#his various glorious covers

[rainedonwithyou]

[daycourtofficial]

Come to Bed

Summary: based on this request - a text from Azriel was meant to go to you, but went to his entire family instead.

Author’s note: I loved this idea this was so fun and definitely very on brand for the inner circle tbh

Az: Come to bed :(

It was a short message. Azriel had been sick for two days now, and since meeting you, he can’t remember how he’d just go on during his sick days.

He used to go to work just fine while sick. He’d wear a mask and keep his distance, but he’d be able to go no problem.

But ever since you came into his life, now he was too spoiled when he was sick to go anywhere or do anything. You had insisted that your cuddles would heal him, along with the various soups you made him eat every day.

Honestly? It was a little awesome. If it weren’t for how shitty he felt, that is. You rubbed his back until he fell asleep, whenever he got up to shower you washed his sheets, and you brought him medicine every few hours. He didn’t have to lift a finger, and he was soaking in every moment of your attention.

But now you were downstairs, talking with Elain about something or another. You had told him what for before you left, but his feverish haze had made him forget. He woke up alone, having dozed off in your absence, and all he wanted was you to come back. He had just texted you to come back to bed when his door creak opens.

Azriel pops his head out of the nest he made to find Cassian crawling up his bed on top of the covers, wrapping his arms around Azriel, and spooning him over the covers.

Azriel coughs, “what are you doing here?”

“You asked for me to come to bed.”

Azriel’s head hurts trying to figure out what he means when his door opens once more to Rhysand strolling through the room, lying on Az’s other side.

“Ah, come on Azzy. It’s just like when we were younger,” Cassian tells him, his body heat helping with the chills taking over Azriel’s body.

Azriel sniffles, “we were like eight years old.”

“Well, Cassian hasn’t matured much since then,” Rhysand chimes in, staying on the bed but not too close to Az. He’ll provide some level of comfort with his presence, but he’ll be damned if he lets his brother get him sick.

“Why are you two here?” Azriel croaks, every word hurting his poor throat.

Rhys opens his phone to show him the family groupchat they had, the last message coming from Azriel saying, “Come to bed :(“

Azriel groans reading it, “I’m sure you could guess I sent it to the wrong person.”

Cassian chuckles, causing vibrations through Azriel’s back. He’s too weak to fight Cassian off of him, and the weight of him actually feels nice. Maybe Cassian would make a great weighted blanket after all.

“I never second guess any texts I receive. I assumed you missed me, it has been days since you’ve seen my glorious face.”

Cassian and Azriel continue bickering while Rhysand watches in amusement.

Mor comes in shortly after, bringing a warm cup of tea for both herself and Azriel, handing one mug to him while lounging across the foot of the bed. The tea soothes his throat, and he hates to admit it, but he does appreciate the presence of his family. He had been quarantined for days, trying to keep to his room as much as possible. He had grown quite accustomed to his big, invasive family. Your company was more than enough, but he did miss Cassian’s daily debriefs of his day.

Feyre comes in, taking residence next to Mor, as Cassian tells them all ridiculous versions of how he managed to destroy that building in the Summer Court. Each tale more ridiculous than the last, with Feyre even adding her own absurd version of events.

“I heard that a dragon flew in and Cassian fought it off with his bare hands and the only damage was that one building!”

Their laughter rings in Az’s ears as he closes his eyes, dozing, but not truly asleep.

You were shocked walking back to Az’s bedroom to find both of his brothers, Feyre, and Mor all lounging in bed with him. Azriel perks up at your figure in the doorway, somehow knowing you were there despite his resting state. His voice crackles from his sore throat, “save me?”

You walk in, squeezing yourself between Rhys and Azriel, and your boyfriend melts in your arms, falling asleep quickly as his family still chatters around you.

The next time Azriel wakes up, it’s dark outside, but he’s still cuddled to your chest.

“Hi sweetheart,” you tell him, setting your book down. He practically purrs at you running your hand through his hair.

“Sleep well?”

He presses his face back into your chest. “I would have slept better if they weren’t all annoying.”

You laugh, leaning over to kiss the crown of his head.

“Poor baby with a loving family,” you coo, and he huffs.

“They’re not loving, they’re annoying busybodies. Except Feyre. She hasn’t gotten that bad yet.”

You smile, untangling his hair with your fingers.

“They might be annoying busybodies, but they love you and you love them.”

He squeezes you a little tighter. “I’m sick. I only have so much love to give and it’s all going towards you.”

You laugh, your hand moving down to stroke his back. He relaxes in your embrace, your fingers soothing his clammy skin.

“Okay, you can wait until you’re feeling better to love them again.”

“Deal,” he tells you, eyes growing heavy once more. “Just - don’t tell Cassian. He’ll get upset.”

[souliebird]

[[addict]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating Explicit

summary: Your life revolves around Matt. His does not revolve around you

Or: depression skews reality

wordcount: 5k

tags: depression, explicit sexual content, blood, angst, p in v sex, oral (male receiving)

---

Monday

You wake up alone. 

This is of no surprise to you, and you force yourself out of bed despite your desire to bury yourself into your covers and stay there. 

You stumble into the kitchen, feeling bleary and still half-asleep, and start the process of making coffee. You dump still warm grounds into the trash before filling the basket with your preferred blend and starting the little machine. You wash the mug lingering in the sink, then start making your breakfast. 

You don't need to think about your routine as you do it - you've done it hundreds and hundreds of times. You just do it. 

Coffee. Bagel. Orange. 

You watch the morning news highlights, listening but not taking in the various stories that flash on your screen. Fighting in Paris, all sorts of elections, Hollywood, and political scandals - it all washes over you without leaving an impression. None of it matters to you. None of it concerns anything Matt would be involved in.

Once you finish your small meal, you clean it up and switch your laptop over to your work VPN. 

It is nothing glorious. You translate legal documents from English into Spanish as a contractor for a handful of firms around the city. Very rarely is it anything of interest - a majority of it is human resources based - but it makes good money, and you don't need to commute. You stay in the apartment most of the day, trying your best to make it into a home.

As you think over word choice, you do chores. Laundry gets hauled down to the basement, the sink and shower get a deep clean to wash away any trace of blood, and you write out a grocery list. You dust and air out the apartment between paragraphs. You don't exchange many emails. You don't get any calls.

The hours pass in silence until your phone alerts you it is a quarter after five. You shut down your VPN and return to the kitchen. Chicken, rice, and vegetables will be tonight's dinner - you know it is a favorite and you've worked out the unspoken schedule to know this is the ideal day to serve it. You work quietly, half focusing on your knife work and half zoning out. 

Five minutes to the hour, the door to the apartment opens and Matt is home. 

“That smells wonderful, sweetheart,” he says as a greeting, dropping his things off at the front door. You can hear his practical movements as he puts everything in its right spot. 

“It should be done in ten minutes,” is your soft reply. That is just enough time for him to get settled in and drink about one third of a beer. It took you a few weeks to get the scheduling down right, but now you have it down to an art for various recipes. “How was your day?”

Without completely breaking attorney-client privilege, he tells you about the ongoings at the office and catches you up on whatever happened with Foggy and Karen over the weekend. As he does, he loosens his tie and takes a seat at the table. You place an ice-cold open bottle in front of him without fanfare, then flit back to the kitchen. 

Dinner switches the conversation to Daredevil. Matt tells you his plan for the night and you silently convert his words into future actions for yourself. He's going out with Jessica, which means more surveillance than fighting. You'll need to have ibuprofen ready, as spying tends to stress his senses rather than his body. 

You get a kiss before he goes to do his pre-Devil work out and another before he ascends the stairs to go into the night. He tells you not to stay up, but it's part of the script and you both know you'll be waiting for him right where he left you. 

Tuesday

“Foggy isn't going to believe me,” Matt grumbles as you gently pat concealer around his eye, covering the blooming bruise.  

“It's just absurd enough to be believable.”

“But it's the truth,” he huffs before his lips turn into a pout, “How does it look?”

You step back and examine the man in front of you. He has the start of a massive black eye and you can't help but feel bad for him. For once, this is not a Devil related injury - there was a freak accident with the shower. The water pressure in the building has somehow been cranked to maximum and your poor pipes are not equipped for that - the threads holding them together are barely there. They had no chance against suddenly being slammed into and there was no way Matt could have been prepared for the shower head to shoot off the wall and right into his face. 

You frown and your mood must shift because he deflates, “Foggy is not going to believe you.”

You set the makeup you specifically got to cover up his nightly hobby aside and push Matt's coffee towards him. He takes a long sip from it before throwing his head back with a groan.

“I've been doing so well,” he complains. There is some sort of swear jar-esque deal the two of them have going on about Matt's bruises, but you don't know all of the details. You do know Matt's lost a fair bit of money from it, though.

You pat his shoulder sympathetically before getting up and heading towards the kitchen to finish packing up his meals for the day, “This doesn't count.” 

“Will you tell that to Foggy?”

“I'll tell that to Foggy,” you promise.

You see him get up in the corner of your eye and disappear back into the bedroom to get dressed for work and you can't help but sigh. You'll give Matt's friends a heads up text so they don't freak out on him. Misunderstandings are bound to happen otherwise and they'll probably all have a laugh about it once the Devil's Pride is soothed.

You finish up packing lunch, a midday snack, and the ingredients for a hearty protein shake. Matt will be going to the gym right after work today, then from there will go out as the Devil. You aren't keen on him carrying his black suit around in his gym bag, but it's not something you're going to argue with him about. 

With how busy the office has been lately; he's been a bit scatterbrained about the smaller things. 

You've convinced him to at least drop off his bag on the roof as he starts his patrol, so he doesn't leave his day clothes at Fogwell’s overnight. You'll go up and collect them at some point, so they don't end up staying up there and getting forgotten about. 

You won't see Matt again until he comes home to sleep. 

You hope you'll be able to figure out how to fix the shower by then.

Wednesday

You put away the last of the clean dishes, then turn to face the apartment in front of you.

It's a beautiful day and light is streaming in through the windows, highlighting how stark everything is. Your laptop is waiting for you on the table, along with a mental list of things you need to get done today. 

But you don't want to. 

You don't want to do any of it. You don't want to do anything. You don't want to think. You don't want to feel. 

You just don't want to. 

So you wipe your hands on a dish towel, then make a bee line right back to bed and crawl in. You curl on your side, place your phone on Matt's pillow, close your eyes, and just Don't. 

You drift in and out until your bladder starts to demand you get up, so you do. You use the restroom then return to bed, checking your messages as you settle back in. 

There's one from Matt, asking if you would like Thai for dinner. You have no will to think about what you'd like to eat - honestly you don't want anything - so you tell him that Thai sounds great. You double check your alarm is set, then return to your nothingness. 

It's easy to get lost in Blankness. It's nice to not feel anything. The crushing negativity you are so used to is gone and all your disgusting thoughts are silent. 

You don't simmer in doubt that every action is wrong. 

You don't question why your life revolves around Matt. You don't think about how you would crumble without him or how he'd be fine without you. 

You don't consider what love is to him and how deeply rooted it is in just staying. You don't wonder if he just doesn't want to be alone again. 

You don't feel completely consumed in your feelings. 

You just are. 

Sometimes, you wish you could stay like this forever - suspended in emptiness. 

But then your alarm goes off and you have to be human again. 

You check your messages to make sure you really did get a text about dinner, then finally drag yourself to go shower.

You have to be presentable before Matt returns. 

He doesn't comment on your still wet hair or lack of conversation. You eat in mostly silence, occasionally commenting about the food. 

Karen calls as you're gathering up leftovers to go into the fridge. Whatever she has to say to Matt has him swearing and going to the wardrobe to start getting his suit out. You don't ask what is wrong, you simply gather up the dress shirt he tosses towards the couch as he begins to change. 

He doesn't kiss you as he rushes up the stairs.

He doesn't tell you to not wait up. 

The door slams shut as he disappears into his own Darkness, and you sit on the couch to await his return.

There is no silence. The city mocks you with each siren, scream, and honk. 

Thursday

You're putting away groceries when your phone alerts you to a text. 

It's from Matt and simply states, “I hate baseball bats.”

A small noise of sympathy comes up from your chest. He had gotten a few good whacks with one last night to the point he let you wrap his chest. Luckily, nothing had been broken, but it had not been a pretty sight. 

You've already put the ice packs in the freezer for when he gets home. You don't think he'll be going out tonight if he's actually admitting he is in pain. 

Maybe you can listen to the next few chapters of the audio book you've started together instead. The thought makes your stomach turn in a nervous hopeful way. 

You return his message with an inside joke of sorts, typing out the words, “Baseball bat emoji. Heart break emoji.”

He replies back seconds later with, “Sad face emoji.” 

It pulls a little smile to your lips, and you think about Matt dictating the text to his phone for the next hour. 

Friday

“You smell so good,” he purrs as he nuzzles against your neck, his scruff scratching you just lightly. 

You tilt your head to the side to give him better access and you can practically feel his pleased hum in your chest. His fingers dance at the hem of your shirt, pushing under to barely just feel your skin. He's got you crowded against the front door, so all of him overwhelms you while he teases.

He's been like this all night. As soon as you stepped into Josie's, he had his hands all over you - your thigh, your lower back, wrapping his arms around you from behind. He's only had two beers, but they have loosened up his tense shoulders quite a bit. 

You know what he wants and you're more than happy to indulge. You've been craving his touch. His attention. 

You don't care if it's a quickie before he leaves you to belong to Hell's Kitchen again, you just need something from him.

Anything. 

You dig your nails into the shoulder of his suit jacket and whine out your inner desires, knowing he'll give in when he's like this, “want to get on my knees for you.”

He moans in response, grinding against you to let you know how much he also wants that, and you lower yourself down to be trapped between him and the door. Skilled hands make quick work of his belt, and you don't bother to push his pants and briefs down. You get his half hard cock free of its confines only to swallow it.

Above you, Matt throws his head back his head, gritting out a long low, “Fuck.” 

You give him no time to adjust, knowing exactly what he likes in these moments, and begin to work him over. One hand grips his tree trunk of a thigh and the other loosely circles around the base of his cock - the first keeps you steady and the second from him slipping out of you. 

You focus on his head, pushing your tongue up as he slides out of the depths of your throat, then swirling it before you begin to suckle. He buries his fingers into your hair, swearing more, as you do so. That only encourages you and you begin to pump him as you work to get him to full hardness.

His musk is dotted with the saltines of precum, and your mouth begins to water. You do nothing to stop the drool gathering in the corners of your mouth and let it spill out as you enjoy yourself. 

Self-control is out of the question - the moment Matt’s hips begin to twitch, you encourage it, tugging at his thigh. He doesn't need to be told twice. 

You close your eyes and relax your jaw as he starts to fuck your throat. 

All of you becomes encompassed in him. He's all you feel, all you smell, all you taste, all you hear. 

He grunts and groans as he thrusts in and out of your mouth, holding your head steady so you can't chase him as you want to. You want to be held down; his cock buried deep in your throat until the heaviness of him is imprinted on your tongue. You want him to coat your insides with him, so you never forget his taste. 

You want him to use you and that's exactly what he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart, fuck,” he chants, and you don't want him to stop. He's not ruthless, but he isn't kind with it, barely giving you a chance to breathe between each movement, and making your brain start to blink in and out of awareness.

You feel him start to twitch and pulse along your tongue and you whine in distress around him. 

You don't want this to end so soon. You need him. You need this. 

Before you can process what is happening, Matt is pulling you back up into standing and directly turning you to face the door. Your brain automatically clicks with what he is doing, and you scramble to undo your pants. You barely get them unbuttoned before he is yanking them and your panties down your thighs. 

You arch your back with anticipation as he lines himself up. You expect him to tease you, to rub the head of his cock over you to spread around the juices you've soaked your panties with, but he doesn't. He pushes into you in one smooth motion and your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

He grabs you by the throat from behind, just under your chin, and turns his hand so he can also stick two of his fingers into your mouth and continue to make you drool. You're practically pinned to the door as he slams into you over and over, hitting that sweet spot each time. 

“So fucking wet,” he growls into your ear, squeezing your throat just enough to make your vision go spotty. “About to cum from just sucking on my cock. Don't even need to touch you, do I? You'd be happy being my little cock warmer.”

You would. You yearn for it - sitting under his desk while he works, keeping him happy. You just want to be with him. You need him. 

You need him. 

He breathes your name, then demands, “Cum on my cock.” 

Saturday

Matt has taken the spot at the dining table while you've curled up on the couch. You both have your respective workstations set up and have been buried in reading for hours. 

A strange, pleasant calm has washed over you and wrapped you up in a lightness.

These are the days you dream of.

Soft, quiet mornings where you can just be with Matt - there's no distractions or chaos or vigilantism. It is just the two of you, together. 

Whenever he has gotten up to get something, on his way back to his seat - he always makes sure to check in on you all and it sends your brain into an absolute tizzy. Acknowledgement from him makes you feel warm in so many ways. You don't think you could ever get enough of the way he says your name when he wants your attention. It's like an angel’s song - or the Devil's. 

You know it won't last long - he has a meeting with Foggy after lunch to meet some people who can't meet during the week - so you bask in what you have. You've been stealing glances all morning because you love to watch him work. He gets this little crease between his brow when he's listening to a transcript, and it really is the cutest thing. You just want to go over and kiss it and remind him to relax his forehead. 

But you know he's so very busy and you don't want to distract him with something so silly. He barely has enough time in the day as it is, between all the ways he helps the people of Hell's Kitchen, and lately he's just been adding more and more to his plate - more clients, more patrols, more everything except you. 

You aren't jealous. You know how needed he is and you are grateful to be in his life at all. You get to be the one to take care of him and be in his bed at the end of the night, even if you spend many of those nights alone. 

It just makes moments like these so much sweeter. 

So, when he gets up again and heads to the kitchen, you can't help but turn and watch him. He starts another pot of coffee, and your eyes just go heart shaped as you admire how his shoulders move under his shirt. 

“Anything interesting?” He asks with a bit of cockiness, and you know he's aware you aren't focused on your work.

You place your chin on the back of the couch and hum, “This company has one of the best sick leave policies I've ever seen. Think I might quit my job and go raise plants in Arizona.” 

Matt snorts at your answer and teases, “Do you know anything about raising plants?”

“For three weeks guaranteed paid vacation and two paid sick days a month, I'll learn.” 

He turns to face you, tilting his head to one side in disbelief, “Two paid sick days a month? What is the catch?”

You nod, then pretend to huff, “You have to live in the middle of nowhere Arizona.” Matt makes a face of disgust, and you laugh into your hand, a smile blooming across your face, “That's why I'm only considering.”

“I'm glad, I'd prefer it if you stay here. I'd miss you too much if you were in the middle of nowhere Arizona.” 

You spend the rest of the day practically glowing over Matt admitting he'd miss you. The words will live in your heart and head forever.

Sunday

You've never been stalked and hunted by a wild animal, but this is what you imagine it would feel like. 

The Devil has come home earlier than expected and it looks like he crawled his way out of Hell. He's in his black suit, or what's left of it, and is covered in his own blood. His nose is dripping, probably broken, staining his mouth red. His shirt is barely hanging together and various fresh shallow cuts litter his torso. His Muay Thai ropes are dirty with grime and what you expect to be others’ blood.

He slowly came down the stairs from the roof then began to circle around the couch, each step deliberate and calculating, and he has not let up. 

The air in the room is so heavy. You can't breathe because you don't have a protocol for this. You can't tell if he's angry or upset - he hasn't said a word and he's not expressing himself in any way, but Danger is exuding from him. 

You sit straight backed on the couch as the Devil continues his path around you, his head tilting in different directions ever so slightly. You don't know if he's tracking something or waiting for some sign. You can't tell when he's like this. 

Finally, he stops in the spot halfway between the couch and the bedroom, only partially angled towards you. He begins to undo the ropes stabilizing his wrists, letting them drop to the ground without acknowledgment. You watch them like they are snakes, ready to slither at you with an attack. His gloves quickly join the pile, but then he raises a hand towards you, palm up like he wants you to take it.

He confirms his intentions with a low, “Come here.”

You're worried and confused with how he is behaving, but you don't dare disobey the Devil. 

You slip out of your seat and make your way to him in silence, reaching to take his hand when you get close enough. To your surprise, he brings it up to his face and places a light kiss to your wrist, over your pulse point. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks, voice low and laced with an unsaid promise. 

A shiver runs up your spine and you manage to answer, breathing out, “Matt Murdock. Daredevil.” 

He pulls his lips back into a snarl and you fear you've got the question wrong somehow. 

Keeping your hand in his, he steps towards you, one achingly slow step at a time, until you are practically chest to chest. He dips his head and brushes the tip of his nose against your neck. You can hear him inhale. 

“I hear their frightened little whispers. I hear what they call me - not just the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. King of Hell - this is my territory and I protect it with a ferocity,” he whispers into your skin. You close your eyes and try to keep your breathing from going shaky. 

It is not just fear and confusion coursing through you now. His words, his rasping, is going straight to your cunt. You haven't encountered The Devil in so long you've forgotten what it does to you.

He presses his free hand against your lower back, moving you so you are flush against him. Your hand goes to his chest, just under his shoulder where his shirt is still intact and not sticky with who knows what. 

“Do you know what that makes you?” he growls against you and all you can do is shake your head.

You don't interact with many people, and you doubt anyone in Hell's Kitchen is talking about you. 

You are of no interest to anyone. 

The Devil bumps his nose against your earlobe before giving it a light nibble and telling you, “My Queen of Hell.”

Air catches in your throat and it feels like your entire being short circuits. What does he mean, you're his Queen? 

You've never done anything to deserve such a title, but you aren't going to disagree with him. If he wants to call you this, you will relish in it. 

As you are still trying to process things, you are suddenly lifted into the air by your thighs, and you have to quickly wrap your legs around the Devil so you don't start flailing. Like you weigh absolutely nothing, you are carried to the bedroom and with care you do not expect, laid out on the bed. 

The Devil, mask, boots, batons, and all, crawls over you, going straight for your throat. He starts with his lips but quickly dissolves into dragging his tongue and teeth wherever he can get. It's slow, methodical, like he has a goal with his lavishing. 

You don't care about his intention - you are melting into the bed under him, desperate for him to not stop. Whatever he is doing, whatever has got him in this mood, you want more of it. 

Hesitantly, fearing you might disrupt the atmosphere, you wrap your arms around the body above you, one hand going to scratch at the back of his neck, trying to silently encourage more attention to your neck. He obliges and teeth scraping against you turns into biting. He wastes no time in leaving his first mark on you, then another, and another. 

“You're mine,” he tells you as he starts on the other side of your throat, “Belong to me. You're mine.” 

You arch at the words, cunt clenching around nothing. He is correct. You are his - you've belonged to him the moment you met, and you will until the day you die. 

He is your everything.

“I'm yours,” you agree, barely above a whisper. 

The Devil drags his lips from your neck only to crash them into yours. It's like being pulled under by a wave - a force you can only just accept and go with. He tastes like smoke and copper, but you don't care. You only want more.

You want to be consumed. 

And it feels like that is what he does. You kiss until you feel like you can't possibly breathe any longer, then he is pulling away to start moving down your body. He pushes your shirt up to start a trail of kisses and bites towards your stomach.

“My Queen,” he growls, and you can only throw your head back with pleasure at his words, his actions, “My Persephone. Mine. Whatever you want, it's yours. Anything. Give you Fisk's head on a platter. Or do you want his heart? I'll rip out his throat with my teeth for you.”

You want to comment it looks like he already has, with the state he came in in, but all you can manage to say is the truth.

“I just want you.” 

Your shirt is pulled off and tossed to the side before he is on you again, biting at your lips as he does what you want. He grinds his cock into you, and you can feel just how hard he is. You tug at the remains of his shirt, and it is also quickly discarded. 

You can feel him moving over you, probably trying to get out of the rest of his armor, but you don't pay attention. All your focus is on the way his mouth is moving with yours - dominating and controlling and firm but in no way actually hurting you. 

Nothing to ever hurt you. 

When he pulls back, he does so enough to sit up. 

You whine at the loss of his touch, but it is balanced when he finally removes his mask, and you can see his beautiful face again. 

It's a little sick, but you like him like this - bruised and battered and bloody. You like the physical reminders of who he is and what he is capable of. 

You reach up to press your hands to the mottled skin around his ribs, still healing from the baseball bat. He hisses at the contact, but his now free cock gives a violent twitch. You know which reaction to trust. 

Your sleep shorts and panties are unceremoniously removed, and you and the Devil are left nude. You are hauled up to be on your knees with him and once again you are held against his chest. He cups your jaw with both hands and kisses you firmly.

“Take such good care of me,” he mumbles between nips and bites, “Let me take care of you, my Queen.”

You want that. 

You want that.

 You want him to take care of you - to focus on you - to be his everything. You desperately nod against him, shaky whispers of “please” coming from you. 

He lays you back down and guides himself into you with far more care than you'd expect in the moment. It's steady until he's fully sheathed in you, then he is over you again, burying his face into your neck. 

“Mine.”

“Yours.”

He starts moving then, slow, steady, and deep, like he's trying to savor every roll of his hips. 

It's heady and with the way he's back to worshiping your neck, you're quick to sink into a place of pure bliss only he can send you. 

He starts to mumble against you as he devours you. You hear catches of your name and ‘my Queen’ and ‘mine’, but you hear something about Sin and love and need. Your brain refuses to link the words together and you don't need it to understand them right now. 

You just need Him. 

You roll your head to the side so he can dig his teeth into a new spot and through half lidded eyes, you spot the mirror you've added into the room. Using it, you watch the Devil make love to you, his body half shrouded by shadows. 

He's so fucking beautiful.

As your thighs begin to tremble and pressure builds up in your core, you notice smears of darkness on your face, your neck, and your arms.

It is the same darkness that the Devil is drenched in. 

He's covered you in his blood. 

You're coated with him. 

Inside and out.

The realization sends you over the edge and you scream his name for all your subjects to hear.

Monday

You wake up alone.

This is of no surprise to you.

a/n:

I see this with multiple interpretations ;)

a/n2: theres not a baseball bat emoji

[rosewaterandivy]

symptoms of the culture

Summary: Last call at the bar and you’re still here? Jesus Christ girl, get yourself together!

Pairing: e.m. x f!reader

W.C.: 1.9k

A/N: a continuation of our meet cute with eddie ☺️

Meeting Eddie at the bar was like something from a romantic comedy, and unlike everything you’d experienced before.

He did end up letting you buy that drink after all, which turned in to him buying you a drink because “it’s the polite thing to do.”

Your friend checked in maybe once or twice before deciding you could handle yourself, if it came to that (she didn’t seem to think that would be the case though). The crowd had dwindled down to mostly the regulars and friends of the bartenders, and you didn’t realize how late it had gotten until someone bellowed, “Last call!”

Eddie’s deft fingers traced the rings of condensation on the wooden table, dragging droplets of water into various shapes. Enthralled, you quickly realized that you could watch him do something like that all day, if you weren't careful.

“Shit,” You say, downing the last of your beer, “I didn’t mean to hold you up for so long.”

His lips kick up to one side, dimples prominent despite the low light. There’s a glint in his eye as he looks you up and down, a slow assessment that has you shifting in your seat.

“Riddle me this, sugar,” He says drumming his fingers on the table, “You really think there’s any place I’d rather be?”

And with that, he leaves to pay the tab, leaving his question hanging in the air.

Not that you could have formulated a semblance of a response anyway. Grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair, you shove your free hand into your purse to scrounge up your card to cover the tab as you sidle up beside him at the bar top.

Eddie’s got two bills in front of him, one large hand over each so you can’t figure out which is yours. Going to pluck either one from his grasp is useless, and after the second attempt, he simply holds it above your head and out of your reach.

“Try me, short stuff,” He taunts with a huff of a laugh. “Besides, your money’s no good here.”

Thinking twice before you could potentially demean yourself by actually jumping up to steal the bill from him, you turn to the bartender with a smile instead to ask:

“Can you print another bill please?”

And once you’ve supplied your last name, it should be a done deal. You expect him to reply with a nod and a ‘you got it’, accompanied by the familiar sound of a receipt being printed.

Instead, it goes a little something like this:

The bartender turns to glance at Eddie, and he gives the bartender some sort of look— which, what would the bartender need approval from a patron? Then, he shoves both receipts into the jar by the register and leans against the bar top and props an elbow on it as he faces you, like he’s waiting for something.

“Can’t do it.” The bartender sighs, “The bossman says you’re money’s no good here, them’s the rules.”

You try, and fail, to keep your jaw from dropping.

“Y-you own this bar? You’re that Eddie?”

“In the flesh and at your service.”

A beat of silence passes between you as the bartender clears his throat and begins closing preparations.

“Well, technically,” Eddie allows, with a twist of his lips, “I co-own it with a buddy of mine. This and couple of other places around town.”

And, well. For someone who dresses like they should be in a biker gang or fronting a prog-metal band, Eddie sure didn’t strike you as a real estate mogul.

“That’s cool,” You say with a nod, hand shoved into your purse once more. Rifling around a bit, you come back with a glorious fist of cash and shove it into the kitty near the register that simply reads, Alms for the pour.

“Soooo,” He drawls, the awkward end of the night coming upon you rapidly. “You good to drive or…?”

“Oh, no worries,” You say flippantly, quickly debating whether your should call an Uber at the hour of just suck it up and walk home. You could cut through campus and maybe shave five minutes off of the journey, anyway.

“I can get you an Uber—”

“No, it’s fine, really.” You adjust the shoulder strap of your bag and grab your keys, “I live just off the campus, it’s walkable from here.”

Eddie’s fingers loop around your wrist before you can say your goodbyes and high-tail it out of there. The silver of his rings glints in the light and the cool metal contrasts with the warmth of his hand as it engulfs yours.

“Nuh uh, not happening.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. “I’m not gonna let you walk—”

“It’s not even a mile!” You interject, “I cut through campus and skirt the park and I’m golden.”

“The park? At three in the morning?” He shakes his head, fingers forming a bracelet around your wrist, “Not even sorry to say, that is unequivocally not happening.”

Eddie tugs you with him as he passes behind the bar and down a small corridor to the back office.

“You good closing on your own Matty?”

The bartender, Matty, you assume, nods with an easy smile.

“Sure, Ed.”

Eddie releases your hand to grab a backpack and a helmet. He tosses the bag to you saying, “Throw your purse in there, you don’t mind wearing that on the bike, right?”

“I really am fine walking home, I haven’t fallen or stumbled in years,” You say as he turns back around, “That’s how good I am.”

“It’s not your walking capabilities I’m worried about here, sugar.” He holds the black helmet in his hands, fingers drumming on the closed visor. “It’s the creeps.”

“This from you, the man that very nearly creeped me out earlier tonight?”

Matty fails to stifle his laugh from the desk.

Eddie rolls his eyes in exasperation, “Yeah, laugh it up newbie.” Taking you by the shoulder, he steers you toward the service entrance and you find yourself not even trying to come up with excuses anymore.

Well, except for:

“Oh, you meant bike as in motorcycle.”

He snorts from behind you, finishing the job of zipping the backpack, now containing your purse, and looping the straps around your shoulders.

“Well it’s certainly not a pennyfarthing, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“I’ve never been on one before.”

“No time like the present.”

Clapping you on the shoulder, he turns you around to face him and pries a hair tie from his wrist. You take it from his outstretched hand, your fingertips brushing for a fleeting moment. Without much fuss, you throw your hair into a loose bun at the nape of your neck.

“May I?” Eddie asks, presenting you with the helmet.

After you nod, he deftly flips the helmet around and takes a step closer to place it on your head. It’s not a perfect fit, but it’ll have to do. He has you shake your head left and right, then up and down before he’s satisfied you won’t crack your skull on the pavement.

In a few strides he’s near the bike, and mounting it in one fluid motion. His legs are long and pretty fucking perfect for, oh you don’t know, maybe straddling later yourself.

But now you’re just getting ahead of things.

You follow his lead and step toward the bike; taking his offered hand as you find your seat behind him.

“So,” Eddie says leaning to start up the bike, once he’s satisfied that your feet are on the foot rest. “All you really gotta do is hold on.”

Your hands go to his shoulders and you can feel them rise with his soft chuckle.

“That’s cute,” He says, taking both your hands in his and moving them to his waist, which causes you to bridge the few inches of space between your bodies to accomodate the movement.

I mean, there are worse things than having your tits smooshed up against some guy’s back on a motorcycle, right?

“You good?”

And you can barely hear him over the rev of the engine, so you nod and raise your voice to rattle out your address. He half-turns toward you, eyes finding yours through the visor of the helmet and giving you a wink.

He grips the handles, pulls the clutch, and kicks off.

“Alright, sugar, let’s get you home.”

Holding on for dear life, you quickly learn that as he leans, you lean. There’s a lot of movement on a bike that you hadn’t anticipated, so much so that Eddie’s shirt, at some point, rides up his abdomen. Too busy gawking at the sights and sounds of your first motorcycle ride, you don’t notice the subtle warming of your fingertips against his bare skin until it’s too late.

You were confident that the sound of the engine would drown out the unfortunate squeak that escaped your mouth, but at the feeling of Eddie’s stomach muscles contracting in what could only be laughter, and the shaking of his shoulders, now has you second guessing yourself.

Oh, well.

Rolling to a smooth stop in front of your apartment, he kills the engine and helps you off the bike.

Back on solid ground, you slough off the backpack and unzip it to grab your purse and keys. You pass it back to him and remove the helmet, mourning briefly the soft scent of tobacco and clary sage— his cologne, maybe?

Hooking a finger through the hair tie at the back of your neck, you pull it out, and shake your hair from its confines before offering it back to him.

Eddie just smiles with a shake of his head, “Nah, keep it— I gotta million of ‘em.”

He stays seated on the bike, eyes whiskey-warm and crinkling at the edges. With a shrug, you push the elastic up and around your hand to settle on your wrist.

It’s relatively quiet for a winter’s night around the campus, all the undergrads gone home for the holidays and not expected back until mid-January. A brisk wind blows and a shiver runs through you, one hand rubbing furiously along your arm, while the other grips the helmet resting against your hip.

All the while, Eddie simply sits there to drink you in. Eyes roving across the full of your cheeks, the elegant slope of your neck and the necklaces strung there. Your hair wild and waving in the breeze. And even if it’s cold outside, he can’t bring himself to notice— not with you looking like that standing there before him.

“Hey, Eddie,” You say, stepping toward him. Taking the helmet in both hands, you put it on for him and have half a mind to make him go through the head shaking nonsense he was adamant over back at the bar. But it fits him perfectly, just your luck.

Before stepping back and retreating into your apartment, he takes your hand in his and gives it a slight squeeze. You can feel the heat skittering under your skin, terribly welcome in the cold morning air.

Squeezing his fingers back in return, you part with a soft, “Happy New Year.”

He watches as you open the front door of your ground floor apartment, giving him a shy wave as a dog barks from somewhere behind you. He can see your lips moving as you turn back to say something to the dog, smiling as you bend to greet them.

Kicking off as the door closes and the lights flick on in your home, Eddie cruises down the deserted street with a smile on his face.

And maybe, this could turn out to be his year after all.

[thistledropkick]

Last year, Kasai Jun was interviewed as part of the interview project DEATH, which interviews various people about death in order to find a better understanding of how to live and appreciate life.

I thought it was a fascinating interview, so I decided to translate it.

Please go visit the original interview - the photography accompanying it is absolutely gorgeous.

Also, please don't repost this whole translation elsewhere. If you want to quote an excerpt of my translation for something, please make sure to also credit the original team behind this interview and link back to the original interview.

Deathmatch Fighter Kasai Jun - 4/27/2022

“It’s not a deathmatch until you return home alive” The reason this 47 year old Charisma Wrestler continues to shed blood in the ring

Within pro wrestling, there is a genre called “deathmatch.”

An extreme set of rules that allows deadly weapons and has no disqualifications. Brawls with fluorescent light tubes, and dives onto barbed wire boards. Without hesitation, wrestlers stab their opponents in the head with fistfuls of bamboo skewers. When wound-covered bodies violently collide, shards of glass and sprays of blood shower the ringside seats.

Upon first seeing it, surely everyone thinks “Why are these people hurting each other like this?” “What the hell am I looking at?”

This is the world of the man known as “Charisma,” professional Wrestler Kasai Jun of the independent promotion Pro Wrestling Freedoms.

In November of 2009, he had a “razorblade board plus alpha deathmatch” against Ito Ryuji in Tokyo’s Korakuen Hall. Kasai, 35 years old at the time, dove from the second floor balcony, a fall of 6 meters, onto a table, aiming for his opponent Ito.

Afterwards they continued to fight with various weapons, in a match that concluded 15 seconds before the 30 minute time limit. That year, this match was awarded the Best Bout award. And Kasai, the winner of that match, became a living legend overnight.

12 years have passed since then. Kasai is now 47 years old, and he continues to rule over the world of deathmatch wrestling. Under the weight of many literal life-or-death battles, Kasai’s body no longer moves the way it did when he was young. Even so, why does he continue to set foot in such a dangerous place?

We asked “Charisma of Deathmatch” - a man who makes the crowd go mad in the space between life and death - about his views on death and on life.

Desiring to truly feel alive

- Normally, people try to avoid pain and suffering. Kasai, why do you continue to shed blood in the ring?

Hahaha. From an outside perspective, you must really wonder “Why do you keep doing something so painful” huh? That’s a normal way to feel. But from the wrestler’s perspective, it’s completely different.

In your normal daily life, do you ever feel like “Ahh, it’s so glorious to be alive”? You’d almost never unconsciously blurt out something like that.

But in a life or death battle in a deathmatch ring, after you step down from that ring, that’s exactly what you feel. “Ahh, I’m alive. I’m so grateful to be alive.” Because of that, I can’t quit.

Mountain climbers and stuntmen probably feel like this too, don’t they. Stepping into a situation where their life could end, and returning home safely. I wonder if they’re searching for that feeling of being “truly alive.”

This feeling is passed on to the audience too. Fans often tell me “Watching Kasai Jun’s deathmatch gives me the strength to continue forward.”

They say things like, “I’m being bullied at school so I wasn’t going to go any more, but now I feel like I can keep going.” Or, “It’s exhausting to keep going to work, but after seeing Kasai persevere while shedding blood in the ring, I can persevere and keep going to work.”

Recently I can’t do this much because of covid, but in the past when I’d sell merch, fans would often say things like this to me.

Because of this, it seems to me that deathmatch wrestling is simultaneously a way for wrestlers to feel truly alive, and a way for those who watch it to feel more positively about living.

- Because of the sensational way “death” is shown in the ring?

Probably, yeah. Because it looks like we’re doing something really painful.

But don’t get me wrong. We aren’t in a particular hurry to die. And we aren’t wasting our lives either. What I always say is, “It’s not a deathmatch until you return alive.”

[Note from me - this phrase (生きて帰るまでがデスマッチ) is a play on a well-known Japanese phrase 家に帰るまでが遠足 “The field trip isn’t over until we return home.” This started as something a teacher would say to students in their care, and Kasai has altered it into his motto towards both himself and other deathmatch wrestlers.]

- It’s not a deathmatch until you return alive.

If you get in a ring where you might die or get seriously injured, and you do die, or you do get seriously injured, you’re no different than a rank amateur, right? But a guy who dives into a deadly dangerous situation and returns from that ring unharmed, he’s the absolute greatest and the absolute coolest.

Like a stuntman, right? If he returns home alive, people say “amazing,” but if he dies, he’s no longer a pro.

At 35 years old, his view on life did a complete 180 during a match

But, when I was young, I thought about it completely differently. I never thought “I’m grateful to be alive.” In the ring, I did dangerous stuff and defeated my opponents. I just thought of it as my job.

The more dangerous stuff I did, the more people said “Kasai is amazing!” That felt really great. Every time I stepped into the right I thought, if something goes wrong and I die I guess that’s how it goes. I thought “Deathmatches should be a memento mori.”

- What caused such a big change in your values?

That match against Ito Ryuji in Korakuen, in 2009. It changed my mental state by 180 degrees.

The truth is, I went into that match thinking “This is my last match before I retire.” Because it was my last match, I would do everything I wanted to do. Win or lose, I went into the ring thinking “I’ll retire.”

But during the match, my feelings completely changed. I thought “If I quit like this, I’ll be half-dead.” There’s nothing else I want to do, and I’ve never felt joy like this anywhere else. It was just too much fun.

So, after the match ended with 15 seconds remaining, I announced my decision to continue wrestling. “I was thinking of retiring but, I’m gonna keep going.” That’s what changed.

- Since your values have changed so significantly from when you thought it’d be good to die in the ring, what’s your “ideal death” now?

Spending the day with my family as I always do, watching tv with an after-dinner drink as I always do, getting comfy in my futon as I always do, and passing away. That’s the best death, isn’t it.

I’ve said it before but, people who say “It’s my ambition to die in the ring” are just trying to look cool. For a pro, it all comes down to returning home alive. And so, I believe that when the life of Kasai Jun the human being comes to an end, Kasai Jun the wrestler will die as well. I want to be a pro wrestler until I die. That’s how I feel now.

When I was young, I thought the best time for a wrestler to retire was when he could still move, when people would say “It’s a shame, because there’s still more he can do.” But if that’s true, I’ve already missed my best time to retire.

Since I’ve come this far, maybe it’s better to keep doing this until my death. Since around the time I turned 40, I started thinking this way.

Gaining years = leveling up. I’ll reach my peak just before death.

- Since you’ve been doing this for so long, it’s inevitable that your body has become weaker. Kasai, how have you dealt with aging?

The word “elderly” is a concept created by human beings, isn’t it? Since that’s the case, I believe it’s something we can absolutely overcome. I don’t think increasing in age is the same as becoming elderly.

Look, it’s true that my physical stamina has decreased and my muscles have gotten weaker than they were when I was younger. But my will and my spirit have continued to grow. Instead of just breaking even, I think I’ve leveled up. 47 years old is level 47. I now see growing older as a positive, like leveling up every year.

Because of that, my peak has yet to come. I’ll reach my peak just before I die. I’ll be at my strongest just before my death. That’s the ideal I envision for myself.

There was a time when I felt insecure about my age. When I hit my mid 30s, I hated that my body was becoming weaker.

But then, while drinking at home and watching a documentary on TV about (rock musician) Yazawa Eikichi, I realized something. “If you think about it, uncool young people are uncool, and cool guys are cool even if they’re old.” Since then, my way of thinking changed. I started calling getting older “leveling up” at around that time.

[Note from me: Suzuki Minoru also refers to getting one year older as “leveling up” in the exact same way. They are friends, so I assume Suzuki got it from Kasai.]

- I'm surprised that a pro athlete who uses his body as a weapon would think of aging in that way.

Pro wrestling and deathmatch are unique among sports. Unlike say, track and field, or swimming, it isn’t a competition where every second counts. I can’t move the way I could when I was young any more, but through my facial expressions, pauses during matches, and so on, I have many ways to express myself.

A guy can be handsome, macho, with great muscles, and completely suck as a wrestler. In contrast, a guy like me who’s ugly, short, and middle-aged, can get support from the fans. It’s a completely different genre, and that’s what makes pro wrestling so interesting.

- What about your emotional struggles? In your documentary film you said you were having some difficulty maintaining your motivation, which you described as “Deathmatch Erectile Dysfunction”

Yeah, well, that can definitely be a problem. When you’re young, you’ve just got piles of hopes and dreams and things you want to do. But as the years go on, and as you accomplish those things, you can kind of get lost.

What’s helped me increase my motivation has been the existence of people who make me think “I absolutely don’t wanna lose to this guy” or “I don’t want this guy to take all the best stuff for himself” In my case, for example, that’s been (fellow PW Freedoms deathmatch wrestler) Takeda Masashi. Or, although he’s from another organization, New Japan Pro Wrestling’s El Desperado.

That’s why for the past 3 or 4 years, I’ve been asking people to “stimulate me.” I want intimidating people to keep approaching me. Well, on the other hand, if they take the most delicious part for themselves, that’s a problem.

A fear of death led to a “selfish life”

- Incidentally, perhaps it’s too late at this point, but do you worry about being injured or dying?

I said it already but, “It’s not a deathmatch until you return alive.” Since I’m a pro, I have the skills required to do this without death or injury. 

But, it’d be a lie to say “I’m not afraid.” Even now, for several days before a match I get so stressed that I can’t sleep. Despite how I look, I get plenty scared. Much of my life has been driven by a strong fear of death.

- How do you mean?

It sounds silly, but when I was in grade school I believed in “The Prophecies of Nostradamus.” Have you ever heard of it? “In the year 1999, all of humanity will be destroyed.” Every night I shook with fear in my futon, thinking that my life would end at the age of 24.

Propelled by that fear, I concluded, “If the earth is gonna get destroyed anyway, I should quit studying. Instead I should use the rest of my remaining lifetime to do stuff that I like.” I completely quit studying, and instead spent all my time watching pro wrestling, which I loved.

Conversely, my fear of death also led me to become a pro wrestler. After graduating high school, I got a job in Tokyo as a security guard, but I gave into temptation and visited brothels daily. One day I happened to be reading a magazine with an HIV checklist inside, and almost every item applied to me.

At that time, I still thought “AIDS = death” so I thought “Oh, this is AIDS.” “Oh, this is how I’ll die.”

Luckily, when I got tested the result was negative, but after preparing myself for death, I thought “I really should do what I want” and knocked on the door of Big Japan Pro Wrestling. My life has always been influenced in this way.

- I get the impression that many wrestlers die at an early age. Since then, your fear must have increased.

Nah, that’s not really true. I’m surprisingly practical about the deaths of others. I just accept it, like “That’s the kind of life you lived.” I suspect my fear of death isn’t a fear of death itself, but a fear of becoming nothing.

- A fear of becoming nothing.

I’m no (actor and spiritualist) Tanba Tetsuro, but if after you die, you go to the spirit world, and cross the Sanzu river, that’s not all that scary is it? I wouldn’t go so far as to say “it’s fine if I die” but there’s some kind of hope or meaning. But if “After death, you become complete nothingness” “After death you feel no joy or sadness” I think that’s really scary.

But these days, I don’t experience that fear of death as much as I used to. If after this interview a dump truck hits me and I die, I wouldn’t have any regrets. I could say I did what I wanted to do.

Pro wrestling is a business where you depend on your popularity with an audience, but I’ve never tried to flatter the audience to get sales or support, or thought about how to increase my popularity. Ultimately, Kasai Jun puts himself first. I’m my own number one.

To die without regrets is to win at life

- But, if someone wanted to imitate your way of life, I think most people would be profoundly afraid of not getting by financially, or of being rejected by society. Why do you think you remain stoic in the face of such fears?

What’s there worth imitating about me? If you’re selfish like me and you can change it, you should want to!

But, this is probably related to that “fear of becoming nothing” I mentioned earlier. Ever since I was little, I’ve thought stuff like “This whole world isn’t real” and “Maybe all of this is just a dream.”

Nothing in this world is certain. Since that’s the case, all you have are your own body and your own feelings. In short, I don’t believe in anything but myself, so I put myself first.

- So in order to “feel truly alive” you throw yourself into the painful world of deathmatch wrestling, which leads us back to where we started.

That’s right. I guess you could say that pain is the only thing I believe.

But when I was young, I did understand the fear of not making enough money to survive. When I was around 30 and my son had just been born, I was seized by that fear.

Really, I was broke, and I couldn’t even pay into the National Pension Fund like I was supposed to, so I went to the ward office and said “I do intend to pay, so please wait a little.” I thought to myself, “Living is so expensive and so difficult.”

- A deathmatch fighter scary enough to quiet a crying child, with such an everyday problem.

Three years after my debut, when I was around 27, I was badly injured. I quit Big Japan, and after a year’s absence, I transferred to a different group called Zero-One.

Zero-One was founded by ex-New Japan Pro Wrestler Hashimoto Shinya, and the pay was good compared to Big Japan, and they held a lot of shows, so I could wrestle frequently. The environment there was very pleasant.

But, due to the policy of the organization, I couldn’t do the deathmatches that I love. During that time as a “salaryman wrestler,” I survived, but I think deathmatch fighter Kasai Jun, pro wrestler Kasai Jun, was completely dead.

“I really should do the pro wrestling I want to do,” I thought, and I quit Zero-One, and persisted with the pro wrestling that I love. Maybe that’s why I feel like I can now “die without regrets.”

Ultimately, if you live your own life as you wish, and think “I have no regrets” when you die, you win. Maybe people today have lost sight of the essence of what it means to live. It’s fine to work hard at your job, but if you’re spending every day miserably, is that kind of life really okay with you?

I’d rather live for 20 years and laugh every day than live for 100 years and never smile. If you’ve lived for 100 years and never laughed, that’s the same as being dead, isn’t it?

~

写真：本永創太 ~ Photographer: Motonaga Souta

執筆：鈴木陸夫 ~ Author: Suzuki Atsuo

編集：日向コイケ（Huuuu）~ Editor: Hinata Koike (Huuuu)

[lunawings]

While I was in Japan during March 2024, I was able to visit the Pretty Rhythm Rainbow Live 10th Anniversary Exhibit. This is my favorite anime of all time, so it was an incredible honor.

Unfortunately, you could not take pictures in many areas and I always try my best to be respectful and follow the rules. So, I will describe it.

The walls of the first room were covered in several tapestries depicting each individual episode of the anime, so you could reminisce about everything that happened as you slowly walked through the room. In the middle of the room, there were several exhibits perfectly recreating every single paper, notebook, sketch...

Hokkaido itinerary? Wakana and Bell's test scores? Momo's Happy Rain costume sketches? Naru and Bell's manager applications? The score to pride? Any piece of paper you can think of that appeared in PRRL, it was all HERE! Recreated with meticulous accuracy...

The next room was the photo room where you could take pictures in Prism Stone or in front of Rinne's feathers.

Something else they had here which was really neat, was all of these mini photo ops of various scenes from the anime that you could put your plushies or figures into! As I rarely have someone with me to take photos of myself at events like this, and I rarely post them even when I do, NGL I loved it. I wish I had brought something! I did have a PAF Naru on my bag I could have used, but it would have taken time to unpin her so unfortunetly I did not.

The next room contained an exhibit of various merch from throughout the years.

Unfortunately, there wasn't really much merch to look at in the classic section. Just the guitars, some stones, and the Smart Pod Shot. But I definitely think there was more than that back in the day! There has to have been because I own at least one thing that was not in here (a pool bag) haha!

They also had a REAL prism guitar on display, which apparently they are actually going to sell at some point!?

The last part of the exhibit before going to the gift shop, was a hallway with messages from all the voice actresses and the director. This was also a zone where photos were banned, but I remember in the director's he acknowledged Rainbow Live as being the only Pretty Rhythm season to achieve a 10th anniversary celebration and ended his commentary with "Glorious Pretty Rhythm" hahaha. Next was the gift shop...

Which was honestly super disappointing... I was prepared to spend a lot of money here, but in the end, I barely bought anything. Everything, EVERYTHING good was blind and the stuff that wasn't was just so expensive.

Like, they had this set of Hiro cards with his magazine covers and debut poster and I really wanted them but when I actually saw them it was like... 2,000 yen? FOR THREE CARDS!? Those tiny little cards you can see up there below the keychains?

????????????

Am I missing something!?

In the end I bought two Wakana boards and two clear files. And the one blind thing I couldn't resist was the Prism Stone badges... which turned out to be Otoha x2 and one Ann. Gah.

I also might have bought a Wakana plush doll, but she was sold out. Out of all the Rainbow Live girls she was the only one sold out both here and at Tokyo Station Prism Stone.

And here were the bonuses I got. Including, yes, the AiPri card. So for people who saw me posting it over on @pretty-idol-hell, this was where it came from.

I also got a very special letter, which I am saving to translate at a later date...

Outside the event was an up and running Pretty Rhythm machine, or so I thought. Wow, no line! I said to myself as I happily bounced up to it only to find the coin slot taped over and a sign reading it could not be used. Darn. (I know there's no prism stones left in the wild, but come on, there's no free play mode...? Well, I guess even if there was they wouldn't want people loitering around the exhibition.)

Anyway, as you read I did have a few complaints, but it still makes my heart happy that this event existed at all. I loved all the time and effort that went into making all the recreations of things!

[mollysunder]

Where Does Viktor Fit in Zaun? What Kind of Message will the Herald Bring?

We all know Viktor's headed to Zaun next season, but I've genuinely been wondering what he'll actually do when he gets there. The obvious answer would be that based on previously canon lore Viktor will become the Machine Herald and preach the path toward Glorious Evolution through cybernetic augmentation. But when I look at the state of Arcane, I just can't see that happening. So much of Viktor's story so far has been entwined with his relationship with the arcane and his own mortality which only becomes more complicated as he feeds the hexcore his Shimmer enhanced blood.

While Viktor started out as an engineer, Viktor's work became more associated with a combination of Arcane study and biological experimentation. More often than not, Viktor’s future as the Machine Herald is teased with biological imagery.

When Viktor visits Singed, the equipment that frames him in the shot above is similar to his staff, but more importantly, Rio's silhouette resembles the shape of the Machine Herald's mask. The outline of Rio's body resembles the the 3-pronged shape of the Herald's mask as it appears on Sevika's tarot card. The mask on the card is actually different compared to all of Viktor's existing skins, the three spikes are designed in a way that resembles a crown.

The cave where young Viktor first meets Singed, is covered in holes that resembles thousands of pained howling faces, surrounding both Viktor and Singed. Is it to represent the suffering Singed and/or Viktor will create in the future? Could they represent creatures of the Void, calling out to break free? Maybe the faces represent the already existent suffering of Zaunites who choke and perish in caves similar to the one they stand in?

What's more interesting is that the entrance young Viktor reveals himself to Singed with has the image of ghastly hooded figure carved into it. At first I thought this was supposed to represent inhabitants of the Void. Later, I realized this figure more resembled Zaunites suffering from Shimmer addiction like Huck.

It all feels like the story has been steering Viktor toward Shimmer and the complications of the Void rather than using cybernetics avoid human vulnerability as he did in previous canon. And when you think about Zaun in the context of Arcane, Zaun doesn't need the Machine Herald to promote his augmentations. Cybernetics have already grown in use and popularity in Zaun. After the time skip there's a stark contrast between Vander and Silco's gangs, many members of the latter from Sevika to Ran use augments. It's so prevalent that even members on Piltover's Council know about it. Sure they don't follow the original philosophy of the Glorious Evolution, but Viktor himself doesn't have the foundations for what was originally introduced to League either.

If anything, the visual hints in Arcane lead me to believe that Viktor will become some kind of prophet to the Void. Think about it, so much of what Viktor has done has brought him closer to magic and he's only become further ensnared once Shimmer was involved. From the little that we see of the Shimmer corrupted hexcore, it's likely sentient and it's influence on Viktor will only progress further once he's been completely alienated from Piltovan society.

What does this mean for Zaun though? Well I think Viktor's presence will be a positive presence in the long term for Zaun. The brief moments we see real unobstructed reference to the Machine Herald, hhappens when the design of Viktor's various masks are integrated into the design of the water treatment facility he was implied to have made. The image of the Herald also appears as the the Magician tarot paired with the Death tarot (Jinx) to win Sevika's card game. I previously concluded that the card scene forshadowed that Viktor and Jinx would be the major factors that will win Zaun its independence. On top of that, no matter what universe you stick Viktor in, he fundamentally wants to help others. That drive hasn't stopped in Arcane, and won't stop next season.

Despite Shimmer's justifiably sketchy reputation, it earned it Silco's hope and Singed's interest on it's ability to both sustain life and change it. Outside of being a strength enhancer, Shimmer was shown to effect the rate and longetivity of plant growth in the background of season 1. I think Viktor will be the one to further explore this aspect of Shimmer's effects to make positive impacts in Zaun next season.

I have such confidence because one, Viktor’s research with hexcore and Sky's own note focus on the impact hextech has on biological matter. And two this one shot from Zaun's post-time skip music video.

In the shot above, we see two men with masks and staffs designed in a similar style to the original Machine Herald, stand guard for the building behind them. To the left of these masked men is a sign that reads, "The Herald's Palace". Lofty name aside, what could these men be protecting? If you look into the window behind the two patrons getting their shoes shined you'll notice the outline of broad leaf plants. The masked men are guarding a cultivair! In Zaun, cultivairs are essentially greenhouses only the wealthiest of Zaun can afford to maintain, they're the only sources of fresh air located within Zaun so they have to be well protected. Cultivairs also double as public parks for Zaunites when chembarons want good PR.

The sneakiest possible hint is the design on the wall where "The Herald's Palace" sign is framed, it foreshadows who could have backed Viktor for his rise in prominence in Zaun. It's Jinx. This will make sense, trust me.

First, the swirling patterns of the wall design resemble the smoke cloud tattoo patterns Jinx has around her body. The use of the neon lights in the shot make the swirls appear a similar blue to the real tattoos.

Second, this isn't the only time the artists of Arcane used Jinx's swirly tattoo pattern to refer to her influence. Another time that happened was in the Firelights' music video opening. In the montage, we see bullet casings engraved with cloudy swirls in front of Eve's mask, after Jinx killed her.

Jinx doesn't actually engrave her bullet shells, that's for rich people like the Kirammans. Those engravings are for the audience to know that Jinx was responsible for Eve's death, the early draft even shows the artists were thinking of invoking Jinx's impact by applying her more childish doodles on the shells.

Not only has Viktor and Jinx’s future partnership been foreshadowed more than once in the show, she's the only character outside of Singed I can see betting on Viktor. There's no real reason for Sevika to be interested in Viktor, because when Viktor's reputation is dragged through the mud, even other Zaunites will be wary of him. Sevika also already has a source for her augments in Chembaron Smeech's gang, the Scrap Hackers. What would Sevika want to do with a clearly unstable scientist that not only looks like he's been loyal to Piltover most of his life, but his own experiments killed a fellow Zaunite colleague? How would Viktor not come off any better than Jinx to her?

Jinx will likely be the more empathetic party to Viktor and the disaster he created for himself, she can relate to it. And in related media, like RiotxArcane, he's one of the few people that extends empathy towards her character. She'd be one of the few that probably wouldn't flinch at the line of logic he'll follow in the next season as he continues to double down on the hexcore and the Void. I can only guess, but based on how Viktor reacts in other alternate universes, he'll probably push to further integrate Shimmer into the physiology of its users. Viktor would see it as a means to embrace the necessary change needed to survive the harsh environment of Zaun and the world itself. Who better to pitch such an idea to than one of the more successful Shimmer mutants like Jinx, and probably the extremists who really like her.

Tldr: To understand how Viktor will find his niche in Zaun, we need to understand that Viktor isn't defined by robotics. Viktor's defined by his devotion to helping others no matter how unethical. It's a mixture of his genuine empathy and compassion to those in need, and in his characterization in Arcane, the fact that he sustains his self worth from his ability to create and innovate. So it doesn't matter what kind of world he's placed in, a gothic cowboy world, a psychic soldier battlefield, or a world that worships death he will embrace the most extreme elements of his world and turn it back against the obstacles that put the common people down. Even if his solution is off-putting.

Sidenote: I didn't know where to fit this, but the one concept art that had Viktor's Machine Herald silhouette only further convinced me that Viktor doesn't actually become the Machine Herald like in League.

Thanks to @MPiltovian on twitter for the sketch outline we can see in concept that Viktor's transformation is so stark he looks to be at least a full 2 ft taller. And I know that Arcane's a scifi-fantasy setting, but that's just not how prosthetics work. There's no way that even his full body could support the weight of all that metal, plus a giant laser claw on his back. Viktor probably completely fortified his body using Shimmer and the hexcore to strengthen it and is wearing an exoskeleton on the outside. Honestly, how does anyone single-handedly even turn themself into a full-conversion cyborg anyway?

[icycoldninja]

for some reason I just have this really like uh…. Basically a Romeo and Juliet styled forbennie love between Fem reader and DMC 3 Dante

ooooohohoho yes....

Forbidden Love (DMC3!Dante x Fem!Reader)

You grinned to yourself, unable to help but chuckle as you made your way through the winding streets of Red Grave, eager to reach your rendezvous spot as soon as possible. Tonight was a glorious night; your parents were out at the opera, and Dante's parents were out of town for work, meaning that tonight was the perfect night for you and your secret boyfriend to have a little meetup.

When you reached your previously agreed upon meeting place, you found that Dante was already there. "Hey, babe!" You called, running into his arms. Dante chuckled, sweeping you off your feet and twirling you around. "Hey there, milady," He joked, kissing your forehead. "Miss me?" You nodded, hooking your arms around his shoulders and nestling into his chest. "You have no idea," You sighed, rubbing your face against his smooth pecs. "No idea..."

Your family, the L/Ns, had been feuding with the Spardas for several centuriee; your ancestors had an outrageous amount of beef with Dante's ancestors. Despite this, and the stern warnings of both your parents, you were in love, ancient grudges be damned. While this forbidden romance was blissful, it was also stressful. Both your families kept pushing suitors and suitresses on you two, only to be utterly dismayed when both of you turned them all down. This behavior, though understandable at first, had grown to be quite upsetting--so much so that your parents threatened to take away certain privileges unless you settled down with someone.

Fortunately, you both had your youth to blame for your unwillingness to marry, and if there was one thing parents loved more than finding spouses for their children, it was having their children possess an incentive to learn. As long as you kept your grades up and took up various hobbies, you would be free of parental pestering for the next 5 years or so.

Dante sniggered at the way you held onto him, pressing a kiss to your forehead before setting you down and taking your hand. "Wanna take a walk?" You nodded, eager to spend more time with the love of your life.

Dante led you down the street, towards a gravel path, and into a serene, peaceful looking forest. The thick growth trees blocked out most of the moonlight, but there was such an abundance of fireflies, it didn't really matter. You gasped in amazement as Dante led you towards a large cave covered in luminescent moss. It glowed in the darkness; beauty unlike anything you'd ever seen. "Wow..." You gasped, looking around in wonder. "This is so cool!" Dante chuckled, folding his hands behind his head. "Ya like it? 'Course you do, I know you." Smirking, he strode up and playfully mussed up your hair. "Scouted this place out just for us...and no one else knows. It'll be our little secret, kay?" You beamed, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest again. "Aww, you're the best, Dante!" Happily, Dante wrapped his arms around you and squashed you against his chest. "I know, I'm the greatest," He laughed, kissing your forehead. "And so are you. I love you, babe." You reached up and kissed him squarely on the lips, throwing your arms around his shoulders and holding on with all your strength. "I love you too, Dante."

Suddenly, your phone vibrated. Sighing, you let go of your boyfriend, pulled it out, and checked your notifications. Your parents had texted you, announcing that they'd be home in 30 minutes. You groaned, tucking your phone back into your pocket. "Sorry, Dante...as much as I wish we could continue, my parents'll be home soon." Dante nodded, pressing one last kiss to your cheek. "I get it. Go on home. Maybe later tonight I'll....surprise you and give you a night to remember." He winked with that last remark, blowing you a kiss after. Blushing furiously, you lightly slapped his arm before hurrying away. "I'll take that as a yes?" He called, sniggering when you didn't answer. It was more than a yes, and he knew that--it was an absolutely.

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Dancing In The Moonlight With Walter

Walter DeVille X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Blood, scary images

Word Count: 822

(A/N:) This was an idea I had last year for Halloween but ran out of time. So I thought I would keep it for this year. And I’m glad I did. I enjoyed The Invitation movie and I can’t turn away a good vampire movies as they’re my favorite monsters. So I hope my fellow Walter fangirls will enjoy this little thing I wrote. Happy Halloween everyone and until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Sleep seemed to slip from your grasp as you laid in the extravagant bed that you were borrowing. Moonlight peeking through the slits in the heavy curtains, teasing you with the idea of a calming walk through the gardens. Frustration won over as you shoved the warm blankets off. Tightening the robe around your middle and slipping into your shoes, you quietly made your way outside. No servants moved through the darkened house as you made it to the front door. On silent hinges it opened, letting you escape from your stifling prison into the garden of twinkling lights. A party was going to be held soon so Walter had the lawn crew working diligently at making sure the garden was a spectacle to behold. And they were succeeding as the illuminated garden took your breath away. Stepping under the ivy arch, your fingertips touched the lush leaves as flowers swayed in the crisp autumn breeze. You shivered involuntary, not at just the cold cutting through the thin robe you wore, but at the unshakable feeling of being watched. You were the only one awake as no one tried to stop you from leaving the house, or asked where you were going. You shook your head, plucking a smaller flower from a bush, chalking it up to some nighttime critter watching. 

Further into the garden, it became more evident it was going to be a glorious  wonderland as soon as the garden crew were done. With a gorgeous fountain in the middle, singing it’s song as the water trickled into the base. Surrounded by angel statues and various healthy plants of all colors and sizes. Ivies, Roses, Petunias, Lilys of every color. You couldn’t count all the kinds as the various different flowers would take all night and most of the next day just to see them all. The floral fragrances tickling your nose.

You walked around a little bit further into the garden before your feet started to grow tired. You spotted a gazebo covered in Morning Glories and white sparkling lights woven through the wooden slats. You stepped while taking a look at your surroundings as the intensity of being watched stiffened your shoulders and sent your heart racing. You sat down uneasily, looking at your surroundings as the beauty of the garden was quickly replaced by a haunting atmosphere. The statues quickly becoming distorted in the shadows, the roses beginning to look like they were bleeding. and you swore you saw something dart between the bushes. Rubbing at your shivering shoulders, your gaze darted back and forth landing on a pair of blood red eyes glowing from the ivy. You yelped leaping from the wooden seat you had sat upon, bringing yourself in the middle of the gazebo turning around and around trying to spy the thing that was hunting you now. Walter had warned you to stay inside at night, but the garden’s temptation lured you out despite his warnings. Now you were regretting it. You bit back a whimper, praying Walter would rescue you from your mistake.

“Walter,” you whispered.

“(Y/n),” his voice spoke behind you.

You jumped at his icy touch, making him chuckle.

“What are you doing outside,” he asked while turning you towards him.

You sheepishly played with the laces of your robe, “I couldn’t sleep and the garden looked so pretty outside my window. I really wanted to look at all the lights and flowers.”

“I told you it’s dangerous, my dear.”

“I know,” you blurted. “I couldn’t help it.”

Walter only grinned, his hand trailing down your arm until he came to your hand. Sliding his fingers across your palm, you shivered at the touch while he brought your digits to his warm lips. He kissed them diligently before nipping at your thumb. You yelped at the sudden sharp pain as he shushed you lovingly, licking at the little bubble of blood.

“Sorry I play a little rough with my toys,” he purred.

You didn’t have a moment to reply when he started humming out loud, drawing you nearer to his sturdy body and forcing your other hand on his shoulder before wrapping his other arm around your waist. He waltzed you delicately underneath the gazebo’s roof, still humming loud enough to echo off the wood. You laughed enjoying yourself, looking at the lights whirling around while you two danced. You looked back down your gaze landing on Walter as he continued you both through the dance. His once warm eyes turned a deep red that could make blood jealous. He noticed your terror and grinned viciously, revealing sharp elongated fangs.

He leaned in close his mouth coming to your ear holding you to where you couldn’t run in terror, “I told you the garden was dangerous at night, my dear lovely bride.”

You fought him trying to get away from the man you no longer recognized before you fainted in terror.

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Nick Amaro: Protest 

This technically is a pre-story to this but can be read as a standalone. Warnings: Slight mention of Sexual Assult  

Nick walked back into the bullpen as a herd of protesters were being led in. There had been a slut walk tonight. Hundreds of women had flocked to the streets to protest victim blaming and slut shaming. There had been a case of rape that had been all over the news where the police and media had been more concerned with the length of a victim’s skirt and how many drinks she had consumed than going after the big wig producer. Nick understood their frustration but didn’t see how a bunch of half-naked women walking down a Manhattan Street was going to help. With how hostile the case was going it seemed like asking for trouble at this point. 

Trouble had of course been found. A few men had protested the protest, three had been flashers running through the crowd exposing themselves, one being as bold as to rip down the protester's top. Now gaggles of girls were waiting in the lounge area to pick the assailants out of lineups. Nick notices a barely dressed girl hovering in the lobby. He downs half of his energy drink in one pull before going over to tell her to return to the lobby to wait. 

“Excuse me, are you here for the lineup-” Nick cuts off when you turn around and it takes him a moment longer than it should for his brain to register that it was you. He has known you for a couple of months now. You were a cute little thing. A part of the Crime Scene Unit. The two of you had talked and been around each other at various crime scenes. Nick liked you, you were sweet and funny if not a bit of an oversharer. Granted you seemed to like poking fun at yourself and your rather strange decisions that had some interesting fallout and it got people laughing. 

He is used to seeing you in a shapeless, oversized dark blue crime scene jumper. It takes his brain time to process the cute girl to the sexy woman in front of him. He couldn’t help the appreciative lingering glance. You were wearing high-heeled boots and a short skirt that he was at risk of flashing your underwear if you attempted to bend down or move too quickly and left a glorious amount of toned skin from your calves to upper midthigh on display. A sleeveless wide-dropped, white top that was barely covering your generous chest was only held together with a tie at the bottom snug under your breast struggling to keep them contained. Across your bare stomach written in red was #METOO. His jaw tightened as he wondered about the events that could have caused you to join.    

“Detective Amaro,” His dark eyes shoot up to yours as he focuses on your face. “Yes, I’m waiting on the lineup. All the crazy things always happen at the protests I swear, at least I’m not the one under arrest this time.” You grin self-indulgently. 

“You’ve been arrested at a protest?” He couldn't imagine you getting into any kind of trouble.  

“Once or twice. Charges were never filed.” You cross your arms over your chest, which causes your breasts to strain even more against your white top. The movement caught his gaze. Nick could just make out the lines of your hard nipples through your flimsy top. You seemed completely unaware of his heated gaze as you told him about being sprayed with a water hose and pepper spray, cuffed, and booked for a night while protesting the fracking of Indian land while you were in college. You thought they felt bad and that’s why they released you so easily. You had been pushed down and broken your nose giving you two gnarly black eyes. He couldn’t help but chuckle when you stated that another woman who had been arrested with you spiritually healed and blessed you with sage-infused water in the cell you shared claiming it would help with the physical pain too. It hadn't. 

“Your college days and mine were very different.” You didn’t get a chance to answer as a cuff perp was walking in and saw you. He ogled you and whistled before being pushed into holding. Nick moved to stand in front of you defensively. You shift uncomfortably remembering that you didn’t have much on and suddenly feeling very exposed. You weren’t the type to flaunt your body. This protest had just called for you to go over the top and out of your normal tomboy zone. You feel the warmth over your shoulders and look back to see Nick wrapping his suit jacket around you.  

“Thank you,” You shrug further into it sliding your arm through the sleeves. The scent of his cologne musky with a spicy tinge overwhelms you. Nick is taller than you and the jacket hangs down nearly to your knees. You go to do up the button to completely cover yourself before remembering the red lettering on your stomach, you don’t want it to bleed onto his clothes. You feel his gaze on you. Nick felt something in him change when he saw you wearing his jacket. Lust pooled in his belly and he didn’t think he would ever be able to reconnect his mind with you just being the cute CSU girl who overshares again.  

“You can button that up if you want, I’m not worried about it.” You give him a grateful nod before buttoning the jacket. It helps cover the bare skin, but your chest is much larger than Nick’s and it stretches the fabric bunching it awkwardly, and your breasts are still falling out. 

“You can ask if you want detective.” He had led you over to his desk and you leaned against it. 

“You’ve been sexually assaulted.” You hum in response, “Did you ever press charges? We could file a report-” 

“That’s not necessary. It was years ago.” You play with a ring on your finger, twisting it. “It’s not like the cases you get here.” 

“Any sexual assault-” 

“Yeah, yeah I know the spiel.” You shake your head at him, “It wasn’t anything crazy. Just one incident in college. I was at a party and there was this drunk guy. I didn’t really know him or anything and he didn’t know me, clearly.” You laugh to yourself before rolling your eyes. Then turned back to look at Nick, “He cornered me and slid his hand down my pants. When I told him no, he didn’t listen. He was clearly drunk and thought I was too. I wasn’t. I only had one drink. What he didn’t know was that I had been wrestling since middle school and took kickboxing classes throughout high school.” You shrug your shoulder nonchalantly, “So, when I told him to stop again, and he didn’t I kneed him in the junk hard enough that he spit out blood.” 

“And then?” You start tugging at the jacket sleeve.  

“Then nothing. I got up and left. I was called into the office the next day. They gave me a choice if I didn’t report it as sexual harassment then I wouldn’t get in trouble for violence and underage drinking on campus.” 

“You get harassed, and they try to put the blame on you to get you not to report to save their school image.” You watch his frustration spike and grin at him. 

“You’re a good fit here. It’s nice to know that some cops are still on our side.” He calms down and feels great satisfaction at your praise. “Honestly though, I wasn’t planning on pressing charges. I think he got the picture. I kind of feel bad sometimes... about how hard I hit him. I wonder if he will ever be able to have kids now.” 

“I don’t think it will hurt the world if he doesn’t.” Nick sighed as he read your face. You seemed fine talking about what had happened and he was glad that you had been able to take care of yourself but your not reporting did bother him. You heard your name being called and saw Liv waving to you to do your lineup, so you stood. “Hey, do you want me to call someone for you? To take you home that is. Are you dating someone?” He feels the air pulled out of his sails when you respond. 

“Yeah, Teddy Jackson from homicide. No need to call him though. He’d be pissed if he found out I went to this protest. I don’t feel like another fight.” You give him one more smile before slipping out of his jacket and handing it back to him. “Thank you for the company though Detective Amaro.”     

This was supposed to be a short two-pager. Oh well, I have two more parts to this of Nick pining after you while you are with my made-up homicide detective. I have a notebook of ideas for Nick and I'm trying to get through them before I start up new ideas or they usually get trashed. Hope you enjoyed xoxo

[thenamesblurrito]

so it's uh been awhile. you might wanna click for clarity, especially for the kitty cat on the right. everyone here except Chromedome is a size null!

Grandus has been a champion of various martial arts since long before the Stratocracy was ever founded, with grace belied by his size null bulk. his particular specialty is a type of wrestling originating from his home planet Caminus, but he's lived on Cybertron a long time, working with Yoketron to teach and record martial arts as much as he can. under the current regime that looks down on such "violence", preserving this information is pretty important. when Yoketron decided to chip in as a benefactor for the JAAT, Grandus himself actually took a teaching position in physical education. the self-knowledge and body confidence he passes on to his students is unexpectedly engaging, almost enough to get some of them to stop gossiping about whatever relationship he may or may not have with pop star Rosanna.

whether or not his students were sports fans before, Eject is going to make sure they leave his class with a new appreciation for the glorious art of physical competition. an unmatched master of sports history and science, he can tell you the play-by-play of every Cube match in the past fifty million years without looking anything up, just as much of a terrifying information sponge as his twin, and equally terrifying on the field despite his extremely small datacube frame. given the cultural importance and how there's a sport for every function, he's actually got quite a bit of teaching material to cover even for the less active students. while he does have a Conjunx, he's not exactly in love with Chromedome like Rewind is, only married to him because of the way twin sparks work. they get along well enough, but he and Rewind have agreed that should they ever pick up an Amica, it'll be somebody Eject adores himself.

Chromedome is honestly a little confused as to how he wound up here in the first place. before, he was a psychiatric recordkeeper and ethical inspector. then his Conjunx Rewind got it into his head that he'd be just the perfect candidate to help out that new school Jhiaxus was trying to open, and Chromedome abruptly found himself a teacher of psychiatry. it's quite the change of pace, and honestly much less depressing to talk with a bunch of bright younglings than pore over yet another case file of horrific medical malpractice. he's an average size 2 car, but that's more than tall enough to pick up both his Conjunces with ease, if the two of them ever stood still long enough to nab.

he may not be JAAT faculty, but Rewind is ever-present anyway. both to check in on his twin and Conjunx or friends like Blaster, and also to get the freshest scoop on all the juicy stories this school spawns constantly! he may be tiny, but he is The star reporter of Iacon--no, Cybertron! nothing can stand in the way of getting that snippet, that quote, that blurry video, that first hand experience broadcasted to the world, even when his support staff Raindance and Grand Slam lag behind! information, he wants information! it all goes into his own alt mode storage as a datacube, making him quite the encyclopedia. the Stratocracy has tried and utterly failed to censor him, so instead they've relegated him to the function he has always excelled at, although with the way he is "accidentally" platforming the heroes and their dangerous ideals, they may be regretting letting Rewind run wild...

Roadmaster is a familiar face to many at the JAAT already, both to old friends like Thunderclash and folks she's never met. she's the host of popular nature show Quintessential Creatures, teaching viewers all about weird and wonderful wildlife. she was forged on Caminus long enough ago that her original records have been lost, but she's traveled everywhere since then, and her animal-wrangling bravery often makes people think she must be from Carcer instead. by all appearances she's slowing down now, letting her assistant Servo take on more responsibility, and this teaching position at the Academy is just perfect. she gets to affectionately nag a gaggle of fellow teachers many millions of years her junior while surreptitiously instilling revolutionary ideals and a love of nature in dozens of impressionable young minds. her walker transforms to become the cage on her enormous transport truck alt mode, most often used to haul rehabilitated mechanimals back to their natural habitats.

Meowgatron is a rusty tabkey who came up and sat on Roadmaster's clipboard one day and has been her darling pet ever since. he is, in a word, an idiot, and yet surprisingly good at finding his new favorite person Starscream to sit on and purr, no matter where he's hiding. rusty tabkeys like himself have lava lamp radiator alt modes, and many stressed students find petting his warm, blobby body very soothing. it almost makes up for his daily yowling sessions when he gets himself stuck inside a desk somehow.

[wipkinz]

All’s Faire in Love and War

Note: had this idea rattling around my empty head for so long and I hope y’all like it. 

Summary: Eddie and girlfriend!reader take a trip to a Renaissance Faire for his birthday. Can Eddie handle his girlfriend looking so Hot Wench™?!

ofc not

Warnings: fingering, oral sex (male rec), semi-public, roleplay if you squint, fem!reader, possible trash, minors DNI

You had been dating Eddie all of six (glorious) months before his birthday arrived. In that time, you had studied and poured over all of his interests. Be it DnD, metal music, fixing up his van, or even his recreational pot smoking, Eddie had a plethora of hobbies to choose from when gift planning. But after spending a couple sick days force feeding him soup while his eyes were glued to the worn pages of his tattered Tolkien books, you had an idea of what he might like.

You had stumbled across an ad in the local paper for a Renaissance faire a few towns over, complete with bards and beers. From what you remembered of his lengthy DnD campaigns, this would be like living the real thing, especially with the outfits you had gathered from various thrift shop hunts.

Giving Eddie the tickets had been one thing. He was downright giddy when you read him out the event details, and grinned ear to ear when unwrapped his costume and you rushed to explain it seemed like something he would be into. Little did you know how into it he would be.

Each day he saw you he was begging to see your costume early. He was practically on his knees to see you in all your wench ware. He pictured you all corseted up, with a gauzy skirt he couldn’t wait  to make his way under. Just the idea of it had gotten him through many a night since his birthday.

On the day of the faire you had Eddie pick you up from your place. He had dutifully dressed in his outfit, a white linen shirt that had plenty of chest on display and some tight leather pants tucked into his big black boots.

“Hey Princess,” He smirked as you watched him, slack jawed, “my eyes are up here.”

“Yeah well, I’ve seen your eyes before,” you joked as he started towards the van, “but I’ve never seen your ass in leather pants.”

“Watch it sweetheart,” He pulled open your door as you hopped into the passenger seat, “or I’ll think you’re only with me for my rocking hot bod.”

“Oh but I am” you teased.

Eddie gave you a look before buckling you in.

“When do I get to see yours, Hmm?” He questioned, fingering the collar of your big coat, which covered the costume you had on.

You smacked his hand away playfully, “so soon baby.”

After a long ride you found you way to the faire ground, Eddie was buzzing with the promise of beers and turkey legs. You watched as he dashed around the front of the van -in his leather fucking pants- to open your door for you.

“M’lady” he grinned at you, offering a hand as you stepped down.

“Oh how chivalrous,” you giggled slipping off your coat and handing it to him. “Should I call you Sir?”

When you turned around to catch the eyes of your boyfriend, you realized this may have been a mistake. Eddie was looking at you in a way you had only ever seen in the bedroom, with his mouth parted, his eyes dark, and his cheeks that biteable shade of pink. He stood there taking you in, in your dress and corset you looked straight out of his wildest dreams.

In a daze, Eddie played with the strings of your tie front dress, noting how it strained over your chest.

“You look,” Eddie stuttered, “Fuck, uh wow.”

“Awe” You smirked, pressing up to kiss his cheek. “So eloquent.”

“Well I did hope to flatter the lady,” Eddie grinned as he took a flourished bow.

As the day went on you could tell Eddie was riled up, and ever since the parking lot your goal was to make him give up and haul you back to the van so he could have his way with you.

At the beer stall you sipped a little too vigorously and watched him watch the trail of ale that dribbled down your chin. He gulped down his drink rather quickly and went right back for another.

At the Maypole, he watched you dance around, swishing your skirt and petticoat. The puffed sleeves of your dress had slipped off your shoulders and your face was flushed. When you came back to him at the picnic tables, you noticed he adjusted himself before you perched on his lap. His hand warm where he gripped your hip trough the material of your dress.

At the archery booth you had him show you how to shoot, making sure to press yourself into him. You sighed at the feeling of him half hard against your ass, noticeable even through his leather pants. You shuddered as he brought the bowstring back, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispered.

“I don’t know if we will be able to make it home Princess.”

It wasn’t until you were in the photo booth, posing together on a throne, when you realized how serious he was. The camera flashed in the private tent as he kissed at your neck.

“Mmm,” you sighed, turning your head to give his lips a full kiss as his arm snaked further around your waist securing you to him. “Eddie we can’t.”

“Fucking need it” he mumbled, pressing his hips up against you. “You see anybody in here?”

It was incredibly hard to open your eyes to scan around the dimly lit tent, you eyes were nearly glazed over as Eddie sucked a new mark into the crook of your neck.

“Mm no,” You answered breathily. “Just you.”

“Yeah that’s right.” Eddie slipped his hand from around you and pulled the strings at the top of your dress loose, the fabric giving way to his searching hands. “just me.”

Caught up in the haze, you barely registered the camera flash again. Eddie had slipped his other hand up under your skirts and had quickly found home over your panties.

You palmed him through his leather pants, and he mimicked the motion over you.

“Anyone could see,” You argued limply, already pliant and willing for him to take you any way he wanted.

“Well then we better hurry up.” Eddie gave your clit a light smack before he manoeuvred you off his lap.

You were on your knees in front of him, fiddling with his heavy metal buckle before he could give a lazy blink. You felt his thighs flex through the leather under your spread fingers as you braced yourself for what was to come. Eddie smirked down at you from his seat on the throne, his thick ring clad fingers coming to the base of your neck.

“Show me how much you want it,” Eddie teased, using his free hand to grip the base of his ruddy cock. You knew your cue was to open up to him, he did not have to ask twice. You licked your lips before letting your tongue reach out to meet his glistening tip. He let the weight of himself hit your tongue once, twice, three times before you took up the offer and sucked him down fully.

“Shit yeah just like that,” Eddie huffed out as he bumped up against the back of your throat. You backed off and gave him a few lazy tugs, blinking slowly up at him with an easy smile. Eddie liked watching your chest bounce with the effort of your strokes, you liked watching his mesmerized gaze follow your every move.

“Like what Sir?” You asked demurely, leaning in to lick a slow fat trail from base to tip.

“Such a tease,” Eddie tisked as you swirled your tongue over his tip, “So worried about people seeing, and -fuck”

Eddie faltered as you took him deep into your throat again, hips bucking and eyes fluttering as you swallowed him down. “Now look who’s putting on a show, huh princess?”

“Mhhmm,” You hummed around him. softly rolling his heavy sack in your manicured fingers. You could feel his pulse through them. He was so so close.

“Best fucking performance of your life.” Eddie admired, stroking your hair as you gazed up at him. 

The camera let off its last flash, as Eddie threw his head back, spilling onto your waiting tongue.

You swallowed everything he had, and after cleaning him up slipped him back behind the leather of his pants. After a beat, he pulled you to your feet, kissing your cheek sweetly as he loosely retied the laces of your dress.  

“What about you?” Eddie mumbled, pressing a kiss to your temple as you two left the booth. You grabbed the photo strip that was waiting for you at the base of the automatic camera. Each frame showed Eddie quickly losing his mind to the pleasure of his fantasies being brought to life. You could tell through the black and white the blush he had, it matched perfectly with the pink of his lips as they kissed your neck, as they parted when he came.

“I just need a minute alone with these and I’m set for life.” You said as you handed over the amateur porn you had both created. You watched as he tucked the strip into the back pocket of his leather pants. A tight fit.

“Well hopefully not for life.” Eddie grinned, his cheeks staining that pretty shade of pink again.

“Hmm you’re right, maybe just until you get me in the back of ye old chariot then, Sir Munson.” You giggled. You could tell he would all but drag you back to his van if you weren’t tugging him in a different direction. “Come on big guy,” You patted his chest, “let’s go find you a turkey leg.”

Eddie gave you a full teeth smile before bringing his arm around you, kissing the top of your head you could feel his grin. “Best. Birthday. Ever.”

[st-juliet]

Utmost Merit, Part III

Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: Sherlock presents the Reader with a most unconventional proposal.

Content: Absolutely 18+ for very very very filthy language, purposely unprotected sex, virgin reader, breeding kink, spouses-to-lovers, some period-typical gender roles but nothing unkind or insidious

Notes: I prefer giving a name to the Reader rather than using Y/N, but I hope you will make the appropriate substitutes in your imagination. Your kind comments and reblogs are so, so appreciated…please don’t hesitate to reply or send me a message with your feedback if you enjoy! 

Previous Chapters: Part I Part II

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

“It is not Mrs. Hudson.”

A sudden streak of mischief has seized you this afternoon: it is one week to the day of your marriage, and though you have seen Sherlock nearly every day in the flurry of preparations… but always in the company of someone – your brothers, his brother, your respective and mutual friends, a procession of lawyers and clergy. You are eager to have a moment alone with him, not least of all because of what happened the last time you were afforded such privacy – and it is no coincidence that your walk today has brought you by Baker Street.

“It’s a friend.”

“A friend? Watson?”

Even muffled by the door, you can hear the amusement in his voice—he knows very well who it is. “No, not he,” you play along.

“Who, then?”

“Not simply a friend. Practically family.”

“If it’s Enola, I’m out of the house. If it’s Mycroft, I’m out of the country.”

“And if it’s your wife?” “I have not got a wife. No, indeed.“ You can hear his voice more nearly now, his footsteps drawing close. “I must remain a frustrated bachelor for six days and some odd hours more.”

And then the door swings open, and you are greeted with a glorious sight: Sherlock fills the doorframe completely, leaning against it with a lazy, comfortable air and smiling down at you with unconcealed delight. He is in his shirtsleeves, tumbled curls spilling about his face…the most undressed and unrestrained you have ever seen him. You want to fling your arms about his neck, but restrain yourself, instead giving a little curtsey and saying, “I’m out for a walk.”

“Of course you are,” he smirks, extending his hand to escort you into his parlor. “When asked where my wife is, I shall always know exactly what to say: ‘She is out for a walk.’”

His teasing, affectionate tone draws you in as much as his gesture, and you eagerly take his hand, allowing yourself to be led through the maze of his various experiments, stacks of books, and glass-cased curiosities.

“I wanted to see you,” you admit. “Do I disturb your work?”

“You are always welcome here,” he avows, settling you beside him on the small settee, a very deliberate invitation to closeness. “And never more than at this moment: I am bored out of my mind. Are there no more villains to be found in England? Not a single jewel thief? No secret societies with nefarious purposes? Not a missing cat, stuck up a tree?”

Clearly in a playful mood, he gives a dramatic sigh and tosses his head to shake an unruly curl from his brow, which is a futile effort, and you cannot stop yourself from reaching out to brush it aside. He covers your hand with his, pressing it against his cheek.

“You have done your job too well,” you answer. “The realm is safe and sound, at least for now…however shall you occupy that brilliant mind in the meantime?”

 “I have a few notions,” he muses, turning his head to kiss your palm. “We were interrupted the last time we were truly alone.”

“So we were.”

Sherlock presses up against you even more closely, resting his forehead against yours. He nuzzles his nose against your cheek, grazes his lips along your jaw, which incites a low, breathy sound from you. He chuckles softly and repeats the gesture…and then, for the first time—though he has touched you most nearly, heard you cry out his name in the throes of rapture, spoken the most intimate, profane words to one another—Sherlock kisses you on the lips.

He is at once tender and insistent, gentle and fervent, and you melt into his arms, returning his ardor with an unpracticed enthusiasm that only seems to enchant him further. Over and over again, he kisses you so deeply, so passionately…softly coaxing your lips to part, giving way to his clever, dexterous tongue…and his hands wander to every soft curve he can seek out with a covetous, ravenous resolve.

“You tempt me beyond all reason, Rosamund. Here in my arms is the woman who shall be—by her most eager consent—the mother of my child. My wife in but a week’s time,” he sighs, a feigned resignation in his tone. “But I suppose I am a gentleman, and such are the dictates of propriety…”

You realize he is making you an offer: understated, unassuming, and entirely in your hands to refuse. But your decision is instantaneous and wholehearted.

“Our purpose transcends propriety,” you answer softly, and his eyes narrow.  You pull him close by his lapels for another burning kiss, then whisper in his ear: “It is only a week. And I think we should waste no time.”

Something seems to snap in Sherlock, just like that fortnight ago when he delved under your skirts and brought you to bliss in the home you soon will share.

“As my wife commands, then,” he growls, and already he is on his feet, discarding his vest and cravat, locking the door, and gazing at you with flagrant, untempered desire. In a flash of inspiration, he turns the handle on his gramophone, setting the cylinder spinning, and the beautiful, pure strains of a violin fill the room. You gasp softly and feel a shiver of excitement and longing run through your body at the application of his ingenious mind to such a devious purpose: anyone outside the room would no doubt think Sherlock himself was playing the violin, a perfectly appropriate way to while away an hour with his wife-to-be.

“You were so good for me last time,” he murmurs, stealing another kiss before sweeping you up into his arms. “Staying so quiet and polite even with my hand beneath your skirts. But now, my dear little bride…I very much wish to hear you.”

Sherlock shows an extraordinary facility as a lover already, easily carrying you to his bedroom without ever ceasing his kisses. He is eager, almost boyish, in his delight as he strips away the many layers of your gown, and easily diverted by each new inch of you he uncovers. You feel much the same, every moment torn between exploring the aspects of his body already on display to you and revealing more, and when he tosses his shirt aside, you find you cannot help yourself, even as your logical brain reminds your swooning heart that this is a business transaction: you run your hands across the hard planes of his chest, breathlessly exclaiming, “Oh, you are so handsome…”

The man practically preens at your words, not-so-very subtly flexing his muscles, and you laugh at what a peacock he has suddenly become.

“Have I made you vain, Mr. Holmes?” you tease, and he grins back at you, bright blue eyes sparkling as he strips every last stitch from your body.

“How can I help it when such a beauty sings my praises? That would turn any man’s head.”

Discarding the last of his own garments, he settles himself atop you, careful to bear his own weight lest you be completely enveloped by his immense frame—not that you would mind it in the slightest—and kisses a trail down your neck, smirking into a particularly sensitive spot as you gasp and arch at his attentions. “I perhaps ought to have mentioned this in my proposal,” he considers, nuzzling your breasts with soft kisses, teasing the peaks with his teeth and tongue—a maddening combination of tender and rough that has your pulse racing. “But I find you an exceptionally beautiful woman.”

His praise in turn makes you almost bashful, but he doesn’t allow you the slightest shame or shyness, parting your legs to look hungrily on your most tender place, laying kisses on your thighs and holding you tight as you giggle and squirm at the sensation.

“My god, what a sight. You really are perfect for me, in every way,” he pronounces, his fingers sliding easily between your petals to caress your bud, remembering perfectly from your first encounter just what makes you sigh…speed and pressure and even the way he speaks to you, low and comforting and stirring all at once. He has learned you like his famed violin, from a single hurried instance of intimacy. But you need not smother your moans this time as he seeks your pleasure with his deft, elegant hand, and each little sound that he elicits from you only seems to spur Sherlock on to new heights of wickedness, and he licks his lips wolfishly as he slides first one finger, and then a second, into your channel.

“Oh, Sherlock…’

“Yes, let me hear you. This is how I want you always, pleading and crying out for me—yes, just like that.”

You are offering him a litany of indecent sounds, but it is nothing compared to the devilish words he murmurs in return as he guides you to your peak:

“You bring out the most iniquitous contradictions in me. You…whom I have admired only at a distance this year or more…so respectable, so intelligent, graceful and gracious—yet with the slightest hint of your assent, I would take my pretty paragon and have you on your hands and knees for me, to breed this sweet, tight cunt…but that fantasy we will answer in time, for I must see your lovely face when you fall apart for me tonight, my darling wife…”

His gorgeous features are illuminated with wonder as you come apart on his hand, calling out his name and clutching at the bedsheets, completely helpless to your own pleasure.

“Oh, Sherlock, oh…more, please don’t stop…”

Sherlock moves to kneel between your thighs, drawing your legs about his hips and aligning his cock with your warm, wet slit. “Are you ready, Rosamund?”

His control is impeccable, but barely-leashed, and you can tell he wants nothing more than to thrust as deep within you as can be. You feel the slightest flicker of trepidation—he is so large, so strong, his sex thick and long and dripping already—Sherlock notes your hesitation at once.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he bids you, leaning down to lay a soothing kiss upon your lips. “You can take it; you were made for this, my love. Made for me.”

“I am yours,” you whisper, and with one smooth motion, you are joined. You barely feel a twinge as he enters you; he has taken such care of you that the delicious fullness and white-hot heat of your flesh embracing his melts away all tension, relieves any fear or pain. The sound of his sonorous, feral groan as he settles so deep makes you clench, and you are almost at your peak again already as he sets about a relentless rhythm, eyes burning into yours all the while.

“Oh, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and you begin to meet his thrusts with the rise of your hips. “Look how eager you are, just begging me to give you my cock, my seed, make you swell with my child. I can see you now, so full and round and gorgeous…everyone will know what you let me do to you,” he promises. “That you are mine—“

“Make me yours,” you echo, and he buries his face in your neck with a brazen moan. “Let go, please, Sherlock, give me our baby…”

Seeing this man truly unbound, free from all societal restraints and his personal gentility, is nothing shy of miraculous. He supports you in his arms most delicate work of art on the earth, but claims you ferociously, deep and fast and unyielding in his pursuit of your mutual pleasure, holding back only enough to give you your bliss first before he loses himself completely in the sensation of your softness, coming deep inside you with a roar.

You spend some minutes simply breathing together, savoring the beauty of this new closeness, and the precious hope that might already be taking root. At last, with a nod of agreement from you, he pulls out from your tender flesh, taking great care not to spill a drop.

“Keep all that in, wife,” he instructs, laying his palm flat against your slit. Then, with a wicked smile, he begin to rub at your bud with his fingertips, and you are so very sensitive, so over-stimulated, that you can hardly breath as he coaxes one more shuddering climax from your tender body. “Just to be certain it takes,” he says by way of explanation, as casually as if he were describing some chemical reaction. You try to stifle a giggle, but cannot, at his professorial tone. Your mirth is infectious, and you both laugh together, in rapturous joy.

“Thank god you are my wild and wanton girl,” he praises you. “I thought I would be driven mad by the memory of you, haunting my every moment. You have quite saved my sanity, if not my life, tonight.”

“I feel the same,” you agree, kissing him sweetly. This easy playfulness, such a hallmark of your courtship preserved even after this new step has been taken, sparks yet more mischief in you, and, lightly running your fingers through the hair on his chest, you murmur, “So, Mr. Holmes: you have admired me a year or more?”

You called me your love, is what you truly want to say. But surely that was the passion of the moment, the exchange of a single self for a shared bond, that overcame him…?

“Yes,” he admits, with a soft smile. “But I was entirely certain you would accept any number of the other offers set before you. I dared not hope…”

He trails off, and you nestle even tighter against him.

“Thank goodness I had the foresight to refuse them all. I…I was determined to wait for what felt truly right. It could have been no one but you.”

He kisses you tenderly, and just as you determine to summon all your whiles towards seducing him into a second time—for the sake of The Shared Purpose, of course—the clock strikes seven, far past the hour you were expected home. Sherlock groans petulantly when you escape his arms and start to piece together the various layers of your attires, but his sound of displeasure shifts to one of pride as he watches a trickle of his seed slip down your thighs.

“Just look at you,” he drawls, stretching out on the bed, and without the slightest blush or hesitation, begins to stroke his hardening cock, drinking in the sight of you, flushed all over, your hair loose about your head like a halo, every inch of your skin burnished by the setting sun.

“You will be simply incorrigible from this moment forward, won’t you, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“I’m expected to be home.“

“You’re expected to obey your husband.”

He rises from the bed and halts your search for your clothes, his arms encircling you from behind and his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“Lie back down, Rosamund,” he commands, one hand toying with your breasts as the other comes to rest possessively over your abdomen. “You’re letting all my hard work go to waste—I’ll have to pin you down and fill you up all over again.”

You succumb immediately to his touch, allowing him to spin you around and arrange you on the bed to his liking: on hands and knees as he had whispered of before, presented fully to his lustful gaze. Looking back over your shoulder, you meet Sherlock’s piercing eyes and he smiles at you.

“My perfect wife…”

You sigh and give yourself over to bliss.

You’ll simply have to tell them you went on a very, very long walk.

Next Chapter: Part IV

Thank you so much to these darlings who so graciously reblogged and commented on the previous chapters!

@mis-lil-red @a-panda-doll @astheskycries @ghotifishreads @wolfsmom1 @mathle0matle @crazybutconfidentaf @inlovewithhisblueeyes​ 

[urwendii]

🧡🎃🕷 inspired by a fun conversation with @cilil and @a-world-of-whimsy-5 on our Discord server based on this spider night light robot

Mairon is bored and decides to prank Melkor. What can go wrong.

In retrospect Mairon should have known it was bound to end badly, he had been by his Master's side for long years now, had witnessed his rises and falls and seen the scars of the Silmarils left on his spirit. Melkor, in recent days, was not someone to casually challenge or taunt without fearing any sort of retribution.

Still, Mairon was a craftsman, an inventor, and someone who simply had to do what he wished to do when the ideas arise. Maybe it was because he had been bored lately, there was not much to do during the Siege except sending your usual Orcs company and watch them being slaughtered from the top of the parapet. The entertainment was turning dull though and after watching some nameless Noldo flip the finger at him from his perch and turning the offending asshole into a charred spot on the ground, even that did not provide any sort of relief for his increasing boredom. And as a few Angband courtiers had long realised, a bored Lieutenant never bode well for anyone.

So it turned out that he — after ignoring the sour mood of his lover and retreating to his study — Mairon had an idea in which to channel his sudden burst of creativity. And perhaps Melkor should not have told him off earlier, and perhaps Mairon should been used to the swinging moods of the Vala but really he was simply taken by inspiration — and a slight penchant for pranks he might have kept from his time spent in friendship with Ossë, long ago.

And so once he was done working on it and gushing about his cleverness and genius — and having two Orcs repeat these same words exactly to him (the satisfaction of a well done job was the sweetest when covered with praises. Even if he had to force them out of his armies lately.) — he climbed back to the top floor where he and Melkor shared living quarters, to set things in motion.

The small contraption was made of dark metal and carefully woven limbs spanning the opposite sides of its round body. 8 legs, each articulated and built for great speed as well as flexibility to climb on various surface. A cubic luminous shape sat upon it, its golden halo gentle and warm — unlike the blazing cursed light of those stupid jewels his lover was so enamoured with (no Mairon did not want to discuss this particular topic.)

It was really a glorious creation, a light spider. He chuckled in amusement at how it was the opposite of Ungoliant and her unlight even if the shape of his creation bore the same likeness, albeit on a far smaller scale.

The thing was, Mairon had wanted to prank Melkor out of boredom and humour. What he had forgotten to take into account was the Vala's newfound hatred and fear of spiders (not that he would dare say this to his lover's face. Melkor and fear were a touchy subject. Well, one of many).

And so when the high pitch shrill came from his room followed by a loud banging noise, more screams and what definitely sound like broken furniture, Mairon knew he had to think fast.

The room had been trashed into ruins while Melkor swing Grond around with a panicked wild flash in his eyes and the poor spider was tucked on top of the huge wardrobe that took half the space of the northern wall.

"Mairon! Kill this thing!!"

He really did not want, the little thing was very cute with her own luminous body but one shattered window later and Melkor was now using ice to attempt to freeze the poor thing. And failing miserably at proper aiming. And by the 4th attempt of Mairon trying to coax the small thing to him to remove it safely to his study and then forced to realise it had now grew sentient (yes well he was proud of this too) and seemed determine to persecute his lover by chasing him down the hallway, Gothmog and another Valarauka had offered their help. Delicateness was not a balrog trait and by the end of the struggle — weeks later, half of the living quarters of Anbgand had been laid to waste.

Less to say that — extensive material damage aside— Mairon was not surprised at all when he was later sent to retake Tol Sirion by himself.

Still. It had been worth it.

[glitchtricks94]

Picked Your Poison

Vil Schoenheit x Tomboy!Reader

Welcome to my first fic here. I don't have access to playing the games and I'm still working through watching the translations. Please be gentle and let me know your thoughts, and if you have any tips, they'd be greatly appreciated, with that, I hope you enjoy and I'll hopefully see you sometime next millennia, take care of yourselves, peeps. -GlitchTricks *Gender Neutral Pronouns used!* *JP Terms used! (Madol, dorm leaders, etc...)* Word count: 5.1k Vil was at the end of his rope. He was losing his mind from your antics, your messiness and just...everything that makes you, you. It drove him insane as he plotted out the points where he felt everything he had regarding you as a simple potato with next to no worth to him began to steadily crumble to dust.

First, you assaulted his sleep. Many nights went by that the ever so famous actor/model where he poured over his thoughts of you. Vil would lie awake under his various covers, staring up at the canopy curtains that hung over him with a scrunched up expression, perfect, plush lips pressed into a fine line, his jaw clenched tightly alongside his hands. The blonde had gone to bed at curfew, 10 p.m. as per usual. Yet now the clock had just ticked over to midnight, Vil still lying awake. His mind was refusing to quell itself into the soothing emptiness he was normally able to achieve via some simple meditation. Any thoughts he'd cleared out had been replaced by the annoyingly endearing Ramshackle prefect; the sweet smiles, the obnoxious laughter, the pure strength when they played sports with the other students, all of it drove him wild in what he considered to be the worst ways possible. Vil sat up, letting out a groan at what he was perceiving to yet another sleepless night, seeing as how you've waged war on his brain, yet again. The blonde pondered getting some sleep aid medications, but ultimately decided against it. He couldn't risk putting anything he hadn't researched thoroughly enough to ensure the upkeep of his beauty. It might ruin everything he's worked for! And just who did you think you were, stealing his beauty sleep from him, you...you...you pathetically cute potato! Vil gripped at his hair and slammed his back down on his mattress, a groan slipping past his lips. "Stupid potato. They aren't even that special, why are they invading my mind?" Vil mumbled to himself, turning and staring at his disheveled form; tousled hair, bright lavender eyes filled with frustration, and perfect, snow white skin practically glowing in the soft moonlight that infiltrated the room, soft yellows and pinks coloring parts of his wall. He thought he looked terrible at the moment until the tiny voice that had resided in the back of his head spoke up, yet again, much to his dismay. "They'd say you look stunning like always though, wouldn't they?" "Yes...yes, they would tell me such kind words..." He whispered to himself, breaking the staring contest he held with his reflection, slowly starting to relax as he dove deep into his thoughts once more. Vil spent another night falling into sweet fantasies of holding you close to him as he did his makeup for another day at Night Raven College, your honey sweet voice whispering sweet nothing of love and soft compliments of adoration to him, a ghost of a smile appearing on the blonde's lips. He finally felt himself falling into a sweet decent into sleep, just as the clock changed to 4 a.m. The male had to wake up in less than two hours to go on his usual morning run before indulging in a healthy smoothie and having a cheat day waffle with cinnamon and strawberries. Oh, what hell he has had the past week with you crashing into his sleep schedule...

Second, you ended up ruining his skin care efforts. A loud scream permeated the glorious halls of Pomefiore. Vil had awoken and checked himself in the mirror, finding a small set of three pimples sitting on her perfectly sculpted cheek, the dorm leader looking mortified. Grabbing his concealer, Vil swiftly went to work covering up the bright red dots that ruined his complexion, the filthy blemishes now hidden under a small pile of makeup. The man was livid. All of these sleepless nights have finally caught up to him and ruined his complexion! How dare you ruin his skin by invading his mind every night! Vil felt as though he had every right to punish you for your crimes against his beauty routine. The blonde glared at his reflection with his teeth bared as Rook rushed into the room, his normally perfectly combed hair a rat's nest and his poisoned apple themed pajamas sitting on his broad frame. "Roi de Poison, whatever is the matter?! it must be monumental to cause you to strain your vocal cords in such a cry!" The eccentric hunter exclaimed, looking at Vil with worry. "The prefect has ruined my skin! They've been keeping me up night after night, flooding my brain with useless thoughts of them and now my skin care routines need to be doubled, no, tripled to make up for the disgusting acne they caused!" Vil exclaimed angrily, turning to Rook with a fire in his eyes. "Go get cleaned up this instant! We have planning to do." Rook's signature, stoic smile came to his face as he clasped his hand over his heart, overwhelmingly charmed by this side of the beautiful being that was Vil Schoenheit; the fire in his eyes and dark furious expression on his face, the way his lips curled up to reveal his teeth; si belle! "As you wish, Roi de Poison, I shall aid you in concocting the perfect plan to use against the prefect of Ramshackle!" Rook said, looking at Vil with pure admiration. "Surely they must pay for destroying such beauty, although, you still look simply magnifique with your silky locks, perfect eyes, enchanting frame-" "Rook, shut up, and get dressed for the day this instant! I am not in the mood for flattery! I want that prefect's heart on a silver platter." Vil snarled, Rook simply chuckling with glee as he conceded and slipped away to attend to his own appearance. Vil turned back to the mirror, glaring at the spots that were so perfectly hidden on his cheek, vowing to make you pay for such disgrace.

Third, you somehow ruined his plans and caught another potato's eye. Vil's little plan had gone awry, the small potion he had mixed with some apple juice he had given to you had been drank by a Savanaclaw student you had gotten close with during the times you'd try and join in on Magift practice with Ruggie. The strange, rather revolting potato of a student instantly got a breakout on his face and groaned in annoyance. The dorm leader felt his heart squeeze with frustration and a cruel jealousy encapsuled his mind as he saw you ever so kindly comfort your friend, who looked at you like you were an angel sent from the stars. How dare that disgusting individual eye up something that was clearly supposed to be his! "Hey, man, don't worry, it's just a little acne. I managed to get a hold of some stuff to help get rid of that." Your sweet, kindly voice cooed. "Besides, ain't a little acne normal?" "Yeah, I guess so, still super annoying though..." The student replied, brown hair slightly swaying as he turned to look at you, brown eyes glistening in relief before you both snapped to attention at Leona's shout. "That's it, break it up, no mushy shit allowed here." Leona yelled, tossing a broom at that acne ridden potato. "Kastor, you and the prefect are gonna be riding the broom together, don't fuck this up." "Y-Yes, Dorm Leader!" Kastor nervously spoke, catching the broom that the lion threw. Vil couldn't believe what he was hearing, what he was seeing as he watched on with an expression of horror. As much as he adored the sounds of your laughter, the yells of victory you shared with Epel, that radiant smile on your face, he couldn't stand seeing you cozy up to Kastor Wayne of all people. It made his polished skin crawl with jealousy and disgust. You were laughing and giggling at jokes he made during the break, his shyer, quieter demeanor seemingly endearing you to his filthy charms. Isn't he aware of how unworthy he is of your time? How Vil himself would be a better companion and potential lover to you than that pathetic potato ever could?! He couldn't take anymore of this. He was furious about this and stomped out of the stadium where the Magift club always practiced, deciding that the club activities for Film Appreciation will be centered around how to take down an enemy, as well as the techniques actors and directors used to achieve the effects. He'd be imagining that he was slaying and cursing Kastor during the examples of this.

Vil sighed as he remembered those disgusting, longing looks that Wayne had sent you, the cunning expression on his face as he tried to be personable with your friends, specifically Epel. The country born child, however, had no interest and even openly saw Kastor trying to flirt with you. Ace started to act like your brother and barked about how if Kastor wanted to date you, he'd have to go through him first and get his approval, the little racoon thing you roomed with jumping in and agreeing. Vil couldn't hide his smirk when he witnessed that lunchtime debacle, seeing that ruffian get shut down hard when he was trying to squeeze in on your territory. Even now, a triumphant smile graced Vil's lips at the sweet memory of Wayne's proper humiliation. Serve's him just right for trying to mess with his potato. Vil froze with his train of thought, snapping back to reality as he stared at his reflection, his deep royal purple eyeliner perfectly done up in a thick cat eye style. When did he start thinking of you as his? Vil didn't know how to feel about this, his glossy lips pursing together as he gripped his vanity. Reflecting on his actions, he realized he was also putting more effort into his appearance, and not because you gave him a small breakout a little while ago, but because you seemed to poke your head in Pomefiore often. You always brushed off any questions from Rook about it, saying you were studying with Epel before darting away from Vil's trusted vice dorm leader, hiding away from those emerald eyes the hunter had. Rook never took offense, but rather, he confided to both Vil and Epel that he found such anticks by you terribly endearing. "The Trickster's cute expressions are an absolute delight, they run away like a little mouse after speaking with me! Hmhmhm~!" That is usually what Rook exclaims while sipping tea in the lounge of Pomefiore. The dorm leader was starting to get lost in his thoughts again when he heard a knock on his door, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow raising as he turned his attention to the entrance to his room. "Who is it?" He called out, breath hitching when he heard your voice. "Hey, Vil, it's me! Can I talk to you for a minute?" You called out, your chirpy tone permeating Vil's ears and making him internally panic. It was times like this that he blessed the day he decided to become an actor.

"Give me a moment, little spudling, I'm in the middle of fixing my hair!" Vil called back, the prefect letting out a sound of understanding.

It wasn't quite a lie, Vil did still have to get his hair just so with his crown resting elegantly on his head, pride in his appearance rolling off him in waves. "I'll see you in the longue, alright?"

"Sure thing, your highness!" You replied, giggling to yourself at the nickname you picked out for him. Vil smiled softly hearing your joyous voice calling out to him in such a manner, it was like music to his ears. He actually quite liked that particular nickname too; you bestowed it upon him after mentioning he looked like royalty. "Since you always look like royalty in your uniform, I guess I should refer to you as such, yeah?" Your sweet, little voice giggled, a wide smirk on your face as you took in Vil's expression of surprise before he let out a chuckle, the blonde setting his teacup on its saucer as he sat back against the plush couch of the Pomefiore lounge. "Yes, I suppose you should, little potato."

Vil smiled again at the memory, fixing up his silky locks to their usual style, his hair shimmering softly in the light as he framed his features before carefully placing his crown on his head. He looked over his appearance in the mirror before nodding his head in satisfaction.

"Perfect." He whispered to himself before he left his room, head held high as he strode down the hall, heels clacking against the polished floors.

Vil couldn't deny the excitement that roared through his veins as he drew closer to the lounge, soft laughter soon filling his ears as he entered, catching sight of you and Epel playing around. The smaller boy was laughing and fighting against you as you held him in a soft headlock, messing up his hair with your fist, noogying your fellow first year affectionately.

Well, wasn't this infuriating? Vil had personally helped Epel style those messy locks of his into something somewhat pretty, even if his appearance was more cute and doll-like, much to Vil's annoyance: and now, here you were, prefect. Messing up all that hard work yet again!

The beautiful man couldn't hold such things against you though. That troublesome smile on your face where the apples of your cheeks rose to make those bright eyes crease with joy was a sight worth seeing. He'll let Epel off the hook this time since he was to thank for such a sight.

"Hey, c'mon, cut it out, prefect!" Epel complained through his laughter, his country accent and mannerisms slipping out. "You said Vil was meetin' ya here! Lemme go!"

"Nah, no way, Epel! You'll be fine, Vil usually takes awhile to perfect his looks, remember?" You replied playfully, laughing alongside the lavender locked boy.

"Well, I do try to take ample time to appear presentable at the highest regard." Vil spoke up, stepping deeper into the lounge and moving to stand before you and his underclassman, his hands on his hips. "However, it seems I cannot say the same for you, prefect, Felmier."

"D-Dorm leader! I-I can explain, truly, I-" Epel began to stammer, pulling out of your loosened grip with a frightened expression on his face, his tousled hair sticking up in all directions as he looked up at his dorm head. You looked up at Vil owlishly, your own hair messy as hell, as per usual. Well, perhaps not as messy as it normally was…You had managed to make it even more of a mess.

"Now, now, none of that, Epel. For once, you'll be getting off easy since I have business with the prefect. Go find Rook and have him fix your hair, then you are free to go until your lessons later this evening. Am I clear?" Vil said sternly, looking at Epel like how a mother would scold her children.

"Y-yes, Dorm leader! Thank you, dorm leader!" Epel cried, getting up and rushing out oy the room, harsh footsteps following after him. Vil tutted as he turned to look at you, his breath hitching silently as he took in how your eyes were looking at him, full of awe and wonder. "Prefect." Vil spoke, looking down at you. "Yes, your highness?" "Your hair is absolutely deplorable. Come, let's get you-" Vil paused, narrowing his eyes as he looked at your hair, his eyes widening. "Are those twigs in your hair?!" "Oh, yeah. I was climbing some trees earlier on a dare from Ace. Riddle was, uh, not too happy about me doin' that." You replied, grinning sheepishly at the Dorm Leader, who just sighed. "Must you always be this messy?" Vil asked, taking your wrist in his hand and dragging you back to his room where he could properly address the rat's nest on your head. Sitting you down at his vanity, Vil skillfully removed the tiny branches that were knotted into your hair, scolding you, however, it was all going in one ear and out the other for you. You were far too focused on Vil Schoenheit's glorious figure behind you, eyes trained on his beautiful form in the mirror as he tended to your tangled locks, nimble fingers brushing out knots before picking up some sort of hair product and a brush. You snapped out of any trance the Pomefiore student held over you when you felt the brush hit your hair, making a sharp yelp spring forth from your throat as the bristles got caught on a knot in the middle of Vil's stroke. "See! This is what I meant! Climbing through all those branches without tying your hair back will cause hideous knots to form!" Vil huffed in annoyance, his chastising tone rubbing you the wrong way. "Well, excuse me, princess!" You huffed, pouting slightly. "Last I checked, I don't always have twenty five different beauty products shoved up my ass at all times, so do forgive me for actually going off and having a bit of fun." "The audacity you carry, little potato." Vil huffed, trying to brush out the knots in your hair without yanking your hair like before, holding your matted locks in hand as he ran the brush through. "You're lucky I rather enjoy your company, I don't do this for just anyone." "Yeah, I know." You said, mood perking up at Vil's more gentle care began peaking out again. "Epel complains about how you pick on him." Vil scoffed, rolling his eyes as you let out a warm laugh, his own smile coming to his face as the beautiful dorm leader ran his fingers through your now silky smooth locks. Plucking a bottle off his vanity, he spritzed you with a rich, fruity smelling perfume; black cherries, raspberries, and caramel praline filled your senses and fluttered around you, clinging to your neck and shoulders. "There, now you look much better, my little potato." The blonde spoke, looking at you with pride. "Picture perfect, as per usual." You replied, winking at Vil's reflection, the actor's smile rising again as you injected that sweet, diamond in the rough personality into him once more. Honestly, at this point, Vil could be utterly addicted to you, if only you hadn't had so many undesirables thinking they could hold a candle to him. "But of course, spudling, you must look perfect if you are ever to be hanging on my arm." Vil said proudly, earning a surprised gaze from you. "Hanging on your arm? What do you mean by that?" "Oh, don't worry your little head over it, potato. Simply a phrase I use here and there." Vil hummed, waving off your concerns. Internally, however, he was screaming, crying and shaking in humiliation at uttering such a slip up. "Uhm...okay?" You spoke, giving the blonde a strange look. "So, anyways, I had a question for you." "Is that so? Well, I suppose I could spare you more of my time, though I do hope you'll make it quick." "Yeah, yeah, I know you're busy." You laughed before you felt your nerves kick in.

Was this really your best idea? No. Were at all confident? Fuck no. Were you still gonna go through with it? Duh, Ace bet you fifty madol, that's good money and you were poor. "I was actually wondering if you'd like to, maybe go on a date with me?"

Cue record scratch. Vil was looking at you like you had grown two heads on either shoulder; his pupils constricted, hand up at his chest like you just shot him, and an utter look of abhorrence written on his features. You weren't winning this bet, and you were currently cussing out Ace in a way that'd make sailors all over the globe blush at your word choices in your head. "Would you like to go on a date with me?" You reiterated, nervously looking to the side before you heard Vil let out a huff. Refocusing on him, you see the gloriously beautiful man frowning at you, his hands on his hips. "Really? That's how you decide to ask me out, prefect?" He asked indignantly. "Uh, yeah? How else are you supposed to ask the most attractive guy on campus out?" You replied, folding your arms over your chest, mirroring Vil's energy. He scoffed at your bratty behavior.

"Prefect, surely you understand the issue here?" "No. Please, enlighten this poor, unkempt potato, your majesty." "It wasn't that you asked me out, but how." Vil stated, acting as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "You come in, only baring a hideously messy hairstyle and your charms, nothing to really entice; no flowers, no sweets, not even a love letter! Really, prefect, what were you expecting, putting so little effort into anything?" "I don't know! I was expecting you to laugh and brush it off like other people asking you out!" You exclaimed, now feeling thoroughly wrung out. That tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and all those shitty romcoms Cater and Malleus had gifted you actually sound pretty good right now: all you wanted to do was hide and not come out. "Oh please, I usually verbally lacerate those potatoes, you're quite lucky I'm even considering taking you up on such an offer." Vil huffed, looking down at you with his head held high. "Wait, did you just-" "I'll gladly go out with you, darling, however, I shall be treating you since I know that furry little racoon you live with eats through your funds. I'll be choosing where we go to eat, our outfits and the like." Vil explained, folding his arms and closing his eyes. If you squinted, you could see the lightest of pinks appearing on his cheeks. "I'll simply message you all the details, my dear, you need not worry over such matters. Am I clear?" "You're actually gonna go out with me?!" You exclaimed, looking at Vil with wide eyes, your jaw slack, Vil opening his eyes and pressing two fingers under your chin to close your mouth. "But, of course, darling. This is a gem of an opportunity, and with a few touch ups, you'll be as beautiful as a lotus blossom." Vil said, his voice holding a certain warmth you don't ever recall him using with you. "Although, it will be a few weeks until we can actually go out, but I'll make sure to dedicate the entire night to you when the time comes." "I...uh...w-wow, I didn't- Gosh, this was just- You don't really-" "Hush, spudling. I'll take care of everything, you go on back to your little friends now if that's all you needed of me." Vil cooed, trailing his fingers along your hairline and tucking a stray lock behind your ear. You didn't know how to respond, any of your usual remarks having died on your tongue as you nodded dumbly, allowing Vil to guide you out of Pomefiore with a soft hand on the small of your back. By the time you came back from your little daydream land, you were sat in Ace and Deuce's shared room with the rest of your friends, Grim purring on your lap while you ran your fingers along the grain of his fur.

"So, prefect, where's the fifty ya owe me now?" Ace asked teasingly, earning a punch in the shoulder from Deuce. "Don't say things like that Ace, the prefect's been silent since they got back! They could be dealing with heartbreak!" The dark haired first year said angrily, trying to defend your honor, the sweetheart. "I'm not sure that's the face of someone who's heartbroken, guys." Epel chimed in, looking at your flushed complexion. "Wait...so...I'm not dreaming right now?" You finally spoke, looking around at your fellow first years. "No? What gave you that indication, prefect?" Jack asked, his ears flicking as he tilted his head in confusion at you. "I actually got a date with Vil. He said he'd take care of the setting up everything and then text me the details." "What?! Bullshit, no way he'd do that, you know how far up his own ass he is!" Ace exclaimed. "Language, human! Such vulgarities are-" "Shut up, Sebek, bitch is spillin' tea!" Epel barked, his country accent slipping out as he looked at you, cutting the Diasomnia student off. You sighed, and patted Sebek on the shoulder as you got to your feet, Grim cradled in your arm. "It's fine, Sebek, didn't expect the idiots to believe me, anyways." "I believe it, Vil's nuts over you." Epel said, Jack humming in agreement. "He often stares at you when we're at lunch, I've caught him scowling too." Jack hummed, folding his arms. "He seemed rather happy when Ace and Grim ran off Kastor." "I was ready to pummel that guy, he practically drooled over the prefect..." Deuce sighed, shaking his head. "Wayne's chill, but super not my type." You said, wrinkling your nose. "Yeah, ya like pretty boys." Ace snicked, earning an backhanded slap from Sebek. "Silence. Why do any of you care about the prefects romantic life?" The half fae asked. "Because life's boring and tea is tea." Epel replied, earning an eyeroll from everyone. "Alright, ladies, that's enough gossip, y'all lost your tea privileges. Except for Sebek and Jack, they were good to me." You spoke, earning shocked and betrayed expression from Ace, Deuce and Epel. "What the fuck, we share a club, dude!" Epel whined. "I'm not an official member, lack of magic, so I can't quite play Magift like you guys. Besides, I visit everyone else." "They're actually quite good with the hurdles and long jumps in track and field." Deuce said, perking up slightly. "And they're half decent at basketball, great distraction for Floyd." Ace snickered, earning a glare. "And you whine about me not showing up enough." You sighed, starting towards the door. "Well, Grim and I have to be on our way, gotta study, or in Grim's case, stuff his face with tuna." "Hey, I don't always eat!" Your monster friend barked. "You're literally the reason why we're almost always broke, you're lucky that I know how to cook and grow shit to eat." You huffed as you walk down the hallway of Heartslabyul. Ace turned to Epel, grinning. "So, you got any details?" The readhead asked, earning a groan from the country kid. "I ain't sayin' shit, I like being alive." "Aw, come on!" ==============================================

A few hours had passed since you had left your gossip hungry friends to starve. Head buried in your textbook, you raked your eyes over words your brain simply refused to absorb, the words seemingly blending together after two straight hours of studying with no breaks. A groan tumbled from your throat as you marked your page and closed the book, slamming your head on the desk, the seedling for another migraine being planted. Another groan of annoyance sounded as your phone chimed. Slapping your hand on the device, you checked the messages and allowed a tired smile to come to your face. Vil had apparently arranged for a simple, or what he had deemed as simple, spa date in the Afterglow Savannah. You didn't quite know how to feel about so much cash being dumped on you, but you supposed you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. You messaged a confirmation, and then got back to work, now simply left to wait for the date to come forth and shower you with the spoils of your gall. Vil, on the other hand, felt like he had landed the best role in his entire career! It wasn't exactly everyday that he got to impress his precious potato with his prowess as a potential lover, and ever since he saw Kastor trying to worm his way onto your heart, he's been hungry for an opportunity to present itself. How ironic that it'd be you gifting such a thing to his heart. All Vil had to do now is ensure that this date will destroy any possibilities for any competing suitor by decimating them purely through his own charms and romantic repertoire. Simple, non? Vil felt his confidence skyrocket when you asked him out, the blonde relishing in how your eyes were only on him during the moment, even if your method was a bit bland, but it didn't matter because it was still all you. He couldn't deny that you asking him on a date was what he had been dreaming of for more than the past two weeks, so this was simply golden. The only annoying thing was that Vil now had to deal with the giddiness that would be wracking his bones for the next three weeks, given all the photoshoots his agent had lined up for him. "Damn Bernard, why must he always make things so perfectly lined up in the worst ways possible?" Vil huffed to himself as he looked through his schedule, his eyes staring longingly at the date of yours and his romantic spa day. However, all of this only steeled his resolve. He was going to push through anything and everything to make you his, as was the natural tenacity of a Pomefiore dorm member. Vil Schoenheit had picked his poison, and he was going to down the vial and take whatever consequences that followed, for his heart demanded such a sacrifice for his star.

[foreveranevilregal]

Hii! I just started reading ur stuff and love it!❤️❤️

So if u dont mind can u do one where antonio wanders off with his animals and its up to mirabel and the rest of the family to find him?

Thanks!! Keep it up love these😍😍❤️

Hi, thank you so much! I appreciate that a lot! I'm sorry this took so long...I've had some writer's block but hopefully it's over now. Hope you like this!

Dinnertime in the Madrigal family tended to be a chaotic affair. With the various family members busy helping around town or running errands all day, it was a wonder they could eat together at all. But Alma insisted, and Julieta agreed, that they should try to eat together as a family. So, one way or another, they’d find their way back to their casita by dinnertime.

Usually, this involved some level of hunting people down. The Madrigals would rarely all be congregated at home by the time dinner rolled around, as their gifts and abilities were useful around town. Demand for them to use their gifts for others’ benefit had definitely lessened since they got their gifts back; the townspeople had learned how to take care of many things independently in the intervening months and were trying to keep it that way. But there were always new parents who needed rest and appreciated Camilo’s babysitting services for a stint. Or farmers needing some intervention when inclement weather struck. Or people with grave injuries in need of healing (Julieta and Isabela had taken it upon themselves to teach people some more basic healing techniques using plants and herbs after realizing just how burned out the two of them were). Or those stubborn donkeys that just kept getting out…

By the time Julieta announced dinner was ready, the kitchen was usually abuzz with inquiries as to people’s whereabouts and requests to get them back home, all overlapping in glorious cacophony.

“Dolores, go find your brother.”

“Where is he, mamá?”

“I’m not sure…last I heard he was helping señor Gonzalez who threw out his back fix his roof.”

“Wait, why wouldn’t Luisa help?”

“I think she was dealing with some other crisis at the time- where is Luisa anyway?”

“I’m right here, tía, what’s going on?”

“We’re looking for Camilo.”

“Well you found him!”

“Ay, Milo, that isn’t funny! You’re gonna give your poor mamá a heart attack!”

“Camilo, stop changing into your cousins.”

“Sorry, papá…”

“We still don’t know where Luisa is.”

“I’m right here, tía.”

“That’s not funny, Camilo.”

“I’m over here, mamá.”

“Ayyyy, who else is still missing?”

“Well, Antonio was helping me with the donkeys, is he back yet?”

“Antonio!”

Everyone stopped running abruptly, bumping into each other. Camilo winced, rubbing his forehead which had unfortunately hit Luisa’s side in the mayhem. Isabela picked up the shards of the plate she broke after colliding with Dolores. The latter mumbled an awkward apology, cradling her own elbow gingerly. Mirabel was off to the side, assessing the damage. Thankfully, the food had been spared, but otherwise the kitchen looked like a tornado had passed through it.

Judging by Pepa’s erratic breathing, this wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She leaned against the counter, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white, and squeezed her eyes shut. A breeze batted around the loose tendrils of her hair as she tried desperately to calm herself.

“Antonio was helping you with the donkeys?” She repeated weakly, fanning her face with her hand.

Luisa nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. It was his idea actually. He figured it would be easier to corral the donkeys if he talked to them rather than having me carry them around town.” She stretched her arm carefully, groaning after a point. “I ran into him after finishing up moving the bridge, again, and he could see my shoulder was hurting me, so he volunteered to take care of the donkeys himself.”

Julieta let out a soft gasp, covering her open mouth with her hand. “You got hurt, Lu? Why didn’t you say anything, querida?” Turning around, she rummaged around the basket by the door and fished out a buñuelo. “Here.” She held it out towards her daughter.

Luisa shrugged, accepting the proffered food and taking a bite. She gave her arm another tentative stretch, sighing in relief when she could actually stretch it all the way. “Thanks, mamá. I guess I didn’t think it was that bad? I figured I’d just take some of your food later, like I always do,” she added as an afterthought.

“Like you always-“ Julieta started incredulously, but was interrupted by Pepa holding up her hand.

“Luisa, I’m sorry you got hurt, and you shouldn’t be trying to hide it, but right now my son is missing.” She clapped her hands to emphasize her point. “Can we continue this conversation after we’ve found him?”

Julieta nodded her acquiescence, but her lips pressed together in a thin line. “We’ll talk about this later, Luisa,” she said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Let’s go find Antonio.”

Haphazardly, the Madrigals made their way outside and followed Luisa as she led them through town.

“Okay, last I saw him was by señor Martinez’s house, but he was heading towards the runaway donkeys, which were by the church,” Luisa narrated to herself, turning decisively to the right.

“It makes a lot more sense for Antonio to deal with them, seeing as he can just talk to them,” Mirabel commented. “Why did anyone even think it was a good idea to make you haul them around on your back when Antonio could just convince them to go home?”

“Because they are tontos who don’t think, just like they can’t fix that stupid gate once and for all so the donkeys stop getting out in the first place,” Pepa muttered under her breath darkly, nostrils flaring as she continued marching under her heavy cloud.

“Ay, Pepa, don’t speak like that,” Alma scolded halfheartedly. “We should be kind to our neighbors.”

“They can start by being kind and not sending my children on fool’s errands. Then I’ll reconsider striking their yards with a lightning bolt. Idiotas…” Pepa kept up a steady stream of curses and insults under her breath, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“She has a point, mamá.” Julieta placed her hand on Alma’s shoulder gently. “That gate has been loose for ages and no one has bothered to fix it. Wouldn’t it be much easier to fix it once than to ask us to bring the donkeys back all the time?”

“The town has kind of been taking advantage of the Madrigal gifts now that they’re back,” Agustín pointed out quietly. “Running to the family for help anytime something goes even slightly wrong. I try not to, but even I go to Julieta more often than I should.” He looked down in shame.

“Shh, amor, it’s not your fault you’re so allergic to bees.” Julieta patted his cheek affectionately. “Or that you keep finding them.”

“They’re everywhere!”

“He is right though.” Félix spoke up. He held Pepa protectively in his arms as they walked. “How many times do people ask for Luisa’s help instead of trying to figure out another way? And how often would people beg Bruno for visions rather than just plan their lives? Or ask you to heal the smallest of injuries? I get that paper cuts can be annoying but they’re not so bad to need magical healing, ¿eh?” He raised his hands with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

“I suppose you’re right…” Alma trailed off, frowning.

“And what about Isa, having to conjure up plants all the time?” Mirabel chimed in. “Or Camilo, pulling babysitting duty constantly? Dolores, always having to keep an ear out for news? And poor tía Pepa! Anytime the weather isn’t what people want, she’s expected to make it up. ‘Make it sunny, make it rain, we don’t care how, just make it happen!’” She imitated mockingly. “Is it any wonder she made a hurricane on her wedding day?”

“I’m about to make a hurricane right now if we don’t find Antonio soon,” Pepa threatened. “Luisa, he has to have brought the donkeys back by now. Why don’t we check back there?”

“Good idea, tía,” she responded, but exchanged an uneasy glance with her mother, eyes darting towards the lightning now lining Pepa’s cloud. Clearly the two agreed that it would not be a good idea to bring Pepa within striking distance of the donkeys’ enclosure.

By this point, night had begun to fall. Pepa’s anxiety became even more palpable; wringing her hands and breaking away from the group, walking briskly in front of them. She stopped abruptly, narrowly avoiding another multi-Madrigal collision. “Dolores. Can you try to hear where he is?”

Dolores furrowed her brow. “I can try. It’s noisy tonight though. I’ll need to focus.”

“Please, Lola.” Pepa begged, shaking her shoulder. “I realize we ask too much of you, of each other really, but this is important.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just said it’s noisy.” Dolores closed her eyes and screwed up her face, concentrating. “I can make out his voice. It’s coming from that direction.” She pointed.

“By the river?” Alma sounded doubtful. “Why would he go there?” A shadow passed over her face.

Dolores shrugged. “It can be a nice place to go think.”

“You like to go there too?” Isabela asked her curiously.

Dolores nodded. “Wait, ‘too’? You go to the river?”

“I like to look at the plants. Ones I don’t have to create. They’re beautiful.”

“It’s calm and peaceful there,” Julieta said. “Away from the hustle and bustle of town…”

“No one telling you how to feel...”

“No one telling you what to do…”

“You can just…exist.” Mirabel exhaled.

Alma stared at all of them in turn. “Are you telling me all of you like to go to the river? And you never ran into each other?”

“I’d go when I didn’t hear anyone there,” Dolores explained.

“I preferred to go in the early mornings,” Julieta admitted.

“And I’d go late at night,” Pepa added.

“I’d go when people were too busy to notice I was gone.” Isabela shrugged.

“Me too, except it was easier for me. No one really cared if I was gone.”

A heavy silence hung after Mirabel’s admission.

“Mira…” Julieta brushed the hair out of her face. “You know that’s not true, right? Of course we care. Ay, after Casita fell, I almost died of worry.” She shuddered at the memory.

“I know, mamá.” Mirabel smiled at her reassuringly. “Things were different before though.”

“As much as I love this touching moment, can we go find Antonio now?” Pepa cut in, a frantic edge to her voice. “It’s dark, and he’s all by himself.” She started walking again, and the rest followed suit.

“Maybe not.” Dolores tilted her head towards the river. “Someone is with him. I hear him talking with Antonio.”

“Ay, Dios…” Pepa ground her teeth. “Mi pobrecito Antonio, out there all alone with no one to protect him.”

“From tío Bruno?” Dolores laughed. “That’s who’s with him, you know.”

“Wait.” Everyone did a double take. “He’s not with us?”

“How did we all miss that?” Agustín wondered.

“He wasn’t with us at home either,” Félix observed.

“I guess we’re not used to him being back yet?” Mirabel offered in explanation. “Since none of us noticed he wasn’t here?”

“He also liked to sneak off before he…” Alma cleared her throat. “Sometimes I thought his gift was invisibility, the way he’d just disappear.”

Pepa pressed on, undeterred. “Come on, guys. We’re almost there.”

“You heard the lady!” Félix waved his hand as he bounded over the hill and joined Pepa in running down to the riverbank.

Antonio was indeed there, with some very strange company. Bruno sat on the ground, cross-legged, and an assortment of creatures surrounded them. Half a dozen rats danced on what appeared to be a makeshift stage. A couple capybaras were chilling in the water. And, as always, Antonio’s jaguar, Parce, lounged lazily nearby.

“Antonio!” Pepa exclaimed, nearly tackling the child as she enveloped him in her arms.

“Mamá! What are you doing here?” Antonio asked curiously.

“Ay Toñito, we’ve been looking for you for so long! You missed dinner, and it’s dark out now.” She peppered his face with kisses aggressively, pulling away suddenly. “What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t realize it had gotten so late,” Antonio defended, wiping his face off with his arm. “Tío Bruno and I came down here after I finished helping Luisa with the donkeys- which took like half an hour. Those donkeys sure are stubborn!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, I ran into tío Bruno who was coming down here and wanted me to join him.”

Pepa blinked slowly, eyes drifting from one to the other, trying to absorb all this information. “And the animals?” She asked weakly.

“They just follow me around wherever I go,” Antonio stated matter-of-factly. “Check it out, tío Bruno wrote a new play, and we’ve been rehearsing it together!”

“We?” Félix asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Me and the animals, of course. Well, I’m mostly helping tío Bruno direct, but I think the rats have a good grasp on their parts now.”

The older Madrigals stifled a laugh at his precociousness.

“That’s great, Antonio!” Mirabel smiled at him encouragingly.

“Do you guys want to see?” He looked up at them expectantly. Bruno swiveled around to join him as the rats continued tap dancing across the stage.

“We-“ Everyone looked around, unsure how to respond. Luckily, they were spared the trouble.

Camilo’s stomach gurgled loudly. “Antonio, hermanito, you aren’t the only one who missed dinner. We kind of all missed dinner looking for you.”

“Milo!” Pepa looked at him reproachfully.

“What? It’s true! I’m not supposed to say things that are true? Obviously we were gonna look for you if you’re missing, but we did all miss dinner.”

“He is right, tía.” Luisa spoke up, almost bashfully. “It’s way past dinnertime.”

“Maybe we should all head back and eat,” Julieta suggested. “Then you can show us the play once all our tummies are full.”

“Okay…” Antonio started walking reluctantly. “Come on, Parce.” He waved the jaguar over.

“Oh, he is not coming back with us,” Pepa proclaimed. “Absolutely not.”

“But mamááá, he doesn’t want to be away from me. He’s like my pet.”

“Some people have dogs. You have a jaguar.” Pepa shook her head, rubbing circles over her temples. “Fine,” she relented finally. “But he is not sitting with us at the table.”

“Of course not,” Antonio agreed.

Pepa blinked, not expecting this to be so easy. “Good,” she said firmly.

“He’s too big to fit anyway,” Antonio reasoned. “Now the capybaras…”

“No animals at the table!”

“Not even the toucan?”

“Antonio!”