#do not ever underestimate how far I’ll go to commit to the bit

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 10 Finale

First contact, take two.

Go check out @keferon as the creator of the AU!

———————————————————————

Prowl stared at the lifeless body on the floor.

Visor dim, chest closed. Were it not for the absolute silence it offered, one might, without listening closely, assume it was merely an unconscious mech.

He ran the numbers again.

Odds of Survival 17%

The edge of his desk pressed a hard line against the backs of his legs and the palms of his servos. A steadily growing back log of frantic comms messages plinked across his processor like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs.

Red Alert: 13 messages and counting.

Velocity: 2 messages.

Elita One: 3 messages. . . 4 messages.

Odds of Survival 15%

Knocking- no, banging at the door. Red Alert, 76%.

Muffled, “Prowl open the door!”

“Answer your comms!”

“What’s happening in there?!”

Red Alert, 99%.

Slowly, Prowl moved his doorwings in a slow arch, quadruple checking that everything in his office was exactly where he needed it to be. Maximizing his chances.

“Open the door. Now.”

Elita (98%) was still speaking to him and not physically breaking into the room by force.

Odds of Survival 20%.

Without looking away from the body, Prowl unlocked the door to his office.

Guarded and cautious, the captain and security officer entered the room. Elita had a weapon drawn, but kept her blaster aimed at the floor, locking onto the body with an iron focus.

Conversely, Red Alert sucked in a vent at the sight, immediately raking his optics over every visible surface, searching frantically for signs of danger.

“What happened-how’d he get in here-who’s he work for-why’d you stop responding-where has he been-WHAT HAPPENED?!”

The mech was practically bouncing off the walls, static crackling with enough excess charge to diffuse the room with a heavy scent of ozone. The only reason Red Alert wasn’t currently tearing the place apart already was the way he looked at every object like a potential improvised explosive.

Ignoring the smaller mech, Elita ordered an answer, “Prowl. Explain. Now.”

His fans were audibly running high. Prowl did nothing to mask the obvious sign of stress. He carefully recited his script.

“Roughly one cycle ago, I rescued an unconscious mech from deep space after he’d fallen from a quintesson gate tear. He was friendly, albeit very unfamiliar with his surroundings. Including some of the very common alien species on board our transport.”

Calmly, Prowl looked up to read the other mechs reactions so far. Elita was remaining mostly focused on the body, but sent a sidelong glance aimed towards the tactician. Meanwhile, Red Alert looked ready to burst, about to interrupt Prowls script.

“You may search my office as I explain.” The security chiefs engine practically growled by the fourth word of being given permission, and dove behind Prowls desk for frantic inspection.

The captain nodded her head for Prowl to continue.

“Over the course of our short time together, I collected more unusual details about this mech. Compiling them in an effort to better understand “Jazz” as he refers to himself.” With a flick, Prowl brought up the conspiracy board for Elita Ones review.

The blue glow helped illuminate the dimmed office interior.

The alternate Functionalist Creation Theory was already deleted, leaving just the alien theory.

“On route towards the pick up location, Jazz, through somewhat clunky common, explained he was built specifically to fight quintessons. This claim immediately became verifiable when we were attacked by a not inconsiderable quintesson force.”

His doorwing twitched another scan.

Without turning around, Prowl knew the exact moment Red Alert discovered Jazz’s shoulder piece he’d stashed in his desk to be found. The sound of sudden disgust followed by a dropped clunk was reassurance enough.

“He then saved my life, multiple times and at significant injury to his own frame, as you are no doubt aware of Captain.” She did in fact look more closely at the fresh welds along the shoulder she’d seen barely clinging on not forty breems ago.

“After sustaining these injuries, I assisted Jazz with some basic field repairs. During which I discovered they had no previous experience with anesthetic and generally seemed to expect significantly harsher treatment than what I would consider “normal or ethical” medical care.”

Prowl vented, nodding towards the screen. “Bluestreak can verify the accuracy of these statements. There are some transcripts of our conversations on the board as well.”

Faintly, Prowl could hear Red Alert mouth the words, “ -don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy??” in quiet horror.

Odds of Survival 25%

The increase steadied Prowl slightly as he continued. “On our way to the medbay, Jazz expressed some anxiety over being treated by a professional. He-“

The praxian swallowed.

Prowl couldn’t really act, but luckily he didn’t have to. “He requested not be restrained or sedated, and gave- permission, to use force against him if he did become.. ungovernable.”

For the first time, Prowl released a servo from the desk and used it to gesture broadly to the whole situation.

It fell somewhat limp at his side.

“Velocity preformed the necessary repairs, noting a sudden decline in Jazz’s language capabilities as well as strong evidence for prior medical abuse.”

“Shortly afterwards, Jazz temporarily fled the medbay.”

That eleven letter word was a load bearing component of Jazz’s survival.

Some of the tension returned to the room as they were all reminded of the inciting incident. Prowl had significant practice in withdrawing his emotions, and now more than ever did he need to appear neutral.

“Jazz escaped by utilizing a strong magnetic grip to both damage the locks as well as scale the ceiling through the blind spots of the cameras. He traveled only a short distance into Rune’s office, where the therapist was able to talk him down somewhat. Jazz then sought to “tell me something important” encountering Whirl along the way.”

Red Alert had finished tearing apart Prowls desk, and was now carefully inching his way closer to the body still on the floor. Hesitantly, as if it could strike without warning.

Prowl resisted the urge to tense.

“Both mechs can corroborate the timeline. Shortly after, I discovered Jazz lost in the halls and brought him to the nearest room I had control over. My office.”

Inspecting the frame for subspace pockets it didn’t have, the security chief crackled lightly with frustration.

Snippily, Red Alert snapped at him, “So the oil pot got you alone, in your office no less, under the pretenses of distress JUST like I said he would.”

“Red Alert.” The smaller mech jolted but looked his Captain in the optics. Elita One held a steady, cold Calm over the room. Her field not to be overruled. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, no. But I haven’t looked everywhere.”

The Captain silenced him with a raise of her hand. “Then finish your search, and Prowl will finish his report.”

She nodded for them both to resume their parts.

Odds of Survival 33%

The tactician nodded gratefully in return.

“Jazz was behaving irrationally. Nervous. Confused. He made statements that didn’t make sense and given his helm injury, I had strongly suspected he was crashing. Or his species equivalent to it.”

Prowl watched very carefully as Red Alert finished his search, faster than expected. The total lack of any signs of life coupled with the mention of crashing made the mech’s optics go impossibly wide. “Did he- is he?”

Prowl passively waved his servo at the body. “He’s not dead, although by cybertronian standards it may appear that way. This state is relatively normal from what Velocity has noted.”

“So if you thought he was having a medical emergency, why didn’t you call for help?” The captain didn’t quite relax, but did seem to accept Jazz wasn’t going to spring up at any moment.

No no no no. Please god no.

Prowl snapped out of the memory. Once more resetting his optics.

“He. . asked me not to. I chose not to risk agitating him or his injury further.” Prowl’s wings twitched minutely, tracking Red Alerts movement towards Greens habitat.

“And then?”

“He confessed to me he was an alien.” Prowl stated mirthlessly.

For the first time Elita took her eyes off the body, cycling her optics and turning towards Prowl, who could only press his mouth into a thin line.

“Jazz was totally unaware he was completely isolated on an unknown alien vessel. At least until very recently.” Prowl finished.

There was a flicker of some other emotion through Elita’s field. He’s had enough people pity him to recognize the sensation.

A yelp from Green’s habitat had both Prowl and Elita One rounding on Red Alert. The mech was clutching his servo like it’d been lacerated.

“It tried to bite me! It tried to bite me!”

Sure enough, a low throaty hiss emanated from the top of Green’s enclosure. The flyt glared down over the edge of her highest platform at the short mech. Her crest and throat were flushed a dark purple with territorial fury.

“An erratic mech is forcibly intruding on her personal space. The urge to bite is a sympathetic one.” Prowl growled, stood in the center of his completely overturned office.

“Leave the damn flyt alone Red. Prowl, get to the fragging point.” At last, Elita holstered her weapon, glowering at them both.

Odds of survival 45%

The tactician turned back to the captain, “Between the shock, exhaustion and his injuries, I believe Jazz went into his species version of an involuntary shutdown. I have done everything I can to stabilize him from crashing.”

He rubbed his helm where his own would-be crash had wanted to form, “I have the relevant experience.”

Elita One studied Prowls face with a piercing gaze. Narrowing slightly.

“Why did you stop responding to comms for almost a full breem?”

His fans still running on high, helm burning and sensor net itching, Prowl put all his will into suppressing any exhaustion born sass.

“I nearly crashed.”

“You nearly crashed.” Elita reiterated.

Prowl nodded.

The captain considered this for a time.

“Red Alert, I want this ship deep cleaned. Full search and scan from top to bottom. Get the ceilings covered and figure out something for the locks to counter the super magnet situation.”

Optics brightening to luminosity of head lights, Red Alert stammered in reply, “E-even your quarters Captain?”

Elita looked like she was contemplating the taste of a fistful of nails, rolling her optics as she grit out, “Yes. This one time, and you explicitly do not have permission to place any form of surveillance inside.”

Red Alert saluted so hard he left a dent.

“YES CAPTAIN I WON’T MAKE YOU REGRET THIS CAPTAIN THANK YOU CAPTAIN!”

“Go!”

The red mech had his sirens blaring before his tires even hit the ground. Leaving the remaining mechs almost alone.

The sound of Elita One’s peds clacking against the metal floor made Prowl’s wings twitch.

Arms crossed, she stared the praxian down.

“Tell me everything you just redacted.”

Prowl did not immediately respond, still staring down at the body on the floor. His doorwings rotated satellite slow.

Without a word, Prowl took his weight off of the desk, walking up to Greens enclosure, where he gently pushed the flyt aside and collected what was hidden beneath her.

“This-“ Prowl cupped his servos around a small white and blue form, “is Jazz.”

——————

The logic cascade nearly consumed him.

Prowl was holding Jazz’s spark.

Jazz.

The mecha’s chest plate had opened. Revealing only the faintest glow within, washed out entirely by the harsh overhead lights of Prowls office.

Irrationally, Prowls higher functioning stalled out and his processor defaulted to some spark deep coding to make sense of what was happening.

He’s exposing his spark. He’s showing me his spark and he’s still crashing.

He’s going to crash and die with his fragging spark out in my office Oh fragging Primus Not here not like THIS.

A ringing.

Shrill and strangled. A dissonant sting.

An EM field.

Jazz’s EM field.

Faint. Faint but sharp, like an almost invisible shard of glass that only becomes known once it’s lodged itself beneath your armor.

The scream warbled and popped like a blown radio speaker. Some-thing fell forward from Jazz’s chassis.

His spark his spark his spark is falling out of his chest.

Jerking forward on instinct, Prowl cupped his servos and caught what wasn’t a spark- that’s not a spark this is NOT A SPARK.

A body, limp and silent. Tissue paper light in the way only non-metallic life forms can be.

It’s in his servos it’s in his servos it’s in his ser>%$.

Prowl was static. From his mind to his body. Pure static. Frozen yet screaming internally on his knees, staring down at everything that made Jazz alive.

He held the Spark-body-organic-not spark- Spark-SPARK-SPARK-ITS NOT JAZZ-NOT A SPARK ITS \#}>%*!? JAZZ-IT IS JAZ%-IT IS-IT IS- in his servos.

Gently.

Sparks Organics were very fragile.

He knew that. Prowl held onto that. Gently. Very gently.

He slotted the simple equation into place.

How to keep Jazz not-spark alive.

Odds of Survival. . .

——————

The weight in his palms felt imaginary. Too small to be real.

Yet here was Elita One as his witness. Thrown Off was a look seldom worn by the Captain and it was clearly an uncomfortable fit.

“This is Jazz?” She echoed Prowl, reaching out a servo to the unconscious whatever Jazz was.

The praxian stiffened, manually canceling the move to pull Jazz away from the other mechs reach. He didn’t, however, quite manage to cancel his vocalizer, a “Please be careful.” busting out despite himself.

Elita shot him an affronted look, plucking Jazz from his servos. “I know how to not kill an organic Prowl.”

She turned her servo over, using her thumb to roll the alien onto its back. “You let me hold Green.” She muttered.

“Green is much larger and I actually know what she is.” He was hovering, Prowl knew he was hovering and that Elita hated it when people hovered but it was really just a race to see who pissed off who first right now.

“Okay, okay, so what’s wrong with.. this one?”She gestured with the digit she was using to prod Jazz, closely examining the unconscious organic.

Not for the first time that day, Prowl rubbed a servo over his head, “I-I am unsure. It’s incredibly faint but he is breathing. I did mean it when I said I think he fainted from shock and possibly exhaustion. Organics typically require rest and fuel much more frequently than us and Jazz was extremely active for a highly extended period of time.”

Prowl cleared his vents, “At least, compared to a flyt. I do not have many other data points for comparison.”

Considering this, Elita frowned at the aliens inorganic casing and then at the motionless mecha on the floor. Definitely an aesthetic match. She considered something for a moment, frowning.

“Do you- Ew, ew, it’s twitching. Take it. Take it back.”

Not quite panicking, Elita effectively half-tossed half-dropped the alien back into Prowls anxious servos.

For several long and ancient clicks, neither mech moved, holding perfectly still as the alien shifted in Prowls servos.

Holding him like this, Prowl can feel Jazz’s field again. Faintly, like the sound of rustling branches on the edge of conscious hearing, the field tickled his palms. Unlike the mecha, Jazz’s visor wasn’t opaque, allowing Prowl to see the faint scrunch of his face and the way it smoothed out again once back in Prowl’s care.

His field dropped back into a near silent whisper.

Prowl made a ball of his servos, sealing off Jazz from anything else that might happen.

“We can set them up in a holding cell or something.” Elita said quietly, flicking her hand in exasperation. “Maybe under a glass bowl. I’ll arrange for someone else to handle questioning.”

The praxian straightened up at that, looking back to his captain, “Sir, I am the best suited to question Jazz.”

Arms crossing, Elita One gave Prowl an appraising look. “You said so yourself that you nearly just crashed. Why can’t anyone else do it?”

Nodding in understanding, Prowl pitched his counter argument, “As it stands, I have the best rapport with him. The only other mechs Jazz has met is Bluestreak, Velocity and yourself.”

“Jazz gets along with Bluestreak, however my brother is not well suited for interrogations.” Which wasn’t entirely true, Prowl kept to himself. Subjecting detainees to Bluestreaks small talk for several groons frequently made said individuals much more receptive to questioning by subsequent officers.

That currently didn’t help however.

“Velocity is a medic, which Jazz is terrified of and has zero experience with interrogations.” The knowledge of where this chaos began was still fresh. Fresher still was Prowl’s memory of Jazz pleading to not wake up on a table.

“And I mean no offense captain, but the last time Jazz saw you, you had threatened to rip off one of his arms and beat him with it.” Elita shrugged and gave Prowl a “Fair Enough” look.

“Statistically speaking, Jazz is most likely to answer honestly to someone he considers an ally. Regardless of how others may view my reputation, Jazz did specifically choose me to explain himself to before he lost consciousness.”

Venting, Elita considered the facts and stepped slightly closer. Prowl held his posture as formally as he could despite how his servos were positioned. The harsh look in his captains optics softened only slightly hearing his fans continue on high power.

“Are you sure you can handle this? Medically speaking?”

In a rare break of form, Prowl let his doorwings sink to a less physically taxing position. “The initial shock has passed. I will not crash.”

Probably. 67%.

Breaking eye contact, Prowl stared at the mess of data pads now scattered on his office floor. 85% of which was commissioned work directly from Megatron.

“I do not know how long it will take for Jazz to wake up. I do know I will not be very effective at my job until this is resolved.”

Finally stepping back, Elita had the look of someone using comms. “Officially, I’m putting you on medical leave for the next couple cycles. Megatron will have to make his own poor decisions for awhile.”

She paused by the body. “What do we do with this?”

It was heavier than it looked. Prowl knew now from experience. The mechs needed to remove it would add to the list of possible loose ends to an already sensitive situation.

“We can leave it for now. I will not allow Jazz access to it until I am more certain of his intentions.”

She hummed in response. Eyeing where Jazz was currently contained, Elita made her way to the door, “I need to go do damage control, alert me the instant their condition changes. Yours too.”

“Understood. And thank you. For listening.”

Awkwardly, Prowl looked anywhere but the captain, and Elita wordlessly waved him off. Both mechs quickly abandoned the moment of mutual care and thankfulness in favor of their usual personas.

Soon enough, Elita was gone.

Cracking open his hold, Prowl peeked at his alien charge.

Still sleeping.

Almost imperceptibly, Prowl could make out the slight rhythmic expansion of his chest. Limbs tucked close, Jazz was loosely curled on his side into a ball, showing no signs of waking.

Odds of Survival 63%.

The gauntlet was over, now it was all up to Jazz.

——————

Prowl lay slumped over on his desk.

His arms fenced in a pile consisting of every instant cold pack he kept in his office, which were currently arranged to completely bury his head.

After two and a quarter groons, the packs were mostly room temperature but the way they blocked out most light and sound was nice.

The door to Green’s habitat was left open. It was a risky move but a pleasant surprise that the flyt chose cuddles over consumption in regards to the small alien. Prowl hadn’t counted on her getting protective over the fellow organic, but it was certainly a relief.

Placing Jazz back in Greens nest seemed the safest option at the time. Soft but contained. Green certainly had no qualms and arranged herself as she saw fit. Prowl figured she must know more than him about this and let her be.

Currently, the flyt had started trilling happily. Prowls doorwings twitched. Scanning the room for the umpteenth time before relaxing again.

The only other sounds were the noises the Lost Light usually produced and Prowls own body functions.

It was quiet. As quiet as his office normally was anyways. The flyt continued her quiet song.

Actually, Green was trilling very loudly right now.

Then, Prowl picked up on a second, much stranger pitch.

Speech. Specifically speech in the tone of cooing.

Rising from his mountain of maladaptive coping, Prowl lethargically turned his helm to the habitat. The cooing continued unawares.

Standing now, Prowl looked into Greens nest to see what was going on.

The flyt had her beak almost tucked against her belly, forehead pressed against Jazz’s chest.

Awake, and lying on his back, the alien was reaching around the flyts comparatively massive head to scritch and scratch at the back of her neck. Paying special attention to the crease where Green’s crest met her head, causing the flyt to trill like crazy.

All the while, the alien matched her vocal tone, speaking absolute nonsense in his native language. {D’aww you like that big guy? Yes you do! You’re just a giant love bug aren’t you?}

It took a couple tries, but after several resets Prowl believed his optics were working.

The alien noticed him at last and smiled at him from around Green. “Oh hey Prowler!”

“Are-“ his voice clipped.

Resetting his vocalizer this time, Prowl tried again, “You are remarkably calm right now.”

Not stopping his ministrations, Jazz hummed nonchalantly, “Well yeah, s’not like this is real.”

Prowl felt he had underestimated Jazz’s capacity to screw with his head.

“What.” He searched for any signs that he had fallen into defrag. Finding none.

“You think this isn’t real?” Prowl asked incredulously.

Jazz raised an eyebrow, smiling at the tactician.

“Prowl. Babydoll. I’m petting a {dinosaur.}”

He said with the most “you serious right now?” look reserved for only the most ridiculous of questions.

Prowl, might, kill Jazz himself.

Very hide-able body.

Very feasible.

He’s hidden bigger.

Instead, Prowl schooled his emotions. He would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to loose control like he did during Jazz’s confession.

Bringing his servos together as if he was a praying mech, Prowl calmly asked, “Why do you think this isn’t real?”

Jazz shrugged, “I mean, which is more likely? That I fell through a space spanning portal only to be rescued by some handsome alien who’s entire species just so happens to look exactly like mechas? Or that going through that portal permanently damaged something in here?”

The alien pointed at his own head for emphasis, carrying on, “And this is all some end of life {hallucination} my brain came up with where I’m actually fine, dinosaurs are pet-able and robots turn into cars.”

Prowl stopped Tacnet before it could take the prompt. Because it would calculate those odds, it would agree with Jazz, and then Prowl would crash for real this time.

“Well then can you at least pretend this is actually happening?” He was getting angry. He was getting angry again and he needed to stop before he did any more damage.

His doorwings and servos shook from how tightly he was holding them. He would stay calm. He would stay calm.

His field was seeping out again, but Prowl now knew from experience that trying to stop it now would just cause whatever hold he had on it to break loose.

[PROWL]: Jazz is awake. I am handling it]

[ELITA-1]: Keep me appraised]

[ELITA-1]: If Jazz turns out to be a liability he’s gone, and you’re going to scour the outside of the shop for all those “listening devices” Red Alert is now freaking out about]

The cold packs had done wonders earlier and Prowl was about to undo all the good they’d done.

He let the anger stay but cool into something usable. “Listen to me.”

Prowl leaned in just close enough to feel the bare hint of Jazz’s field. It was still incomprehensible but maybe he’d understand Prowl’s.

“My boss is currently demanding to know what you and your intentions are, and if I can’t provide a satisfactory answer we’re both going out of an airlock.” Prowl hissed.

Jazz stilled.

He looked over Prowl again, then back to Green. A melody Prowl hadn’t been aware of juttered to a stop, and that reedy dissonant sting reappeared. The alien looked down wide eyed at Green, slowly raising his hands away from the massive animal.

“Oooooh Fuck me this is actually real.”

The wonderful scritches having suddenly stopped, Green clicked unhappily and shoved her forehead more forcefully against Jazz’s chest.

The alien wheezed as all the air in his body was forced out, eyes bulging and panicked. Jazz began rapidly tapping Greens head, trying to speak without breath, “Help. Help help help help help.”

“Green! To me!”

The flyt thankfully followed the hurried command, only needing to flap once to clear the distance between her nest and Prowls pauldron. The sudden gust of wind had Jazz jerking into a ball at the gale force buffeting.

Lightly keeping one servo on his flyt, Prowl leaned in close as he could to check Jazz over for damages.

No bodily fluids leaking, no screaming, still breathing. Good.

Jazz uncurled slowly, making intense eye contact as he pulled air back into his body.

He coughed, “Uh, hi.”

“Hello.” Prowl unconsciously copied the motion, clearing a vent, “Are you hurt?”

Jazz patted his chest in a few places, “Nothing broken. A little dizzy but I’ve felt worse.”

A little bit of relief went a long way right now, and Prowl pretty much sagged with it. “Good. Right. Now, if you could describe what insane circumstances resulted with you, inside of that, I would greatly appreciate an explanation.”

Prowl waved his free servo over to the mecha still on the floor. He didn’t miss the way Jazz’s eyes lit up seeing it and the following look of concentration as he suddenly realized how high up he was.

“Right, right. Okay, I’ll try.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the nest, needing his arms to keep himself upright.

Idly, Prowl pet Green to keep her content on his shoulder, as Jazz centered himself to try and bridge the gap of misunderstanding.

———

About a decade and a half ago, my world started to end.

Giant fuck-off aliens descended across the Earth, destroying everything in their paths. They didn’t know the difference between cities and savannas, just plowed on through from one to the other. Maybe they actually did but it just wasn’t a difference that mattered.

That all changed once we fought back.

Conventional weapons worked at first, but then they started sending bigger, faster and meaner motherfuckers. The first wave didn’t care, just dug around in random places.

But the second wave?

We were fucked.

The biggest problem was that the thing’s barely cared what was attacking them. Civilian casualties skyrocketed. Fighter planes couldn’t keep their attention and tanks couldn’t maneuver well enough through the shattered landscape.

There was one thing the fuckers never seemed to ignore though.

Statues. Big ones.

Christ the Redeemer, The Statue of Liberty, if it was huge and human shaped the invaders would B-line for them.

One day some genius pitched the idea of J-Boy and Lady Libs bitch slapping some aliens, and most of the world was at the “Fuck It” stage anyways.

Next thing we know, there’s this, gigantic, fuckin’ robot stumbling around the West Coast.

The first ever mecha.

Built from hopes and dreams and I think a couple decommissioned battle ships, the Vanguard had one real job.

Draw away the invaders, take hits and probably blow up.

Story goes that one of the pilots decided this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission anymore.

They fought, and they won.

San Francisco. The first city to have more living than dead after an attack. My home.

After that day? The mecha program was officially formed. More mechas were made, more pilots were trained, and ten years later we’ve fought the invaders to a standstill.

Someone finally suggests taking the fight to them, and bada bing bada boom ya boy Jazz is getting shot into space.

———

“Then a, what was it, a quintessential showed up.”

“Quintesson.” Prowl corrected through his servos.

“Thank you! I kicked it in the face, we fell through the tear into some kind of command center. Everybody freaked out, somebody reactivated the portal machine thingy and well, you know the rest!” Jazz at last stopped emoting with his hands, letting them come to rest on his lap. His story complete.

Prowl had to get a chair halfway through.

He was not going to crash.

He fragging wasn’t.

The fact that his face was buried in his servos and that Green was anxiously trying to preen his chevron meant nothing.

He listened to Jazz say one insane thing, and put a pin in it. He then heard a second insane thing, and added a second, larger pin.

And so on.

There where quite a lot of pins at this point and Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how to grab just one without poking himself on another.

His fans were on again.

The tactician wiped his servos down his face, “Who- who are your allies? How many planets does your kind control?”

Meeting his gaze, Jazz frowned. “Do you mean alien allies? Cause no, it’s just us. One people, one planet.” He said holding up a solitary finger.

Currently Jazz was sat on the floor, leaning against Greens nest. Earlier, the pilot had tried to stand briefly but nearly collapsed. Waving off Prowl’s concern with an “I’m fine! This is normal.”

One. More. Pin.

“Hell, you’re the first alien I’ve ever met that didn’t want me dead.”

Shaking his helm in disbelief, Prowl started cutting back logic branches that’d surely result in a cascade. “This, this is a lot to process.”

Jazz had the audacity to laugh, “Hey, you’re tellin’ me.”

Eyes roving Prowl’s frame, Jazz sat up a bit straighter as they realized something.

The alien rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, I’d like to also apologize. For what happened earlier.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, the space around Prowl’s optics tightened, “Yes. Well, I did not behave in a manner I will ever be particularly proud of either. I assure you I do not usually loose control like that.”

“I hope you can forgive me.” Staring at the floor between his peds, Prowl’s doorwings fell low in apology. He was so caught up in his own self righteous rage he’d screamed down at a mech who’d needed him. Who trusted him.

Jazz however, just seemed confused. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong, I was the one getting all handsy on the bridge.”

The praxian snapped up straight.

“Right. That. I also, yes. That.”

“In my defense,” Jazz raised his hands and bowed his head, “I thought you were a guy in a suit like me. Didn’t know I was actually grabbing the real you.”

Resetting his vocalizer, he spoke much more quietly. “Yes, well. It was an understandable mistake.”

“Still would though.”

“What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other in silence for several clicks.

For all his expressiveness, Jazz had a way of totally shutting off any visible tells the second he wanted to. The only tell of any kind was a practiced deceptively neutral smile beneath his visor. His mouth twitched.

The silence finally broke when Jazz growled.

Immediately leaning back defensively, Prowl wrinkled his nose when Jazz started laughing like crazy, snorting a bit before finally loosing steam.

Taking deep breaths, Jazz closed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. My stomach does that when I haven’t eaten in a while.” He rolled his head over to look at Prowl, eyes peeking back open. “Could’ya help me back to my mecha? I’ve got some rations in there.”

Prowl was already moving his servo inside before he could think better of it. From there, Jazz did not so much climb as he did roll over onto Prowls open palm. Sitting crisscrossed.

Something faintly like a pleasant hum touched his field.

Once out of the enclosure, the tactician studied the now conscious creature curiously. Bright eyed and without hiding it, Jazz studied him as well. A melody he didn’t recognize played against the pulse of his wrist.

He found that if he turned Jazz just the right way, the light from the theory board would turn his visor opaque. Every time he turned Jazz back, the visor cleared, and the subtle shock of sudden eye contact had him repeating the motion. Prowl got lost in trying to find the exact angle where Jazz was halfway between hidden and revealed.

Every time he did, Jazz would shift almost imperceptibly. Hidden and revealed again at his own discretion.

They stood there together, longer than either had expected.

Eventually, it was Prowl’s turn to break the silence, “You trust me. Why?”

Finally moving towards the mecha, there must have been some proximity sensor on Jazz’s person that triggered the chest plates to open.

Wings fluttering, Prowl subconsciously averted his gaze as Jazz scooted off his servo and into the cavity. The sound of tiny boots clanking.

Still not looking, he heard Jazz answer, “Breaking it down into three layers, there’s number one: I don’t exactly have any other options.”

A quick doorwing scan revealed the incredibly complex interior of Jazz’s suit, which somehow felt even more inappropriate than openly staring. Prowl pinned his wings together and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Number two: If you were going to kill me, you would have by now.” The sound of Jazz rustling around in their mecha abruptly stopped as the pilot spoke to Prowl more directly. “Hey, you good?”

Determined not to address this right now, Prowl simply shook his head. “I’m fine. Continue.”

He could almost hear Jazz thinking at this point, “Oooh right, the open chest cavity is probably pretty gross for you huh?”

Prowl squinted harder at the ceiling, “Not. Exactly.”

Jazz made some sort of noise of interest but thankfully choose to leave it for now. Instead, Prowl felt him clamber back onto his servo and heard the chest plates close back up.

Prowl finally looked back down at the human who’d gathered a backpack full of supplies. He carried him back to his desk and sat, releasing the small alien and leaning down low to look him in the face.

Jazz smiled back at him, “Reason number three: I like you.”

Prowl reset his optics and swore that made Jazz smile even harder. “Why?”

“Beats me.” Jazz shrugged, pulling out some ration packages.

“It’s probably a bunch of little things all added together. Super smart, fun to piss off, likes animals, can hold down a job, didn’t freak out and squash me like a bug. Hard to say for certain, but yeah, I like you.”

That was an exceptionally rare opinion to hear.

Gradually, Prowl began to feed all the information Jazz had provided into Tacnet in an effort to focus on more productive things.

There was an alien species capable of monumental destruction currently at war with the quintessons. Jazz liked him. Jazz held a favorable opinion of Prowl and could possibly be convinced to view Cybertronians in general with similar affability. Jazz was a fantastic ally on the field. There were multiple other fighters like Jazz on his home planet. They might also be convinced to “like” cybertronians.

The entire reason Prowl had been in deep space that cycle was because he was on a mission to find potential allies with other alien civilizations.

On the transport back, Prowl had written the mission off as an abject failure. Organics generally either hated Cybertronians, or feared them to the point of uselessness.

And yet.

Prowl crossed his arms on the table, getting more comfortable.

[PROWL]: My original mission has become a tentative success]

[PROWL]: Jazz has been cooperative so far, and if we can verify everything he’s told me, we could potentially form a highly favorable alliance with his people]

[ELITA-1]: He’s not freaked out about being tiny and squish-able any more? How’d you get him to talk?]

[PROWL]: I simply listened. He’s a shameless flirt]

[ELITA-1]: What]

[PROWL]: I will elaborate later. I am technically on medical leave still]

[ELITA-1]: Prowl what]

A rare sense of smugness filled Prowls field. He watched as Jazz played keep-away with Green for his limited rations. To give him some peace, he recovered the flyt, and Prowl set his mind to finding this Earth as soon as possible.

———

Jazz folded his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the star map.

“So?” Prowl prompted.

The human looked relaxed, maybe almost disinterested, however that dissonant ringing sting was back in his field. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Fine. Fine. This was fine.

The map probably wasn’t formatted in a way Jazz was used to viewing. Prowl skipped around through a few other maps, landing on some deep space photographs instead. “Okay, well, what’s the farthest your species has traveled into space?”

“Our planets moon.” Jazz smiled in a tight-eyed sort of way with too many teeth.

Prowl stalled out, “I- How?!? How does your species have the technological development to create drivable weapons shaped like people but you lack the technology to reach past your own moon? What method of space travel are you using where the moon is the limit?”

“Big missiles.”

The tactician slowly raised his servos to his face.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah Prowler?” He said with faux casualness.

“When you said that you, and I quote, “got shot into space.” Prowl took a long deep vent. “You were being literal?”

At the very least Jazz had the decency to look sheepish. Risking a glance, he saw Prowl’s irises spinning like crazy again.

The tactician brought his chevron back down to his most used pillow, his desk. He crossed his arms over his helm for good measure, willing his helm to not explode.

What kind of demented species was so overly specialized for combat that projectile explosives were considered a reasonable form of transportation?

. . .The same kind that can hold off a Quintesson invasion by themselves.

He needed Jazz. The whole Decepticon movement needed that alliance with his people. They were spread too thin. Too many enemies. Not enough support.

Megatron barely approved Elita-one’s proposal to attempt to establish trade relations with known organic civilizations. And only under the condition that the trade heavily favored the Decepticons.

But these were fellow combatants. For all the high command’s xenophobia, they at least respected exceptional acts of violence.

It was a solution just out of reach.

Earth was presumably located on the edge of the Quintessons territory. Given the necessity of using rifts to approach the planet, there was likely a dedicated Quintesson Gate Station somewhere within the Human’s solar system. When asked to describe the type of Star his planet orbited, Jazz answered with a less than helpful “Yellow.”

If roughly 18% of the average galaxy had yellow stars, then that would still be around 80 billion stars. Even excluding stars without Earth sized planets, that’s easily still twenty billion different stars in just one galaxy. If they could somehow accurately survey up to 8 planets per breem, it would take a little over 761 Vorns to finishing sweeping one galaxy under Quintesson control.

Assuming the Quintessons didn’t kill them first that is.

He’d need to find another way.

The human blew a raspberry after Prowl didn’t move for a good forty seconds. “Are you calculating our “Odds of Survival” again?”

Peeking through his forearms, the praxian squinted at him, Tacnet whirling away, “No. Just yours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Jazz, who was feeling much better after eating properly, expertly slipped past Prowls barrier a breath away from his face.

“Is it more than zero?” He said leaning back against Prowls arm.

“It’s a decimal point.” Prowl muttered. “With many, many zeroes before the point.”

And now those damn sounds were back again.

It had to be Jazz’s field, there was no other correlation.

It was always on the edge of perceptibly, like a song playing in another room. Prowl had to constantly check he wasn’t imagining things, because EM fields did not make sounds and yet here was Jazz, breaking everything he knew about what was possible.

Currently, the field brought to mind a steady smooth hand on a bowed instrument. A couple notes plucked in a major key.

“Then I’ll survive.”

Scrunching his brow, Prowl pulled away so he didn’t go cross eyed looking at the little impossibility. “That’s not how this works. Your odds of survival are microscopic, Jazz.”

“Buuut there’s a chance yeah?” Jazz pulled himself up to sit on Prowls forearm. “It’s more than zero, and I’ve worked with zero.”

Prowl tapped his digits, “We’ll have to convince the captain and her crew to keep you aboard.”

“I’m effortlessly charming.” He winked.

“Everything will be dangerous for you here.” Prowl pointed out.

“Everything already was.” Jazz shrugged.

He wiped a servo down his face, not even sure why he was arguing with him, “It’s going to be statistically impossible.”

“Prowl.” Jazz stood, “I am impossible.”

The silence ran to the Earth and back.

Neither broke the eye contact, waiting for the other to break first. Desperately, Prowl needed something to keep Jazz from making him crash. This could not become a pattern.

Quickly, he considered every data point he’d collected on the pilot, and compiled it into an extremely temporary equation.

<< Jazz + [Odds of Survival] = 99% >>

Something in Tacnet wound down finally, and Prowl actually relaxed. It was a lie. But it was a lie that Tacnet didn’t need to know about. For now.

Automatically, Prowl held out a servo and Jazz hopped on.

“Finally believe in me?” He said, lightly grasping his thumb as a hand hold.

“No, but it will literally kill me if I don’t try.”

Prowl turned down the hall, trying to ignore the subtle auditory hallucination of an energetic leitmotif. Picking up a little speed despite himself.

“Before anything else can be done, we need to make our case. Are you ready Jazz?”

“This is something straight out of a TV show Prowler. Hell yeah I’m ready.”

Together they would face the music.

———————————————————————

Coda

———

Humanity’s Finest: “Yeah we don’t know why but for some reason these things just fucking hate giant metal people.”

Jazz, being introduced to Cybertronians: “I have a theory.”

1 Breem = 8 minutes

1 Groon = 320 minutes or 5.3 hours

1 cycle = 16 groons or 3.5 days

1 vorn = 50 years

Well how about that. What was started as a four parter evolved into ten.

This’ll be where I’ll leave Jazz and Prowl off for a time. Other stories wait in line.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed along for this and a special thank you to @keferon for laying the groundwork for the story and for @glitchgh0sty’s absolutely amazing fanart of Odds of Survival.

Still crazy to me how much talent and care random folks can put into things to share with one another.

Also huge shoutout to the people who leave comments! You guys are awesome and hearing about all the stuff that sticks out to you or made you go crazy really does help me as a writer! I learn things! Woo!

Thank you all for reading, and I wish for each of you a very high Odds of Survival.

-SSTP

<- First

[rosakuma]

DRDT Ep 15 Thoughts and Analysis on The Culprit(HUGE SPOILERS)

Me thinking that Eden was the killer before this episode or thinking that Hu could still be the killer:

Okay so I owe Eden an apology, sorry girlie but at the time you just seemed really suspicious with how you been acting in some areas. Plus evidence at the time. But I also I guess I underestimated Ace here.

I’ll admit that like others, I was one of the people who thought Ace wouldn’t be able to do the murder because of his knowledge. But to be fair, I only thought about it because logically:

How would he commit murder or thought about how Nico’s method work right as he almost died!?

Why would be take the tape?

How did he get the fricken turpentine or take the clothes?

But I guess I didn't take in account of:

He might’ve just pretended to be unconscious longer

He would’ve thought of about the method more after the attempt

The tape was used to bandage his neck

He just stragulated Arei to death since he’s strong enough to do so(even though I'm still confused as shouldn’t he be weak from being malnourished?!) and just needed it look like a suicide to frame Nico.

I guess Eden, Teruko, and Hu left the old clothes alone in the dress up room

Like literally J was me when she said that earlier in the trial and I can't blame her, I thought it made sense too!

But god it still hurts that he’s the killer. I mean I’m going to be honest here y’all…I didn't get super attached to Ace until ep13 as while I did feel bad for him before of almost being murdered, it didn't hit me how bad his situation was…

Ace Markey I think(and this might just me me or controversial take) is the most tragic Danganronpa fangan killer out there with how much his life is tragic in this killing game. From what we got so far, Ace’s life before the killing game wasn't great. He felt like he had no control over it with being force into a career/talent he hates. That he can’t do anything else because he sucks at anything else. Being stuck with being good at his worse fear of horses. And from what we know little about the only person he could ever called his friend(Taylor), it seems that he lost the only person who gave a shit about him while stuck in that life he was given.

He honestly doesn't have anything to really go back to if his life would’ve still been bad, but maybe Ace just wanted to live. To live out of fear of dying young, of dying with noting he achieved that he could be proud of. Of dying alone and having lived an shitty life forced upon him(perhaps from his family) without having a chance to see if it was possible for him to get out of that life and his self sabotaging behavior.

I think the worse part of all of this is how this could’ve been avoided if not for Ace’s environment in the killing game causing this. With said environment being of these individuals:

Teruko(a bit)- If Teruko didn't saying how Ace would probably not make it in this killing game, he probably wouldn't have been starting to be paranoid about this.

Veronika- If Veronika never pointed out that Ace could be killed because of people targeting him for how he’s been of being hot headed and loud mouth, along with encouraging his paranoia. Ace wouldn’t have believe this to be true.

Nico- If Nico didn't take things far and try to kill Ace, rather than just talk to someone about Ace’s behavior towards him to where they could’ve talk it out or someone discipline him(but not kill him of course), then Ace would’ve never had his fears proven true. Nor would he have copied Nico’s murder method and try framing them and Eden (kinda ironic since Nico was trying to frame Hu before Ace did this).

Hu- If Hu would’ve just stop taking sides out of favoritism and cared about stopping Nico and Ace on both of their sides. Ace would’ve never done this nor would Nico. Actually she makes me the most piss at her as she f*cking still defended Nico AFTER THEY TRIED KILLING ACE AND EVEN IN THE TRIAL TOO WHEN THEY ADMITTED TO IT! I'm sorry, but I think this episode and trial made me a Hu hater. I don't hate her enough to want her dead of course, but she makes me furious how much trouble she cause. I hope she reflects from this after Ace is gone.

Arturo(technically)- Im putting him here as if Arturo never tried threatening Eden and causing Arei to bust in to save Eden, Ace would’ve never eavesdrop on them. Thus causing him to try to frame Eden.

David- And David…oh David, I hate the fact I actually believed in you for seeing Arei’s body first and thinking Eden was guilty. I may feel bad you lost Arei, but it's your f*cking fault because you decided to make everyone try to reveal their secrets and that just caused more harm than good. I'm glad that even if it bite him in the butt in the end, I am glad Ace revealed your secret you’re a lying scumbag piece of sh*t. Good luck with losing your career while coping with the fact you lost potentially the only person who ever understood you because you had to know everyone’s secrets :)

Sorry y’all Im just really emotional rn and angry at David and Hu

I think J said it best that with everyone never thought about the breaking point of someone. That maybe they took things too far and failed to prevent this.

But yet that still doesn't accuse murder. Ace knows that of course though and he still feels shitty about it. I'm sure Nico will have to live with the fact that even if they didn't get to kill Ace in the hand by their own hands, they still technically killed him anyways because thanks to their attempt, he got inspired and tried getting back at them because Ace never got the justice of them getting away consequence free. To be comforted and shown concern at the time he needed it most.

I can understand why Ace murder Arei as I feel like while he saw it as a good opportunity to frame two people and get away with it, I think he also did it because of how similar they are. Yet different

Ace knows that Arei wanted to change her ways and be better. With being reached out to by David and Eden, she felt hope that maybe she could be better despite still having doubts she could because of the impossible pillar to reach to be that. But even then, she still felt like she could change after finding out that David is a scumbag like her. Ace however felt that he couldn't change. He already felt like his life couldn't be before and with no one reaching a hand to him in this terrible situation. What else could he do? He can't change his job, his personality, his life…. He has no idea what to do with himself anymore

This got me thinking. Maybe…maybe in another timeline or universe, perhaps if Ace just heard the entire conversation between Arei and David. He could’ve realize it doesn't matter if he is a shitty person or he started out bad in a life he couldn't control. That he can become less shitty if he tried and hey! He’s not alone, Arei and David feels the same way. I think perhaps if Ace didn't jump the gun and killed Arei, she would’ve maybe tried reaching out to Ace. I mean, if she was able to see how David was a shitty person like her, I think she would’ve recognize Ace is too. Arei did take noticed how thanks to David making everyone share their secrets it just caused more trouble, one of the most noticable being Ace and Nico. It pains me thinking how Arei probably could’ve saved Ace if Ace wasn't doomed by everyone else and acted on paranoia. I at least hope before he dies, that maybe either Levi or Eden(god bless you Eden for feeling for him even tho he killed your potential bestie/maybe gf) can make him know that someone at least cared about him and remember his death as it affected them deeply.

Also I'm manifesting Arei and Ace being best friends/besties propaganda. Mostly to cope but also I think Arei would reach out to Ace and maybe in the afterlife, help him be less shitty with her together. Whether may it be for the rest of their afterlife or maybe their next lives💙❤️

I need this content as its going to take me a while to mourn his death and the emotional anguish this chapter put me through.

[fallinfl0wers]

love stories with some genshin boys i thought of while listening to my playlists

includes: aether (210 words), xiao (261 words), scaramouche (277 words) and albedo (307)

warnings (?): spoilers of ‘we will be reunited’, english is not my native language and uhh idk what else, idk really know what these are, headcanons ?? snippets ?? also not beta read and not edited.

it’s long so uhhh i’ll add a cut somewhere

anyway enjoy!! ...whatever this is i guess

Aether

Falling in love with Aether is like a fun adventure. He, being always the center of attention and the protagonist no matter where he goes, is a free spirited, kind and hardworking man. 

Throughout your time travelling and being in a relationship together, you’ll find that your relationship with the Honorary Knight is one of sweet kisses under the sunlight; innocent handholding while thinking up of what to make for dinner tonight; of easily talked out arguments and finding ways to compromise; of softly pushing each other to become a better version of themselves and, most of all, of supporting and having each other’s backs no matter what.

And when Aether confronts the Abyss Princess face to face for the first time and his world comes crashing down on him, this trait of your relationship shines like no other, as you hold him in your arms after everything was over during the night, Paimon sleeping soundly next to the both of you inside your improvised campsite.

“Even though I’m not sure what -or who- I should believe anymore, I... I know I want to see this journey to the end, and I want you to be there with me for it. Let’s be together until the last moment and beyond.”

Songs:

Snow Fairy - Funkist

Snowing, be honest with yourself and smile When two people are getting closer, time overlaps Fairy, where are you going I will gather all the light and shine it on your tomorrow

Still Lonely - SEVENTEEN

This cursed popularity. Why won’t it leave me? But why am I getting lonelier The early morning chill makes me feel Even lonelier today I feel completely empty, as if I’m empty

Kanpeki Gu~ no ne - Watarirouka Hashiritai

I'm at a loss for words, with this and that, I'm totally in love with you Someday, I want do the same to you: Watch you flounder, At a loss for words right back to me!

Side by Side - The8 from SEVENTEEN

I want to hold hands with you but I don't know what to do what to do oh baby I want to give all my heart to you but You still don't know what's in my heart

Hope - Namie Amuro

At the end of this blue, wide world there's a place I want to aim at with you We chose this long ago for eternity

Xiao

Falling in love with Xiao is like living a bittersweet dream. The Vigilant Yaksha is far from human, or so he says, and thus is out of touch with the way we mortals experience feelings, both the negative and positive ones.

Your relationship with him is one of compassion, mutual understanding, appreciation and patience. So, so much patience. Of intertwined pinkies and soft stolen glances, of shy smiles and comfortable silence sometimes filled with your voice chatting time away and his short responses to your talks.

I mentioned patience. He knows you’re making an enormous effort to try and understand him and be patient with him and his slow learning process of how relationships work, so it’s only fair that he makes a true effort to understand you and your feelings.

Xiao is well aware that he could hurt you without wanting to, be it with his blunt phrasing of his thoughts or his Karmic Debt, as much as he is aware that you will eventually pass away and leave him behind to go somewhere he can’t follow, and that undeniable truth haunts him every second of every day he gets to spend with you. And still, he wishes and wants and does cherish each and every warm, kind feeling he gets every single second you’re together nonetheless.

“I might not know what to make of these new feelings you gave me. But I’ll learn. I promise I’ll learn, so please... don’t go, not yet. Let me treasure you and carve you into my memory for as long as I can.”

Songs:

Euphoria - BTS

I don't know what this emotion is Perhaps this is also the inside of a dream A dream is the blue mirage of the desert Deep inside of me, a priori I become happy to the point of being unable to breathe The surroundings, bit by bit, become clearer

Fallin’ Flower - SEVENTEEN

While flower blooms and falls, scars cure and buds shoot We are living our first and last moment So I won’t take you for granted Because you loved me as I am

Fear - SEVENTEEN

Get out my mind I can't handle it, I'm afraid of myself The truth has me tied up My heart is tainted I'm afraid it'll eventually change you too

The Truth Untold - BTS, Steve Aoki

It’s my fate Don’t smile to me Light on me Because I can’t get closer to you There’s no name you can call me

You know that I can’t Show you me Give you me I can’t show you a ruined part of myself Once again I put a mask on and go to see you But I still want you

Tiny Light - Akari Kitō

Because you colored my unchanging monochromatic days Even the blurred darkness gained meaning

Still, hidden in this heart, these feelings of preciousness so strong that they hurt I just want to convey these feelings to only you before they disappear someday

Scaramouche

Falling in love with Scaramouche is like constantly playing a game. He’s strict, demanding, disagreeable, and widely disliked by enemies and allies alike. Still, he has a heart too; and he holds desires and hopes deep inside of it, although most of them are fueled by the unchanging curiosity he has towards the world around him, curiosity to know what he can get out of whatever the world wants to throw at him.

You were no exception to that rule, at first.

When he met you he wanted to get something from you. And you knew it from the start, just as he knew that you knew. And that didn’t change anything, at first.

Your relationship with him is one of dangerously playful, yet still light-hearted games of seduction, teasing and deceit; of secret kisses exchanged in expensive private rooms in restaurants or the cozy warmth of your home, of an unspoken shared respect and, most of all, complete, mutual devotion.

You know Scaramouche is not a good man. He has done many, many unspeakable things in his life as one of the Eleven, and he knows he’s far from being the perfect charming prince you could aim for, but he will never let you go. Because behind those hardened walls of egocentrism and pride, you saw what no one else bothered to see. You saw him, not the role he was playing, you saw him and fell in love with him.

“To be honest, I don’t think I could find anyone else who understands me as much as you do. And no, I’m not saying this because I want something, give me some more credit, geez...”

Songs:

soldier game -  µ’s

You'll come with me, yes? You've grown curious about my touch, yes? Then it's already love Since you're someone I must meet in battle someday, That might just be your reason It's soldier game Though we've met again, I'm soldier heart

Kowareyasuki - Guilty Kiss

Just stop it already and show your heart only to me I love your eyes that are about to cry And your defenseless, clumsy way of living too (...) The hesitation you convey makes my chest hurt Some people just don't know what such kindness is But then I discover the truth When we got together, you don't have to endure anymore Right now, show your grief only to me I like that you think too much The complete opposite of me

Shhh - SEVENTEEN

Don't think of all these as your mere illusion They're not lies that follow the moment No one can underestimate it, my feelings are an ignition 'Cause I'm always the same Me and you, we got hurt by the lies that we won't ever work But it's fate

(...)

So I can cover you from danger A consented dedication

(...)

It's as natural as breathing An everlasting dedication

Good to me - SEVENTEEN

Yeah, when you were making that sign in my heart It was a long time since my firewall broke down Pass with the password What in the world do you know about me? Are my deep feelings seen by you?

Hiraishin - Keyakizaka46

(To trust is to be betrayed, to open one’s heart is to get hurt So to avoid being struck by lightning-like sorrow…)

Which side am I picking? Ah, these values are hard to handle That’s why I won’t stop watching over you Positive positive positive You should just be yourself… I can forgive whatever absurdities you pull off I’ll support you without being noticed Even when you get nitpicked I’ll be your companion Let us now promise to live an unremarkable life hereafter What we have here is the lightning rod of love

Albedo

Falling in love with Albedo is a fairy tale-like experience for both of you. His attention had always been focused on his research, everything else fading into the background save for a few exceptions, until you came around. You, who stole all his attention by just existing. 

As an alchemist, he’s naturally the curious type. He wanted to know what about it had caught his attention, what was so special about you that had him clinging to your every word and movement every time you interacted with him. Still, human relationships are hard for him, and he figured you might go away the second he started to feel burnt out from your interactions. But you didn’t. Instead, you stayed. You stayed and took interest on what he did, asked questions, gave your insight, and dragged him to sleep when he needed a break. In exchange, he did the same for you.

Your relationship with Albedo is like one of those awkwardly sweet first time crushes. Of carefully calculated movements, dates and compliments, of soft kisses on lips, hands and cheeks, of mutual support, understanding and mature compromising and commitment.

The Kreideprinz, like everyone else, has his own fears and insecurities, especially regarding his... nature, but he does his best not to let them affect the relationship he has with you. Each moment spent by your side, even when he’s not actively doing any research, is considered perfectly spent, meaningful time.

“A long time ago, I was tasked with finding out the meaning of this world. Though I have directed my efforts and resources to looking for the answer through alchemy, ever since we met I... think, I’ve found an unexpected conclusion to said issue. While it’s likely that this is not the answer expected from me, I’m positive that, at least personally, I finally have the answer.”

Songs:

Futari Saison - Keyakizaka46

In the wind blowing through the city’s streets, even though I caught whiff of something’s scent, I had no interest in looking back

In a 1m radius around me, I formed an invisible barrier to another world And yet, you took someone like me out of it

What made you do that?

Home - SEVENTEEN

What can I do? Without you I’m just an old robot, my heart stops and it’s always cold What can we do? Without me You’ll struggle just as much, so what can we do?

Baby, I want to cherish our warmth So no one can come between us

Flower - SEVENTEEN

You taught me, you showed me You’re my only reason If you can forever remember me I can get hurt, I can get hurt

My heart that’s engraved with your light Makes me stronger Give me your sharp thorns Cause you’re my flower

Oh my! - SEVENTEEN

Sorry for repeating the same thing But this is all I can try using hard words But my true feeling is this, every everything

(...)

How about you? Is it hard for you to sleep because of me too? If you keep making my heart flutter What do I do?

Naze koi wo shite konakattan darou? - Sakurazaka46

Why hadn't I fallen in love? I've been making fun of it all this time I mean everyone keeps saying 'I love you' just like cats in heat But after falling in love I realized what people live for To meet, to love, to the point of nothing but... I'm not myself, I want to find my true self.

[bangtanfancamp]

∴ summary: After spending a gloomy afternoon  trying to get out of your own head alone , you finally seek out your boyfriend for help

∴ masterlist

∴ one shot

∴ pairing: Kim Namjoon x reader

∴ word count: 2k

∴ rating: pg-13

∴ genre: soft angst, comfort, established relationship

∴ warnings: oc is struggling with something akin to depression, it’s alluded to but not explicitly stated

∴ author’s note: this is incredibly self indulgent and was written in one go. I’ll edit later. I’d rather have it here to share sooner in case anyone needs it as much as me.

─────────────────────

“Joonie, what are you doing? Are you busy?” Your voice comes out small as you peak around the corner into his office, sweater pawed knuckles sneaking around the edge of the door frame.

He doesn’t look up at first. Perhaps you really were too quiet. Or maybe he’s just that immersed in his book. It’s not a cover you’ve seen before so it very well may be the latter. You know how he is when he has a new thing to get lost in. Ever your astronaut adrift, exploring the moons just beyond whatever new world he’s found.

He looks so at home now. Cozy in his den of words and letters. Perfectly domestic amidst lofty thoughts and paragraphs. His skin is mostly bare today, his coordinated tank top and shorts exposing a golden expanse of toned arms, long legs . They’re folded up and crossed, a little boy lost in wonder as he sits on his futon.

His hair is a warm chestnut this week, fringe too long around the lashes but too short to pull back. The way it refuses to cooperate when he brushes it out of his eyes, trickling silkily, stubbornly back into place, exactly where it wants to be, makes you want to chuckle.

He still hasn’t noticed you’re there. Too far gone in whatever his newest philosophy is to notice the way you study the dip of his furrowed brow, how it juxtaposes against the relief of his shadowed dimples, smiling even as he frowns. He finds so much pleasure in being studious— just for fun. No matter how much concentration it takes. You’ve always admired that about him. Admired everything about him really.

Clearing your throat, though you hate to interrupt him, you try again. 

“Joonie?”

 Somehow it’s even quieter than before, and as he turns another reverent page, you know you’ll have to physically intervene to interrupt him. You sigh. You hate to break the spell. He loves days like this—with the rain trickling down the window’s glass casting shadows on his focused face— he’s so happy to read when it rains.

He leans forward then without looking up to take a sip of his Earl grey, bumbling when the steam unexpectedly fogs his glasses. He laughs at himself, folding his book so it splays across the seat to mark his place and removing his glasses. It’s the first time he’s looked up. He spots you then, his face splitting into the smoothest “there’s my girl” smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hey… how long have you been standing there?” His voices comes low, warm, soothes something in you that desperately needs rest.

“Long enough to see you blind yourself with tea, it seems.” You try to smile back, but it’s a weak, floppy thing. Your cheeks can’t seem to commit so it falls a bit too flat. His brows pinch when he sees it. Something’s amiss.

“Hey… are you okay?” His inscrutable eyes analyze you, and you let him. Too tired to resist or put up a fight.

“It’s not my day, joonie.” Your voice is pitiful, even to your own ears. You’d normally wince at sounding like this in front of anyone else. But honestly, it’s okay. It’s Namjoon you’re with. You don’t have to play games or hide things. Not here. Not with him.

“Yeah?” His eyes catch yours as his palms rub the tops of his thighs. It’s an invitation. You know the gesture by now.

“Yeah… again. There have been so many of these lately,” you say, crossing the room to him, his arms unfolding to welcome you into them. “They come too often and stay too long. They’re terrible house guests. I’m tired of them, joon. I can’t seem to get rid of them.”

You’re scooped against him now, head on the space between his neck and his chest, fingers twisted into his tank top, bum in his lap, knees tucked up til you’re as small as you can get. There’s a broad palm of his on your back, fingertips on his other hand traveling the length of your arm in tender caresses as his cheek rests atop your head.

“Maybe we should start charging them rent. I bet even they can’t afford to pay that in this economy.” He offers the idea solemnly, fully committed to carrying out the metaphor that your mental health really is just an unfortunate airbnb plagued with hideously mannered squatters.

“You know, I love that about you, Joon.”

“My inability to pay rent?”

You nuzzle a sappy no into the heat of his neck,” dummy, your very real ability to never minimize things that are hard to me.”

The dip of his chest as he exhales is oddly soothing. It makes you feel like you’re being rocked and god if you don’t need to be cradled right now. “Things  have been really hard lately, haven’t they?” He wonders aloud.

“It isn’t just my perception?” You look up, eyes entirely too pitiful, too round to belong to a functioning adult. No, Namjoon’s heart goes soft as he realizes he’s looking at the eyes of a very scared four year old you. The haunted gaze of an innocent girl who never got told everything would be alright. Even without knowing any more than that, it makes him want to cry.

“No, my sweet girl, it’s not.” Closing his eyes, he presses somber lips to your forehead, scooping you close to shield you— from the world, from yourself, from all the insidious things that took root in you so long ago you’re not even sure how they got in. His wide hands grip you tighter, a feeble attempt to help hold you altogether.

It’s silent then. A few beats of quiet, only disrupted by the clumsy clatter of irreverent raindrops on glass. His caress stays steady against your soft sleeves, his languid fingers perpetually in motion as he attempts to soothe the wounds that sit just beneath your skin.

You look up at him again, unsure what you’ll find. 

You almost cry when you see the gentleness in his eyes. No judgment anywhere within them. Just something kind that stretches into the lines his eyes carve as he smiles. How you itch to gently peel his horn rimmed glasses off the tip of his button nose and kiss it. Bless him.

God, you don’t know why he’s so nice to you, but you’re so glad that he is. The smile you give back to him is wobbly, trembly, poorly constructed— but so so sincere that it makes your sad eyes shine. He bumps your nose with his, burying himself against your forehead as you cocoon into him.

You want to ask him what he’s reading, listen intently to him as he tells you all about it, but you know you can’t. You can’t decipher anything today. It all feels too heavy. You can’t carry the weight of anything new with hands already full. At this point, you’ve lived in this soft hoodie of his , the one you stole after his tour two years back because it smelled like him, for the past 3 days. You don’t even have the energy to change. With that kind of retention rate, seems there’s no point in asking your brilliant professor to explain anything.

Still, it’s always so nice to hear his voice. Especially with your ear to his chest like this. 

So you ask anyway.

“Will you read to me, Joonie? Life always feels better when you’re reading.” You press your face deep into the copper of his neck, an open mouthed kiss placed against his pulse.

“It’s all kind of theoretical,” he chuckles. He’s bashful. If holding you weren’t occupying his hands, you know they’d be nervously fiddling with the back of his neck. A nerdy boy with a too big brain hesitant to share his discoveries.

“Is it good though? You’ve already read Jung to me, and I stayed awake through that. I think I deserve more credit.” You poke his throat with your nose. You’re not genuinely affronted, it’s just nice to remind him you're competent too. Sometimes.

His sweet chuckle then is earthy and rich, all dark molasses. “True. You actually gave pretty good feedback for that too. Fine. Didn’t mean to underestimate you. Just… bear with me if it feels odd? I haven't read it before. I can’t vouch for it all yet.”

“Fine by me. I’m just here for the cuddles and my Kim Namjoon audiobook.”

He can feel your smile against his skin. It makes him press you just that extra little bit tighter against him, exhaling soft through his nose when he feels you return the gesture.

Scooping up his paperback, he adjusts his glasses where they’ve slipped down his nose, clearing his throat to project like the narrator he claims he’s not but loves to be. He’s quiet for a few more beats. You can hear pages rustling as you sink against his skin. You imagine he must be trying to find where he was when you interrupted, or perhaps searching for a passage that seems apropos. Which he chooses, you don’t know, but you can feel when he settles, just before his caramel voice sweetens the thin air of the room.

“It's the same with the wound in our hearts,” he begins. “ We need to give them our attention so that they can heal. Otherwise the wounds continue to cause us pain. Sometimes for a very long time. We're all going to get hurt. But here's the trick - they also serve an amazing purpose. 

When our hearts are wounded that's when they open. We grow through pain. We grow through difficult situations. That's why you have to embrace each and every difficult thing in your life.”

You aren’t sure when your eyes opened, not sure when they began to glaze over or when you started to cry. But you did. And you are. The salty things dripping down against Namjoon’s silken skin. Your sweatered knuckles try to knock them away, but to no avail. Your cheeks are still a wet mess and now his collarbone is too.

“Joon, what is this? What are you reading?”

“Oh… um, it’s— terribly long title but— Into the Magic Shop: A Neurosurgeon's Quest to Discover the Mysteries of the Brain and the Secrets of the Heart. Isn't that a mouthful?” his laugh is self deprecating, small, but still the most beautiful sound.

God, you hate how sensitive and soft you are right now. You don’t want to be sitting here at 4pm in your boyfriend’s lap crying over a paragraph in a book you've never even heard of before, but here you are.

“ is that… what the whole book is about ?”

“You know, I don’t know. I haven’t read it all yet. Jackson recommended it, I’m just now getting to it. Why - do you not like it? I can put this down. Read you something else if this is too heavy. You always like the poetry. I can grab that one anthology you like.”

You can feel as he starts to shuffle beneath you, eager to track down new reading material for you, afraid he’s scared you off, when the fluttering weight of your palm tethers him to his spot.

“No, stay. Keep reading. I want to hear the rest.”

You can practically hear him smile. Relieved. Can feel his dimples manifest without even trying. He kisses your hair, tilts your chin up to kiss you too. The complexity of bergamot and black tea making his supple lips even more bewitching than normal. The window in the corner is cracked open, the humidity it leaks in making your skin sticky as you lean against him.

He’s lovely like this. The rain soaked air mixing with his natural scent, a broad hand on your chin, warm thumb beneath your lip as you mold pliant into his kiss. He ends it with a peck to your lips, a tap of his nose to your nose, before hoisting you so close against him you just may fuse together.

And he reads. He reads until he’s exhausted. Til the rain has stopped, and you’ve drifted to rest pressed against the skin of his chest.

He folds the book shut once your breathing has stilled, his thumb marking the page as he tips you both to lay down sideways. As he extends his pinprick tingling legs for the first time in ages, you hoist yourself around him in your sleep like a koala, and he chuckles. That’s usually his move.

He kisses your hair then, traipsing fingers tenderly through the escaped bits of it that brush across your cheeks. He wonders if you know how madly in love with you he is. How often he’s wondered what he’d do without you. Today, like most days lately, your light was dim, but still kelvins brighter than anyone else’s.

He sends a silent thank you to whatever deity arranged things in such a way that he can hold you to his chest like this as the daylight saving’s darkness floods his studio office. You seemed so sad today, but he knows it won’t last forever. It’ll pass. It always does. He’ll just hold you until it does. And then some.

[retrogalwrites]

Aizawa Shouta x Yandere!fReader

Title: “Kiss me as if you are punching me” / view on ao3

summary: Aizawa is kidnapped by a villain obsessed with him, who hopes to finally make the hero hers.

Warnings: dubcon, coercion, unhealthy relationships, drugging, kidnapping, yandere reader, hate fucking from Aizawa's side, delusions, masochism 

Other contents: creampie, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamic, spanking, rough sex, fingering, masturbation, name calling, a twist because i like twists

Words: 2917

When Aizawa opened his eyes, he was not surprised by the tight rope around his body that kept him viciously tied to a bulky chair. He had been held hostage before, more than once even, it just came with the job, you know?

However, typically, he'd expect some decaying dirty room, some dark, gloomy basement that smelled like shit, just the usual imagery you expect from situations like these.

Instead, his surprise—utter shock if you will—came from the smell of roses and cinnamon that filled his nostrils, the vibrant color red of opulent velvet wallpaper around him and fluffy carpet under his feet of matching color. The room was dimly lit by a varied array of candles carefully placed on expensive-looking furniture, even a fancy bed, it was a very girly and sensual atmosphere that completely crushed his usual expectations of being kidnapped by an enemy. It was one of those rare times that Aizawa felt at loss of words.

"Guess who~?"

Suddenly a saccharine voice, suggestive and obscene, called from behind as a pair of hands playfully covered his eyes. Aizawa froze, of course he knew that voice very well, he groaned at the feeling of round, soft breasts pressing against the back of his head, it gave him annoying goosebumps.

Of course he recognized that voice, even the feeling of your body. For months you had roamed the streets committing mostly petty crime with the sole purpose of getting the hero Eraserhead to chase after you, like some obsessed psycho. Like a little pest, you'd pop up to cause trouble while he was on his nightly rounds without fail, always dolled up, flaunting your assets like a harlot and provoking him shamelessly. Always boldly declaring your insane love for him before managing to slip away into the shadows...

It was such a bizarre case that other heroes had started to tease him about it, laughing about the femme fatale villain that had a crush on him. He despised it, your existence did nothing but to bring yet another thing for him to be tired and annoyed about.

At least, you were a low tier threat, basically harmless really, or so he thought. Being kidnapped by you was the last thing he had expected, and that only annoyed him more, the thought that he had underestimated the situation and how unhinged you really had been.

Aizawa uttered your name under his breath like a cursed word, and you giggled delighted against his ear.

"Yes, it's me~! As expected from my darling."

"Don't call me that." He refuted your pet-names as always, mustering his most stern voice to mask the fact he was still trying to process his own shortcomings that had lead him there. "What the hell is this?"

Removing your hands from his eyes, you remained behind him, placing them instead on his broad shoulders, reminding him of the lack of his scarf-his only offensive weapon- on them.

"Well, what does it look like? I abducted you, silly." You hummed amused, tone far too casual for his liking. But with your fingers digging into the muscle, massaging his soreness, he almost gave in and sighed in relief. "You've been playing so hard to get all this time, and trust me I do love the chase but...I just can't bear with it anymore."

"Then leave me alone." He managed to say instead, as he struggled on his seat, testing the tightness of the binding around him.

"No, can't do." You replied, fingers digging into his shoulders with a more vicious grip that made him wince. "How many times do I have to repeat myself? I love you so much, I need you so bad, I may just die."

"Then die." With a deep, angry tone, he growled. " I don't have time for none of this bullshit."

Of course, you only gushed excitedly, throwing your arms around his neck and embracing him from behind so lovingly, he could feel the heat of your body. "Oh baby, I love it when you are mean!"

"You're delusional." He said.

"Well, yes." You replied. "But I'm still going to get what I want."

As you pulled back, Aizawa felt the sharp tip of a blade pressed against the back of his neck, threatening to cut through if he didn't stay put. He broke into cold sweat.

"Open your mouth."

"..."

"Open your mouth or I'll cut your head off, I really don't want to do that, dear."

You had never threatened him like that before, he hesitated for a second before spitting back, expertly to not let his tumultuous feelings show.

"I'll bite your hand off."

"You know, I wouldn't mind if you did that." You giggled again. Aizawa  sighed deeply, feeling powerless against what was someone who clearly couldn't be reasoned with.

You took advantage of that to bring your fingers to his mouth, slipping inside two white pills before forcing his jaw shut with your hand so he'd have to swallow them. Aizawa tried to spit them out, but you weren't having none of it, in the end he had to swallow the dissolving drug into his system.

"What the hell...did you give me?!"

He demanded as soon as you let go of him, drool dribbling down his scruffy chin.

"Relax, it will make you feel good. I would never poison you, baby."

But it was a little too hard to believe you, of course. His silence said as much.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you...it's an aphrodisiac."

It was like you had actually stabbed him with that knife, the severity of your words weighing on him, an understanding of what you were planning to do with him filling the hero with dread that was almost as big as his self-hatred for having stupidly refused to take you as a bigger threat sooner.

With a soft, feminine laugh, twirling gracefully, you quickly moved around to stand in front of him.

Finally getting to properly look at you, Aizawa jaw almost dropped.

Dressed in a black nightie babydoll, all lace and ribbons, showing off the perfect curves of your body, supple skin of your breasts and nipples behind see-through fabric. The edges fluttered delicately just above your upper thighs, giving him full view of the crotchless panties you wore, your slit shamelessly displayed for him to see.

His body felt as though it was on fire, eyes glued to the glistening wetness already smeared over the pink skin of your folds, even more stickiness clinging to the skin of your inner thighs showing just how fucking wet you had to be.

It was work of the aphrodisiac, he realized, how his heart began racing madly in his chest with pumping blood, a dryness in his mouth and a heat in his abdomen that was making it hard to breath properly.

Aizawa's entire willpower worked harder it ever had just to try to look uninterested at the lewd sight of you. "Well, it sure is a shame you went through all this trouble for nothing."

You pouted at his comment almost childishly, something that gave him a sense of satisfaction despite his situation still being far from improving. But Aizawa had to remain calm, because knowing his colleagues, they would be out to look for him soon enough, all he had to do was to endure ...to endure...to endure what exactly? He still wasn't completely sure, and yet that only made him shiver with unwanted thrill.

"So you say, but you seem to be a little excited already."

Drawling your words, your eyes fixated on his crotch. He looked down as well and cringed, a bulge straining against the fabric of his pants, his cock swelling up simply by looking at your own depraved arousal. He reminded himself it wasn't his fault, it was the drug, he still could fight off the effects.

"You are pathetic, forcing yourself on someone like this." He said with a groan, because his hardening cock was starting to feel uncomfortably tight inside his pants. You rolled your eyes, and laughed.

"Oh no, I'm not going to do that."

Your answer, simple and honest, took him by surprise that Aizawa couldn't conceal.

"I'll simply stand here and enjoy myself, give you a little show. I won't touch you unless you ask me to, my darling."

Before he could respond, you were soon taking one step back from him. Standing on a pair of impractical high heels and stockings, Aizawa watched as you began to sway your hips side to side with hypnotic rhythm, the fluttering edges of the lacy babydoll bringing attention to the ripe shape of your plump thighs, he could even imagine grabbing them with his large hands...fuck, dealing with you would've been far easier from the very start if you weren't so infuriatingly gorgeous.

Aizawa groaned, lips tightly shut, refusing to give you any sort of satisfaction from this.

But as if you could read his mind, you turned around playfully to give him a full view of your backside. The roundness of your fat ass, perfect to grab and force against his aching cock and rut against until he was shooting his seed all over your asscheeks, fuck...his dirty thoughts kept pulling up.

Aizawa's throbbing erection twitched with need, and he tried to rub his thighs together for just a little bit of friction. You didn't notice it in that exact moment, because you were too busy leaning forward to show off your pussy at his hungry gaze, your fingers moving to the crotchless area of your panties to spread your folds with your fingers, giving him a perfect view of your pussy's tight hole.

Even with his dry eyes, he was having a hard time blinking, unable to part away from that obscene view. Your needy little hole so wet for him right there in full display, only a whore would have such little shame and modesty, a crazy whore like you.

Aizawa didn't realize his lip had started to bleed slightly from bitting it too hard.

"God, knowing you are looking at me makes me so excited, baby." You moaned softly, voice full of adoration, looking at him over your shoulder. "Like a dream come true."

Aizawa turned his head away just to try spite you, using his messy long hair to shield his vision, an attempt to dominate this bizarre game of yours, but uncaring to his resistance, you simply continued enjoying yourself for him to witness. Slowly, you slid one finger into your dripping cunt, your legs trembling as you moaned Aizawa's name outloud.

The fire in his blood was reaching a fever pitch, the sound so obscene of his name on your tongue, accompanied to the squelching noises of your finger pumping in and out your tight walls quickly had him looking back at your depraved little show.

As soon as you felt his gaze back on you, another finger was inserted, making yourself mewl dramatically with your back arching like a cat's, then a third finger testing the stretch of your hole around them. You were taking them so well, his breath hitched. Watching how you were fucking yourself like that ignited that primal urge in him to tackle you to the floor and replace those fingers with the thickness of his cock...

"Oh, Shouta...aahhh I love you so much...!!" You started mumbling, like begging, and it made him pitifully buck his hips into the air before he could stop himself.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Aizawa was losing his mind with the drugs maximizing his lust. His cock was so swollen and hard that it was painful, his balls begging to be emptied, just any sort of relief.

Another loud, slutty moan from you that turned into a cry, as your wobbly legs gave out and you slid onto the floor slowly, still fingering yourself you switched positions. Facing him with your legs spread as you sat on the floor, you continued fingering yourself. Now your free hand massaging your own breast, punching the nipple over the fabric of the top.

"I'm so close...ahh...." you panted, looking directly at him, your little pink tongue poking out your gaping mouth. "I'll let you go once I cum, promise."

That was what broke his control, the power of the aphrodisiac too strong to fight. In that moment Aizawa knew he had lost his sense of reason. He struggled violently against the binding rope, a gutural growl erupting from deep in his chest.

"Don't you dare finishing without my permission, you damn bitch."

The commanding tone, the brutality of his voice, you froze in place as you stared at him with wide eyes. He spoke again, glaring at you with unfiltered lust and anger he hadn't felt before. "Untie me now, I'm going to fuck you. That's what you want isn't it? Then bring your pussy over here."

The look on your face was of absolute delight, almost childish in excitement. Before he knew it, you had severed the ropes tying him to the chair with the knife you had kept tucked by the elastic of your stocking.

The sequence that followed happened so fast he barely registered it, when he roughly grabbed you by the arms with his freed hands, forcing you to drop the knife as he pushed you down onto the floor. Crawling on top, Aizawa crashed his mouth against yours, lips violently molding against yours in a desperate, almost animilastic imitation of a kiss, sloppily inserting his tongue into your eager mouth, and you returned the gesture in kind. By the time he realized what had happened, he was already rutting his erection against the gash of your pussy, groaning and whining at the delicious friction.

Breaking the kiss, leaving you with bruised lips, he plopped himself onto his knees and started unbuckling his pants, pulling out his cock that was red and raw, drooling precum like it was about to burst.

"Don't get it wrong, this is only because of your damn aphrodisiac..." He hissed above you, boring his smoldering gaze into yours, stroking his member in one hand.

Then, to his still surprise, you blurted out a hearty laugh. Deviously looking at him like the cat who got the cream.

"Oh, baby...that wasn't an aphrodisiac. It was just regular aspirin."

You admitted so honestly, and Aizawa couldn't do more than stare at you completely dumbstruck for a second. But only a second.

Immediately, you helped loudly as Aizawa unceremoniously turned you over, pulling your hips up so your perky ass was up in the air, and impaled you with his thick, hard cock in one brutal thrust. You cried again, face forced flush against the carpet floor by Aizawa's hand. His hips ruthlessly starting a furious peace, drilling himself into your tight walls without mercy.

"You...damn bitch...are you trying to make a fool of me?!"

Aizawa panted, hissing each syllable with every thrust, his heavy balls slapping against your pussy mound over and over, the dry sound mixing with the wet squelching of your sex being abused.

"Apologize. Apologize for all the trouble you've caused me."

His other hand came down on your ass so hard, the stinging pain making you scream, leaving an raw imprint of his palm on your skin. And he hit you again, and again, as he fucked you relenthlessly.

"Yessss....I'm sorrryyy!!! I'm sorrryyy!!"

You moaned and cried, pain and pleasure too much to bear, words barely making sense. Tears streamed down your cheeks and yet the expression on your face couldn't be anything but pure happiness and adoration for Aizawa. "I love you so much darlin'...aaahh!!! I couldn't help myself!!"

You were so tight and snug inside, your slippery walks tightly squeezing his cock like you didn't want to ever let go of it, he could barely keep himself from cumming too soon with how fucking good you felt.

"You don't deserve to cum." He pushed himself against your back, her larger muscular frame easily pressing your entire body against the floor as he kept fucking you.

"Say it!"

"I...don't deserve to cum!!"

"I'm going to pump you full of my seed and you are going to be grateful for even that."

"Yesssss....!!!!"

Aizawa was soon shooting a heavy load into you, all that accumulated lust from all your teasing, all your annoying chase, all the undying love you proclaimed for him and he had no idea what to do with. He responded to your feelings the only way he knew how, and thick jets of white cum shoot into your womb, painting your walls with his semen until his balls stopped throbbing.

You were full of his cum, a babbling mess looking like you had seen heaven.

Aizawa wasn't sure himself, if he was in heaven or hell.

————

"Hey! Just got a call from the police, guess which wacky villainess is causing trouble downtown today?" The voice of Mic rang into the teacher lounge, peaking his head through he door.

"I don't want to guess." Aizawa muttered softly, quickly getting up on his feet and adjusting his googles, ready to head out. "I'll take care of it."

"Why, Shouta! If I didn't know better, I'd think ya rush to go see her quite a lot these days." A teasing smile, Mic tilted his head curiously. "Did something happen between you two?"

A pause, and the hero turned around to leave.

"Don't be ridiculous."

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Whole Cake Island

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano

sanji is such a self-sacrificial idiot. and i know that’s not exactly a ground-breaking statement, but it does define the entire first half of whole cake island, so it may as well be reiterated here: sanji does not value his own life as much as he should, and fails to grasp that other people care about him outside of what he can offer them, which is why he’s so surprised when luffy later comes charging headlong into big mom’s territory.

zou is a really good little arc, and it also mirrors the themes of whole cake island in miniature. the minks collectively make a massive sacrifice and risk absolutely everything to protect raizou, and wci is essentially all about loyalty and sacrifice, whether its sanji giving himself up to protect the strawhats and zeff or luffy and the strawhats facing impossible odds to rescue him to pedro giving up his life to get them all out of there safe.

huge fan of this panel partly just because it’s cute and partly because it’s a great visualization of just how dysfunctional the heights are in one piece.

zou is one of my favorite settings in one piece just for the sheer creativity of it. zunesha is so massive and so mysterious and so strange. and she really looks unspeakably old just from how she’s drawn, looming over everyone and everything, eyes hollow and empty, an entire forest and an entire people growing on her back that have been there for thousands of years. it’s just so neat and so wildly inventive.

this applies to zou as a whole, but i think it’s really cool how all the little threads that will become important during wano are set up so effectively even before whole cake island starts. we get this shot here of kidd beat to shit and then forget it because so much happens between here and when he shows up again in wano, but then oda punks us into caring about him and killer so much and this retroactively becomes very important.

ever since his introduction sanji’s always been a character basically defined by his adherence to his principles: always feeding the hungry, never wasting food, never hurting women, never using his hands in combat. he’s probably the most firmly principled person on the crew, and that’s more obvious in whole cake island than in any other arc except maybe baratie.

sanji is very stubbornly good, which puts him in acute contrast to his siblings and their general cruel apathy. it’s something i really like about him.

i’m a huge fan of big mom’s introduction, which is also our introduction to tottoland in general. it’s cutesy and colorful and musical while simultaneously being deeply creepy, with lyrics about killing people for ingredients and making jam out of blood, which is a great summary of the core of big mom’s character. she’s an old lady all in pink who lives in a cartoon fairy-tale land- but she’s also a deranged cannibal, and all those singing trees and flowers are animated by the life she steals from her citizens as tax.

whole cake island draws on a lot of fairy tale motifs (especially with brulee), and the contrast that saccharine appearance creates with how fucked up the actual content is is super effective and memorable, i think.

honestly i find most of the content of sanji with the vinsmokes just plain upsetting, which i’m sure is intentional, so i’m not going to go into it a lot here, but i am including this panel of him kicking niji in the face.

sad as this scene turns out, luffy’s absolute thrill at finding sanji and the corresponding bafflement of the vinsmokes as to how the fuck he even got there always kinda makes me grin.

i always love seeing people’s underestimations about luffy get thrown right the hell out the window- because let’s be honest, he’s easy to underestimate, he’s like a five and a half foot tall rubber teenager and not very physically intimidating and all, and then he goes and pulls off the impossible without blinking.

the thing that makes luffy unique as a captain has always been his willingness to rely on his crew, and his willingness to openly admit that reliance, like he did all the way back in arlong park. most of the other contenders for the pirate king’s crown we’ve seen- big mom, kaidou, crocodile once upon a time- have been stubbornly individualistic people who explicitly shown not to care for their crew and allies, generally seeing them as disposable.

luffy is the opposite of all of them, because his crew are everything to him, to the point of being willing to sacrifice his dream for them. and the loyalty he wins from them in return is unmatched, as opposed to big mom and kaidou, who both get cheerfully betrayed not just by their own crewmates but by their own children.

brook is really cool in whole cake island, and honestly it comes at just the right time for him as a character. ever since his introductory arc in thriller bark until this point he hasn’t gotten a ton of focus, so it’s great that he gets to be the mvp here and demonstrate exactly why he’s a strawhat pirate and how much he’s grown over the timeskip.

oda is generally really good at introducing and handling characters contained to a single arc/saga, but i do think he absolutely knocked it out of the park with pedro. he has an interesting backstory, compelling motivations, and basically an entire sub-arc ending in his death that never distracts from the main plot, but only ever adds to it.

pedro really feels like a fully realized character who’s had a whole life offscreen, who we just happened to catch at the very end of his story. i think that’s super impressive.

i really love this moment, because for me, this is the moment where whole cake island becomes a tremendous arc, and where the tides begin to turn and the dominoes begin to fall, one after the other. this is sanji hitting absolute rock bottom. the one ray of light he pinned all his hopes on was a lie, and he can’t even light a fucking cigarette.

but one piece is, very often, a story about picking yourself up even when you feel like you can’t.

i think there’s something lovely about how much one piece emphasizes the value of honestly asking for help. luffy waits for nami to ask for help, and for robin to say she wants to live, and for sanji to admit he just wants to go home, and then says, “okay, i’ll make that happen.”

it just makes me so happy how happy the stawhats are to know sanji’s back with them. it reminds me a lot of how they all brush off robin’s thanks after enies lobby. sure, they’re going to have to crash the wedding and confront big mom directly and might all die, but who cares? they’ve got sanji back. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, i love how much they love each other.

i think the gangster outfits are super fun, and i love that oda is committed enough to his aesthetics to come up with an excuse to put them all in formalwear. it pays off, they all look extremely snappy.

i know i just said it in the dressrosa posts but i’m reiterating it here because this is my favorite example of it by far: i love when oda does this split-screen thing with his panels. the contrast between the two halves of pudding is so severe and yet they’re so clearly the same person i honestly just find this pair of panels fascinating to look at.

this panel also kind of gets at my favorite thing about pudding as a character, really. i know she’s a little controversial in fandom, but i’ve always found her entertaining (at least post-reveal), especially in the contrast between her unhinged evil side and her genuinely sweet romantic side and her post-wedding tendency to randomly ping-pong between the two.

i just always like reminding people that sanji is fast enough and his observation haki good enough to dodge a surprise attack, while thoroughly distracted, from katakuri.

sanji in this arc tends to get shit from a certain side of fandom for being ‘useless’ since he doesn’t have a big climactic fight despite being the focus of the arc, which i think is thoroughly missing the point. sanji is still plenty capable in combat, as demonstrated both here and later, with chiffon and oven. it just happens that his strength isn’t what saves the day ultimately, because combat ability isn’t everything, which is the entire point of the vinsmoke backstory/subplot. sanji saves the day just by being kind.

i’ll admit big mom’s flashback isn’t one of my favorites, taken in isolation- there are some parts of it that kind of unresolved (at least as of now- i still suspect they’ll be followed up eventually), and in general, although there is a tragedy to it, it doesn’t quite hit the way many of the other more effective flashbacks do. that said, i do think it does a really good job of succinctly explaining why big mom is the way she is in the present: she’s a child who was never told no, who never grew or matured past the disappearance of her adopted mother. that’s it, and that’s enough.

i’ve always been a little bit in love with how seriously and consistently one piece handles its themes of found family, and sanji outright disowning judge in whole cake island is maybe the most outright they ever get: family is found, not made. you owe nothing to your blood and are never beholden to your abusers.

and i just like that a whole lot.

i do think the tamatebako is one of the best uses of chekov’s gun i’ve ever seen. we’re first shown it at the end of fishman island, it’s revealed it got sent off to big mom rigged with explosives which is a minor “oh fuck” moment, and then it gets forgotten about, because the entirety of punk hazard and dressrosa happens in between! which is a lot!

i remember when i reached the moment in whole cake island where we’re reminded that that bomb still exists and is still waiting to explode, i just started laughing hysterically out loud, because i’d completely forgotten, and now that i remembered i was just delighted to know it was going to definitely go off at some point, almost certainly in a very satisfying way.

pedro is, if i remember right, the first time the imagery of the coming dawn that will become quite important in wano really has attention drawn to it in-text- the recurring motif is there before this, of course, dating all the way back to the names of the first chapter (romance dawn) and first island (dawn island), but this is the first time it’s actively addressed in-story.

in doing so, oda essentially presents a fresh mystery for us, but one that has been set up so consistently ever since chapter one that it feels like it fits perfectly into the world and story.

luffy’s been punching way above his weight class ever since crocodile all the way back in alabasta, fighting enemies who clearly outmatch him but always managing to win anyways, but his fight with katakuri is maybe the clearest the sheer differential in strength ever gets, because katakuri’s powers are similar enough to luffy’s that he can pull off pretty much all of luffy’s techniques, but better. so luffy has to fall back on the two things that have always been his greatest strengths, again all the way back to crocodile in alabasta: innovation and sheer fucking stubbornness.

one thing i love about one piece is how no character is immune to being clowned on. absolutely nobody. everybody looks like an idiot sometimes, and it makes everything so much more fun than if the series took itself more seriously. katakuri basically actively tries to avert this by building up a fearsome, flawless, and utterly no-nonsense persona, but it winds up failing hard because it actually only makes the contrast and surprise of his actual personality and vices that much funnier.

i’ve always loved this one panel of carrot going sulong, because she just looks so monstrous, like a true werewolf. the same goes for the shift in big mom’s design when she starts going truly mad with starvation and gets even more threatening-looking (below). i just think oda should let women be monstrously scary more often.

i do really love that the entire climax of whole cake island hinges on the degree of trust and faith the strawhats, and sanji and luffy specifically, have in each other. they’re all facing massive challenges that would seem insurmountable to an outsider- luffy facing down a yonkou’s commander with a bounty of over a billion and sanji remaking a massive cake that took months to plan and make in just a few hours, the others evading big mom’s full forces and big mom herself for a full night- but none of them have even a shred of doubt that the others can manage it.

i wrote a meta post awhile back about one piece’s concept of ‘honor in a pirates’ fight, and what it came down to is this: honor can never be expected between pirates, but the best of them will show it anyways, and it can be a very telling judge of character. nobody would expect katakuri to do this, and luffy even calls him an idiot for it, but he has enough respect for luffy as a strong opponent to do it anyways, and that’s how we know for absolute certain that even though he’s an antagonist, he’s also a good, honorable person.

i really like the gesture of luffy leaving his hat over katakuri’s mouth, especially because until this point, we’re never even given any indication that he’s really noticed it, let alone that katakuri is insecure about it. he never reacts to or comments on it (which is in itself kind of unusual from someone who tends to nickname opponents by their appearances as often as luffy does) one way or another.

and then he does this, confirming all at once that he did fully notice and understand, he just doesn’t care. which i think sums up one of the more under-appreciated aspects of luffy’s character- he’s generally way more observant than people give him credit for, especially when it comes to people, it’s just that he has a very different sense of what’s important and what’s not than your average person.

i love the sheer contrast between big mom’s delighted, rapturous singing as she devours the wedding cake against the violence taking place on screen as her army rains fire and hell down on the thousand sunny. it parallels her initial introduction at the start of the arc perfectly, and is just an excellent way to close out the arc with a bang.

i said it earlier but it bears repeating here, for a different reason: luffy is not very physically intimidating. he’s shorter than most of the other main characters, he’s a lanky teenager, he dresses casually and his most identifiable accessory is a farm hat.

but then there are times when he looks like a captain, like a future pirate king, and it just looks so natural on him. i can never get over it.

i really like that, after spending a whole arc demonstrating just how different (and how much better) sanji is than the vinsmokes, it ends like this- showing us just how similar he’s grown up to the man he’s chosen as his real family, and just how proud zeff would be of him.

[chemicalpink]

512 ♡ Jung Hoseok

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Words: 1.5k

Genre: fluff, kinda neighbours to lovers

Warnings: none

Summary: There's just something so captivating about the man living inside the apartment at the end of the hall, so what if there's a whole zoo inside your belly whenever you see him, at least there might be a chance to get with him, right?

A/N: Inspired by Selena Quintanilla's song el chico del apartamento 512, part of BCC Summer Games.

You feel exhaustion taking over as you were making your way to your apartment building after being dropped off by a taxi, the way you always did, mind already deciding which movie to pick as you eat dinner, half a mind to really drag yourself all the way to the elevator, the modern, yet somehow overcrowded living complex giving you a sense of comfort and dread at the same time as you hear someone calling out your name.

“Y/N!” you turn your head towards the man, a cute guy by the name of Jungkook of whom you only knew two things for sure, one, he had the most obvious, yet somehow endearing, crush on you, making it a habit of waiting for you outside his own apartment just to greet you as soon as you got home, and two, that even though he was very cute, he was also considerably younger than you. You sighed to yourself, the same way it was customary for you now, turning towards him and smiling just a little bit, although to some it might have been a bit infuriating to go through such a routine on a daily basis, you just couldn’t seem to help to be friendly with the guy, knowing he’s never ill-meaning on his actions. As soon as you acknowledge his existence, you could clearly see him blush and immediately rush inside his home, having you giggle to yourself at his actions

Just a few more steps. A few more steps until you could comfortably be enveloped in a familiar warmth, munching off of whatever leftovers were on the fridge. Just a few more steps until “Y/N! How nice to see you around here!”

“Seokjin, we’ve been over this, I live here, you see me literally every day” you go for the arm had wrapped around your shoulders in the overly flirty way that he always seemed to greet you with whenever you two crossed paths, placing it back down on his side as he laughs your reaction off. The man had always been everything but subtle about his flirty ways, not that you were complaining really. Kim Seokjin was one hell of a man, not just visually, although you were soon to find out that his seemingly romantic advances were merely part of his own charming personality, Kim Seokjin, was as beautiful as he was afraid of commitment, so really you had just stuck by as friendly neighbours that would sometimes turn into drinking buddies.

“Yah, I just wanted to invite you over for dinner, I made kimchi fried rice and it’s so good” and really, it did sound nice, perfect even, Seokjin was one hell of a cook that almost never shared his delicacies and the man knew very well how to play his cards with you. As if the evening couldn’t get more eventful than that, the elevator doors ding open, a man walking out rearranging his black blazer as the world seemed to slow down, the light hitting the right places on his face to make him look even more handsome, hair pushed back, brilliant smile thrown your way as Seokjin acknowledges him “Hoseokie, going somewhere?”

“Oh yeah I’ve got this thing from work” Jung Hoseok, not that you were a stalker, since the two of you weren’t exactly formally introduced, but he lived on your same floor, a few doors down on apartment 512, your schedules didn’t quite overlap so it was a rare occurrence for you to run into him, although you very much treasured every small glimpse you could get of the man, really, it should be a crime not to see that much beauty on a daily basis. Your heart seems to stop beating for two seconds too long when he poses his eyes on you “Hi”

Your ears are ringing and you robotically say a polite goodbye to the man when he takes off, if years of friendship with Seokjin were anything to go by, you should really just skip the dinner invitation in favour of not being questioned any further about what had just happened. “So… someone’s got a massive crush”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” you start your original path towards the elevator, forget homemade kimchi fried rice, it was definitely not worth the teasing that Kim Seokjin was capable of, although you might have underestimated his love for meddling with your life as he stops you right before you enter the lift, dragging you unceremoniously towards his apartment like a mother handling her petulant child. It really wasn’t worth the fight.

“I’ll even throw in a homemade bingsu if you spill all the tea” And you were a goner.

Apparently, Seokjin, that little social butterfly, has pretty much become Hoseok’s closest hyung ever since the man arrived at the building, and as soon as he heard your lovesick stories over him, and buckled down in laughter with tears coming out of his eyes, he dramatically pursed his lips saying something along the lines of having the right to remain silent. At least the free dinner was nice.

Surprisingly enough, your crush on Hoseok was a topic that wasn’t really talked about any further, most probably due to the fact that said man was nowhere to be seen, even if the holidays had so much as come around during summer, leaving you that much time to lounge around your apartment, deal with a one-sided lover boy and leech of off Seokin’s cooking skills.

“I’m just saying Y/N” your friend turns to look your way “don’t question me any further, but if you were to ask Hobi out, I’m sure he would say yes”

You groan for the umpteenth time, making a big fuss out of something that you had long deemed like something that was meant to just stay inside your head, so close to making you feel like you could reach it, yet so far away. “You don’t know that”

“I really don’t” Seokjin cough uncomfortably, straightening up on his seat the way he always did when something made him uncomfortable, the way he religiously seemed to be doing whenever you two talked about Hoseok, making you wonder just how much effort he was putting in not spilling his guts on whatever it was that he definitely knew but was adamant on telling you.

So perhaps Seokjin had hyped you up a little bit too much, whatever stratospheric ego he had, he had rubbed off on you, which was probably the reason as to why you were currently hyping yourself up in front of a mirror “Come on Y/N, you’ve got this” you whisper to yourself as you make sure your look is put together but not overly done either. After months of pinning over Hoseok, you were finally just going to go for it, what’s the worst that could happen? Probably a lot of things, you two lived on the same floor after all, so hopefully if he rejected you, it wouldn’t be too awkward when running into each other. Or when you got to use the elevator at once. He might even go ahead and try to evade you like the plague. But none of these thoughts were useful on the bright Sunday morning you woke up determined to make the day to finally ask him out.

You walked down the hall, all too aware of the fact that this was indeed happening. Your heart seemed to pick up its pace as soon as your eyes locked on the small golden number ‘512’ for a few seconds as you fixed your hair and just went for it. Your fist connected with the wood, knocking three times in a row, not too loud but loud enough for anyone inside to hear you clearly calling at the door. Your stomach seemed to get all warm and fuzzy as you heard the lock turn, only for that lovely feeling to turn into a need to contain your stomach contents and your heart seemed to break when an unfamiliar, and very much female face, answered the door. Of course, Hoseok had a girlfriend. What type of man that even remotely looked like he did would have done it single? Screw Seokjin and his stupid way of working your courage and hopes up to do this. He was most definitely going to pay for it. You took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm yourself down when the girl spoke up “Oh..you must be looking for my brother”

[wesimpforxiao]

Inception: Chapter 4

"Tch!"  Your forearm blocked a particularly heavy strike from Childe.  It was sure to be bruised tomorrow, but the pain was so freeing.  Maybe you should be attacking the Fatui more often if fighting made you feel THIS good.

"Don't tell me you're tired already," Childe smirked.  "I haven't even gotten to see you use your vision yet!"

The lanterns lighting the city below vaguely illuminated the mountainside in which the two of you were fighting.  It was the perfect view of both city and sea.  Childe was interested in seeing the fantastic firework show, but the way things were going right now, he was more interested in testing your limits.

"Enough about that already," you growled and thrust your elbow into his side.  The small 'oomph' that he exhaled made you a little too happy.  He's wanted a fight with you ever since he came back that day, and even more so since you reunited.  Who were you to refuse him now?  Sure, you've refused in the past, but the anger and bitterness that came flooding back while you were at the festival needed  relief.  Ajax needed to know how much he hurt you all those years ago, whether you directly told him or not.  

Childe, oblivious to the reason behind your sudden willingness to fight, was more than delighted to fight you.  You must've been pretty desperate to change the subject of your phobia if you chose fighting as the alternative!  That didn't stop him from feeling a little bad for pushing the subject, but the thrill of battle soon overcame the guilt and a new fascination overwhelmed his senses.

He was right.  You are like him, even if it's just when you're angry.  He can hone that: train you into becoming a warrior to be reckoned with.  Childe held no intentions to convince you to join the Fatui, but instead prevent your potential from being wasted.  He'd give you the opportunity to grow from amateur to expert.  If you managed to surprise him in this moment, only archons would know exactly what he thought of you.

The harbinger steadied himself and threw his forearm out in time to block your swing, then countered with one of his own to your gut.  It wasn't often that he trained in hand-to-hand combat, but that didn't make him any less deadly.  He had to pull his punches to prevent from hurting you--though if we're being honest, he completely forgot to do that after the first couple minutes.  It's not like you minded anyway. Childe was also slightly impressed at your strength; your looks were definitely deceiving and it worked to your advantage.  He had underestimated you.

No wonder his men were complaining about the vigilante so much.

He caught your roundhouse kick aimed for his head and threw you off balance.  The grass didn't soften your landing.  The sole of his boot sat square in the middle of your chest as he towered over you.  "Not bad," he praised with a raising of his lips.  "I can see why you chose antagonizing the Fatui as a hobby."  Something flashed in your eyes, but Childe wasn't sure what it was.

Your fist slammed into the side of his knee, knocking him off of you.  As he fell you grabbed his arm so he'd land on his back.  You were the one on top of him now with your knees pinning his shoulders into the grass.  "Do you even remember?"  

Childe blinked, and the bloodlust and thrill that was in his eyes was gone.  Remember?  What are--  You were struggling with something dark; your hands pulled the grass out from besides his head, eyes wavering with the slightest bit of hope swirling in the depths of pain.  Seeing your expression, Childe parted his lips to speak.  "Reed--?"

"Heh, forget it," you sniffed, swiping the bottom of your nose with your thumb and sitting up straighter as you vacantly analyzed the blood that now painted your finger.

BOOM! C-r-a-c-k-l-e....!

The Mingxiao lantern exploded somewhere behind you.  The lights from the explosives cast a prolonged glow that illuminated Childe beneath you, but you were still staring at your hand.  It was hard not to think about that night with your father.  What could you have done to change the outcome?  What could have helped you reach Ajax when he returned a different child?  Based on your fight just now, he's never stopped looking for something to take his anger out on; a cruel contrast to the friendly toy seller demeanor.  Meanwhile, Childe: What would've happened if you had fallen into the Abyss with him?  

The lights were beautiful from Childe's point of view, but not for the common reason; they were blocked out save for the ones peeking out from behind your shoulders and head.  You were backlit with bright colors--reds, blues, greens, yellows and oranges.  Each cast a soft glow to your silhouette.  The thoughtful look on your face while you refused to look his way was enticing, what with the sweat that slowly rolled down your temple and the forming bruises splattering across your arms.  And the bloody nose he gave you--the blood that slowly trickled its way down to your upper lip--sent a pleasurable chill down his spine.  You were a breathtaking mess of art.

He briefly wondered if you thought the same of him, but you never glanced down even after the lights of the lantern had faded.

...................

A few miles westward, at the base of Mount Tianheng. Ten minutes before the release of the Mingxiao lantern.

"Alright boys," a dark figure emerged from the shadows of the mountain and scanned the crowd of twenty-plus men all dressed in black robes.  The gruff voice that erupted from the man was enough to silence the hushed whispers between comrades in arms.  "Our scouts confirm the whereabouts of the target in the Northland Bank.  Security is minimal as expected.  Our primary objective is to retrieve those documents.  Understood?"

Silent nods all around.  Not one uttered a word, their obedience absolute.  This was the man that compensated them fairly compared to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.  Injustices laid out against them by their superiors in the Liyue division of the Fatui will be paid in due time. Now that there were enough committed to the cause, the master's plan will be put into action.

"The Fatui will fall," he bellowed.

"The Fatui will fall! The Fatui will fall! The Fatui will fall!"  The servicemen dispersed as quickly as they heeded his words, shouts of determination fading into murmurs then silence.

"Charlie," the leader gestured towards his right-hand man.  "A word."

"Yes, sir?"  The brunette's wolf-like ears perked up at the voice of his master.  It wasn't unusual that he was given a separate mission during times like this, so he prepared himself with a jaw clenched in anticipation.

"Though I doubt any of them would be caught in this operation by either party, I am not risking you for...obvious reasons.  I have a separate matter to discuss with you."  Eyes like a snake's watched Charlie with both thoughtfulness and pride.  Charlie was by far the most trustworthy, being one of the few recruits that were in this group the longest.  He's succeeded all expectations, to say the least.  "You've mentioned before about a rogue citizen attacking the Liyue Fatui?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any new information on them?"

"Well," Charlie shifted his weight to his other foot and pulled at the collar of his jacket.  "According to one of the agents, it's a she.  The lack of evidence she leaves during expeditions indicate she's had some time to plot her attacks and escape routes...she's more of a threat to them than those who are joining our ranks--at least on the agent-level.  Master Childe seems rather unconcerned with her."

"I see.  Well, if you're up for a greater challenge, find her.  And when you do, recruit her.  With her skillset, the destruction of the Liyue Division will happen a lot faster."

"Yes, sir."  This challenge wouldn't be easy.  It was unusual for there to be someone like him in the ranks of the Fatui, but perhaps this could be an advantage for finding this vigilante that's been the talk of the Fatui for so long.

....................

Childe had parted ways with you a few minutes ago and decided to check in with the bank before bed.  The city streets were still bustling with partiers and night owls, so he took the shortcut through neighboring alleyways to avoid the foot traffic.  

He still couldn't figure out why you went quiet after sparring.  Wasn't sure if he missed something--a cue, a word, a phrase...what was it?  And why was it bugging him so much?  His chest was tight and palms sweaty, his heart was even racing a bit.  It was unusual for him to be so on-edge.  His worries were rudely interrupted when he reached the stairs that led up to the bank.  

Millelith.

"Why aren't you helping us?! We told you everything we know! We need those documents back!"  Nadia was practically screaming at one of the authorities.  "I told you, those documents are im--" Spotting Childe, she let out a sigh of relief.  "Oh thank Her Majesty--We've been robbed, Master Childe."

"Robbed?"

"Mm, yes.  The safe was broken into, but not a single mora was taken.  The reception desk is in disarray, as is Andrei's office...papers are strewn about this way and that, and the documents Andrei was holding for you are missing."

"...I see."

"And these...these imbeciles aren't helping!  They're saying there's nothing to do but make a report!"

"I understand the situation.  I'll be taking it from here.  Please return to your post, Nadia."

She turned on her heel.  "Yes sir!"

Childe faced the Millelith again now that it was just him and them remaining.  "Any leads?"

"N-No, sir." The taller one, who was seemingly the one in charge of the investigation, held a stern expression as he stared eye-to-eye with the harbinger.  "No witnesses.  Whoever pulled this off did so with help.  The theory is at least five people were involved."

"Five?"  Childe couldn't help but scoff at such a ridiculous idea.  "And there were no witnesses at all? That's not possible."

"Sir--"

"No! You don't understand.  That's impossible.  Our security is too tight for even one person to slip through.  There had to be someone.  Are you sure you crosschecked those who are on duty?"

The guard just shrugged.  He wasn't even interested in hearing what Childe had to say!  Even the other guards that were accompanying him appeared bored and even annoyed that they had to deal with the Fatui.

Seeing this, the harbinger pulled at his hair.  Steady now, he reminded himself, Don't lose your temper here.  "If I may, I'd like to speak with your leading supervisor."

"You're lookin' at him," the lead guard answered with an arrogant smirk that pissed Childe off even more.

"Tch--Whoever's in charge of you."

"Sorry, but he's off-duty at the moment.  You can speak with him at the civil affairs tomorrow evening."

"Right."  Childe grit his teeth and took an extra deep breath to calm himself.  Of course, it didn't work.  Damn them!  If I could have it my way, they'd be lying in a pool of their own blood right here and now for their audacity to ignore a crime against us--We fund them, for crying out loud! Perhaps I should send for the Tsaritsa's wisdom-- If it weren't for Lady Signora keeping him in the dark in regards to Morax's gnosis, he wouldn't feel like a dog on a tight leash right now.  The great weapon of war forced to heel for the sake of the cryo archon's image.  Childe made his way for Andrei's office with clenched fists.

Sure enough, it was trashed.  Every document, every book, every folder lay strewn about or trampled on.  Nadia and another agent were busy sorting through and placing each in their respective places; Andrei was out near the docks so it would be awhile before anyone managed to get ahold of him...

Childe knelt at the safe under the desk that sat before the set of double-paned windows.  It was empty.  Every single letter from the Tsaritsa was inside; each detailing next and future steps for the Fatui and Northland Bank; classified documents that updated him of the politics occurring in the Motherland; evidence of...certain matters that would no doubt give the Qixing enough power to ban the presence of Fatui in Liyue.  All of it was gone.

Who'd go to such sophisticated lengths to get their hands on these?  The Qixing abide by the law, so they wouldn't do something so unorthodox.  The Millelith were definitely biased and held grudges against him, so they're not entirely ruled out...What was the suspects' goal?  A smear campaign?  If it is, they got it.  

If he hadn't been away from the office, surely they wouldn't have been so bold as to pull off a bank heist.  But one good thing came out of this:  You definitely weren't involved since you were with him.  Wait...whoever did this must've been watching him.  You could be involved if you had help, but you've never mentioned anyone helping you.  So you and this situation were completely unrelated.  That had to be the case.

Regardless, his every move is being watched.  The only question that remains is, by who?

[speechlessxx]

Bring Him Light - x (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The truth finally comes out.

Warnings: brief mention of sex, mentions of death, really shitty writing tbh, dialogue driven. (NOTE: when concerning the flashbacks, he’s actually explaining to the reader what happened)

Word Count: 2.5k

Note: Feel free to send me any questions because I know this is a really crappy chapter. (of course, I’m not going to reveal the rest of the plot)

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

You could still taste the salt from the sea on your lips. The memories of what happened aboard that ship still fresh like a wound that you’d carry forever. You stared at your hands that were conjoined with your husband’s. The wedding bands glistened in the dimmed room.

“Will you believe me if I told you everything?” Steven asked. His thumb drew soothing circles on the back of your hand. His grip tight as if he were afraid you’d disappear again.

“Everyone’s lied to me.” You whispered. You looked towards Wanda’s body, still covered with the bloodstained tarp. “What would make you any different?”

“This is the truth,” he promised. “The complete truth.”

When Steven was young, his mother doted on him because he was a sickly child. He grew up to have her compassion, optimism, and idealism. He was sixteen when his father unexpectedly died, and he was hailed King of Brooken. He wanted to carry his mother’s ideals into a new age for Brooken, but he underestimated what it meant to have a crown on his head.

The sacrifices he’d have to make, the betrayals he’d have to face, the blood he’d have to spill. He’s told more lies that he could count – all in the name of protecting his reputation and his power. A cruel king is respected after all. The lies were like storm clouds that poured hard. He drowned in them and got lost in the darkness those clouds brought. The lies burdened him more than anyone would ever know.

You squeezed hand, breaking him away from his thoughts. “Steve?” Your tone was soft, coaxing him back into reality. He welcomed the calm you brought. It eased the storm inside of him. You were ready for the truth – perhaps, you’ve always been ready. “Unburden yourself, my love.”

“I don’t know where to start.” He said, honestly. It was true. There was so much to the story. He wasn’t quite sure where it began.

“Start with Margaret, perhaps?” You suggested.

“I was young,” he began. “Twenty-one years old. Five years on the throne. They told me I needed a wife.”

“They?”

“Pierce and the old council.” He answered. “Brock’s father had just died, so he took the vacant seat. At first, I thought having my cousin on the council would alleviate the tension. The lords on the council were nearly twice my age, if not more. They saw things differently than I did. They wanted different things. Sometimes I felt as if I were their puppet. I was young when I took the throne. Sixteen. I didn’t know what to expect, so I leaned on their counsel. I depended on them,” he scoffed, remembering his earlier years on the throne. “They told me I needed to continue the line succession. Thanos was beginning to make a name for himself by this time. He had lovers and spawned two daughters. His line was growing, and the Rogers’s wasn’t. So, I asked them to find me a match. Pierce brought in Lady Margaret of House Carter. I was smitten when I first laid eyes on her.”

Steven sat tall upon his throne. The room was empty. Brooken had a tradition that detailed that those in royal betrothals must meet for the first time in private. He was giddy with excitement. Lady Margaret’s portraits were presented to him a month ago. She was easily one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. Lord Pierce made the arrangements and they were to marry within a week. “House Carter is a respected house in the Old World,” Pierce advertised.

The doors opened wide and a young woman walked through. Her hair was dark as night. Her lips painted a bright red. She smiled at him and bowed. “Your grace,” she greeted. “I am humbled to make your acquaintance and, of course, honored to be your betrothed.”

“I didn’t know her, truly. I didn’t realize how manipulative she was from the beginning. She charmed and enchanted me to do her bidding. We were married for nearly a decade. No children. She didn’t want children. I didn’t want to lose her, so I agreed.

“She had many faces. A face she’d show the people that made them love her. A face she showed me that hypnotized me. And the face she’d show my allies, which were her foes. She fought with James incessantly – even tried to make me banish him. I refused. He was my oldest friend. I promised the moment I took the throne, my riches, my blessings were his to share. She was trying to isolate me. She banished my allies from court. James warned me she was a devil. I refused to listen. I thought her a gift from the gods themselves. Until I caught her poisoning my mother.”

“What?” You gasped.

Steven nodded. The haunting memory pained him still.

He woke up alone after a long night of making love to his queen. It was early in the morning; the sun had barely risen. Orange streaks painted the sky. He searched for Margaret, wanting to jest her for allowing him to wake up alone. He found her whispering to his sick, elderly mother who was bedridden due to a broke hip.

“You won’t get away with it. My son will find out,” his mother croaked.

“Not from you,” Margaret gave her a wicked smile as she slathered arsenic-riddled paint on his mother’s toast. The thick substance looked like jam, but Steve knew better. She force-fed the queen mother the poisoned bread.

“What are you doing!” Steve boomed into the room, pushing his wife aside as his mother choked. “Guards! Get a physician!”

“She died later that evening.” Steven shook his head. It was your turn to console him. You released one of your hands from his grip and rubbed his arm. He took a shaky breath. “I stabbed Margaret in the heart in front of Rumlow, Pierce, James, and Sam’s father. I didn’t know, yet, that her betrayals were much deeper than the murdering my mother.”

“Enter Sharon?” You asked.

“I was widowed for a year. Pierce brought her in. The younger cousin of Margaret.” He continued. “Married two days after her arrival in Brooken.” He chuckled humorlessly at his naivete. “I should’ve never marry a stranger.”

“We married in two weeks.” You noted. “We were practically strangers, too.”

Steven shook his head in disagreement. He didn’t feel that way. In the two weeks he grew to know you, he learned the innerworkings of your mind, your soul. He knew he was in love with you, truly, even before he wrapped the cloak around your shoulders during the wedding ceremony.

“We weren’t strangers.” He said. “Far from it. Sharon was distant. Defiant. We never consummated our marriage, not that anyone would know. She refused to sleep in my chambers, refused to be held, or anything, really. It felt as if I had married a ghost that everyone could see. I couldn’t touch her, but she still haunted these halls.”

“You beheaded her.” You said. Steven bit his lip as he nodded. “Pierce said you beheaded her out of spite.”

Steven cocked his head to the side, brows raising, as if he entertained the idea. “Well, she was spiteful.”

“The men in the prisons… They preferred her over you and you imprisoned them, correct?”

Steven sighed. He was disappointed that you were so quick to believe rumors and lies about him, but he blamed himself for not being completely honest from the start. “Sharon plotted a coup on behalf of the Mad King.”

“How can you be certain?” You asked.

“She admitted it when she was caught.”

Steven stared down at the blonde. Her eyes wide as he finished reading her encrypted letter. “You’re not subtle. You’re not discreet.” He spat at her, crumpling the paper and throwing it at her feet. “You work for the Mad King. You’re here to topple me. Rip the crown from my head and give it to him. The game’s over, Sharon. You’ve lost. Your followers all caught and imprisoned. I will get a confession and you will die for treason.”

She recomposed herself, rolling back her shoulders with confidence. “You think you can just kill off another queen? What will people think of you, Steven.”

“I am pulling the weeds from my kingdom.” He snapped. “You Carters are all the same. Traitors. Liars.”

“Margaret was good.” Sharon complimented. “She had you wrapped around her finger for a decade. If she hadn’t been caught killing your mother, then she would’ve convinced you to ally yourself with Thanos.” She turned her head to the side and gave him a smirk. “Then, she would’ve killed you along with your mother. Such a shame, she was caught.”

“You admit. You’re a traitor.”

“Of course, I admit it. But mind you, your grace, your enemies are all over Brooken. You cut me down today, someone else will cut you down tomorrow.”

“I beheaded her for treason.”

“You didn’t tell people that your queens were committed treason. You allowed rumors to spread about your cruelty to your wives.” You frowned.

“As I told you before, a cruel king is respected.” Steven muttered. “But I never wanted you to be afraid of me.”

“Isn’t it odd?” You asked. “Both queens chosen by Pierce were traitors.”

Steven nodded. “They pushed me to get married once more, but I told them, this time I’ll choose my bride.”

“Me.”

“It’s three years after the War between the North. Tony and I were close before. I fought alongside your father when York was invaded ages ago.”

“You fought over a disagreement over land.”

“More than land. He wanted James dead. James’s father killed your grandfather. Since James’s father had died long before, your father asked for my friend’s head. I refused. So, a war erupted.”

“You traded blows with my father on the battlefield.” You recalled. You remembered your mother’s cries and pleads with the gods, asking for them to protect your father’s life. “He returned to my mother bloodied. You cut through his armor. But you looked him in the eyes and called the war off.”

“No one won.”

“No one.” You agreed. “Three years later, you ask my father for a wife.”

“I needed a wife I could trust. Although we had our differences, I trust your father with my life. I know Tony’s blood. I know how you would’ve been raised to be loyal. You took after your father and your mother.” Steven explained. “I didn’t trust Pierce to find me a wife that could slit my throat in the night.”

“You trust me?” You asked.

“The moment I stared into your eyes and saw fear… I knew you knew the rumors. I knew you thought of me as cruel – our first encounter made that clear.” He smiled at you softly. His fingers lightly traced the scars of your wrist. He brought your wrist to his lips and pressed a light kiss onto the skin. “But, truthfully, my trust in you waned when I saw you with Brock and Pierce leaving the dungeon. I began to think you were conspiring with them.”

“I – I – I wasn’t.”

“I know that now.” He said. “I realized you were afraid of disappointing me because you didn’t … you weren’t –“

“Pregnant.” Your voice wavered, immediately brought back to the painful memory of losing your baby alone on the boat. “I should’ve told you I was, though. But I was afraid. I thought you were going to kill me. You struck me.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Steven shook his head. No amount of apologizes could ever make up to the faded scar on your cheek.

“I was afraid for my life and the child’s. They manipulated me because of my fears. They prayed upon it and convinced me to trust them. And I did. In turn, I – I lost my best friend and my baby.”

Steve pulled you to him. Your head rested in the junction between his neck and shoulder as you cried softly into him. He rubbed your arm, comfortingly.

“They tried to turn you against me.” Steven whispered. “They tried to weaken me by trying to kill you on that boat. I thank the gods that you’re safe now.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth.” You muttered.

Steven nodded and kissed the top of your head. His arm around you tightened a bit. “You should sleep. Get some rest. You need it after what you’ve endured.”

You agreed. Steven untangled himself from you before he leaned down to press a kiss to the scar on your cheek and a kiss on your lips. He began to walk away when you felt panic begin to settle. Your hand shot out and grabbed onto his arm, preventing him from taking another step.

“Please stay.” You begged. “I… I don’t want to be alone.”

He gave you a soft smile and nodded. You scooted over the cot to make room for your husband. The positioning was a bit awkward considering his massive build, but you immediately felt safer once his arms wrapped around you once again.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

You woke up alone in Steven’s bedchamber. The sun had already set, the full moon up in the sky. The pain had subsided after nearly a day of rest. The truth settling in inside your mind.

At least now you knew everything.

The doors opened suddenly to reveal your husband. He smiled at you as you sat up on the bed. “You’re awake.”

“You left me alone.”

Steven’s smile faltered. He couldn’t register if there was sadness in your voice or not as he walked over. “I – I hadn’t meant to upset you.”

You shook your head. “I understand. You’re a king. Your duty is to the people, not to me.”

“I am your husband, first.” Steve argued. “My duty will always be to you, my love.” He took your hand in his and helped you off the bed. “Come. There’s something I must show you.”

He led you to the balcony doors, opening it and allowing the air rush into the room. You breathed it in. The mixed scents from the gardens below overtook your senses, washing out the pained sea salt smell that still haunted you.

Steven guided you out onto the terrace and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in front of him. You gasped as you looked up to the sky. Along with the bright moon and the stars were lanterns that floated into the air and painted the dark sky.

“For years, I stumbled alone in the darkness. Feigned love with false queens who sought to destroy me. And here you are. The true gift the gods bestowed upon me. I truly believe you were crafted to be my soulmate, (Y/N).” He murmured in your ear. “I wish I could take away the pain you’ve endured, but I cannot. I can only tell you whatever comes next, we will face it together as husband and wife.” Tears swelled in your eyes and cascaded down your cheeks as you stared up into the bright sky. “I love you, my light, my love.”

You smiled and turned to him, cupping his bearded cheeks in your hands. “I love you, Steve.”

[raziroo]

Riddle Me This - James Potter x Reader

Pairing : James Potter x reader

Genre : Angst

Warnings : Mentions of injuries, reader-inflicted torture, hair pulling, reader-inflicted injuries, mentions of death.

Word count : 5,298

~~~~~

It’s hard being the daughter of the Darkest wizard of all time, of the one they all fear, of Lord Voldemort. Harder than you can imagine.

Because there’s always expectations, and opinions. Expectations have of you, and opinions people have about you. And it’s not good for your own self-esteem when you know that you will never be able to be all that they want you to be. And by ‘they’, I mean my father.

See, contrary to popular belief, Lord Voldemort is capable of caring. Yes, he can never love, and neither can I, but we can care. And for me, that’s enough. Being conceived under the effects of a love potion, my father was doomed to never be able to love; but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capacitated with sympathizing, empathizing, caring. Yes, he would never in a million years be able to experience the joy of being able to love, of being in love, and neither could I, but that was only for the best.

That was one lesson, along with several others, that had been taught to me from the start by my father, and his followers. I could never, ever, ever love. And I should never want to. Because love is for the weak, love is for inferiors. Love itself is weak, and all it does is make bounds for you.

And thus far, I had been successful. I didn’t want love; I didn’t need it. I was capable enough as it is.

Another lesson I’d been taught, was being ambitious, having ambitions. Striving to be the best, being the best, and reveling in the satisfaction of winning, it was a value instilled in me from quite a young age.

And ambitious I was. I reveled in the satisfaction of proving myself right and others wrong; I basked in the glorious feeling of victory, of exceeding expectations.

Being homeschooled since a young age, and that too, with the occasional inputs of the Dark Lord himself, I was a trained witch, and a good one at that. Having Death Eaters as competition, and the constant expectations of being better than each of them, it wasn’t an exaggeration when I say, you do not wish to cross me. I usually came out triumphant in duels, all except when I was ill, or exerted, or when me and father dueled. He was the obvious champion.

But then came along Bellatrix LeStrange. The female, who previously belonged to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, was related to two blood traitors. One was her sister who, despite having such a rich and reputed heritage, eloped with a Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff. The other was her first cousin, Sirius Black. And in the latter’s case, what surprised me wasn’t the fact that the boy had managed to escape and betray the Blacks, no. It was the fact that he had escaped Walburga Black. The woman was a tyrant, a hurricane, with a pitch high enough to rupture your ears, and fury blinding enough to make you cower back in fear.

I aren’t going to lie, I had severely underestimated the woman. Bellatrix, she was deranged, she was unhinged. Her eyes were maddening and crazy, and her skills beyond average. Her ruthlessness and un-sympathizing nature was what made her all the more an even terrible foe to have. She reveled in screams, hearing people scream and cry and writhe and shout in anguish pleasured her. She wasn’t sick. That made it sound like what she had, had a cure; when in truth, she was insane, off her rocker, and so, so dangerous.

So, as you might have understood, I lost in the duel against Bellatrix. And I had lost bad. Father had refused to speak to me for 6 straight weeks after that, he had been so disappointed. And it hurt me, because all he had ever asked of me to be the best, to strive for perfection, to outdo even the greatest of rivals. And I had failed him that day.

So when father asked me to go attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for the sole purpose of being able to keep an eye on Dumbledore, I had packed my bags without a sound of protest, as much as I dreaded going to the school. I wasn’t thick, I understood the fact that father could have very easily asked any one of his Death Eaters to-be to spy on Dumbledore; he had given me a chance. Something that he didn’t give everyone, and I was grateful.

. . . . .

I hated this place. Students swarming everywhere, so much noise, so many people, it was unbearable. I’d always been one to find solace in loneliness; this place was the exact opposite. I couldn’t fathom how you were meant to actually study in Hogwarts; sounds and voices and whispers and chatters were unescapable, anywhere and everywhere you went. Even the classrooms and the library weren’t spared – the former and latter, both, due to the courtesy of the Marauders.

Oh, the Marauders. They were a whole entire issue separately. A group of rambunctious, untamable, and obnoxious boys, and that too all Gryffindor, whose sole purpose was to create chaos and play pranks, and who went by the name, ‘The Marauders.’ A marauder, typically, means a person who roams around, looking to steal. Sweet Salazar, why would you decide to call yourselves that? And then be proud of it?

The group consisted of four ‘pupils’, if you could even call them that (they were just troublemakers, in my opinion), namely Remus Lupin, the only tolerable one, Peter Pettigrew, the rat-like one, Sirius Black, the blood traitor by choice, and James Potter, blood traitor by family. How very nice.

Now, me, being the live and let live sort of person that I am, didn’t care too much about those four, as long as they kept their noses out of my business. They didn’t. They were all overly curious about my background, my family, why I joined mid-year, et cetera, et cetera. Their curiosity was low-key harassment, in all truth. Merlin, leave me alone. But no, those blood traitors and half-breeds all wanted to invade my privacy, annoy me, make my life hell. So, I returned the favors.

See, father had sent Nagini along, just for a piece of home to be with me. And my snake not only spied on them and contributed in the ‘Trouble the marauders’ project in the day, she contributed during the night as well. And so, I’d ended up here, in an abandoned classroom after curfew, wand pointed at the Marauders after a particularly irritating day.

We Slytherins, every Wednesday morning, shared double potions with the Gryffindors. And as if that wasn’t torturous enough already, Slughorn had fixed seats, because “Some students have been disrupting the decorum of the classroom,” and so now I was seated beside Lily Evans, a “particularly bright muggleborn witch,” as Slughorn said. She was just a pathetic know-it-all, and a mudblood to top it off, in my opinion. The girl was sickeningly sweet, and was all chirpy-chirp when I had been assigned as her partner. She was ecstatic, probably to meet a new person. I was disgusted, probably to meet a new person.

And above that, Pettigrew and Black sat behind us, Lupin and a Slytherin named Severus Snape on a bench on my right, and in the front was Potter, sitting alone. And I know, I know, it seems exaggerated because a real life situation possibly cannot be this bad, but it’s true, trust me. Potter was reciting cheesy pickup lines to the Mudblood, all while she grew angrier, his friends suppressed their laughter, Snape turned green from envy, and I refrained from

 committing bloody murder.

“Hey Evans, why don’t you play Quidditch, you look to be a keeper.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Oi Evans, are you a dement-“

“-Sod off-“

“-Or, because I’d die if you kissed me.”

“You don’t die after a dementor’s kiss, Potter, your soul gets sucked.”

“Evans, we may not be-“

“-Godric, no-“

“-In Flitwick’s class, but you sure-“

“-Are a charmer? Potter, you’ve used this.”

“Did you use the stupefy charm, Evans-“

“-Potter, I swear to Morgana I’ll-“

“-Because you sure are a stunner.”

Merlin, this blasphemy was giving me a headache, and making it harder by the second to not kill someone. I was in the process of stirring the cauldron, and Evans was just adding a bit of snakeskin, when Potter abruptly turned around and started speaking, and so, out of shock (or it could be because she was mad), Evans dropped the snakeskin too early, and the potion suddenly became a brilliant blue, instead of a mellow violet, and exploded, covering me and mudblood and potter and Black in goo. On top of that, my hand got burned due to the jump I made on Potter’s suddenness.

As the entire class fell silent after the burst, I slowly brought up my right hand, which was shaking, and wiped off the slimy substance off of my face; the slime made splattering noises as it hit the floor. When I finally opened my eyes, my hands still shaking, I was met with a red-faced mudblood, probably with anger, red-faced Pettigrew and Black, probably with suppressed laughs, and a pale faced Potter.

And trust me, I tried so hard to contain the magic threatening to erupt from inside me; I’d bit my lip the hardest I could, clenched my shaking fists, and closed my eyes, hoping against hope that my magic didn’t lose control. No such luck, however.

Potter and friends were suggested to bedrest for 5 days after that.

Of course, they’d tried to escape out of the hospital win the very same night, and unfortunately, right at the moment I was on my way to the Owlery, so that Celine, my eagle owl, could deliver the letter to father. I was on the fifth floor corridor in the west wing of the castle, when those troublesome Marauders an into me. Literally, straight into me, for they had an invisibility cloak draped around them. How they had managed to escape the nurse even with the cloak was a mystery to me, because there were constant hisses and whispers and mutters coming from the direction in which, occasionally, a pair of feet came into view.

As I bumped into them, their cloak fell off, and I swiftly picked up the letter of mine that had dropped to the floor. “What are you idiots doing here, in the middle of the night?” I asked, brow raised.

They looked stricken for a moment, then sounded Lupin’s voice. “We could ask you the same question,” the scar-faced boy said, still a tad out of breath.

“Yeah, Riddle, what are you doing out here?” Black enquired further.

“That is none of your business, blood traitor,” I said, my tone sharp, eyes cold. Black looked a bit hurt, Lupin pursed his lips in what seemed to be disappointment, Pettigrew whimpered, and Potter looked angry.

“What, did you say to him?” he asked in a tone that would be menacing for some, but not for me. “I merely reminded your friend of what he is , Potter, what he’s become, what he’ll forever be. A blood traitor,” I said in a calm and cool voice, which seemed to irk the raven-haired boy even more.

“It’s alrig-“ Potter, however, cut his friend’s sentence off midway.

“Don’t call him that, you filthy snake,” he snarled.

“Seem to hit a nerve, have I, Potter?”

“You bloody-!”

“WHO’S THERE?” screeched a scratchy, gravelly voice. Filch.

All five of us gave each other a glance, and the next second, we were inside the nearest room, which just so happened to be an abandoned classroom that was priorly used for History of Magic. We all held our breath, until the steps and meows and purrs and grunts faded off into the distance.

“Now, back to what we were-“

“We weren’t doing anything, Potter. You took the truth a little too to the heart, when even your friend didn’t seem so bothered by it.” Potter was going redder in the face by the second. “Now, if you Gryffindors don’t mind, I should get going. I,” I waved my letter-holding hand, “have a letter to deliver.” Just as I turned around, Potter snatched the letter right from my hand. Oh, Merlin, no.

“Let’s see what we have here, hm?” as Potter said that, even Black’s troubled look evaporated from his face. They were back to their bully nature.

“Yes, Prongs, let’s.”

“No!” all four looked up from the half-torn envelope. “I- don’t open that.”

“Why? Why,” Potter waved the now half-torn envelope in a much similar fashion in which I had, “would I return this? Or not open this?”

“It’s a letter containing… things that I would share with people who’re… close to me,” I said, my stance cautious, manipulative mannerisms in progress. Although it would be hard to talk my way out of this one, and that was considering if I even could.

“Close to you, hm? Well then, it’s even more precious,” Black said this time, both dark-haired boys sharing devilish grins, as their friends behind them looked sheepish, but said nothing.

“Black, Potter, please. Don’t be immature,” I tried to reason, but the boys were having none of it, and tore open the envelope fully, and begun reading the letter aloud. “Dear father, I hope you are doing well. You will be pleased to know that Dumbl-“

“Accio letter!” I exclaimed. The letter didn't come into my hand, Black had anticipated this. The boys, having read and heard part of Dumbledore’s name in my letter, had now shed their teasing demeanor and their eyes furiously roamed the piece of parchment, as Lupin cast a Protego so that I wouldn’t be able to Accio anything again. “-that Dumbledore has been unsuccessful in finding out your location. I hope it will continue to be so, seeing that Malfoy and Avery can’t seem to keep their mouths close in presence of Gryffindors. I am sure you can take care of that.

As for the elder Black boy, chances of him joining your ranks seem to be as good as none, considering his constant company is half-breeds, blood traitors, and mudbloods, and he seems keen on troubling each and every Slytherin; he gets into routinely brawls with LeStrange, Crabbe, Goyle, the likes. His friend, the blood traitor Potter, his mother has caught the Dragon Pox,” Potter’s voice broke, “so it is assured that she will not survive. As for his father, Fleamont Potter, the auror, he seems determined to find the cure and weed out each and every member of your ranks; the man is livid. As for the werewolf, his company is same as Black’s; it is highly unlikely he will join your ranks.

My education here is going as expected, the Professors teach me nothing that I don’t already know.

I hope all the information I have been able to convey in this letter will be efficient for you. As always, Nagini has been an absolute darling.

Yours truly.” Potter finished, looking stricken and sad and livid, all at the same time. His friends all were furious, too.

He, however, was angrier than any of them; the mention of his mother’s name, and the fact that he now knew that father’s followers were the cause of his mother’s ailment, only added fuel to the fire.

Although I hadn’t once mentioned father’s name in the letter, it was clear that these four boys, whom I’d just assumed were naïve teenagers, knew more than they let on. And suddenly, it was clear why they bothered me so much, specifically, why I’d become their main target: these boys knew something fishy was up; something that wasn’t just related to a new transfer student.

With trembling hands, and a quivering lip, Potter looked up, eyes ablaze with fear-inducing fury. “You. It was… you, you were involved with… this, all along,” the boy declared more than asked. “You-!”

“OI! Who’s there?!” a scratchy voice asked, from not very far away. Merlin, Filch. I glanced at the boys, panic settling inside me. I couldn’t afford getting caught in an abandoned classroom with four of the most troublesome people I had ever met. My record, up till this day, had been perfectly clean. No failed tests, no late assignments, no detentions. If I got caught today, there would be a huge, ugly, black spot on my school records, as well as my reputation – because one thing I’d learned at Hogwarts was that news travels fast. Faster than I’d like.

In a panic-stricken haze, I made what was possibly the most impulsive decision in the entirety of my life. I pointed my wand, muttered a spell, snatched the letter, disillusioned myself, and fled the classroom as fast as I could. The letter could wait.

. . . . .

As I sat on the Slytherin table the next day, I chewed on my omelette with well-masked anxiety. If the boys came in, and started pointing fingers and started shooting spells at me, I would most certainly be in trouble, and the public humiliation would come hand-in-hand. However, if they’d decided to tell Dumbledore, then my trouble would be doubled. And if, if, by chance, by Salazar’s most divine blessing, my spell had worked, then I could seek refuge here in the castle for more time.

Lost in my thoughts and the chatter surrounding me, I completely missed on the theatrical but yet, routine and typical, entrance of the Marauders. Their flailing hands, arrogant smirks, loud banter and even louder chatter gained a couple students’ attention, though said students went back to what they were doing almost immediately.

As I looked up, the four Gryffindors appeared and behaved as they usually did – without a care in the world. No visible anxiety, no frown, no scowl, and definitely no pointed fingers. I was relieved, and my short sigh indicated so. Just as I was about to really go back to eating my food, I caught the mischievous eyes of one James Potter, and by the look in his eyes for that split-second, I knew something was definitely wrong.

. . . . .

Salazar, I hadn’t expected things to go this wrong.

See, the spell I’d used on the Marauders that night was a simple ‘Obliviate’, and then a bit of memory-modification; the boys were planning a prank to make everyone drowsy, and while they planned, they started messing about, used the spell on each other, and fell asleep. Simple enough, yes?

No.

In my hurry, I’d done something wrong, I don’t know what, and had made James Potter think that he was infatuated with me. And yes, I know, the odds of someone believing that were pretty not in my favour, but James Potter could be pretty persuasive, and the fact that the male had finally moved on and given up after so much time, was… expected.

But such a drastic change wouldn’t be believed. His first choice was the golden girl of Hogwarts, the redheaded muggleborn genius Gryffindor, the one who had a warm aura radiating off of her, whose emerald eyes were sharp yet so affable; and then there was me, the brooding Slytherin with green tips in her hair, a stare so pointed people would turn away if they were walking in my direction, and a resting bitch face so effective no one, not even purebloods, wanted to talk to me.

But that was just the beginning. The number of unwanted gifts I received was horrendous – roses in black, white, red, Merlin, even green color; poetry so bad it was tragic; pickup lines so bad I swear my ears would start bleeding if I heard more of them; and extravagant confessions of love that were embarrassing beyond comparison.

But I knew it wasn’t love; love can’t be created. Yes, it was infatuation, but it was just that. The effects the messed-up memory-altering spell were quite similar to those of Amortentia, the only difference was that I didn’t intend that.

. . . . .

A month had passed already, and we were all growing nearer to graduation. The workload was crumbling; seventh-years, such as myself, spent their days and nights in the libraries, the gardens, abandoned classrooms, dormitories, anywhere they got, just studying and learning and practicing. And the three essays we were doomed to get each day didn’t help either.

So now, Jam- sorry, Potter’s unwanted public displays of affection only added to my stress. The constant nagging, shouting, pickup lines, rejections – ugh.

I put up with it only until I snapped.

It was two months later, three days until our first exam, History of Magic, when it happened. I was roaming the dungeons, muttering spells under my breath and practicing wand movements, when I heard noise. I immediately knew. And even though if I’d been saner, I’d probably just ignore it and leave those Marauders and their shenanigans alone. But at that time, I was past the point of sanity, and my fingers were itching to do some actual magic – real magic, not the amateur spells this pathetic excuse of a school was teaching me. You would think that learning advanced stuff would make the basic spells and hexes and potions easier; it was quite the opposite. Having learned what first years learn at age four or five, and reaching seventh-year level by twelve, I was so ahead that I’d forgotten the basics.

So I whipped around, wand pointed, the boys’ cloak blowing off by a nonverbal spell, as they all stared at me. Potter spoke up first.

“Hey, Dahlia, how’re you holdi-?”

“Shut up, Potter,” I snapped. Dahlia was short for black dahlia, the name he used for me in his “poetry”.

“Aw, someone’s i-“

“Shut up, Potter!”

“Love, you shouldn’t preten-“

“Shut. Up,” I sneered, taking two quick strides and jabbing my wand at his throat. “I’m not pretending. I don’t have to. I loathe you, you imbecile! Stop bothering me, because I have work to do, and chapters to study, and spells to practice, and write letters to my parents, unlike you, who would much rather just roam around bullying people, and whose mother is on her death bed and father is half-mad, and whose entire family are filthy bloodtraitors!” I was heaving for air at that point, and once oxygen reached my brain and lungs, only then did I really comprehend what I’d said.

The hazel eyes of the boy in front of me had lost their glint, and had suddenly become too dull, even for me. His friends were standing stunned behind him, eyes flitting from my – as I then realized – guilty expression, and his heartbroken one.

It took him a few seconds and shaky breaths, but the Potter boy finally spoke up. “If… i-if what I say and, uh, do, g- gives you such a headache, then I’ll just, um, stop,” he said in a voice that was uncharacteristically quiet. I gulped, uncomfortable due to the pit that seemed to be settled in the bottom of my belly, and gave a stiff, curt nod.

He nodded again, gaze constantly on the floor, and then trotted away, his friends trailing behind him, now giving me angry glares, having come out of their stunned stages.

And although I should have felt relieved, because I somehow knew that Potter wouldn’t be back to his old ways, I instead had a strange tightness blooming in my chest, slightly constricting my breathing. Shaking my head, I went back to the dormitories, because I couldn’t possibly have gone back to sleep then.

. . . . .

Two days until the day all seventh-years would graduate, say goodbye to the castle, probably forever, but instead of feeling sadness or nostalgia or sadness on leaving the castle, I just had that constricting feeling in my chest growing every day, because I didn’t have even one happy memory in the castle.

My letters to father were sent occasionally, because honestly, except recruiting the seventh-year Gryffindors, and one Hufflepuff, to the Order, Dumbledore had done honestly nothing.

Potter had once again slipped back into his old routine, but his eyes never seemed to had that sparkle anymore. He flited with Evans, she flirted back, seemingly suddenly not liking the lack of attention she got when his affections had been aimed towards me, and each time I saw them that way, I would tighten my jaw, and grip my wand, or books, or even the hem of my sweater if I didn’t have anything, a little tighter.

The feeling was so foreign, and I didn’t like it one bit. Perhaps Evans’ case was what I was suffering with; but I had never liked the attention.

So…why?

. . . . .

During autumn 1979, Lily and James Potter had decided to get married, only at the supple age of 18. And I didn’t know why it bothered me, but it did. That’s why I had been the one to plan the attack on the same day as their wedding.

At 4 pm, the Death Eaters all broke in to the Potters’ mansion; an anonymous source had informed us of the location. I was part of the crew that was attacking – so were Bellatrix, the LeStranges, Malfoy, Pucey, Nott, Rosier, Selwyn, Regulus, the Carrows, Dolohov, Greyback, and Snape – we were father’s most ruthless and dangerous pawns, in the midst of the useless ones. Except me and Bellatrix, clad in hooded robes, the rest all wore their masks.

The wards around the Potter mansion had been taken down by someone inside, and so, there were little to no obstacles in our path.

As we all apparated in, it took the guests a hot second to even realize what had happened; once they did, there was a full-on battle.

The first person to attack me was Professor McGonagall, who was, as expected, one heck of an opponent. It was fun, going back and forth with a person who was suppose to have power over me, and that too in a dangerous duel. And yes, she caught me off-guard a couple times, but that was that. Confringo’s, stupefy’s, crucio’s, expulso’s, reducto’s, spells that melted your insides, jinxes that turned your heart to metal, hexes that made your wand obey your opponent, curses that blasted you apart; there was everything included, because I had lethal intent. It was a Sectumsempra, however, that finally took down my Professor, for she was growing out of breath, and when cuts and gashes made way into her arm and shoulder, she finally dropped to her knees, wand still not forgotten.

Trusting Nagini to take care of her, I went off, assisting Snape in a duel against a certain redhead that he was going way too easy on. And it was easy to take her down, because with a carefully aimed Crucio, the bride had dropped down, screaming and writhing; my companion turned to me just as I heard a scream of “LILY!”, and I just knew he was grimacing underneath. Shrugging my shoulders, I then left Snape to engage in a duel against Dorcas Meadowes, who was fighting beside a heavily breathing redhead whose wand had been blasted off to who knows where. I needed to see the captured.

As I entered the mansion, I was impressed; I didn’t remember any attack in which we’d done this well. But then again, I’d been ready to kill whoever didn’t immerse themselves into pure torture of these people. Most guests had already escaped; only the groom, his father, his friends and colleagues, a couple Professors of whom Dumbledore wasn’t part of, and the bride who was soon brought in, we had mostly all the important ones in our grasp.

I locked eyes with Pettigrew, on his knees beside Potter, and was quivering. He seemed to know what I wanted to tell him – good job.

“Lily!”

“Dorcas, are you okay?”

“What happened?!”

“Lily, love-“

“SHUT UP!” exclaimed Bellatrix, just at the right time. She then proceeded to cackle madly, which I rolled my eyes at. Lucius hissed something about “embarrassing women”.

“Let her go, please,” uttered Potter, and only then did I turn to see Snape holding his wand at Evans’ back. Holding, not jabbing. Striding towards him, pulling her forward with her left arm, and forcefully making her sit on her knees directly in front of Potter as I held her in place with her hair, the girl couldn’t hide her quivering lip from me.    I didn’t blame her; I’d successfully destroyed her wedding, and would probably kill her. But I couldn’t help chuckling when Potter started pleading to let her go, because she was bleeding. And the twisted pleasure I derived from that sickened me, but I couldn’t stop it.

Tugging at her hair harder, I muttered a stinging spell under my breath, and the girl’s shoulder began burning more. She yelped and hissed, and I could make out the clenched fists of my fellow Death Eater from the peripherals of my vision. He had to get over her.

And that was the reason, I convinced myself, why I Crucio-ed the girl on her knees.

Her friends screamed at me to stop it, she screamed at me to stop it, Potter screamed at me to stop it, but I didn’t. Amongst the shouts, Black screamed at me to reveal my face, as his cousin already had. I didn’t. And the billow of wind that went past me, temporarily stopping me, and lowered my hood, I knew it wasn’t just nature’s wrath.

As Rabastan tortured Black for lowering my hood, McKinnon taunted, “Oh, your friend can’t defend herself, is it?”

I was flattered, honestly, with the uproar that caused among the Death Eaters. Chuckling, and then asking them to stop it, I wandered to McKinnon, and crouched to her eye level, looking head-straight into her blue eyes. I was aware of the tense gazes of the wedding guests on me, and I couldn’t help but smirk. Quickly suppressing it, I ran my hands along the girl’s face – her nose, jaw, lips, and then threaded them through her hair.

Pulling her head back with her hair, I tilted my head to the side. “You’re the half blood, hm? Gryffindor, like your mother. Your father was Ravenclaw.” She seemed creeped out a tad, at me knowing her family so well. I raised my voice, no longer muttering. “Dolohov, take this one back home. Don’t touch her, or her family. Kill them off, make it hurt. Once you’re done, come back here.”

And so the screams started again, protests and thrashing and writhing. Dolohov did as he was instructed, and everyone watched, horrified.

“Anyone else, have any problem?” I raised my brows. Silence.

I then worked efficiently. Meadowes, Black, Pettigrew and Lupin were taken to the headquarters, meant to be attended to by Father. Bellatrix was allowed to torture whoever she pleased. Once she was done, I dragged the mudblood by her lover, and both of them were tied together. The professors were sent back to Hogwarts as a message, and once those two, as well as Auror Potter were the only ones left, me and the Death Eaters trudged out. Standing at the door, I pointed my wand. “Fiendfyre.”

The doors were closed, and the screams inside would haunt the area forever. The Potters had been murdered, along with all the most valuable assets of the Order of the Phoenix, and Neville Longbottom, two years later, had been marked with a lightning scar.

No one messes with the Riddles and gets away.

No one is worthy of our jealousy.

[ashtonangst]

Bet. / Ashton Irwin

Hello friends and welcome to ashtonangst’s first ever full on smut! This was something I typed up at midnight, during my prime thirst hours. Thanks to @kindahoping4forever​ for proofing it for me and hyping me up xoxo luv u 

Word Count: 2.6k

Rating: R

Warnings: blink-and-you’ll-miss-it masturbation and daddy kink; dirty talk; oral (m+f receiving); teasing; unprotected sex in a committed relationship

Let me know what you think!

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

     The book sat heavy in your lap. Unopened, begging to be read. The fantasies within its pages were nothing compared to the ones you couldn’t stop thinking about.

     It was a dare. You were fed up with Ashton’s incessant need to be fucked (not that you protested often). It was as if his hands had a libido of their own. You’d dared him to go one week without touching you--or himself. General displays of affection were permissible, but absolutely nothing sexual. The winner of this dare would choose what the other did to them. When you gave him this challenge, you knew he would cave. He always does. Except this time it was different.

     After a year together you knew what made each other tick. You shared the same fantasies and carried these out often. This time, Ashton decided to use this knowledge to his advantage. He started walking around in nothing but his (and your) favorite pair of lounging shorts. He made a show of adjusting himself to let you know he wasn’t wearing any underwear. Then, in his practice sessions, he invited you to watch, knowing how much you loved to watch him make perfect rhythms from his head. He waited until you were up and focused on other things to go for his daily canyon jog. He made a show of stretching (his “warm ups”) in that tank top--the white one that he knew drove you mad--until you were practically drooling at the sight of his muscles flexing under the fabric. 

     One particular day, closer to when the tension was so thick you almost thought you could give in, he caught you ogling at the combination he’d chosen for his workout: the dreaded white tank and the tightest pair of black athletic shorts he owned, a combination that was sure to send warmth between your thighs. 

     “Like what you see, love?” he smirked, choosing his playlist for the workout. 

     “I always do, but don’t think you’re gonna win this one this time, baby,” you retort, trying not to stare as he made his way over to stand next to you while he prepared his water bottle. He chuckles softly, screwing the lid onto the container and flexing at the same time. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you trying to get me to cave. My willpower has always been stronger than yours, you know this.”

     “I know,” he breathes, coming to stand behind your chair at the kitchen island where you were enjoying your morning coffee. “But never underestimate a man’s desire to have his girlfriend writhing under him in complete and total ecstasy,” he places kisses up and down your neck in the process--just barely staying within the guidelines of the dare. “I can’t wait to have you screaming for my cock...begging me to fuck you raw because you were just too fucking greedy to win at your own game and you’re mad that I haven’t let you cum all night.” He leans up, walking towards the door and grabbing his belongings. You frustratedly sigh at his absence, the filthy words that came from his mouth only seconds before making you want just that--right then and there. 

     That’s how you ended up trying to read the latest novel on your list to distract yourself from the growing need you felt deep in the pits of your stomach. The further your eyes scanned the pages, the more the words ran together, eventually forming pages and pages of black lines. Between those lines was Ashton, his cock hitting in those just-right places, coaxing you to your fifth orgasm. Eventually you blink yourself out of this fantasy. 

     You were the one who suggested this little game, you weren’t about to lose at your own game. That was until you found your hand traveling farther and farther down your body, until it disappeared under the waistband of your panties, finding your clit with ease. As you slowly started to rub yourself, you’re drawn out of your own fantasies by the sound of Ashton’s keys jingling in the lock. You quickly compose yourself, and before he has the door open you’re waltzing into the kitchen to place your mug in the sink. You give him a coy smile, “hi, darling. Looks like your workout went well.”

     “It was very nice, thanks for asking. I kind of bit myself in the ass, though, from my stunt this morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about licking your pussy until you’re cumming all over my mouth.”

     You look up at him with wide eyes before a smirk forms on your lips. “Ashton Irwin, are you admitting defeat?” 

     His shoulders hang in mock surrender. “Only if it means that part of your punishment for losing the bet is that I get to taste that sweet pussy of yours.”

     You slowly approach him, giving him the same lust-filled eyes he’s giving you. “Think about how good I taste while you’re showering. Then I’ll think about letting you eat my pussy.” He hums with lust thick in his throat as he heads toward the shower. You smile to yourself, knowing you’re not going to give up so quickly.

     You’re nowhere to be found when he’s showered from his late-morning jog. You’re out grabbing the groceries he forgot to pick up, he thinks. He also wonders if he’ll have time to hide the evidence if he spurts his own load all over his clean shirt, his shorts, and the sheets. Just as you had been so rudely interrupted earlier, he, too, found himself scrambling to act casual as he heard the sliding door to the garden snap shut. He smiles at you as you make your way back into the shared bedroom. “I wasn’t admitting defeat, you know. Just letting you know what I’m going to do to you once I win our bet.” 

     You give him a curt smile. “Fine, let’s add three more days onto this bet.”

______

     The week passes with relatively little tension. Sure, it’s always there, but the two of you were too stubborn to admit defeat and give into your own desires that the bet was still on and going strong. That is, until you hear Ashton’s weak groans as he’s in the shower. You immediately know that he’s launching weak spurts of his cum onto the shower wall. He’s caved. You knew he always would. You pity him, really. 

     You were getting close to inserting your own two fingers into your warm and aching pussy at this thought when you decided to make his punishment an anti-punishment--reward him for holding off for a whole week with the promise of your sweet, sweet pussy on his tongue at the end of it. 

     As always, he’s only wearing a towel when he emerges from the steamy room. “Enjoy your shower this morning, baby?” You know the answer to this question, but he still stops dead in his tracks. “I at least hope you rinsed your cum off of the wall. That shit’s a bitch to clean once it’s dry.” 

     He turns slowly on one heel. “Do you think this is fun? Is this your sadistic way to prove to me that you’re the dominant one in this relationship? Daddy gets to touch himself any fucking time he wants to.” The switch had flipped. He tried to be submissive to the woman who makes his heart soar--to make her happy, to fulfill all of her desires--but he needed her too badly. He had to have his way, that’s just how it’s been the entirety of your sexual relationship. 

     You gulp, unsure of what to respond. You notice he’s begun to grow hard again, and finally admit that he’s too sure of himself to let you win this game. You both want it now, you’re both going to get it now. He turns to dig through his drawers, searching for an outfit for the day. “Let me help you, baby,” you speak, but it’s barely audible over his rummaging. You come off of the bed and pad closer to him until you’re standing behind him, kissing his back. “Come to the bed, please, baby.” He turns and looks at you, lust and exhaustion clouding his eyes. He bounds over to the mattress, deciding to stand instead of sit. “I know you're tired of my game. Truce?” 

     He nods quietly, and the silence is deafening. He’s not going to give you the satisfaction of winning, but he’ll take the loser's prize. Never breaking eye contact, you sink lower until you’re eye-level with his now fully hard cock. He watches in silent awe as you salivate when you finally drop the towel he’d loosely tied around his hips. His cock springs free, the tip red and needy despite his quick jerk in the shower only minutes before. You take it in your hand, its weight fits nicely in your hand, your favorite feeling. You look at him watching you as you lick a thick stripe up the underside of his cock, making it twitch on your tongue. You hum as you take him fully into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you take every inch of him. 

     He’s amazed. He loves that pretty mouth of yours, and fuck, does he love having his cock put in it. He gathers your hair into a loose ponytail, just enough for him to see the tears develop in the corners of your eyes. Your free hand fondles his balls, just the way he likes, causing his hips to snap, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. You pull off of it with a breath, a string of spit connecting your chin and his tip. With doe eyes you rasp, “fuck my face, you earned it.” He groans in delight, his cock twitching in your hand for the umpteenth time. He tightens his grip in your hair, causing your scalp to sting. 

     He puts the feelings of the past week into every thrust into your throat. He watches the tears fall from your cheeks, but the hum in the bottom of your throat tells him you’re enjoying this, too. His thrusts become sloppy, his moans growing louder. You feel his cock jerk on your tongue in the same instant that he’s pushing your head still on his cock. His load comes hot, thick, and with loud moans of praises and thanks. You stand, humming with pleasure as you wipe the last bit of his cum from your chin. He’s breathless, but the look on his face tells you he’s far from spent. 

     “Lay down. Strip. Spread,” he gruffs out. This is a new reaction that sends sparks through your body. You quickly oblige, excited for his repayment. As soon as he catches a glimpse of your glistening pussy, he’s holding down your hips in preparation for his assault. “So wet for me, baby. You haven’t touched yourself, not even once, this whole week? What a shame, such a pretty pussy,” he tuts, running a finger through your slick folds and taking your nipple between his teeth, sucking harshly. He lets go with a loud pop, but follows it with firm slaps to each sensitive breast, earning a whimper from your lips. “I bet you thought about this every day...having my cock so deep in you you can feel me in your stomach...crying out, begging me to let you sit on my face. Fuck me, baby, you’re gorgeous. So wet, so needy for me. Where’s that dominant spirit that was here last week? She saw Daddy’s hard cock and got greedy. Needed me to touch her and wouldn’t tell me. Pitiful.” You can only respond to his words with whimpers, a stark contrast from the filth that you spewed to get him riled up. 

     “Ash...please...I need it...need your tongue, your cock...please.” You’re writhing under him, just as he imagined. He only gives a smile before diving in between your thighs. He hums when your fingers pull immediately at his scalp as he begins to suck harshly on your clit. He alternates between this movement and licking wide strips up the length of your pussy. You’ve begun to squirm more than he likes, so he wraps both arms over your thighs to hold them in place. He darts his tongue into your hole before deciding quickly to assault your clit and leave the rest up to his expert fingers. He knows you always beg for more when he begins with one finger, so he thrusts three fingers into you from the get, curling them up to hit your g-spot with each thrust. He moves his fingers and tongue faster when he hears your whimpers of praise fall from your lips. He knows you’re close, you’re clenching on his fingers so hard that he can hardly move them. Fuck, he wishes that was his cock. He feels it tremble again, a painful reminder that his needs were far from met. Your quiet moans turn into screams as his quiet hums turn into vibrating groans against your throbbing clit.

      “Good girl...cum on my fingers for me...jus’ like that,” he coos as he feels your fingers dig into his scalp. He resumes his onslaught just in time for your first orgasm to hit. He licks your pussy clean, and by the time the stars have faded and the sounds of the room have floated back into your ears, he’s grabbing his long-forgotten towel to quickly wipe anything that his tongue couldn’t clean. 

     Without warning, his elbows are next to your ears as he pushes your thighs apart to settle between them. You can feel his needy cock brushing against your stomach. He swipes the head between your folds only once before bottoming out. You whine at the new sensation just as he lifts your leg over his shoulder, groaning at this new angle. 

     “Fuck, Ash...so fucking big...I’m so full,” is all you can repeat as his thrusts become heavier and longer. He pulls out almost completely just to slam himself back in several times, causing your head to spin. 

     “God, darlin’, you’re takin’ my cock so fucking well. Never gonna go without your pussy ever again. Never.” The fire returns in your belly as his thrusts are more sporadic and followed with loud groans and countless affirmations of praise. 

     “Ash, Ash...I’m close,” you breathily moan.

     “Me, too, baby. Want you cumming on my cock...so tight...made just for me.”

His words are what finally send you over the edge. The stars shine brighter this time, the ringing in your ears the loudest bell ever made. He follows not far behind, his cock releasing thick ropes of cum deep inside of you. As you both fall from your highs, he leaves soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, staying buried inside you for as long as he can stand it.

      You’re rubbing his scalp calmingly, breathing in his scent, a mix of citrus, musk, and Ashton. You break the comfortable silence with a chuckle and, “I don’t think I’ll be denying you anything for a very long time, Ashton.”

     He laughs at that, agreeing. “Same here. I love you too much to go without showing you my love. But if we decide to play this game again, let’s make the reward more clear, yeah? We both got our way this time, I don't think that’s how this was supposed to work.” He laughs quietly and rolls to your side, pulling you to him in an almost fluid motion. “That was fucking worth the wait, though.” He kisses your forehead before giving you a soft peck on the cheek. He lets out an “I love you,” thick with sleep. You hum in response. 

“I love you, too, especially when we both lose the same bet.” 

[renoslies]

If it isnt too much then could you do the sfw alphabet for cloud or reno (or both!! btw who'se your favourite character?)

a/n: my favourite is cloud but reno and aerith are very close behind! i’ll post them separately since it’s a bit long, here’s reno’s first.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Reno’s super affectionate (mostly in romantic situations)! He’s probably pretty cool with PDA too, but if his s/o doesn’t like it then he’ll tone it down as much as he can. When you’re sitting down reading, doing paperwork he’s for sure gonna hug you from the back and distract you.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

He’d be the kind of best friend that makes fun of you in a playful manner, making sure not to take his own antics too far. 

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?) 

Reno would love to cuddle, especially with the one he loves most (you). Big spoon? Little spoon? Depends on his and your mood. Taking you away from work-related stuff and bringing you to the bed or couch just to cuddle is a hobby of his.

D = Domestic  (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?) 

As Turks, it’d be hard to leave the job and settle down so he just wants to make things work the way they things they are now. Reno never learned to cook so you’d definitely have to watch him while he’s trying to make something on the stove. 

E = Ending  (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) 

If he had to break up with his s/o, he’d be unusually serious. His usual, bright demeanour would leave the face of the planet and he’d tell them straight up.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

He’s going to want to take it slow. Marriage wouldn’t come up quick because Reno wants to be 110% sure that the two of you are going to last because him caring for someone strongly in this romantic way is rare.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Physically, Reno’s super gentle with you. To him, you’re just a fragile, porcelain doll. Must protect!! In fights, his eyes will never leave your figure, you getting hurt is the last thing he wants.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He loves hugs. Reno has no problem with walking around the Shinra building while hugging you from the back.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Before the two of you are together, he says it as a joke, but when you’re actually together and official, he doesn’t say it until he’s sure that what he’s feeling is pure love.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Reno gets jealous but not as much as people would expect. If someone starts flirting with you he’d just try to make it obvious that you’re already into him by wrapping an arm around your waist.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

The first time he ever kissed you was on the back of your hand after walking you to your house, but that was when you two were still in that playful, pre-romantic partners state. Reno’s actually too worried you won’t kiss back if he does it first so he waits until you make the advance.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Reno does not know how to act around children. He doesn’t think they’re that cute but doesn’t think they’re ugly. One time a little lost girl ran up to the two of you while on patrol in the Sector 5 slums. You insisted that the two of you find where she came from and he carried her while you looked for her caregiver.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Waking up to Reno’s arms wrapped tightly around you is commonplace, so is him nuzzling into the back of your neck. 

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

On the rare nights with no Turk business, Reno just likes to relax at home with you. Imagine: An upbeat song coming up on the stereo while you’re cooking, earning a little dance between the two of you.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Reno begins to get personal after an unexpectedly long amount of time. Sure, you know the general stuff like what his favourite sweet is but his childhood? You’d have to wait for a little.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He just gets mad when he doesn’t do something right, never at you.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He forgets the less important stuff but will definitely remember your favourites and significant moments in your life that you’ve told him about.

R = Remember (What is their favourite moment in your relationship?)

Every day with you is greater than the one before, but the day you accepted his impromptu confession was the best.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He’s very protective, but not to the point where it gets annoying. Reno knows how capable you are and won’t get in the way of you doing anything.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Reno’s a cheesy romantic. On your anniversary, Valentines day, dates, he spoils you rotten. He really does try his best to make you the happiest.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Not really a terrible habit but Reno’s stubborn and will do things the way he thinks best.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He’s super concerned but at the same time, knows he looks good. The only one he’s really trying to impress is you, though.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He’d feel significantly alone. Sure, he has Rude but without you by his side, who’s he gonna hug and flirt with now? Reno L-words you a lot.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Reno loves when you brush or play with his hair. The way your hand brushes through calms him.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He doesn’t like when people think he doesn’t take his job seriously, because he takes it very seriously. Never underestimate Reno of the Turks.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

This man will cling to whatever there is next to him. Unless he’s hugging you or a pillow, he’s going to steal the blanket.

–– 

thank you for requesting, i’ll be writing more now <3

[struwwelzeter]

Because i miss your design themed rants (it is good word here) i would like you to rank Rammstein album covers from designers point of view.

Ah, I love you. This got VERY ranty.

This is kinda hard because I tend to judge the entire packagaing/notes, and when I count that into it the ranking would be ever so slightly different. I’ll mention it for each I have Opinions (TM) on, but yeah, this is solely going on cover. I’ll only do the studio albums, not made in germany or the DVDs, or this will get too big.

7th: Rosenrot.

I know lots of you are gonna hate me for this. It’s not that I don’t like it, I do, it’s beautiful. Unfortunately it’s ... slightly lazy. It’s I think their most obvious cover and obvious feels like it’s good design but never truly is. It’s got that first idea feel, if that makes any sense. There is always that project where you go “uh can’t think of anything, but this works.” It’s not a bad thing, they clearly still knew what they were doing. It’s just ... that typical photoshop post apocalyptic composit that lost of metal/alternative bands did at some point. They all did it because it’s cool. No argument there. It’s just that I expect a bit ... more.

6th: Herzeleid

I know it’s iconic, but. The execution?! Terrible. The colours of their skin and that flower?! Too different to feel monochromatic, to same same to contrast nicely. Too much texture. What is that?! The positive bit is the placement of the typography because, neat! Most people fail at that. I like the blue-grey there aswell, how about you’d added that to their skin a little? No? Ok.

Also, this (Richard speaking):

“The bloody sleeve! What a crazy situation that was. We approved the photos in a car park without thinking what we were letting ourselves in for. When we saw what the designer had done, we freaked! We looked so… gay! All of us stripped to the waist. It was like an ad for a gay porno film. So we had to say, sort it out. Make us look straight again. Change the sleeve.”

Who in the fuck works like this?! Nevermind, I know it was a considerably younger Dirk Rudolph, but fucking hell, have some self respect, all of you. I know they didn’t know what they were doing, they probably had the management/record company comission it, and that was still the time graphic designers were seen as just pixel pushers from that time it took 3 days to layout a poster. Still. What was that brief?! Could you have sat down for 20 minutes and talk, perhaps?! Also, I hope this is how Richie learned to be the nightmare client I know he is. Don’t approve layouts in a car park, what the fuck is wrong with you.

It’s a pity because the concept? Nice. Sculpted men infront of flowers, what else do you want from life. Why crysanthemes, tho? Too textured in that macro shot. What is that photo angle?! Might try and redo that if I ever feel like it.

5th: Reise, Reise

This breaks my heart a little, because it’s my lonely island album. And it isn’t bad by any stretch. Actually, their album cover game is ridiculous, can I have that established as a general benchmark? It would make for a lot less mental break downs. The thing is ... I like the idea. Make it look like the black box, cool. The problem is the type. It makes it look like “Flugrekorder Nicht Öffnen” is the album title. To be fair, Typesetting is my main thing, and album artists get it wrong (imo) 99 out of 100 times. I wish they would have comitted more and just left the titel off and solved it with a slide in, or a sticker or something like that. It’s just a bit ... weird. What works brilliantly is that it’s very memorable, stands out on the shelf, is unusual, all of that. It’s iconic. I do like it very much but I had to place something here.

4th: Liebe ist für alle da

Now the thing with that album is that it has two covers. If I’d gone by the original one, I’d have to place it behind Reise, Reise. Everything RR has in impact, this is missing. It’s too dark, has too many pieces, it won’t stand out on a shelf. Especially not in the CD age when it was on 12x12 cm. Even on a Vinyl, it’s ... just not that impactful. Sure, the photograph is beautiful but meh. Luckily there is a second option. And that - is almost like a logo. It works as a symbol, and that makes it so strong. Less is more. Brilliant. You can draw it from memory. It’s so iconic, the kind of stuff that starts showing up in subways, drawn on the back of a seat and sprayed on walls. Tell me you never wanted to paint that on a flag and take it to a pride parade. I am sure some of us have.

I do want to mention the booklet in this, because it does bump it up a little too, because where the panorama image fails as a cover, the inside is done so beautifully with the fold out, the type setting, everything. It’s special, and done with love and it shows.

3rd: Mutter

There is just something about this that is so, so, so memorable. Everyone recognises this. If you ask anyone over the age of 20 to describe Rammstein with an album cover only to someone less familiar, is anyone gonna say anything but “they’re the band with the embryo in close up”?! Maybe this is subjective because that’s how I first got exposed to them, but I don’t think so. It’s such a powerful image. It’s both beautiful and uncomfortable, the way Rammstein as a whole and that album in particular is beautiful and uncomfortable. It’s stunning. That’s it. Unfortunately, this one falls apart inside. The went too far with the whole Matrix inspired cyber elements. It’s trendy and trendy never stands the test of time, in that it has the same problem Rosenrot has, but much worse because it’s not even done that well. They could have just used the photos and kept it raw. The type setting on the cover is as good as it gets with albums tho, so I am happy.

2nd: Sehnsucht

Ah, Sehnsucht. The most perfect band shoot they ever had. Helnwein just ... did it. I don’t know, it both defined and summed up who they are aesthetically for the longest time. It’s the visual statement that says “this is Rammstein”. It ... just looks like a band that sings about heartbreak and necrophilia is supposed to look like. Don’t you agree? How else would it look like? Even that omniously coloured beach. It’s as if the predicted the mood of True Detective, only less Hollywood. That darkness we don’t want to see, that can happen anywhere. And where they fell short with Mutter, where they added too much on to these powerful images, they just added the type. Granted, it was the 90s so it’s slightly experimental type. But unlike most type in the 90s it stood the test of time. Add the whole variable cover versions and chefs kiss! Beautiful work. Makes me happy and emotional and ugh.

1st: The White Album

I’m just calling it that now. The Matchstick. You know, good design is made up from three components only: Concept. Commitment. Execution. The concept of this is so streamlined and clean. It’s the entire Rammstein story narrowed down to a single little thing. It’s small and ordinary looking but it can become dangerous and big. It’s underestimated. A little piece of wood with a head of phosphor and calium chlorit and yet you can commit the most legendary arson. It’s the personification of the thing that has become synonymous with them: Fire. It says so much with so little. And then they comitted to that. No useless typography, a simple but oh so well done photoshoot, the simple text on white. They didn’t ad too much additional ideas on to it, they trusted that one to carry and it does. They could have done without the black and white match stick arrangements inside, although I’m not even sure if that’s not just a limited edition thing, it’s a bit too much almost. They got scared a little there. The execution is also well done, I have very little to critique, only that I feel it lacks a tiny bit of love. The thing is, the more minimalist you go, the more love you have to put into each element. I feel like the spacing of the type should have been fixed in a few places but honestly that is being very very picky. Or not. Because if it wasn’t for that, and the teeeeny tiny commitment issue, this should have been a candidate for the packaging grammy. I mean it should be even the way it is, but we all know how those fuckers ignore our boys.

I’m done. Can I use this as application? Do you think if I send them a run down of basically tearing them apart they will hire me?

[crapitskizaru]

For Everything. (X Drake x Hawkins)

Summary: Drake cannot bear with the past mistakes catching up to him anymore. He receives a Tarot reading from his one and only friend among the Beast Pirates. 

Warning: Wano setting so possible spoilers. And after catching up with most of the anime...I just had to do this. 

The small room was shrouded in darkness. Only a single source of light remained - the man observed as the trail of smoke curled upwards from the candle.

He was scared. The cold fear crawled underneath his skin and confused his senses. He tried to reach back into his past, to remember what led him to this miserable point. Not many memories were left to conjure up in order to answer the persisting questions.

A quiet voice in his head kept reminding him that the end draws near, that death lurks even in the shadowed corners of his room, waiting to pounce and take his life.

The man didn’t want to die just yet. Not one person would remember him fondly if he did - he needed more time to fix his mistakes. The main issue was, however, that for a single mistake in the past he had to spend years in the present, desperately trying to turn it all around.

His eyes landed on the open journal on his desk. If he died now… There was a chance someone might find his notes and read about the crimes and sins he regretted more than anything in the world. He could try to persuade his own self that he was used, manipulated, forced to kill. But it certainly didn’t persuade his aching heart.

Should he tell him? Tell him everything? But what if he turns on him, and Drake will be left with enemies on both sides of the conflict? That would serve no one.

He swiftly got up and started pacing across the room. The most disturbing thought was the one that kept telling him there was no right thing to do. Both the Marines and the forces of the Emperor were committing to the wrong ideas, their hatred for each other only adding fuel to the fire of the looming war.

How could everyone be so short-sighted? Serving vicious men in power with only their own interests in mind. But then again, Drake shouldn’t be the one to judge. Everyone else must have had their reasons to do it, just like he did.

His cover will be blown, sooner or later. And then he will be left on the utter mercy of the Beast Pirates, no longer of any use to the Marines.

Drake closed the journal. He had to tell him. There was no other choice. Like an enslaved animal in a cage, no matter which side he turned to, there was always the cold steel of bars in front of him. And so his heart led him to the only path left to take - towards one sole friend; a friend he was going to lose at the end of that same night.

Gripping the journal, he left his room. No explanation or reasoning came to his mind, but he kept going. If he stopped now, he knew he wouldn’t find the strength to try it again - and so, he kept going.

Already, the shadows of the night seeped through the windows of the corridor. The Land of Wano had rarely been at peace, but at that moment it seemed like the whole world was calm, preparing for slumber.

Drake stood before the door, wondering where to start the conversation. Should he confess everything right away? Or paint a whole picture first? He figured that a start with a knock on the door should be the best option.

Before he raised his hand, the door opened.

“How long are you going to stand here for?” Hawkins asked. “I almost started placing bets with myself. So far, it’s been at least five minutes.”

“You’ve seen me in your cards?”

“No. Your shadow was visible from under the door.”

“Oh.”

Drake sent him a quick glance. The flowing hair he never got to touch, the piercing eyes, the regal expression on his face - merely looking at him was becoming painful.

He tightened his grip on the journal. With all the sweat he was producing, it was more than possible that all of the ink will get washed away soon.

“Drake? Can I help you?”

“Hm? Oh right. Yes. Yes, you can. Please.”

Hawkins bowed his head. “Very well then. Come in.”

You will hate me before this night ends, Drake thought, entering the cabin.

It was a lot brighter than his own, he had to admit that. At least two dozen candles were lit, placed on every possible surface - the floor, the chest of drawers, the windowsill, and the huge desk in the middle of the room, covered with piles of documents. Drake wondered how it was possible that they still hadn’t caught on fire.

It felt cozy and comfortable, at least in comparison to his own dark, lifeless, austere excuse for a cabin.

“I’m guessing you want to know what the cards say.” Hawkins sat behind the desk and gestured for Drake to take the chair across him. “Took you long enough to finally ask. It’s not like I charge for it, you know that.”  

“Actually, I’m here for something else-”

“Sit down.”

Drake sat down. Annoying his friend needlessly before he even starts to confess would only make this harder. With a sigh, Drake slid his journal across the desk, unable to look Hawkins in the eye.

“What’s this?”

“A matter I came to you with. It’s…I figured it’d be easier for me to write it all, rather than say it out loud.”

“First, the cards.”

“But-”

“Draw three. Left hand.”

Drake sighed again and drew three cards from the deck. The very same deck that he’d seen in use so many times - when Hawkins used his power, the cards glowed in creepy blue and usually meant bad news for either the enemy or Hawkins himself. Drake wasn’t very fond of that deck of cards.

“The Hierophant. Reversed. The Hanged Man. And the Knight of Pentacles.”

“You don’t seem happy with that.”

“I’m rarely happy,” Hawkins murmured, frowning. “You carry a lot of guilt and shame. Your actions don’t correspond with your values, which causes you to be at constant war with yourself.”

An awkward silence took over.

“Is that it?” Drake asked after a while.

“No. The Hanged Man means you’re stuck in a situation you desperately want to get out of. Think of it as being locked in a cell. In order to escape this stagnancy, you either have to make a firm decision or try to make peace with yourself. Let the events unfold, and maybe the cell door will open unassisted.”

“So you’re saying… When I’m locked in prison, I should just wait long enough and the lock will unlatch.”

Hawkins sent him a tired stare. “No, that’s not it. I’m saying if you try to calm your inner conflicts or attempt to solve some of them, your path will appear on its own.”

“What if I’m unable to do that?”

“This card right here-,” Hawkins continued without an answer, patting a card with a depiction of a knight on a black horse. “- could mean your difficulty in expressing emotions. One of the reasons for that might be a problematic relationship with your father figure.” A short silence followed that statement. “The card also paints you as a reliable, patient, and loyal man. I don’t know about the loyal part…”

Drake felt the tips of his ears catch on fire - the heatwaves suddenly erupting throughout his whole body made him consider taking off his leather jacket, but he discarded that idea at once.

“…since you’re a former Rear Admiral turned pirate, but I’d say the rest is accurate.” Hawkins looked him in the eye. “You are reliable. You don’t back away when a fight turns out to be inevitable. I know I can count on you.”

It was at that exact moment when Drake started regretting his choice at confessing. How could he admit treason to his one and only friend? Under his heavy stare, Drake felt worse than he had for a long time.

“I think you overestimate me,” he whispered.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Drake. And downgrade your morals.”

Drake shifted uncontrollably in his seat, making it screech. “You don’t know a thing about my morals.”

Hawkins smirked and quickly shuffled the cards. “Draw one. Right hand.”

“Listen, I didn’t come here for a lecture.” Drake stood up with haste, suddenly filled with determination. “I don’t fully…grasp the idea behind those cards, or the power you actually have over them. But I’m almost sure those pieces of paper can’t help me. At this point, I have no idea what can. I will be going now. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He reached for the journal, but Hawkins grabbed it first. His red eyes were calm but cold; tiny candle flames reflected in them, giving him an unearthly look.

“You seek help. You came to me, and since cards are my biggest asset, I’m doing my best to guide you. But it won’t bear any results without cooperation from your side.”

Drake’s hands gripped the back of the chair, knuckles turning white from strain. The man locked his eyes on one of the candles until his vision blurred, and the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding released slowly.

“I’m not judging you, Drake. I would be a fool and a hypocrite if I did. We all make terrible mistakes. Let me help you fix yours. Now, in the present,” Hawkins paused. “Draw a card.”

He couldn’t back out now. He couldn’t lie to his friend anymore, not after what he’d just heard. This was the only way. Drake drew a card from the very top of the deck. Immediately after his touch, it started glowing in blue.

Claiming back his previous seat, Drake stared at his colleague, trying to imprint his majestic features in his mind. After all, he wasn’t sure whether he’ll see those flowing hair ever again. Or that tattooed cross on his neck. He had always been fond of it.

The blue glimmer accentuated the sharp lines of his face, now furrowed in silent focus.

“I’ll be honest, you’re starting to freak me out a bit,” Drake said.  

“You drew The Lovers. Reversed.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

Hawkins lifted his gaze and started absent-mindedly fiddling with one of the flames. His fingers caressed them as if they radiated no heat, and then, with one swift movement, he extinguished the light.

Drake watched a smudge of smoke travel all the way towards the ceiling.

“You need to accept that your present is the result of the choices that you’ve made a long time ago. Embrace your past. Only then you will be able to move forward.” Hawkins paused as if considering whether he should continue or not. “It’s also a rather strong indicator of you harboring feelings for your colleague. What’s most likely to be stopping you from engaging is fear. But don’t worry-”

Drake raised an eyebrow. Who in their right mind wouldn’t worry after all this information?

“- it’s not an unrequited love.”

Silence veiled the room once more, but Drake had no interest in disturbing it. Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure what to say.

Eventually, after most of the flames had died down and the wax stiffened on the candles, he stirred. He almost forgot about the true reason he came there in the first place - it was high time to get it over with.

“You may count on me during our battles, but I know you don’t fully trust me. It could be your cards hinting or solely your intuition…I want you to know you’re right for being wary of me. I came here to confess. And to apologize, if you’ll allow it. Everything is in the journal.”

Hawkins crossed his hands on his chest, leaning back.

“Everything? You wrote down your mistakes, both past and present?”

“Yes. My current…” Drake wavered, then gathered his composure. “- situation as well. It will most likely come to light anyway, but I’d rather confess it myself.”

“Good,” Hawkins replied nonchalantly, lifting up the journal. “I need you to watch closely now.”

So Drake watched. First, the man weighted the notebook in his hand, as if measuring its worth. And then he directed it over one of the flames, causing it to crackle and catch on fire.

“Wait, what are you doing? I want you to read it all. I need you to know.” Drake sat up straight, grasping the edge of the desk. “I can’t lie to you.”

“Then don’t,” Hawkins muttered, fascinated with the bright flame engulfing the papers in his hold. When it almost reached his fingers, he threw it on the desk. “Start again with me.”

The fire slowly turned the white pages dark and withered. As only ashes remained, Drake lifted his gaze.

“The desk could have caught on fire as well, did you take that into consideration?”

“I’m sure you would have come up with something.”

Drake wasn’t sure what to say. A simple ‘thank you’ wouldn’t suffice in this case. So instead, he reached out across the desk and touched Hawkins’ fingers with the tips of his own in silent gratitude. For everything.

[bates--boy]

“Okay, closer! Remember that this is the best day of your life! Terra, soften the lights!”

         If Peter said right then and there that he knew that modeling was hard from his “experience”, he’d be a liar just trying to soothe his worries and ego. His experience before this was chump work, and none of the filtering, editing, and social media marketing would have prepared him for even an iota of this type of work. Firstly, he had grossly underestimated how long this would take, and it definitely did not take the two or three minutes it would take to snap a selfie, or even the the half hour to get his makeup and hair in order. 

        Secondly, there had to be photos of everything. A toast at the table, Burak carrying Peter down the bridge, Burak making Peter wonder if the universe hated him by brushing away hair and cupping his cheek, Peter taking solo shots in a grayscale room for every. single. dress that the stylists picked for him. Posing on the swings, dancing to nonexistent music, lounging on a leather chair. Pierre wanted photos in as many angles as he can imagine, and fuck how beautiful Burak was, fuck how dazzling and breathtaking Peter felt in the dress once he became used to the silicone breasts -- Peter was ready to bite someone’s nose off by the fifth hour.

          "Alright, everyone, break time!” the manager, whose name Peter also hadn’t gotten but was too frazzled to even want to bother with, called out as she waved people over to the food table.

         Peter knew that if he was going to barrel through the estimated next six hours of this, he should have something nutritious in his stomach, but the bubbly golden champagne called out to him. He downed one glass at the table and carried another to the gazebo steps. His feet hurt, his everything hurts -- how does modeling hurt the body? How the fuck does that happen in a bridal photoshoot? -- but especially his feet, and once he sat down on the step, Peter unfastened the heels and peeled them off. 

        “This is not worth the money,” Peter grumbled, reaching down to rub one of his feet with his free hand. He winced and hissed through his teeth. “Fucking Christ on a dildo...”

        “You totally sound like a bridezilla right now.”

         Peter recognized the voice (because of course, he did) before his eyes snapped up to find Burak ambling over, carrying a plate piled with pastries and pieces of fruits and a bottle of wine with an empty glass. Peter couldn’t even find it in himself to be excited that this Michelangelo sculpture was coming to sit with him, and the alone time in this picturesque setting they were likely to spend together. He was just so drained and sore. Like a cat, a part of Peter wanted some alone time alone, to hide away and lick his invisible wounds and ponder why he was doing this when he knew that, even if his crew had enough money to buy that coveted studio, they weren’t going to get anywhere. Still, he didn’t protest when Burak took a spot next to him and sat the wine and food between them. 

         “You should eat something,” Burak offered oh, so helpfully as he filled his glass.

          “Thanks,” Peter drawled. He plucked a hulled strawberry from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He made sure to lean a little forward so that whatever juice may slip out won’t get to his dress.

       “You’re welcome,” Burak replied. “So, I take it you’re new to this?”

       Peter started to shake his head, ready to draw on his social media and webcam modeling experience, but he thought better of it. Why bother conflate the two for his ego? “Pbbbbbbbbt, yeah,” he answered. He raised his flute to his mouth. “Why? Was it that obvious?”

       “Yeah,” Burak nodded. 

       Peter’s hand stopped, then lowered as a brow rose. “How?”

       “Well, besides the fact that you look like you’re ready to collapse or claw someone’s eyes out? You constantly have to be told to tone it down and you look ready to run every time we have to act out something intimate.”

       “So, I just look unnatural?” Peter looked away and downed much of his drink in one go.

       “Yeah, but it was likely to happen,” Burak bit into a pastry. “I mean: how did you, a guy, get hired as a bridal model?”

        Peter didn’t sense anything offensive in Burak’s tone, just simple curiosity, so he replied honestly with a lazy shrug, “I don’t know. I actually applied for the groom position.”

        “Pffft, oops. Sorry about that. Well, that dress looks lovely on you.”

       “Thanks. That was one of the reasons they hired me as the bride.”

        “Hm...”

        Then silence came. Burak watched the photoshoot crew as he ate his cream cheese bear claw, and Peter watched the shiny of the sun glint off his glass as he slowly waved the flute around. 

       Polishing off the last bite of his bear claw, Burak asked, “So, how is your first professional photoshoot going so far?”

       Peter perked up, smile stretched from cheek to sore cheek. If his hands weren’t occupied with the champagne, he would have given a little clap to sell the reply. “Oh, it is fantastic! Wonderful! My body hurts, this dress itches, the hair care products feel cheap as shit and I’m sure I’m going to break out tomorrow, and I am never doing this shit ever again!”

        Burak leaned back, blinking. He cleared his throat. “Ah... wow. Well, it’s good that you figured it out before you really committed to the modeling career.”

        “I didn’t do this to get a modeling career.”

          “Oh?”

         Peter shook his head and took a breath. “No, I took on this gig to earn money to buy a studio.”

         “A studio...?”

        “Recording studio. For me and my music crew.”

         Now it was Burak’s turn to perk up, and truthfully, seeing interest light his face did make Peter feel better. “You make music?”

       “Yeah. I’m part of this new group called The MizFists. We’re a hip-hop collective.”

        “Hey! My cousin likes hip-hop! Do you have any music posted anywhere? I can tell her about it.”

        And Peter, all wide eyes as he watched Burak take his phone out of his pocket and swiped on the screen. “Oh! Oh, uh, yeah. Our website is M-I-Z-F-I-S-T-S dot com. All of our youtube channels and Bandcamp accounts are on there.”

       “Huh, never seen it spelled like that before...” Burak shrugged.

       “Well, we would have went with the proper spelling, but, you know, another group already has it, and we’re too broke for copyright lawsuits.”

        “It’s a cool name, still,” Burak said. He made sure the message had sent before placing his phone back into his pocket. He ate a piece of mango. “If my cousin decides to go to one of your concerts, I’ll have to tag along.”

       That... should not have been as easy as that. Sure, it’s likely that Burak’s cousin will dismiss their group as crappy wannabes, but still, the fact that Burak even shared their name like that... 

       And the food and bottle (which Burak had in his hand to refill Peter’s glass) -- Peter wanted to ask what was Burak’s goal here. Because who was this jovial with a cross-dressing stranger? Peter had to remind himself that not everyone had an ulterior motive for niceties, he still sought a way, an opportunity, to give this man the stink-eye and a “What’s your endgame, buddy?”

       Taking a drink, Burak passed his tongue over his disgustingly perfect lips and said, “So, since you’re pretty much a rap expert, you wouldn’t mind telling me if this verse--” and he did that weird cool guy rapper hand gesture, “--is fire, would you?”

       “Heh heh, go ahead!” Peter prompted, with that eyebrow raised once more in amusement this time.

       “Okay, okay!” Burak set his glass down and placed a hand on his chest and held the other in front of his face like a microphone.

       Burak stared at Peter, the hunched over bride shaking with his face twisted to hold in a laughter, his own face feigning a cold serious.

         Me and da babe looking heckin’ cool

         After school, hittin’ up the party pool

        Sitting on the grill of the big Bugatti

        All slutty, all thotty

        A couple rock stars making it rain at the pool

      They burst out laughing.

      And Peter didn’t even know why he was laughing; Burak was cute, and it was sweet that he came over here to chat, but it wasn’t funny, not that funny. Maybe it was the earnestness in the humor, or the needed release of stress. Whatever the reason, Peter dabbed at the tear in his eye. Thank goodness for the waterproof stuff.

       “You know? You might have something there,” he chuckled. “You’re definitely the new Will Smith!”

       “Pfffft, please! I am way better than Smith!” Burak tossed his hair. “But I’m going to let my cousin know that she was wrong, that an actual, bona fide rapper said I got some skills!”

        “Shit, if we’re ever looking for another member, we’ll hit you up,” Peter said, taking a grape.

       “Looking forward to it!”

After a friendly elbow nudge, Burak continued, "Seriously, that's cool that you're this serious about your music that you're doing this. I can tell that you're gonna go far. But I hope you don't drop this line of work, because you have a bit of potential in modeling, too. Who knows, you'll probably get famous enough that you'll have clothing brands begging you to model for them, and you don't want to pass up on those deals, would you?"

"Nah, I guess not..." The smile on Peter's painted lips dimmed, and he pursed them until he allowed himself to ask, "Uh... Why are you being so nice to me?"

Burak tilted his head. Oh, god, now he looked like a puppy. An irresistible puppy. "Am I not supposed to be?"

"No, it's just that, er... I thought that supermodels had to be brutal because, you know, this industry is dog-eat-dog."

Burak shook his head. "First of all, I'm not a supermodel; this is just a catalog shoot. Second..." He shrugged. "It felt like you were having a bad time and was uncomfortable around me. And we can't have that for our kissing photos."

For the slow way the words processed through Peter's psyche, his body was quick to react in its non-reacting form: body suddenly rigid, temperature swinging from ghostly chill low to loins on fire and I'm a sinner scorching, mind going as blank as his eyes gone wide.

"K... Kissing? We're going to--" Peter bowed his head with his hand over his mouth. "Oh, my god..."

He didn't see Burak's face, but he felt the indignation rolling off the other man who said, "I mean, I like to think I'm not a bad kisser..."

"N-no! No!" Peter lifted his face and waved a hand. "It's not that! I just--"

"Wow!" Burak snorted. "Wow! You are blushing hard!"

Peter gasped. "No, I'm not!" Of course, where they went for top-quality mascara, they'd cheap out on the foundation.

Burak laughed so deeply that he had to set his glass down. "Yes you are! Aw, look how red your ears are!"

"Oh, my god," Peter, once more, groaned. He bent his head so low that the veil fell from behind his back and draped over his shoulders.

So when he felt an arm slink around his waist, he was too unprepared to stop the yelp squeaking out of his mouth. Nor did he have any protection against the medical emergency fever burning through his body when Burak whispered in his ear.

"Don't you worry, Peter: as a gentleman, I promise you that I'll leave your honor intact and will be tender with you."

Whether Burak was serious or joking, it didn't matter when, to Peter, his voice was every bedroom song one to life. But Burak squeezed his shoulder, and when they've locked eyes, Peter could still see some of that sweet earnestness, that urge to lift Peter's mood, and he could help but smile.

"Gee, thanks," Peter tried with as much playfulness as he could muster.

A chuckle pass between them, and then

Flash. Flash.

Both men looked up to find Pierre lowering his camera. "Oh, that was perfect! I have to convince the magazine to use that in their layout."

"Uhhhh..." Peter said. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Reminding you two that break's over," Pierre said. "Now, let's go, we're burning daylight!"

"Well, that was a nice break." Burak stood and brushed the back of his pants. He held out a hand for Peter. "Ready to get back into the dog-eat-dog world of modeling?"

Peter's smirk was lopsided as he took Burak's hand to let him up. "Sure."

[pippki-writes]

An Ill-Fitting Name: Snippet 1

Asmodai was his name, because he had stolen it along with the life of the wizard it had belonged to before. It wasn’t the first name he had taken in this way, but it was the name he got stuck with, through every fault of his own.

It is said among some legends that the seventh son of a seventh son will be born lucky, or have magical powers, but nothing much is said about the third sons of third sons, which is what Asmodai was, before his name was Asmodai. Was he born wrong, or was he made that way? None of his siblings turned out the way he did--not that he knows how they turned out. They each scattered to the winds in their own different ways, avoiding an often absent overworked father and obsessively violent alcoholic mother. These are not excuses, merely the catalysts that would put the boy that Asmodai had been in the care of a certain psychotic mage who would mold Asmodai into the terror he would become. Like recognizes like, and the older man must have seen the seed of something wrong in that boy, to take him as an apprentice. To teach him dark magic, and the depths of psychological manipulation, how to draw energy from blood and how to make a body disappear where no cop would find it. Like recognizes like, but they were not completely alike. If they had been, then surely the older man would have seen the glint in the eyes of the boy, and known before it was too late that he had taught too much. But no. Overconfidence was his downfall. He wasn’t the first person the boy killed, but his was the first name and power he took fully for his own. What was his name? What had it been? It hardly mattered now. Asmodai has had many names, more than he can be expected to keep up with. You might expect him at least to remember the first, but you would be wrong. He doesn’t even remember his own name, having bound and locked it away, somewhere far and deep, safe in his subconscious, on the day he killed the twisted man who taught him magic.

Asmodai remembers more than enough of what does matter. He remembers the callused, sandpapery skin of a firm hand pinching his chin between an unforgiving thumb and forefinger, the piercing blue eyes of the man that would be his mentor forcing him to meet his gaze, looking deep into his soul and all the dark unnamed desires squirming within. It was not the first time Asmodai had run away, but it was the first time someone besides the police had caught him.

“You’ve suffered,” said the older man appreciatively, after the silence between them had stretched nearly to unbearable. The man let go of Asmodai and held out his hand. “Wouldn’t you like to make sure that others suffer too?”

Names are powerful things. Before that day, Asmodai had not understood what it was he wanted from the world, but the man who would be his mentor had named exactly what he wanted. He wanted to make sure that other people suffered. As soon as it was spoken and given a shape, he knew it to be true.

And he was good at it.

Was. Was good at it. And now? Asmodai swears, the rage in his heart as white-hot as it was that day nearly a month ago when that bitch as good as stole his magic from him. Sure, he can kill the old-fashioned way, as nearly every other serial killer does, but he had a certain style and freedom he enjoyed that was impossible to achieve when bound by the regular laws of nature. And he isn’t willing to accept yet that this may be all that remains to him.

Asmodai reflects on these things from a motel room that has come to feel like a prison cell. He can leave whenever he wants, but where would he go? What would he do, when he can’t do whatever he wants to whomever he wants to do it to? He rips open the day’s single serve coffee packet and jams it in the little electric coffee maker on the worn desk. It will taste terrible, as every other near-instant coffee he’s made here has tasted, but he wants to drink something as bitter as he feels.

His memory jumps around as the machine hisses and burbles with purpose. He traces back the well-worn path of where and why everything went wrong, as if that could change any part of what happened. The first misstep, years ago in New York City, when the ill whims of fate crossed his path with the path of that damned witch. He underestimated her then, and, well, perhaps that had been a frequent mistake of his, now that he thought about it. He had thought himself stronger, able to call upon darker and more powerful magic than she could. His hand drifts to the mottled skin marking the nine-pointed scar where her curse had taken out his right eye all those years ago. What had he thought, that she’d simply gotten lucky? That he could truly make her pay for this? How wrong he had been.

New York City, though he doesn’t remember exactly the year--perhaps 2011? 2012? The year didn’t matter, and so he didn’t commit it to memory. Vengeance is timeless. He remembers what matters: the warm, approving sun on his skin, and he fresh from having magically turned a man inside out, hiding the body with a flick of his fingers deep at the bottom of the Hudson River. It was time to find his next name, and no community of magic users in the country was bigger than the network in New York City. He could probably have his pick of any name he wanted here. As far as names went, ‘Asmodai’ was a little strange. It had suited the wizard he took it from in its way, and sure, had served him well in the time since, but he didn’t want to get attached to any one name, lest it gain power over him. And so it was time to leave Asmodai behind and take a new name. He shuddered with delight, sweet memories of Asmodai’s murder playing in his mind. What a violently erotic affair that had been. Asmodai...it was almost a pity to have killed a young man so beautiful, naive, and foolish as he had been, but his terror, his tears, had all been the most delicious yet. Surely this next kill would be even better.

He took a deep breath, bringing his attention back. First things first, he needed to find said magical community. Make friends, insinuate himself into the social scene, find the next name that would suit him. No need to rush. This was his favorite kind of hunt, and it would no doubt take months to complete. He already knew that trying to detect magic would be pointless—the city was teeming with it. He closed his rich brown eyes, and focused on the flow of magic within the city. He would find where it collected, perhaps, and work his way from there. Who he found didn’t matter, he just needed someone to start with. The flow of magic seemed to be leading north, toward the center of the city. Made sense. Time to walk. He opened his eyes, and was surprised to find a young woman looking at him with a knowing smile. She held out her hand as their eyes met.

“Call me Elaine,” she said, her hazel eyes sharp and playful on him, sizing him up. “You must be the new mage in town.”

What luck, he remembers thinking. What fantastic fortune. The universe wanted him to have this. He gave her the same winning smile that had lured so many others to their deaths. “Asmodai,” he said, shaking her hand. He looked like a kid caught out sneaking dessert before dinner, sheepishly running a hand through his sandy brown curls, smiling appreciatively. “How did you know?”

She winked at him. “Let’s call it word on the street. I said the word, and here we are, on the street.”

“Ah, a secret then.” She wasn’t exactly his favorite type, he thought, but he wasn’t going to turn down what fate offered. “Say, what do you like to do for fun around here?”

She would have been his ticket in. He should have just taken her rejection in stride, taken his time, taken it out on her much later, with a better grasp on who she was, what her weaknesses were. But something about her made him want to make her suffer. Who the fuck did she think she was, to tell him no? There would be other magic users. The bookshop owner, perhaps, if he could ever find his way back there. No, his mind was made up the moment she turned him down, and he smoothed over any awkwardness that could have blossomed with seemingly patient understanding. He knew that he would make her pay, and he would do it that very night. He paid little attention to the overtures of friendship that evening, and so doesn’t remember exactly where they drank and ate, what sights they saw, because it didn’t matter. He played the part he wanted her to believe in perfectly, and that was what mattered. He hardly had to work to get the opportunity he needed.

Binding spells were one of his specialties--among the first spells he had ever learned. It was easy--cutting through a dark alley, no witnesses, and her attention was elsewhere as she led the way. In no time she was frozen, immoble before him, a wild fear in her eyes,  and everything felt right. The binding held fast. He would have his way, and then he would kill her. He smiled. He grabbed her by the chin, testing that he was in control, turning her head this way and that, a horrifically mad glint in his eyes.

“Oh Elaine,” he’d said, mocking the syllables. “Though I know that can’t be your true name, it doesn’t matter. First I’ll take you, then I’ll take your life, and I’ll take my time working my way through this city until I’m satisfied. Eventually someone here is bound to have exactly what I want. Even if you don’t.” He paused, his hand cupping her cheek. “Enough talk, I think.” His hand slipped around to the back of her neck, his fingers clenching roughly in her hair until she winced in pain. His magic kept her silenced, but he left her face just free enough that he would get to see every spasm of suffering.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pulling harder. “I will enjoy every bit of this.” He leaned in, crushing their lips together to steal a kiss.

Well, that had been his intention. Would he have seen what was coming, if he’d left his eyes open? Their lips met, and then a sharp, unexpected pain. His lip was between Elaine’s teeth, and she had bit down hard, quickly drawing blood until her mouth was full of it. He had no time to react. She spat out a blood curse, wild and blindly--no sound, just a sudden explosion of ripping agony centered in his right eye. Asmodai screamed, staggering back, his concentration broken, the binding spell dropped, blood everywhere. On instinct his hand had flown to his face, feeling ruin beneath his fingertips. He pulled his hand away and looked down at it. Red, absolutely covered. Pain so searing he almost couldn’t think through his rage. He looked up at her.

She was a terrifying sight. His blood ran down her chin. Unfamiliar sigils marked her face, glowing against her skin. Her eyes--they were something else, hazel irises gone, and in their place two glowing red Xs focused in anger on him, and it was at that point he realized that now he couldn’t move.

“You are not welcome here, you are not welcome in this city,” she hissed, “and if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

He doesn’t remember through the haze of pain exactly what she did, but next thing he knew he was suddenly outside the city limits, blood streaming from a wound he could not get to heal, and utterly unable to get back in.

Before that day, Asmodai’s entire goal in life had been to make other people suffer. He added a new purpose to that short list: make that bitch pay for what she had done to him.

It would be years before an opportunity would present itself. To start with, that bitch never left New York City, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get in.

He learned that no healer he found could get the scar to go away. He had had the sort of face men and women both found beautiful, before. A face it was easy to fall in love with. The first healer, a skilled young man of discretion not in the habit of asking unpleasant questions, had been very apologetic when his magic could do nothing. Asmodai killed him anyway.

He also learned that there was something about being cursed that other magic users could now pick up on. No matter what silky lies he told about how he got that scar, they all seemed to sense something off. No makeup could hide it. No glamor could conceal it. No good wizard would get close to him now, their guards up, their names far out of his grasp.

In time, he was content to roam the country, killing as pleased him, waiting for his opportunity to come. Surely a day would come that she would set foot outside her city. He set up spells that would let him know when she did. He waited.

Asmodai looks at the paper cup in his hand, the oil-slick sheen of the coffee surely too hot to drink. If he had his magic, he thinks irritably, this could be a perfect cup of coffee, exactly the right temperature to drink, the taste exquisite regardless of how stale the beans were that made it. But no. His opportunity had come, and not only had he wasted it, he’d gotten himself completely fucked over for his effort.

He sniffs the coffee. Smells awful. Gingerly, he hovers his tongue toward the liquid. It’s clearly too hot. He sets the cup down, and thinks back to that night. As if turning the memories over in his mind will give him peace this time, when it hasn’t every other time before.

He had, over the years, imagined thousands of ways to torture and kill her. So why, when there she was before him again, had his mind gone completely blank? A thousand ways to make her suffer, and suddenly he had forgotten them all. His heart raced, secretly thrilled with possibility as he worked to bind her to the spot on the ground where she had appeared. He approached her, smooth and unhurried, and spoke.

“At last, at last I can finish what we started.”

Her hair was longer, he noticed, pulled back in a sensible ponytail. She wore reading glasses that she hadn’t worn the last time they’d met. But the look of wild rage in her surprised eyes when she saw him and shouted “YOU!” --that felt very familiar.

Her shock gave him an easy opening to bind her leg to the ground. “Mmm, didn’t you say you were going to kill me if you saw me again?” he said lightly, looking around expectantly. “All talk, I suppose.”

“Maybe I have better things to do,” she replied, glaring at him, her face darkening.

“Is that right?” he smiled, but it was a cold smile that did not reach his eye. He focused on trying to bind first her right arm, then her left, but he could feel her fighting it, warding him off.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve come around. Death is one of those too good for you kind of things. I think it’s better for someone like you to suffer.”

He should have had the upper hand, ambushing her as he did. But she must have been stronger than he realized, because the magic was so damn slippery and he couldn’t get her arms bound. The other leg then, he thought, changing his focus.

“I see the eye failed to heal quite nicely,” she called out. “Would you like the other one to match?”

“Shut UP, witch!” he growled. He pulled out his pocket knife, cutting his hand, drawing upon his own bloodshed in magic to get her other leg bound. “Enough TALK. I will torture you. I will dominate you. And I will slowly, slowly kill you.” He began walking toward her, taking in the sight of her as he could feel the binding slowly catching along her left arm. He had been too focused on his own spell to pay attention to what she had been doing. He remembered hearing her chuckle, and then the feeling of being violently knocked unconscious.

He sips the coffee, which manages to somehow be both watery and still bitter to the point of being sour. When he came to that night, she was gone. And if she’d stayed gone, everything might have been okay. He could have regrouped, come up with a better plan. Taken the time to see through the blinding anger and bloodlust, to figure out what he would need to do to overpower her.

He got back to his motel room that night, all blunt force trauma and broken ribs from being slammed into the nearest tree by a concussive magic blow. Healing isn’t Asmodai’s specialty, but he knows a little to get by. He slipped into his bed, settling into a sort of meditative healing state, thinking pleasing thoughts--remembering the feeling of his fingers on the thin and pretty throat of the wizard’s lover as she died, and god what a fantastic feeling that had been, as the man who had held the name Asmodai was frozen, unable to move, only able to cry. How long ago now that had been. The wizard Asmodai had loved him too, and that made it all the sweeter, what he had done.

These were the things he was thinking when he felt his blood stir in a way it shouldn’t have, as the door to his motel room slammed open, and there she stood. That fucking bitch, with power and murder in her eyes. She had bound him to the bed.

“Shhh,” she said, her binding spell squeezing his throat, silencing him. “We aren’t done.” The spell pressed down on his chest, tears springing to his eyes from the pain. This was not right. She had no right to do this to him. She had left. Why was she here? How had she found him? Her magic dragged him down, making space for her to climb up and sit cross-legged at the head of the bed. She dragged him back up to her, putting her hands on his temples as he looked around wildly.

“I do hope this hurts.”

He couldn’t tell what she was doing, but all the telltale signs of her magic at work began to show, her terrifying face aglow with sigils, her eyes gone and the glow of red Xs in their place. He felt a ripping sensation in his memory, and then a curse taking shape, constraints being threaded around him. As she began to root her curses deep in his mind, through the pain he could hear the echoes of it as she did.

Who cares if you know who I am, what I look like, or any of that, if it triggers a complete temporary loss of all magic and movement when you so much as think of me?

Know that I did this. Be infuriated. And be utterly powerless to do a damned thing about it.

He doesn’t remember exactly what she said next. He was not listening. He was in howling, excruciating pain, unable to move, unable to scream. She took his knife from his pocket, stabbed him in the side, and filled a vial with his blood.

“Just in case,” she said. Asmodai felt like the pain would tear him apart.

“You’ll be able to move eventually. Once you stop thinking about me.”

It was days before he had been able to move again.

Even now, he thinks, gulping down the last of the brackish coffee, he’s not moving because he overcame her curse. She took pity on him. The very thought fills him with a roiling, sickening anger all over again. She had appeared in his motel room once more, the magic of it splitting the air with a deafening crack.

“It would be funny, honestly, to let you die like this,” she had said, walking up to him as he lay there, seething and immobile.

“I think I’ll keep you like this when I’m around. But perhaps I’ll be benevolent enough to allow you some movement when I’m not near. Would you like that?”

His anger pinned him in place, unable to move, unable to speak. This was nearly how he had spent all his time since she’d left: simmering in his hatred, imagining violence that he couldn’t act on.

“I ought to make you beg for even that,” she said as she summoned her magic, her hands stretching out for his temples, “but I am nothing if not benevolent…”

He could feel her reaching into his mind, a horrible and unpleasant sensation, her countenance as terrifying as before. But he could also feel her tweaking the curse, freeing him to be able to move if she wasn’t there. The restriction on his magic, however, she left alone.

She lifted her hands away from him, her face returning to normal. As he watched, she held her hand out over his chest, magically probing to see which of his ribs was the worst off. For a split second, she acted like she was going to press on it, then grinned wickedly at him.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said, standing up instead. “Hate me all you want. You can’t do anything about it.” She disappeared from his room with another ear-splitting crack.

Tentatively, Asmodai sat up. He screamed, in spite of how much it hurt to do so, and punched the wall until his knuckles were bruised and bloodied. He stared at his hands when the immediate white hot rage cooled down, and couldn’t even use his magic to heal them.

That had been a little over a month ago now. She hadn’t returned. And neither had his magic. He throws the empty paper cup in the little trash can, and stares down the hopelessness of another day.

- NEXT SNIPPET -