and seemingly forgotten by someone he considered a friend.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: If it furthers the plot, of course! Murder away.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

The day Druvik turned six there was a full moon.

Auspicious, his grandmother claimed. And the weather was mild, the winds cool but the sun hot, caught between spring and summer. Their caravan stopped for the day to celebrate, finding a small spring by a crag of rocks, shielding them from the wind. Auspicious, his grandmother repeated, and she pinched his cheeks.

Druvik’s mother took a handful of sugar and sprinkled it into a wooden bowl, the confection glittering like silver in the light (just as rare, just as precious) as she kneaded it into the flour and butter with hands that were calloused, cracked, worn. A Suli’s hands, ravaged by summer winds, the open sun, the constant tearing down of caravans and the chafe from the leather reins of mules. Druvik knew the sweet cakes would take all day to bake. And he hovered, breaking off little pieces with his fingers when his mother’s back was turned, crumbs catching on the corners of his mouth, the sweet bread melting on his tongue. He tasted nuts and dried berries, sugar and sticky honey.

For dinner his father cut generous slices of dried beef, frying them over the campfire. They sizzled and spit, sliding in their own fat like snakes. There was enough for their bellies to feel full. A change from the usual meager portions their family rationed out of necessity while traveling to the next populated place to perform.

They feasted. They sang. They danced. Not the gaudy and garish movements they performed for customers with the intent of earning coin. But dances passed down the line of Jadejas, each slow glide of arms, every shift of feet in the grass telling a story. Of life, of death, of love, of loss–and they moved in unison under the full moon and bright scatter of stars.

Later, when Druvik’s face was flushed from sipping his grandfather’s wine, he laid back on the grass with his head on his grandmother’s soft belly as she pointed to the stars. “That one. There, to the left. My gift to you, little Vik.” Bony fingers tracing back six stars, one for each of his years, the beginnings of the constellation the Suli called Magha–the bountiful one.

Druvik drifted off to sleep. He was half-awake when his father gathered him up to lay him next to his sister on the blankets. On his birthday, he felt important. Loved. Worshiped.

In the morning, the dream would melt in the beating hot sun and the unforgiving Ravkan plains.

—

Druvik was eleven when he first felt the stirrings of that desperate want, that growing appetite for more than the meager portions Suli life served him.

They’d crossed paths with a sizable merchant convoy, the cream colored tents somber and severe next to the mottled red, blue, green, and purple fabric his family tied down over their caravans to hold the attention of patrons. His grandmother knotted glass bells to their ankles. When they moved, there was music.

His mother told fortunes, face hidden by a worn jackal mask, practiced voice low and haunting as she sifted through the coffee dregs at the bottom of elephant shaped china. Her fingers held the teacups up by their trunks. Love, long life, wealth, prosperity–what their patrons paid with their copper coins to hear. And the merchants–Druvik tried not to stare as they stuffed their mouths full of fresh meat,  and filled their cups to the brim with wine. He turned his face when they carelessly spilled water while washing their hands, and observed with longing as they gorged themselves on cakes with white icing and biscuits topped with a generous scatter of brown sugar. More in one evening than his family divided among themselves in a week.

After dinner his sister danced, colored veils whipping like iridescent butterfly wings, her limbs gliding through the air like water. His father’s scimitars rolled off his muscled arms, spiraled through the air, landing on the tips of spread fingers.

Druvik’s performance was both danger and dance. And he picked up two small lamps by their chains, stepping up to a sizable group of merchants. A bow, then he whirled the fire through the air with the grace of falling stars, quick and bright and a bit too savage to be called beautiful. The flames smeared light in shapes of animals, flowers, harsh in the early evening shadows. Faster, faster, faster–until a thin sheen of sweat gathered on his neck, his chest, and he glowed like a young god in the slashes of light, the lamps spinning over his head, under his legs as he leaped over the merchants, their heads craning to follow as he landed lightly on his feet.

Druvik bowed low to the applause, little chest heaving as he snatched at breath. By the strength of their voice and the clapping of their hands, he knew he would earn well.

Later, as his family collected their coins, a man approached Druvik, kneeling in front of him with both fists extended.

“Pick one.”

Druvik tapped the man’s left hand, and it opened to reveal a silver dragonfly, its eyes green stones and its wings studded with blood red crystals. The man fastened it to Druvik’s hair.

“Boys as beautiful as you are wasted here.” The brush of stubble on Druvik’s cheek startled him as the man pressed a kiss there, before moving to join his companions.

Heart skipping, Druvik snatched the dragonfly from his hair and pocketed it. But his mother had seen. And as soon as they left to dress down into their usual cloaks she’d snatched it from him.

“But–that was given to me.”

“Everything in our family? We share.” She dropped it into their sack of coins. “What will you do with such a thing? Strut among the sand dragons and vultures?”

How terrible. How cruel. And Druvik swiped the back of his hand over his thick lashes, smearing the tears.

But it would haunt him–the man’s words.

Boys as beautiful as you are wasted here.

His chin stopped quivering. His mouth set, and his eyes grew resolute.

He deserved better.  

—

Falling in love was easy for a man like Druvik–who grew soft and pliable under attention. Whose devotion could be bought by trinkets and treats, metallic jewelry that reflected his pretty face and candies placed on his tongue, melting thick and saccharine down the back of his throat.

Druvik loved generously. But his attention was often spread thin, and he was fickle. Easily diverted. To have the undivided passion of his heart–there was a price. And fortunately for Druvik, many were willing to cater to the whims of a beautiful, young Suli boy, whose body moved like a large cat’s as he danced. Lithe, nimble, but with an undeniable force as his illusions scattered around him and the tent grew dark and dim, with only the fire in his hands to light the small space.

Many had claimed to love him, but only Darius had offered to take him away.

Ketterdam, Darius explained, was a city surrounded by the sea. Where buildings knocked against each other for space, and their doors gaped open to spit thick clusters of people out into the streets. Darius’ father was a merchant there, and at eighteen, Darius would soon follow suit. And Druvik listened as the man described the silks they would import from Shu Han, firebirds and dragons embroidered on the sleeves of robes, and the white jade bracelets that brought wisdom. Of Fjerdan metalworks, swords sharp enough to cut stone, rings with drops of blood stone, and marble rocks carved into wolves. And Druvik was charmed, eyes wide and dark in the flickering shadows of Darius’ tent.

“Someday–I want to see it.” Druvik lowered his voice, intimate and sweet. “For now, at least I have this.” He toyed with the white jade on his wrist.

“What if–” Druvik heard Darius shift, and he sighed as the merchant combed his fingers through his hair. Darius’ voice wavered in the dark. “Come with me.”

Druvik startled. How wicked. “Don’t tease.” Letting out a huff of air and drawing away.

Darius’ hand found his wrist, fingers tight, demanding, refusing to relent. “I’m not teasing.” The words came faster, as if he could stave Druvik’s doubt with a flood of promises. “I’ll provide your room. Your board. Anything you need. Just–please. Dance for me. That’s all I ask for.”

Druvik laughed, the sound low and teasing, but not cruelly so. And he pressed his open mouth to Darius’ collarbone.

“Dance with me then.”

The next morning, Darius went ahead. And as he promised, he secured Druvik passage across the True Sea several days later.

Druvik boarded the boat, fiddling with the white jade bracelet on his wrist. And he thought of firebird silks and of a city filled to bursting. Of how he could use his gift of the small science to draw the people of Ketterdam to him, devoted to the green glass bottles in his satchel, filled with his little magics, liquid illusions for them to suck into their lungs so everything brought bliss.

He did not think of his mother, father, or sister. Nor of his grandmother, weak and ailing

Stepping to the bow of the ship, Druvik simply saw the ocean. And it was beautiful, blue, and full of promise.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

-  Druvik is frightened of water. He never learned to swim, and stubbornly refuses to do so even with the lake so close to the Little Palace. He’ll dip his feet in, and gingerly descend until his waist. But if anyone attempts to draw him deeper he’ll quickly retreat. Surprisingly, this fear doesn’t extend to the ocean. He finds it too beautiful, and the prospect of new places waiting across the broad expanse of water diverts him.

- His grandmother was also a Grisha. As a young girl, another Suli had taken her in and trained her, their methods more in-tune with nature and the seasons. She tested all her children for the gift. Then her grandchildren. Only Druvik shared her skill of manipulating the elements. They made medicines to share and sell, crafted trinkets to catch the eye, and wove impossible details into fabric. Unlike the Grisha of the Little Palace, he and his grandmother never divided their skills into Durasts and Alkemi. They embraced their power as a whole. And their methods were unconventional, deeply rooted in history and tradition. Even now, as Druvik does his work in the Small Palace, his approach to Alkemi is seen as odd among his peers. He’s known to leave dangerous combustibles to steep for five evenings under the moon. For poisons to sit in the snow to freeze, taking them in to melt, then out to freeze again. Either there is meaning to Druvik’s methods, or it’s a testament to his skill as an Alkemi–but his poisons and powders have an undeniable potency.

- Druvik has always been the envious sort. He’s always pined for what he doesn’t have, and vies for things that others own. Clothes and jewelry, money and rare trinkets from around Ravka. This behavior extends not only to objects but to people. Druvik tends to gravitate towards the ones that shine brightest, stand tallest, those that take control and make decisions so all he has to do is shift along to accommodate. So it’s in his nature to sidle next to the more powerful Grisha. His adoration for the Sun Summoner and the Darkling is open and obvious. While he is Alkemi, he will often spend time he should be working in Durasts’ work stations, making small brooches of glowing, gold suns and white pearls for Gemma to pin in her hair or keftas, and heavy black rings with shadows swimming in the silver for Aleksander. Other Grisha might accuse him of currying favor. And he is, in a way. But he’d always loved the image Gemma and Aleksander present as leaders of the Grisha, and he’d never been very good at taming his affections.

- His work ethic is questionable at best. He has no love for creating weapons. He finds it barbaric. Tasteless. Druvik believes his small science was meant for pleasure not pain, to deliver bliss and not misery. So when tasked with Alkemi duties for the war, he often puts forth the bare minimum of effort. If given the right attention and motivation, he can be caught up in spurts of impulsive tinkering, afternoon hours bleeding into late nights until his work table spills over with pretty poisons and deadly, glittering powders. But he’s more likely to be found creating sweet addictions during work time than the projects he’s actually tasked with.

- He is notorious for currying favor among the nobles. They have power, prestige, but more importantly–wealth. And Druvik was always a man who enjoyed a good spoiling. So he is often found with small groups of nobles, earning an intimate spot in their circles with his pretty face and words dripping sweet and thick. He demurs when they offer gifts, but always takes them. He’s been known to find himself patrons among the nobility to fund the luxury he enjoys.

- He loves people. Adores them. Is devoted to many and lavishes each with positive attention. But ultimately, Druvik seems to only consider them additions to his own narrative. He’s never been tethered to anyone. Not even Darius, to whom he owes his escape from the Suli lifestyle, abandoned in Ketterdam with the rest. Ever fickle, ever advancing in that constant need satiate his appetite for life and lavishness, he is blindsided by his passions. He doesn’t purposefully ignore the repercussions he wrecks among those he leaves behind. Perhaps, despite abandoning his Suli way of life, it continues to reflect in the way he moves forward, never wasting time looking back.

EXTRAS: I have a pintrest board here.

ANYTHING ELSE? OMITTED.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

PLS TELL ME ABOUT ANY AND ALL OCS YO -💙

XD!!! Well, brief rundown of who they are here and you can decide if you wanna know more about any of them??

Marlowe Flynn -- born Marla Rose Flynn, they are a Phantomhive servant, being trained as a butler by Sebastian. very, very close with the other servants; do not touch their family unless you want a knife in the stomach. genderfluid and uses he, she, and they pronouns. special skill for the household is stealth attacks. (head over heels for a certain redheaded Reaper~)

Jubilee Parsons -- doctor’s apprentice and official on-call doctor for the Phantomhive household. gets medicines mixed up easily and has more than once accidentally made a patient seriously ill, although she has an incredible bedside manner and isn’t a terrible doctor; just learning. special skill for the household is knowledge/use of quick-acting poisons. (crushing on Finny)

Lea Hawthorne -- noble lady and one of several possible brides for Alois Trancy. has no real special skills aside from standing around and looking pretty, but gets very attached to anyone she cares about. rags to riches, she took a quiet approach in elevating her family’s name with the help of a demon.

Jezebel Paganini -- snake demoness, contracted to Lea Hawthorne. has no qualms about eating other souls even in front of Lea regardless of the contract. Stalker With a Crush to Claude and ambiguously grooming Lea to turn her into a demon. could probably kill you with a spoon. would probably rather eat Claude than marry him.

Nadya Sidorov -- Russian contortionist nicknamed Rusalka, “the Mermaid”, by the circus troupe she used to tour with. was eventually employed by Alois as the Trancy household’s entertainer, but is much more than that. in her, Alois has a mother figure and Claude has a witty lover. afflicted with what she believes is a “demon curse” that caused her extreme flexibility, but that’s not what it is.

Bella M. Figaro -- head of the Reaper Forensics Department. that department’s resident workaholic and ‘mom friend’ to all of her underlings. in a happy and committed relationship with William, despite Grell’s infrequent attempts to divide them. puts on a good front but is secretly overwhelmed with the world that she lives in. (I’ve written poly fics with her, William, and Grell before and I absolutely loved that relationship.

Adalyn Smith -- Junior Field Officer in the Reaper Dispatch Department. works hard, parties harder, but does not take kindly to one-night stands or noncommittal flirting. best known for her scythe, which has been modified to look like a gardening hoe. (and she takes every opportunity to make jokes about it.) has an on-again-off-again relationship with Ronald, and is absolutely cold to him whenever they break up. couldn’t be sweeter if they’re together, though.

Alabaster -- real name Sylvana Locke, retired Dispatch Officer. frequently worked as a partner with Undertaker, and retains her romantic relationship with him. despite her youthful appearance, she’s absolutely ancient. shares the same morbid sense of humor with Undertaker, and can often be seen hanging around cemeteries looking at grave markers. doesn’t smile much, but when she does, RUN.

Blair Slingby -- Eric’s mother, retired Receptions Officer and now a homemaker. her real passion is music as well as taking care of Eric when he’s home. plays the piano and sings like nobody’s business. still holds the ‘most efficient typist’ award from her days in Receptions. she also loves Alan and considers him a part of the family as well.

Connor Slingby -- Eric’s father, working Senior Dispatch Officer. family is the most important thing in the world to him, and he’s almost desperate to keep Eric reminded of his heritage. at the end of a long day, he likes to sit by the fire, drinking brandy and listening to Blair play the piano. also considers Alan a part of their family, so much so that he calls Alan his son as well.

Heather Humphries -- Alan’s mother, a homemaker who never worked for the Dispatch. not illiterate, but can’t read or write very well. she was never very affectionate, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love her family. excellent cook, to the point that as a child Alan refused to eat anything unless his mother made it. deceased.

Lucien Humphries -- Alan’s father, a farmer who never worked for the Dispatch. typically a short-tempered man except with his son and wife. has a missing finger on one hand due to a work accident when he was younger. he could hold Alan for hours. hates it when anyone but his wife touches his hair. deceased.

Lily Knox -- Ronald’s mother, Junior Dispatch Officer. quiet personality, although she loves to have fun as long as there are people around that she knows. loves to play with her son’s hair and dance with him standing on her feet. speaks French and taught Ronald as much as she could. deceased.

Charles Knox -- Ronald’s father, Receptions Officer. fell into depression after his wife died and never really got out of it. tends to hide his sadness behind trying to be the life of the party. occasionally breaks rules, and has been caught drinking at work more than once.

Aubrey Sutcliff -- Grell’s mother, Records Officer. (transferred from the Dispatch Department.) is one of the most easygoing people you will ever meet. maybe a little too laissez-faire as it seems she’s indifferent to her child’s behavior. blind in her left eye due to an accident while still working as a Dispatch Officer. most comfortable in men’s clothes, the only way you’d get a dress on her is if she were dead.

Ashleigh “Ash” Sutcliff -- Grell’s father, homemaker and former Receptions Officer. genderfluid, uses he and she pronouns depending on the day. an exceptional reader and writer, has written several short stories and poems. is absolutely devoted to his child, although he's severely lacking in backbone. wears dresses more than anything else.

Anna Marie Spears -- William’s mother, ready-to-retire Senior Dispatch Officer. got pregnant out of wedlock, and her fiance left her when he found out, leaving her to be a single mother. although she’s bitter about her lot in life, she loves her son very much and wouldn’t give him up for anything. probably has chronic fatigue syndrome and can make anyone shut up with just a look.

Margaret “Peggy” Wilson -- one of the first female students at Weston, she also helps as a costume artist for the Funtom Music Hall. during that job, she took a shine to Cheslock and the two of them are practically inseparable now. is actually not very similar to her boyfriend; tends to be a doormat and stay out of the way unless expressing her creativity. only Cheslock is allowed to call her “Peggy”. anyone else will get the most withering stare.

Beatrice Till -- fresh-out-of-apprenticeship doctor for the Sphere Music Hall and Funtom Music Hall. is very serious about her work, less serious about the company she keeps. was a little suspicious of Bravat, but trusted him up until the point that Gregory collapsed from anemia. developed a close romance with Gregory while trying to nurse him back to health, and would absolutely take revenge on Bravat if she thought she could get away with it.

Katherine Lennox -- one of the first female students at Weston, she works as a makeup artist for the Funtom Music Hall. can’t stand Ciel or Sebastian, but is taken with Joanne despite them being complete opposites. is a vulgar loudmouth who smokes on school grounds and gives exactly zero fucks about the rules. is terrified of her emotionally abusive mother, and feels that school was her only chance at escape.

Morana and Morello Cosgrove -- two halves of the same ‘hermaphrodite’ demon. (think the same concept as Ash and Angela.) Morana tends to be quietly sadistic and seductive, but as soon as she’s got someone where she wants them, the switch flips where she becomes totally unhinged. Morello is the opposite, typically abrasive and rude, and when he’s got someone where he wants them, he becomes quiet and prideful. mutually unhealthy but dependent relationship with Ash and Angela.

Queenie -- improv performer for Noah’s Ark Circus, often performs with Joker as part of the opening routine. tends to involve her ‘crashing’ the festivities while Joker pretends to be surprised. is usually friendly and upbeat while performing, but a little stoic outside of that. suffers from occasional hallucinations which typically flare up when she’s kidnapping children with the rest of the group. is not happy with the Doctor’s attempts to medicate her. is missing one eye and has a glass eye in its place that’s a different color. (she pops it out as a joke around new people.)