#is what’s framed as important and the focus of the page

[rainbowangel110]

girl help I realize what I fool I was

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

[bellaveux]

okay but wht if instead of a cheerful reader, theyre serious, strict, and quiet. AND WANDA WOULD BE GOLDEN RETRIEVER TYPE

but oh boy, behind the walls wanda's making reader making noises.

imagine if this is professor! wanda x college student reader too :>

AFTER CLASS | wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: your professor, wanda, asks you to stay behind after class.

content warnings: minors dni! professor!wanda maximoff x student!reader, college au, unspecified age gap, smut!; semi public sex, oral and fingering (r! receiving), multiple orgasms (?), wanda being horny

word count: 3.3k

note: golden retriever gf wanda x black cat!reader im gonna cry (it would also fit the other way around but thinking about wanda being a golden retriever gf is so cute !! )

“Please, meet me after class. I have something important to discuss.”

It was a simple statement — one that you have heard millions of times from this specific professor, who also happened to be your lover. Wanda had developed a somewhat customary routine of asking you, her diligent student and girlfriend, to remain behind after class. The gesture had become so familiar that it had almost taken on an air of expected routine. Wanda's expressive eyes, frequently framed by her glasses, would glint with a mixture of affection and anticipation, while her lips, adorned with a subtle smile, conveyed a tender invitation.

And while you loved being with her, you, ever the dedicated student, found yourself caught in a tug-of-war between your commitment to her academic responsibilities and the allure of being in the presence of your girlfriend. It had become a delicate balancing act, a hesitant dance between your desire to excel in your studies and the yearning to cherish the moments spent with Wanda. Not to mention, she’d often keep you from going to your next class just because her desires for you often left your legs wobbly and your body tired and sleepy, so you’d spend the rest of the day with her, nap in her office for a bit, then she’d let you go to go to your dorm or take you home with her which was what would usually happen.

Sitting in the classroom, you found yourself caught in a tantalizing dichotomy. As your eyes flickered between the pages of your notebook and Wanda, your alluring professor, frustration simmered within you. Another problem. The struggle to concentrate on the subject matter intensified as Wanda commanded the room's attention with effortless grace. Dressed in a form-fitting suit that accentuated her curves and exuded confidence, Wanda possessed an undeniable magnetism that made it near impossible for you to focus on anything else. She always teased you, knowing very well how much you liked it when she left her shirt unbuttoned at the top, only just a hint of her cleavage showing just for you to see. The way Wanda's tailored blazer hugged her slender frame, subtly revealing her silhouette, was both a distraction and a temptation. Your gaze would inadvertently drift from your notes, drawn to the way Wanda's perfectly pressed trousers elongated her legs, highlighting their elegant contours.

With each captivating gesture and poised movement, Wanda effortlessly commanded the attention of the room, her voice carrying an air of intellectual allure. Your heart raced as you observed the subtle nuances of Wanda's expressions, your mind entangled in a constant battle between admiration and yearning.

And it was just as entertaining to Wanda. She loved the way your eyes looked when you stared at her. In every lecture, every discussion, Wanda could feel your eyes, a gaze filled with a mixture of love and curiosity. It delighted her to no end, a secret amusement that sparked joy within her heart. The way your gaze lingered on her, studying her every movement and expression, whispered secrets that words could not convey. It was an intoxicating sensation, the feeling of being the center of someone's world.

And you were quiet; always sitting poised at your desk, diligently taking notes as she spoke, your demeanor radiating an air of reserved seriousness. Your eyes either scanned the pages of your textbook or listened intently with unwavering focus, your every movement exuding a quiet you. You existed as a paradoxical enigma—a reserved, strict, and quiet student whose essence exuded an understated magnetism.

Yet, behind closed doors, Wanda, your passionate and daring lover, held the key to unlocking the dormant passions within you. She was quite the expert in breaking that calm facade of yours. With an intimate understanding of your hidden depths, Wanda possessed the power to awaken the dormant embers, igniting a fiery passion that raged between the two of you. It was in these moments of seclusion that your reserved nature was shed, revealing a vulnerability that echoed through every delicious gasp and moan that escaped your lips.

There were times when Wanda would purposely lock eyes with you, a playful challenge passing between the two of you. In those moments, a silent dialogue unfolded, a dance of shared fascination and unspoken desires. It was a dance that brought a sparkle to Wanda's eyes and quite adorable flush to your cheeks, an unspoken connection that bound you together.

While she had you in her class, she always wished for time to go faster, leading up to the moment when she’d have you alone, all to herself, for her to love you without any interruptions. She thought about you every second of class, missing your touch, your skin, your lips. You’d let her, right? You always do. Because it was her asking.

As the final words of Wanda's lecture echoed in the classroom, your gaze would wander towards the clock, mindful of the ticking seconds that drew you closer to your next class. The familiar request to stay behind reverberated in your ears, accompanied by a soft flutter in your heart. A part of you longed to linger, to bask in the warmth of Wanda's company, to have whispered conversations, to kiss and make love.

“(Y/n). My office,” she said firmly, taking some papers off of her desk before walking through the door of her private workroom.

It was a covert demand, a subtle plea to rendezvous away from prying eyes, to indulge in stolen moments of intimacy.

As the room gradually emptied, Wanda's eyes never wavered from your form, tracing the delicate curves of your face, the softness of your lips, and the sparkle in your eyes as packed your books and papers into your bag. Each passing moment intensified the desire that lay hidden between the two of you, adding a subtle thrill to your secret tryst. Finally, the last student departed, leaving the room bathed in an intimate hush. Wanda's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper as she beckoned you closer, your gazes locking in a knowing exchange.

A conflicted sigh fell from your lips as you stood from your seat and made your way over to where Wanda held the door to her office open for you, watching the sexy sway of your hips as you walked. She had to fight to stop herself from grabbing you, pushing you against a wall, then having her way with you. With practiced composure, Wanda maintained an outward appearance of professionalism, her gaze lingering on you as you stepped inside. But beneath the facade, her heart quickened with anticipation, knowing that she was finally alone with you.

She shut the door and turned around to face you, leaning against it as she watched you.

“What did you want to discuss, professor?” you asked, glancing up at the clock above her window.

You stood in the intimate sanctuary of Wanda's office, the air thick with anticipation and an undercurrent of shared desire. The room, adorned with shelves of books and mementos of scholarly pursuits, seemed to come alive as your presence filled the space. Time seemed to slow, suspended in the charged moment, as your eyes took in every detail, waiting for your girlfriend to reply to your question.

With a bated breath, you turned around, your heart skipping a beat at the sight that awaited you.

There, leaning against the doorframe, was Wanda, a radiant smile adorning her face. The soft light filtering through the window illuminated her features, casting a warm glow upon her. In that instant, time stood still once again, encapsulating the profound affection that emanated from Wanda's loving gaze.

And at that moment, you realized what was coming next.

“Wanda…”

Wanda pushed herself off of the door and unbuttoned her suit jacket before walking towards you and placing her hands on your hips, “Stay. Please?”

“Wanda, I have to get to my next class.”

“No, no, no. Stay,” she pleaded, leaning forward to litter gentle kisses along your jaw down to the side of your neck. “Please, stay. I want you.”

You kept your hands at her shoulders, not sure whether you wanted to push her away or keep her close as she kissed your skin in a way that made your knees go weak.

“No, Wanda—“

“Look, I’ll send an email or a note, or something. I’ll make up some excuse,” she said quickly, shooting you with those puppy eyes that always seemed to get you to agree to whatever she was saying. “Please, baby. I’ll be quick, promise. I’ve been thinking about you all morning.”

And it worked.

You stood before her, your expression a tapestry of conflicted emotions. A sigh escaped your lips once more, a breath laden with a blend of disbelief and surrender. It was a look that spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment that you were about to relinquish control, bending the rules of convention to fulfill Wanda's desire. As you met Wanda's gaze, your eyes betrayed a flicker of disbelief, an incredulous awe that danced within their depths. It was as if the gravity of the moment, the realization that you were about to give in to Wanda's request, weighed upon you like a beautiful burden.

Wanda, on the other hand, couldn't contain her excitement, a radiant joy that illuminated her entire being. The corners of her lips curled upward, revealing a playful and endearing smile. Her eyes sparkled with childlike enthusiasm, mirroring the delight that bubbled within her. Your decision to stay, to sacrifice another class just to be in Wanda's presence, filled her heart with warmth and tenderness.

You glared at her, mumbling softly enough for her to hear, “Don’t rip anything.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Wanda, her eyes sparkling with delight, couldn't help but break into a warm and affectionate smile as she beheld your commitment to grant her deepest desires. With a tender grace, Wanda leaned in, closing the distance between the two of you. Her lips met yours, sighing in relief as you moaned into her mouth.

In the delicate space between your lips, Wanda felt an electric surge of desire coursing through her veins. It wasn’t just the touch of your lips that sparked a radiant smile upon Wanda's face; it was the intoxicating sound that escaped from your mouth, blending seamlessly against her tongue.

You, known for your reserved nature and quiet demeanor, were a symphony of contradictions in that moment. The gentle melody of your moans reverberated against Wanda's lips, a harmonious composition that stirred a wellspring of emotions within both of you. Each sweet, muffled sound that escaped your throat spoke volumes, revealing a side of you that had long been kept hidden from the world. As Wanda smiled into the kiss, she marveled at the power she held over your inhibitions. The way your body trembled against hers, the way your moans seamlessly merged with the shared breaths, all spoke of profound trust and surrender. It was an exquisite revelation, an invitation into the depths of your desires.

In that stolen moment, Wanda tasted not only the sweetness of your lips but also the vulnerability and passion that emanated from within her. Your moans, once silenced in the shadows of your reserved nature, now spilled forth with unbridled intensity. The sounds echoed with a mixture of pleasure, longing, and the liberation of self-expression.

But, soon, Wanda remembered she wasn’t in the confines of her home, where you could be as loud as she wanted. The two of you were still in her office, a private room within her lecture hall — a room that was definitely not soundproof.

Wanda sighed, whispering against your lips, “I want to taste you.”

You almost felt lightheaded with the way she began to kiss you behind your ear, down to the curve of your neck, and her hands sneaking their way under your shirt and underneath your skirt, pulling them up roughly. Wanda pushed you with her body until your backside hit the front of her desk, groaning when you clawed at her jacket.

“Try to stay quiet for me, baby,” she said, her hands playing at the hem of your skirt. “Okay?”

You nodded quickly, reaching up to put a hand on her hair, tugging at it lightly just the way she likes it, “Yeah.”

Wanda smiled once again and gave you another searing kiss before she slowly made her way down to her knees. She knelt, her face leveled with your skirt as she pushed your hips against the desk, holding you still. After a moment of enjoying the way you gripped onto her hair lightly even when she hadn’t began doing anything yet, Wanda let her hands run along the back of your soft thighs, trailing them upwards to your ass as she hooked your lace panties on her thumbs. She also remembered her promise, fighting the urge to rip your panties right off of you.

“Did you dress up all pretty for me, baby?” She smiled against the fabric of your skirt, slow hands pulling your underwear off, then stuffing them into her back pocket for safekeeping.

“Mhmm,” was all you could muster out as you stared down at Wanda.

“Of course, you did,” she looked up at you with a sly smile. “Makes it so easy for me to fuck you.”

Her fingers slip through your folds softly, coating them with your slick. She made you watch as she brought her fingers up to her lips, letting her mouth wrap around her own digits, groaning at the taste of you on her tongue. And you could see it — how wet you were. It dripped along her rings, down the back of her hand, and to the watch on her wrist.

Before you could even protest, Wanda’s head disappeared under your skirt, eyes finally meeting the gorgeous sight of your beautiful cunt. She didn’t know if it was just because she was in love with you, but she had never seen a prettier pussy. Your scent filled her nostrils each second she came closer, drawing her in like a moth to a flame, up until she pressed a gentle kiss on your clit. Her hands gripped your thighs tightly as she continued to kiss your pussy, before her tongue darted out to lick your slick from your entrance all the way up to your clit.

“Fuck…” Wanda breathed to herself, moaning at your warmth and sweetness. God, you tasted so good.

You trembled against her as she worked her tongue on your pussy, clasping a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. Wanda hummed against your clit, vibrations making you stutter slightly as she listened to you struggle to keep quiet. Her hands gripped your thighs open as she continued to delve deeper over your most sensitive parts.

After a moment, Wanda eased a finger into you, mouth moving to work over your sensitive clit as she curled her finger against your walls. You gasped when she did so, hips squirming against her desk.

“W-Wanda,” you breathed out quietly, your hand messing up her hair as you tugged on it. “I-I’m close…”

Your girlfriend couldn’t help but smirk against you, listening to the way you whispered while her fingers and your wet cunt made the loudest squelches that sounded throughout the room. She twisted her finger in and out of you; pumping, and pumping, and pumping… wrapping her mouth around your clit and sucked hard.

Your body went rigid as she fingered you faster, as she sucked on you harder — the licking and sucking paired with the ridiculously lewd wet noises coming from her was driving you closer and closer to the edge. Humming a deep moan, Wanda slid in a second finger, fucking you thoroughly with her digits. You let out a strangled moan, bringing your other hand down to her head, and began slowly bucking yourself into her mouth; orgasm building in the pit of your stomach as she fucked you.

“W-Wandaa…” you whined, still trying your best to stay quiet.

Every breathy moan and whimper that came from your lips shot straight towards Wanda’s own heat, knowing very well that no one else but her could hear you like this.

She pumped her fingers in and out of you, building and building and building up closer to your orgasm until the band that held you together finally snapped, causing you to bring one hand up from Wanda’s hair to clasp it over your mouth. You muffled your loudest moan as best as you could while Wanda helped you ride your orgasm out, pulling away from your clit after giving it a gentle kiss that made your legs stutter. Wanda kept her fingers inside of you as she stood from her knees, kissing up your stomach, the valley of your breasts, your neck, then lastly meeting your lips. You moaned into her mouth, tasting yourself on her tongue.

Before you could even pull away, Wanda slowly began to pump her fingers into you once again. She used her mouth to muffle your moans along with hers as your hands clawed at her back. Wanda didn’t stop, continuing to finger you until you couldn’t take it anymore. Even after riding out your orgasm, you began to squirm underneath her, desperately trying to shut your legs.

Every part of you was so sensitive and Wanda only sought out more.

Your jaw went slack as you tried your best to keep kissing her, but you couldn’t help but keep your mouth open to let out silent moans as she fucked her fingers into you, “W-Wanda, please—I’m gonna cum again—“

Wanda smiled wickedly, “Yeah? Gonna be a good girl and give me another one, baby?”

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train. Wanda used her free hand to clasp her palm over your mouth, muffling the scream that you were about to let out. Your body trembled against hers, arching your back as you continued to shake.

Wanda held you close, creating a cocoon of safety and warmth as you trembled in her arms. With whispered tenderness, Wanda's voice caressed your ear, a soft symphony of soothing words that washed over you like a balm. In the hushed tones of her whispers, she wove a tapestry of affectionate reassurances as you calmed down from your high, letting you rest your head in the crook of her neck, catching your breath. Fingertips brushed tenderly against the nape of your neck, soothing the frayed edges of your being.

“Thank you for staying with me,” Wanda whispered, holding you close against her.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek which, in turn, made her smile.

“You love me.”

In the quiet intimacy of the space you shared, Wanda, the professor who held both authority and affection in her gaze, leaned in closer to you. The air between you crackled with anticipation, a delicate dance of playful tenderness. With a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips, Wanda's eyes locked onto yours, capturing your attention.

Wanda kissed you on the lips tenderly, humming softly against your mouth. It held the delicate balance of tenderness and playfulness, conveying a profound depth of affection. The kiss lingered, even long after she pulled away, the hint of her taste resting on your lips. She smiled down at you, hands carefully caressing your waist, keeping you close.

“Now, about those grades,” she said lightheartedly.

In return, you scoffed and slapped her shoulder playfully, rolling your eyes at the statement, “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m kidding,” Wanda smiled and pecked your lips again. “How about dinner later? After your classes, of course.”

You, with your quiet and reserved nature often concealing the depth of your emotions, met Wanda's gaze with a knowing smile. It was a smile that held a myriad of secrets and unspoken truths, a silent affirmation of the connection that had blossomed between the two of you.

The corners of your lips curled upwards, a delicate dance of vulnerability and understanding. It was a smile that spoke volumes—a gentle acknowledgment of the unspoken desires. In that knowing smile, Wanda found solace, reassured that her invitation had been met with reciprocation.

— navigation!

[beansprean]

He did foreshadow this... Happy Halloween!!!! 👻

My Familiar's Ghost part 61

Masterpost

New pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Black panel on black background. In the far distance, faint speech bubbles. 1b. Repeat, panel lightens to dark gray, speech bubbles start to draw nearer and more into focus, but the text is still illegible. 1c. Close up on vampire Guillermo's eyes as they flutter open, a few stray blue sparks still reflecting in his iris. A fuzzy black fog begins to retreat from the edges of the panel, and speech bubbles come into focus enough to make out the words: '-let him beat the stupid shit out of you?' 'No, he was just very fast, and-' 1d. A wobbly panel from Guillermo's POV, still slightly blurry, fingers of black background shredding the edges of his vision. Nandor is close, still wearing the clothes from Panera and visible from chest to mouth, head turned toward Nadja who is positioned slightly behind him, Dolly in her lap. They are wearing matching purple gowns with a star pattern. Laszlo is visible from hip to shoulder in purple trousers and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up and held with garters, sitting on whatever surface Guillermo has found himself on and facing his wife. Nadja is yelling at Nandor, 'And now you've killed him dead and let him bleed on my sofa!' Nandor sputters back, 'It's not his blood!' 1e. Repeat, the panel wider and slightly less blurry as Guillermo wakes further. The three vampires and Dolly stop bickering and whip their heads toward Guillermo as he shakily announces, 'I...I'm home...'

2a. Shot of Guillermo laying on a sofa from the vampires' POV as he props himself up on one elbow, squinting and confused. He is still wearing the same striped button-up and chinos from before, but the blood stains have faded somewhat and viscera has been cleaned from his face and hands. Offscreen, the others react: 'Guillermo!' 'It's moving!' 'Guillermo?!' 'Well fuck me sideways, look at that.' The background outside the panels is progressively lightening to gray. 2b. Close up of Nandor from Guillermo's POV as he leans into view, eyes wide and concerned, one hand hovering towards him as if unsure where to touch. Behind him, Nadja leans forward with a sincerely happy grin, Dolly smiling from her lap. Nandor asks anxiously, 'Guillermo, are...are you...?' A voice offscreen interrupts, 'Wait!' 2c. Repeat. Colin, wearing a beige striped sweater, squeezes into frame between Nandor and the Nadjas, pushing them out of the way with his hands on their faces. Nadja and Nandor make identical expressions of wide-eyed annoyance. Colin looks desperate and worried, shouting, "Guillermo!!" 2d. Wide shot of the couch, Guillermo now sitting up fully with one foot on the ground, hands limp in his lap as he slumps forward. His eyes are closed and there are swirls of nauseous green floating around his head. Colin kneels beside the sofa, leaning toward Guillermo with his hands braced on the adjacent cushion and staring at him anxiously. Colin says, 'I have something very important to tell you.' Guillermo shakily asks, 'What is it, Colin Robinson?' Colin replies, 'You just lost the game.' 2e. Repeat. Guillermo goes a bit grayer than usual and rocks backward away from Colin, head flopping back as he squeezes his eyes shut as if to fight off a wave of nausea. A few wobbly waves of energy lift off his body and he lets out a loud but tired 'Ugh'. Colin wheezes out a laugh and whips his head back toward the other vampires with a huge excited grin on his face, eyes glowing bright blue. Offscreen, Nadja snaps, 'For fucks sake, Colin, he is limp and weak enough already!' Simultaneously, Laszlo praises, 'You did it boy, good show' and Nandor demands, 'Colin Robinson, stop draining him at once!' /end ID

[mari-lair]

Let's talk about Akane's overprotection of Aoi and the dangers of not properly setting up a narrative tone.

We are told that Akane stalks Aoi because guys have been trying to force her into a relationship for years, so he protects her by beating up anyone who approaches. Nene and Kou are understandably horrified by this.

But in the very next page, Aidairo hit us with this tone switch:

What Akane is saying is contradictory to the violent and possessive narrative that was shown during his introduction, to this yandere role he played the entire chapter, but the manga is trying to convey that we should take him seriously here. Even the lighting and composition are the ones used when characters are vulnerable and Aidairo wants to show that what they feel is real.

It's strange...

Being possessive is never framed as something that leaves other characters in awe, just compare Akane's melancholic and peaceful gaze to the creepy tone used when Kou and Hanako have their "you are possessive" moment.

Both Kou and Hanako hate that part of themselves, Kou even rejects it, but it's still clear the rejection doesn't make him any less possessive. Both want to be dependable, they want to be the only choice, no one else is acceptable. It's a selfish feeling. Being 'the most important person' is more important than the joy of the person they want to help (Kou's wish is Mitsuba needing him, instead of Mitsuba happy as a human. Hanako wants to be the one to save Nene, the idea of Nene being saved by someone else does not satisfy him even if it would make her happy and safe)

So this isn't a "Akane is lying to himself" or a "he is delusional" case.

The narrative, which had presented Akane as a yandere, wants us to believe that "I will protect Ao-chan... Even if she never looks my way" is not only what Akane believes to be true, but also something admirable. A sentiment Nene craves directed her way, claiming to be 'a little jealous' of Aoi, despite calling Akane scary a single page ago.

Let's rewind to see how we got here.

Akane and Aoi's stories suffer from being mostly given to us in gags for a good chunk of the manga, as they are not very relevant in the early arcs, but the crumbs come together after their confrontation in chapter 69.

Why is Akane stalking Aoi? Because he worries about her. Not about someone stealing her necessarily, but about her being hurt or forced into situations she is uncomfortable with.

They are very codependent. They have been for years.

We can see Akane being shocked at the sight of people bullying Aoi since they were kids, it isn't just 'boys who want to date her' that makes her uncomfortable. Jealous girls do too.

Even when Aoi is left alone, using clothes completely out of her cutesy style to attract less attention, and just living her life, she is still harassed.

Aoi's life is a nightmare, it straight up sucks. She hates that, and when Akane notices this discomfort, he hates that too.

He is far more protective than possessive, he doesn't care when people are touchy with Aoi as long as she welcomes the touch: Take Nene as an example.

Akane never touches Aoi at the start of the manga but Nene does, a lot. He never think "Nene is touching my Ao-chan! Unforguivable". "Maybe Ao-chan likes Nene more than me is not far!" or anything of sorts

Even when Aidairo uses the same over-the-top/creepy gag humor I personally find excessive, and Aoi straight up flirts with Nene, Akane's only thoughts about it are the usual "I love her so much"

When he does show dislike for Nene it's never because she is of value to Aoi. It's because of how dismissive Nene can be, not taking Aoi's safety seriously and easily excusing Hanako's actions.

We only see him be aggressive with Nene when Hanako possesses her and makes Aoi uncomfortable.

The problem here is the framing, the comedy focus. It's hard to take it seriously.

Everything about Akane's intro chapter is hard to take seriously. We are told he is "Hard working. Reliable. What a nice and sweet person."

But we aren't shown these honorable qualities much, not explicitly at least. The big panels, the main focus, is on his gag.

And his main joke is that he loves excessively, even for this school standard where everyone is weird (like Nene writing a self-ship fanfic with Teru) so he needs to be over the top, his behavior has to stand out!

How do they try to achieve this? Yandere jokes.

It is overplayed, they spend pages on it. WHOLE PAGES on it.

It is an old narrative trick to present a twist character as a comic relief to lower suspicion, to keep the more important characterization for after a reveal when they are oficially important, but framing all his actions as comedic and devoid of dept to make his reveal as No.1 more unexpected leaves him in a strange position: Akane is intended to be written as a protector but framed as a joke, to the point his introduction become the satire of a protector.

When he is revealed as the clock keeper and allowed to be given more focus, Aidairo try to explain his behavior and show signs of him being a genuinely caring and kind person, as the first part of his intro had promised.

But it's to late.

His crazy actions and anger issues is in most people's minds, a few lines can't erase pages and pages of his introduction as a yandere like archetype, so it's easy for first impression bias to come into play and interpret all his actions as a simple "He is obsessive." instead of trying to find dept or nuance to the established dependence he has on Aoi.

When we are shown that above wanting to date her, he just wants her to be safe and happy, it does not become clear. The reader needs to pay a lot of attention to small moments like these:

Which a casual reader likely won't. Most are reading for the toilet trio at this point in the manga.

This fumble on his character introduction makes it hard to know what should and shouldn't be taken seriously. Aidairo discarded the yandere narrative relatively quick (we haven't seen Akane's bat in ages) but this gag about being happy as long as Aoi is happy turned out to be important:

It was used to further contrast Aoi's and Akane's mentality on their big arc, and highlight how much nearly losing Aoi affected him.

So the only way we can tell what joke to take seriously cause it will be used to build up his character and what isn't important is hindsight.

I did not care about Aoi and Akane's relationship when I first read the manga, i went 'oh cool!' on their conflict, cause that was very well done, but since their characters were not well introduced, I did not notice a lot of the ideas being shown to me.

Akane is a sweet boy. That's his core, his consistency. Even with Aoi, being kind is the priority over being with her.

Let's compare him with Hanako, who is an openly possessive character, and see how they approach their love interests when they don't know if their love interest likes them back yet, and they aren't reduced to a gag (so we'll dismiss Akane being 'a yandere with a bat', and Hanako's joke of him being a tactless pervert, like peaking under Nene's skirt when her time was frozen)

(so pre-chapter 86 to Hanako and pre-chap 69 to Akane)

Hanako traps Nene, he will cling to her anytime he can, he cares about Nene and loves her dearly, he even says he "loves everything about her" but he is greedy for her attention, he is selfish, always trying to make her focus on him out of everyone in the room and keeping her in his hold, out of others reach. His unsubtle possessive nature is a charm of his, makes for an interesting character.

Akane has a different vibe to it. He doesn't have many serious moments with Aoi before their spotlight arc, unfortunately, but when he does, he focuses on reassuring her (even when her time is frozen and she can't hear him) and avoids touching her at best he can. He has known her for more than 10 years, but he doesn't act as if she belongs to him.

I am not saying Akane is not possessive of her, he is. But he tends to be more worried about her than anything.

Using hanako as the trademark of possessiveness again, check out these two scenes:

At the start of the manga Kou likes Nene, and Akane is under the impression Teru like Aoi, so both scenes follow the basic premise of "A know B has a crush on their crush, and they get possessive over a possible romantic rival being too close."

Hanako doesn't say anything, but his message is clear "She is mine."

Akane explicitly says he doesn't like Teru near Aoi but he doesn't try to remove Aoi from Teru or try to do anything violent. Why would he? Aoi is in no danger, nor is she uncomfortable, so he changes focus to the person who is troubled, awkwardly reassuring Teru that his distress is, in his personal opinion, stupid, so "chill bro".

He wasn't like that with Teru before.

He was so determined to stop the wedding he even rejected hanging out with Aoi, crying tears of blood and asking for her forgiveness in his mind but prioritizing not making her get together with Teru above her joy.

Is that because of his development? Yes! A big part is. Notice the way he treats his mental image as reality? That was his biggest flaw, he imposed his views on Aoi (the view being "everyone is stupid in love with Teru" in this case), and assumed what he believes is a universal truth, doing exactly what Aoi accused him of: Not seeing her, just an idea of her.

But the reason he went so crazy and determined, it's because Akane saw Teru as someone dangerous. Someone who would use Aoi. Hurt her. He believes he is protecting Aoi from the big bad president. A view that makes sense when we take into consideration both Aoi's history of being forced into relationships, and when we go back to their interaction.

Look at this and tell me this isn't a threat:

Teru acts as if he barely remembers her name, she is just 'that cute girl', mostly a tool for him to use against Akane.

When his view of Teru changes to someone kinder who genuinely cares about Aoi as a person, he no longer enters protective mode.

He is still bothered about the idea of Aoi being with someone else, he does noooot look pleased even with his fairy tale vision of a happy couple, but the way he treats this possible 'rivalry of love' when he does believe Teru loves her is so different from his "Don't get close to her!! I will NOT allow it!!" approach.

There is no insecure overthinking. No aggression. He is playful about it. He even teases Teru.

He just wants to focus on rescuing Aoi. A 'rivalry' isn't important. He needs her to be safe.

These two parts of Akane have been juggling for a long while.

But now, character focus is the priority, and I am thankful the damage is being undone, that Aidairo let Akane's love take up whole pages instead of small panels buried under pages of jokes.

Their codependence, no matter how many issues it has, and how it can sabotage them, is based on so much care for each other.

It's a shame I only believe Akane was sincere when he said he'll always be there to protect Aoi regardless if he 'gets to be with her', because of what we see later in the manga, not because of what had been set up in his intro.

[mandalhoerian]

ghost to its haunt, II | leon kennedy x reader

GHOST TO ITS HAUNT, I. pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader summary: You really shouldn't take advice about your love life from gorgeous women in red dresses, who knew being cold to Leon once would lead to him snapping? word count: 19K warnings: vomiting, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, rough sex to gentle sex, safe word usage, it gets a bit angsty, hurt/comfort, teeny tiny l-bomb, fluff... as a treat notes: We're here y'all. I went way overboard again. I hope it was worth it. This is so horribly unedited, please enjoy. header template can be found here.

🌀 read on ao3!

i. The White House ballroom shimmers with golden lights, and the air buzzes with the sound of laughter and polite conversation with the soft hum of elegant music relaxing the nerves in the background, setting the perfect backdrop for the prestigious event where the whole First Family would be making appearance, most probably to present Ashley Graham, whom the rumors were circulating about of a kidnapping — it was obvious they wanted to be seen and be put in the front page of the newspapers, and everybody with and their mother with a press pass was searching for an opportunity.

As other fellow journalists mingle with politicians and distinguished guests, you move gracefully through the crowd, camera hanging around your neck, as you interview influential guests and fish for possible slips of the tongue that could be important.

After you’re satisfied with that, standing near the refreshment table, you busy yourself with discreetly capturing candid shots of dignitaries and officials while gliding over the crowd to look for a decent looking photo, when out of nowhere, the viewfinder lands on a familiar someone, making you do a double take and going back to him through the camera, your heart going a mile an hour and doing a backflip where it stood, sending a jolt through your body from the surprised spike, breath catching as your time together flooded back in a stuttering film reel from monochrome to color as you registered it was really him.

In the soft glow of the yellow light emanating from the elegant chandelier above, Leon is almost shining — the center figure of a conversation, all attention on him while he dons a weary expression and the slightest of a polite smile, his blond hair catching the illumination and setting it ablaze with a golden radiance, like a halo, cascading in gentle strands and framing his face with an ethereal glow. He is dressed impeccably, wearing a tailored suit that fits him flawlessly and emphasizes his strong figure in the most flattering way as he talked to other men who shared similar clothing, but it’s unfamiliar to you, having never seen him wearing something like that before — it’s strange to you, but you guess feeling unfamiliar and a stranger is supposed to be normal, and a needlepoint of an ache stings your chest.

You keep watching through the viewfinder for what seems like an eternity when only a few seconds of absolute shock has passed, feeling like it’d be similar to looking directly at the sun with a naked eye if you lowered your camera to stare better.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say you didn’t know if you would ever see him again. He and you don’t have anything in common, didn’t meet in a place where you’d be crossing paths often, he lives in a world different than yours, seems like there are oceans between you despite standing in the same room. The joy of meeting him again is melancholic, and the sadness is bittersweet, a weight you can’t lift makes a home on your chest, crushing your lungs underneath it.

What ties you and him anymore? What could there be besides pleasantries? Two years spent by each other’s side without being anything at all together — and the rest, rust and stardust, just like that?

Your fingers betray you and take a photo of him, a flattering shot with the focus on him, and you come back down from la-la land with the muted shutter sound. Stumbling on him when you were expecting it the least has you dumb enough to not realize if Leon were to turn his head, he would literally see you standing there, across the room, pointing a camera directly at him, and the realization has you flustered, dropping your hands and looking for a corner to slip into the shadow of, all the while he is still at the corner of your vision, angry at the intrusive thought in your head:

Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

It’s almost as if he’s heard you, or sensed your presence somehow, because he abruptly turns, eyebrows pinched, and your eyes lock across the crowded room.

For a moment, there isn’t anyone else in the room but you and him.

You see the genuine, unguarded surprise light up his face, people around him keep talking, but he zeroes in on you, not blinking once, not even breathing, perhaps, because that’s how you are, frozen in time almost. It takes everything in you to not flee like some heroine in a rom-com, your hands snatching a champagne glass from a nearby waiter’s tray when he conveniently walks by the minute Leon breaks the magic of the moment first by shaking his head as if disoriented and saying something to his companions before starting to make his way toward you, steps picking up the speed as he gets closer.

Why is he coming this way? What does he even want to say? What do we even talk about?

Leon is strangely out of breath as he finally stops in front of you, hand coming up to open the button of his jacket, a tentative, fond smile tugs at the corner of his lips, an incredible contrast to how he was like with the group of men he was with. He calls your name like witnessing an answer to a prayer, nodding in greeting, and it’s awkward, so against the nature of how your greetings used to be, always accompanied by some sort of loving touch to translate the feelings.

“Leon,” you reply, voice and the hand around the delicate stem slightly shaky, and you tighten your fingers to get rid of it.

Neither of you talk for a beat, eyes avoidant of each other as you try to take the other in without being noticed. You didn’t want to acknowledge how nervous he is, how it was because of you, how he would barely let you see any of it before, none of this could mean anything anymore.

"You look amazing," Leon finally says, breaking the silence, the rasp in his low voice raising goosebumps all throughout your back, how he looks at you is a loaded gun at your temple.

"Thank you," you reply, fiddling with your hair nervously once and freezing once you catch yourself doing so, it has to be about self-consciousness, you can’t be giddy and nervous, you can’t be flattered. “You, too.”

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a twitch and leaves a faint, crooked grin in its wake afterwards, his eyebrows raise and fall, head tilting and straightening again. “You think so? Pulled this out from the back of the closet. It’s a couple years old. Feels like it’s gonna rip if I don’t stand like a robot at all times.”

It’s tight fitting in the best way possible, you fight to not look at how his shirt is straining as it hugs his chest and how well-defined his thighs are, but the way he puts it in the added context manages to make you laugh a bit. “It sounds like the job of a Queen’s Guard.”

(Your first instinct was to say, What a memorable show that’d be for the boring old people here, but it’s way too intimate and suggestive, you don’t feel like you should say it, and more surprised how naturally and comfortably it comes to you that it’s frightening.)

You don’t notice him get closer and stand right beside you, the moment you do however, suddenly watching the boring old people seem more interesting. “Would have loved that. At least people wouldn’t expect me to speak, then.”

You take a sip from the flute glass. “Suffering from popularity, are you?”

“I have you to thank for getting me out of my misery,” he says, nearly whispering like he wants nobody to hear him.

It’s so easy to fall into a back-and-forth with him like nothing of dire consequence happened, he makes it too comfortable when he’s the silent type in the first place — the one to be talked to, and you ponder, mind conjuring an image of him dutifully standing beside the President’s daughter, her getting to find out how gooey he is inside when the exterior is of a rock, and the irritability seeps into your speech, replacing the lighthearted undertone of the conversation. “You shouldn’t have come at all in the first place, then.”

He reaches for his tie, tugging on it, you see that he wants to loosen it, take it off entirely, but can’t do anything about it, not really, not when he’s surrounded by all the glamor and politics, and somehow it’s a good metaphor to be tied to the White House the way he is. “It was a last second invite, I wasn’t going to attend, but… I’m glad I did.”

Leon knowingly says it in a voice that conveys what he wants to say without having to say it, and here it was again, the hooded, longing stare that darkens the blue of his eyes. There’s another spike in your heartbeat, palms getting sweaty, all of a sudden it’s too hot to handle and the spacey ballroom is stifling.

You’re looking down, and feel the feather of a touch at your pinky that you wouldn’t even have noticed was there if you didn’t catch his own extending toward yours, and you’re mesmerized by the sight, by the tenderness of the gesture. He can’t possibly hold your hand because of all the people around, you think, but he only reaches, doesn’t touch, just lets the heat be there, and you realize that it’s you that he’s waiting for — he won’t initiate anything uncomfortable.

“Leon!”

You snatch your hand away so forcefully that you nearly bump into the refreshment table, the actual President’s daughter Ashley Graham parting the crowd and walking up to you — to Leon gets you in a frenzy you can’t explain and want to avoid, and so, face flushed from almost causing a scene by spilling champagne everywhere, you quickly mumble your pathetic excuse, “I should go,” and leave like your tail is on fire.

Leon calls, “No, hey, wait!” after you, but you’re maneuvering around the crowd with the agility shame has presented you. The disappointed, “Ashley…” of his comes from afar, and you momentarily look back over your shoulder to get a glimpse of her reaching out to touch his tie and the cute giggling that follows.

It hurts how close they are. It hurts how you still get hurt by the notion he has hidden sides he shares with others but won’t let you see.

You’re so unsettled that it’s only after stumbling on a few coworkers that reason shows back up and says you were an idiot to walk out like that when Ashley herself had shown up, you could have asked her a few questions, no journalist stumbled on a chance like that and you’d blown it.

All this because you were too disturbed seeing her with him — the familiarity in the exchanged “Leon” and “Ashley”s knocking the breath right out of you.

Jealousy. Really?

No, it went beyond jealousy.

This was envy. Of her shared experience with Leon.

You couldn’t possibly be this childish, could you? Two people of opposite genders can be friends, it doesn’t make sense to be making a mountain out of a molehill. How is he drawing out the vulnerable, young and neglected self of you in the past, wallowing in loneliness and the ill-fated ache of being left behind and not chosen over anybody?

You never want to feel like that ever again. This was the biggest reason you really should let Leon go, not because he broke up with you first.

Why did you let him get close like that in the first place just now? It’s stupid and child-like to crave being chased like that when you know nothing good will come out of it.

Leon suddenly wanting to commit has all the toxicity and accumulated grudge in you bubbling to the surface, angry and boiling and condensed, sticking to your insides like tar, you don’t want any of this, don’t want to be like this, you can’t bend to what he wants anymore. Not only does Leon wear around an armor at all times unlike you, he’s also covered in spikes — it hurts trying to get close to him, who knows what him getting close will do to you?

Who knows how you’re going to ruin it the moment things start getting better because you resent him for the past?

As the event at the White House draws to a close, guests are guided towards the designated exit area by attentive staff members. The grand ballroom, really the East Room, was where the gathering had taken place, located on the State Floor, which is the main floor of the White House reserved for official events and receptions, and you find yourself amidst a sea of elegantly dressed guests, each one chatting animatedly about the evening's affairs. You navigate the ornate hallways adorned with historic artwork and furnishings, taking in the grandeur of the place while being mindful of the strict protocols in place. It takes your mind off of things even if only for a while, but everything you look at begins to remind you of Ashley, and what once was breathtaking is now tinted with green, making you sick of yourself.

Along with the guests, you are directed towards a designated security checkpoint. Secret Service agents, dressed in formal attire but discreetly vigilant, ensure the safety of everyone leaving the event. Guests are required to present their official invitations or credentials before being allowed to depart, you hand your invitation to a stern but courteous Secret Service agent, who checks your name against the guest list and returns a friendly nod as he allows you to pass.

You’re finely attuned to Leon, consciousness of him making you notice he isn’t in the crowd at all.

He’s not being let out like the other guests are.

So the newspaper issue coming out tomorrow is right, he isn’t like the other guests.

An acidic feeling rises.

“It was a last minute invitation.”

“Leon!”

“Ashley…”

You feel like you’re being watched.

You also feel like you’re going to puke, though, so it could be out of being ill at ease over preferably not wanting to do that in front of the most dignified of the U.S.

Outside, you feel a rush of cool night air as you make your way towards the awaiting vehicles where the guests departed, assisted by courteous White House staff in locating their assigned transportation.

In your moment of privacy, you take out your camera, and scroll to the picture you’ve taken of him, zooming enough until his face is the only thing in frame. You don’t have anything else left from him. Your bottom lip bears the pressure of your teeth as you hesitate, questioning whether you should delete the picture or hold onto it as a memento of what once was.

Just as you're on the brink of a decision, you're startled by the sound of running footsteps approaching from behind. You turn around to see Leon, disheveled and looking flustered, his tie missing and a few buttons of his shirt undone. The lights of the White House cast a halo around him, making him appear almost ethereal, like a figure from a distant memory.

And you’re a deer caught in the headlights.

He clears his throat, the silence between speaking volumes, crackling and popping with the charged electricity of the heavy words left floating unsaid. .

"Hey," he says softly, eyes searching yours for any sign of what you might be feeling.

"Hi," you reply, trying to maintain composure despite the butterflies in your stomach, putting your camera away, flustered a bit that he could have seen that.

He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather the courage to say something. "I wanted to talk to you," he combs his hair back, but it falls back anyway, his voice is clogged from nervousness and sincerity. "About everything. Properly."

You swallow, trying to dispel the lump in your throat. "There isn't a point in that anymore," you say, trying to protect yourself from potential heartache.

"There is," he insists, his determination shining through. "There is, for—"

"For closure?" you interrupt, a bitter smile forming.

"No," he responds firmly, his expression showing cracks of something sad and agitated. "Not closure. I want to start again, do this properly."

Your heart stirs at his words, torn between skepticism and a treacherous glimmer of hope, and the ugly feeling in response to him wanting to string you along with what he wants again. "I'm not some guinea pig, Leon.”

He begins to approach you like you’re a frightened animal that’d take off with the slightest of abrupt movements. “I know,” he says, mouth falling open and closing again as if he’s exasperated by the words, head shaking. "None of it was fair to you and I can't change the past, but I've thought about you a lot during these past weeks. I miss you, I miss what we had."

That catches you off guard. On paper, it sounds sweet, but it really is not. What you had was something of a double edged sword that got in between when you tried to get close to him, it was a wall and it was ammunition at the same time, comfortable in some ways, yes, but for him. You always burned for something more and waited for him to acknowledge the fire, but he acted like the smoke didn’t bother him, he could easily breathe through it.

So you laugh, and watch as his eyes close shut in gloom. “I bet you do. It was convenient for you after all.”

“I can’t deny that. But believe it or not, I wasn’t happy. I wanted more. I wanted to be more.” He took a deep breath, searching for the right words, one hand at his wrist, playing with the watch there. "I know I messed up before, and I'm sorry for hurting you for so long. I can't promise that things will be easy going forward but—”

You’ve had enough of this. “What do you want, Leon?”

Having noticed you were getting more agitated and detached from the conversation as he kept going on, he reaches out and catches your hand in a loose hold, thumb feathering over your knuckles. “I want to be yours.”

Blinking rapidly is all you could come up with as a reaction through the blankness that takes over your thoughts.

“You don’t have to be mine.” Leon presses on with more restrained desperation when he sees no response from you, the heat of his palms shocking you as he cups your face with both hands, looking you dead in the eye, searching for what was once out in the open for him. “But I wanna be yours, I am yours. I always was. I’m… If you’ll have me…I want to be more to you—I could be so much more—”

You step away from him, looking him up and down as if he’s burnt you, and his Adam’s apple bobs with the harshness of the rejection, eyebrows pulled in to hide sadness, hands hanging in the air for a bit before falling back to his sides, fingers flexing like he’s dealing with the sensation of your skin still lingering.

“You want to be more to me.” Your arm wildly gestures and claps back to your side as you turn around to face to the side, hands on your hips like there’s someone you can confirm with if they’re also seeing this or not. “You always have to say things in a roundabout way. Or maybe that’s not the case at all and you are afraid of change and that’s what this is about—and yeah, okay, let’s say I accept that and say yes, will you let me be more?”

“Of course, I—”

“Do you know what that means?” You fight a shiver from the chilly air, crossing your arms against your chest as if it could shield you. “It means none of what we had will work anymore. It means the moment I��m treated like that again, I’m gone.”

He releases a big exhale, like he’s been released from ancient chains he’s had to drag around with him for his whole life, he sees this as some sort of green light from you — because you wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t a possibility. You’re still here, hearing him out, and it’s your hamartia. “I’m not incapable of understanding that, I just…”

"Know how it ends?" you ask, echoing his words from the past, and he falls silent, the environmental sounds of cars going about and conversations of the people seep into the quiet between.

His confession would have made you the happiest person in the world once.

There’s still something in you for him, but it’s exhausted, it’s not excited, only anxious, it doesn’t know if it should be happy or not, terribly numb yet wanting to cry at the same time.

You've been through the patterns before, the moments of closeness followed by distance, and the history will repeat itself if you let it. Your heart yearns for love, nothing short of it or close to it, you want to be loved openly, unashamed, unafraid, and you can’t trust him with it, don’t think he’s ready, and you have to think of yourself now. It was two years of putting him first.

But Leon insists on haunting you. “Will you at least have dinner with me sometime? No expectations, just... talking.”

“I don’t know, Leon.”

“Is that a no, then?”

“I don’t know.”

That means chase me, and you’re astounded at yourself for not drawing the line — not even wanting to.

“That’s fine.” He drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, his scent enveloping you and the cold melting away into warmth within seconds, your hands clutch onto it, stunned. “I’ll call you, then. That okay?”

Avoidant of his stare, your pride doesn’t let you say, Sure. Instead shrugging, “Do as you like.”

ii. A lady in a gorgeous red dress and the most beautiful silky, shiny, short black hair is keeping you company as you’re drinking your woes away that night.

The bar is a pleasantly lit space, with inviting, warm lights casting a cozy ambiance. The walls are adorned with vintage photographs and framed artwork, giving the place a touch of nostalgia and character, air filled with a blend of laughter, murmured conversations, and the faint notes of the jazz music playing in the background, creating a charming hum of activity. A polished mahogany bar counter stretches along one side of the room, lined with bar stools, and attended to by a skilled bartender who effortlessly crafts cocktails for the patrons, you’ve come back to him over and over again for more mango margaritas, and behind him, bottles of various spirits and liqueurs are neatly displayed on shelves, reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The place is furnished with a mix of plush leather booths and high-top tables, offering a comfortable and inviting seating arrangement, the deep red upholstery of the booths complements the warm wooden tones, adding a touch of sophistication to the space, everything about this place is safe, and that’s why you chose to get drunk in this place tonight.

The lady in red and you are seated in a cozy corner booth, giving you both a degree of privacy amidst the social hubbub. The table is adorned with a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows on your faces, enhancing the intimate atmosphere of your conversation.

You’ve long forgotten how and when she decided to sit by you, but she’s a great listener and a natural man-repeller — one would think she would do the opposite instead, but something about her keeps them at bay, makes them hesitate to make a move, and you suppose she is unapproachable. That sort of beauty would intimidate anyone of rejection. And you’re talking about man troubles with this kind of woman when it’s obvious it’s beneath her, thinking someone like her would never share your idiocy in matters of the heart, she looks too experienced and dignified for it, looks like she’s mastered any game of love.

It’s not in her intent to embarrass you when she playfully, pointedly asks, “And you thought you could change him?” chin resting against the back of her hand, manicured fingers curled inwards, dark eyes inquisitive and twinkling in the faint lighting of the bar — but you feel like a teenager talking about her first boyfriend anyway.

The lady in red tilts her head slightly, her black hair shimmering as she listens intently. A small smile plays on her lips, and you can sense amusement in her expression. Her fingers trace the rim of her cocktail glass, the redness of her nail polish matching the elegance of her dress.

"Do I look that dumb?" you ask, feeling a touch defensive, a self-conscious smile on your face. "No, he doesn't need changing, I just... I thought maybe I could change the outcome, you know?"

She leans back, the dim light casting an alluring glow on her face, teasing yet genuine. "You just said you accepted that it would end. I'm getting mixed signals,"

"Yeah, I know... But I guess I am that dumb," you admit, feeling a bit embarrassed discussing your romantic struggles with such a sophisticated woman when she puts it like that and exposes your bullshit for what it is — it’s like getting called out by an authority figure you’re looking up to as a child.

"Men like him are predictable, so yes, I would say that you are. For wasting your emotions," she says bluntly, but her eyes show a hint of empathy.

So, you try to make her see it from your perspective, seeking solace from that point of view in the conversation, but the knot continuously folding within your chest isn’t letting you get any relief. “It was worth it. He was worth it. I mean, I’ve never felt like I was wasting anything. You know — you know that famous quote? ‘Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened’?”

Her lips curve into a sympathetic smile, but her eyes remain sharp as she retorts. “You’re not smiling now, are you, hun?”

You have to break eye contact at that, “Well, I’m sad about some other things right now as well, so…” you trail off, not wanting to delve into the other troubles plaguing your mind.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I technically can’t talk about it. It’s work related.”

“Hmm,” she hums, taking a sip of her red wine cherry sangria, her eyes never leaving yours, tips of her fingers trailing the bumps on her cocktail glass.

“What?” you ask, her silence penetrating your thoughts.

She doesn’t get into a back and forth with you, saying it straight away. “I have eyes. All night long, you’ve been drowning in alcohol for someone, not something. You’re lucky I don’t take the change of heart personally.”

You sense that she’s majorly unbothered at all times to take anything personally, yet, your first instinct is to protect yourself from the allegations. “I’m not lying. It is work related.” The confession comes out childishly guilty. “He’s just unexpectedly involved.”

“Now things are getting interesting.”

Your brow wrinkles at the sight of her feigning interest. She doesn’t look surprised.

“They weren’t before?”

"You don't want me to answer that," she says enigmatically, leaving you to wonder what she truly thinks of your life and choices, and you can't help but feel drawn to her mystery and wisdom, even if her observations are uncomfortable to confront.

“Okay, wow,” you widen your eyes at her bluntness, pitch comically rising, but come down from the moment after that, tipping your glass to her. “But yeah, things got… complicated thanks to that and I’m not sure what to do or what to feel. Let’s just say he hasn’t been honest with me and I know why now. Still doesn’t make it any better.”

“Dump him.”

The tipsiness reflects in the way you use grammar comically for emphasis. “We’re already dump. We’ve dumped.”

“He’ll come back. When he does, dump him.”

Scratch begging, you can’t even imagine Leon wanting you to take him back. “Yeah, sure he’ll be back. To pack his shit and leave.”

“Will he really?”

You give her a look, and she gives a subtle, amused one back, so mysterious for no reason.

“But we’re done for good this time. This isn’t him being away for like a month without saying a word, we’ve talked it out, he returned my key. It’s over.”

“Over isn’t the word I’d use.”

“How?”

“I have a feeling.” She looks like she’s scheming behind that subtly knowing smile about something she knows but you don’t, index finger tracing along the rim of her glass. “So… When he comes back, give him a taste of his own medicine. Ghost him.”

You’re terribly interested, imagination going against you, her confidence and subtle smile make you curious about the possibilities.. “Ghost him as in..?”

“Stop caring. Show him he’s become just another passerby on the street. Treat him like how you’d another stranger. Kind. Polite. Bland. Withdraw emotionally.”

That’s not how your personality is, you’re self-aware of being too desperate for your own good. That sort of strength in knowing one’s worth, not lowering standards for any kind of men and forcing them to step up are what chic women like her are good at. Besides, Leon isn’t the sort of man she’s talking about, anyway. “I don’t want to hurt him, though. He hasn’t been that bad to me.”

Her eyebrow slowly starts rising up, accompanied by a flat look that puts you in your place.

“So… Be cold?” you ask, feeling like you’ve disappointed your mother or something.

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know why we’re talking about this when it’s the farthest from what’ll happen—”

Your phone starts ringing, you take it out to see who it is, and see Leon’s contact name flashing on the screen.

“Is that him?”

The urge to answer is strong. "Yeah,"

“Her authority surprises you. "Don't answer.”

"But... He'll worry. I know I would," you protest, torn between following her advice and your natural instincts.

The mischievous glint in her eyes is the glare of light reflecting from a knife’s edge. "That's exactly the point. He's the cat, you're the mouse. Let him chase you around, play with him.”

“I’m not sure what that’ll be good for at this point…”

“Depends. Think about it carefully. How do you want this to end?”

iii. D.C.’s darkness embraces you, mirroring the turmoil within as your stumbled silhouette emerges from the shadows, teetering and swaying with the weight of intoxication. It’s a moonless night, heavy with the weight of regret and shattered dreams, and stumbling through the dimly lit streets, you clutch the remnants of your sanity, drowned in the bitter solace of liquid courage to feel the emotions you’d been avoiding.

But as you fumble for your keys, a flicker of dread ignites in your chest, for there, lurking in the shadows, stands your past, patiently waiting — an ex-lover, hauntingly familiar yet irreversibly estranged.

He is all but highlighted by the contours of the darkness illuminated by the fluorescent light overhead, standing tall, his broad shoulders squared and his stance rigid, holding onto a phone, the strength of his grip on his own biceps something else, the veins on his forearms standing out, and you are unsure if you’re hallucinating things you wanted to see. “You’re late.”

But that didn’t sound as gentle and inspired by the more vulnerable moments you treasured and preserved like a rare insect in amber as you often imagined in your head, the reality being too pent up and harsh and angry — how he’d managed to convey that with two simple words and nothing more, you had no idea.

“And you’re back.” A ghost back to haunt you. A physical ache in your chest manifests, grinding and grounding your lungs, you don’t know what kind of face you’re making as you exhale the pressure out. “Welcome, Leon.”

“Where the hell have you been until this hour? Why didn’t you pick up? You can’t do this, you can’t just not answer when you’re out and I’m going insane over what could have happened—”

“Okay, dad,” you snort. Your head is down as you maneuver around him like some jester while he is talking his head off. Fumbling with your bag for your keys, you squint up at him through the blurriness that doesn’t clear from your vision no matter how much you try to blink it away. “Like you pick up my calls properly.”

(Leon looks like hell from what you can focus on — a wave of dark circles under his eyes, unkempt hair that still looked frustratingly pretty, a special kind of distant, sharp look, small bruises on his neck dipping downwards and disappearing into the skin covered by the t-shirt underneath the jacket and tiny cuts on his face, smell of the hospital, a unique blend of antiseptic and cleanliness with a faint medicinal undertone. But, oh well. Doesn’t he always, when he comes back from his trips? It’s not your problem anymore. It isn’t. He’d figure it out. He figured it out by himself, always.)

The set of his lips is firm, creating an almost imperceptible grimace. “Jesus — ugh. Have you been drinking?”

“Wow, Captain Obvious.”

Leon drops the ridiculous interrogation — for now — about what you’ve been up to in your private time private to you when the activity in question is clear as day, and puts a hand on your upper back when you wobble after finally getting your keys out. “Is everything alright?”

A stuttering laugh slurs from you at the perpetrator feeling concerned after ransacking everything in the scene of the crime that was your life. “I don’t think that’s a conversation I want to have with you…” You keep missing the keyhole. Just go in. “In front of my house… At three in the morning…”

His hands hover over yours, unsure, not wanting to cross a boundary and eliciting battery acid to sour your stomach, but also making you notice one of them was bandaged as if there was a huge gash in the middle of it. “Here, let me help…”

You swat him away. “No, I have it.”

“Don’t be stubborn, give it here.”

“I can do it on my own, thank you very much.”

“Listen—”

Click.

“A-ha.” You turn your head to where he was but find out he has moved, and then you actually find him at the other side of you, (embarrassing, you weren’t that drunk) and you don’t let the awkwardness of that deter you from flashing a triumphant smile, acting way more sober than you were. “What, you think I can’t function without you or something?”

The shadows over his face move in gloom almost, you’re imagining things. “That’s not what I—”

You push forward without any consideration for what he has to say, entering your house, staggering as you kick your shoes off, fatigue draped over you like a weighted blanket all of a sudden. “Doooon’t care.”

“Hey!” He shouts after you while the only mission objective you have in mind is getting to your bed, stalking through the hall like some zombie and getting farther away. “You’re just gonna leave the door wide open?—”

“Just close it before leaving!” The wave of your hand is slow and heavy in the air, your eyes half-closed already, it’s all instinct guiding you to the bedroom. “Too tired. Just gonna tap out.”

“You have to lock—” But you’re not listening, nor responding anymore, and he curses. “Shit.” There is a brief silence in which you find your bedroom door and tumble in, and he chooses that moment of happiness to ask a question when any input has faded from your perception. “Hey, I’m coming in, okay?”

Meanwhile you have soared through the air and landed on the dreamily soft mattress of your bed, limbs spread out like a starfish, enjoying the silky coolness of the covers against your face.

And he's still yelling, still back at the entrance, his voice is like a fly buzzing in the distance. “Are you listening? I said I’m coming in.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you murmur sleepily, to no one in particular. The room becomes a hazy blur as exhaustion and intoxication intertwine, pulling you deeper into the comforting embrace of slumber. The words of concern and exasperation from Leon are distant, as if filtered through a thick fog that blankets your senses.

There’s a window of opportunity of silence in which you’re a bird not burdened by the weight of existence and floating upward into the hands of a pleasant state of blankness, and then there his voice is again, closer this time, in the room, and you haven’t even heard him sneak in.

"You're really gonna regret not taking your makeup off in the morning when you see the stain it leaves," Leon softly chides, and despite talking to you, he sounds like he doesn’t want to wake you up, a vocal fry in his low and soft tone, and you could sleep listening to it honestly, if he just wasn’t this persistent..

With a drowsy sigh, you mumble, "Be quiet, I'm... sleep," your words slurring together.

You physically feel Leon's eyes linger on your face, his gaze gentle but heavy, the same weight when he wants to say something so badly but is holding back. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek lightly, a silent gesture of care and it makes you jump at the unexpectedness of it, looking up at him with one cheek squished against the bed and see that he’s perched up on the edge of your bed, no idea how he can sit lile that well-balanced. "You really should be cleaning up first," he persists, worry evident.

There’s something else there — but your brain is slow to keep up, it’s like trying to open an image on Internet Explorer and it’s loading streak by streak, pixel by pixel. But even in that state, your emotions know that touch shouldn’t be given to an ex of all people, you can’t even hate how it instantly has you cozy and comfortable and safe, your response coming out as a hum, consciousness drifting further into the depths.

"That'll be one hell of a hangover," Leon tries once more, the way he speaks is so pleasantly smooth and dulcet.

Your mood instantly shifts when he disturbs you yet again. “You have to get up.”

Growing slightly irritated, you murmur, "Can you not nag me first thing after coming back, please? I'm going to sleep. You can pack up your belongings all by your lonesome and get outta here."

Leon's shoulders slump ever so slightly, understanding and resigned. He knows better than to press the matter further, realizing the futility of trying to reason with a half-asleep mind.

"Right..." he concedes, his voice softening with acceptance.

"Right," you affirm, your voice trailing off as sleep claims you once more.

You think you sleep successfully.

For a while.

It could have been half an hour or just a few minutes before he startles you awake once more. He stands over you, slightly long blond hair falling over his forehead and those striking ice blue eyes narrowing slightly with concern, he’s so pretty in the gray darkness. He brushes his hair away with a distracted gesture. “At least get up and change. You’ll feel much better.”

“I'll feel much better if you just let me sleep, oh my god,” you reply with a hint of drowsy annoyance, your voice muffled by the pillow you've pulled over your head.

He sounds like he’s arched up an eyebrow. "You're not getting any tonight. In less than an hour, you'll be spending the rest of the night in front of the toilet, throwing up," he says, huffing.

You peek out from under the pillow, meeting his gaze with a mock glare. "Yeah, yeah. Leave me alone." You pull the pillow back over your head in a half-hearted attempt to block him out. It’s your shield against him

With a small smile playing on his lips, he reaches down and gently tugs at one corner of it. "Don't say I didn't warn you.”

You resist for a moment, and there’s an unexpected tug of war, but the warmth of his hand and the concern in his eyes are too inviting to ignore. Slowly, you relent and slide the pillow off, allowing him to see your face. "Then don't say I told you so. I'm just tryna catch some Z's, goddamn.”

"Okay," he concedes, a bit sad. With a soft sigh, shifting to move from the edge of the bed to sit closer and more comfortably, his hand resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Head having found its way back under the pillow again, you wave him off. "Okay. Now, shoo.”

You seize the silence for a moment, enjoying the tranquility even if it's interrupted by Leon's presence beside you.

His concern only adds fuel to the fire.

"Are you sure everything's alright? You're not a drinker," he questions, with the familiarity of someone who once knew you intimately.

"Oh m—” You shoot up to sit cross-legged on the bed, irritated beyond belief. “Alright, you've successfully acquired my undivided attention." Your arms cross defensively over your chest, drawing out our swords. "So, spill the beans, what do you want? And before I can drift into the blissful realm of sleep, what exactly must I accomplish for your satisfaction?" you add, dripping with sarcasm.

His spine straightens, you don’t know if he did that to look bigger than you, but he’s tentative, usually composed demeanor faltering slightly. "I'm just worried."

Play cold, was it? You didn’t even need to try. It came naturally. "Okay. So?"

"So?” His eyebrows can’t go any lower. “What's going on with you?"

Your anger simmers just below the surface, and you can feel your frustration boiling over. "What's going on with me? What is this, a ketchup?"

"Ketchup?" he echoes, blinking, clearly puzzled by your choice of words.

"Catch-up. You know what I mean. Why are you trying to catch-up with me?"

The question that follows is icy. "Am I not allowed to ask you about your well-being?"

"Oh, you care about that now?" Your words are little unexpected presents for him, wrapped with venom. The anger inside you starts to spill out, and you can feel yourself losing control.

There's a pause, and you almost regret the harshness in your response. As you glance over at him, you notice a flicker of hurt in his eyes, a vulnerability that he rarely displays. The sight only serves to stoke the fire of your anger as he gets worked up too.

Leon's cold exterior is a shield, protecting both you and himself from the intense anger that simmers just beneath the surface. You can see it in the way his jaw flexes.

"That's... the most ridiculous thing to ever come out of your mouth—” He raises his arm and then wrenches himself off the bed, back to you, running a hand down his face. “No, you know what. You're drunk, I shouldn't... I'm not picking this fight with you," he says, his voice firm and controlled, there’s strain behind his words.

"Yeah, you're picking girls instead.” The bitterness in your voice makes it difficult for you to hold back the torrent of the real emotion behind it all. “From private airports,"

His head turns your way, hand hanging in the air in front of his face. "What? What are you talking about?" His profile is to you, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

You take a shaky breath, threatening to spill over, like porcelain all tumbled over inside the cabinet and the only thing holding the disaster off is one single door. "Nothing apparently. Everything's nothing to you. Like nothing. President's daughter. Nothing. Biggest spoof of this year yet. Nothing."

His eyes widen with realization, fully turning around, and you can see the gears trying to turn with the wrench you’ve just jammed between cogs. He struggles to find the right response, caught off guard. "Wait. Ashley?—"

You scoff. "It's Ashley to you now, is it?"

Leon's stoicism remains unyielding, and it infuriates you even more. It's as if he's completely missing the point, focusing on technicalities and trivialities instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room. He starts to inquire, his voice professional and overly serious that he might as well be talking to a stranger. Where did you get this information? Can't be paparazzi. Nobody knows—"

You slide off the bed, swaying as you start walking up to him, first sentence coming out as if you’re singing. "Eeeeveryone will know tomorrow. President's daughter with her bodyguard. The new Rachel and Frank. Didn't know you were Secret Service by the way. Can't believe I learned it from my workplace instead of the man, the myth, the legend himself—"

He steadies you by your shoulders as you reach him. "That's enough," he interjects sharply, the coldness returning to his tone, clashing with his hold.

"Bold words from a boytoy—" you continue, not willing to back down in the face of his attempt to silence you.

"Stop talking," he commands, teeth gritted, patience wearing thin.

With a deep breath, he steps away, whipping out his phone and walks hurriedly towards the door. His demeanor shifts from cold and collected to urgent and focused as he makes a call. "Hunnigan, this is Kennedy. Sorry for calling in the middle of the night. We have a problem."

The overwhelming surge of emotions, combined with the numerous drinks you've consumed, takes a toll on your body, and you can no longer ignore the urge to be sick. Half-encouraged by the way Leon brushed you off, you stumble to your feet, feeling unsteady and disoriented. Your vision blurs as you make your way to the nearest bathroom, desperately trying to reach it in time. The cold tiles of the floor feel unforgiving beneath your feet, and you're grateful for the support of the walls as you try to steady yourself.

Finally, you make it to the toilet just in time, and without warning, you bend over and empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl. Each heave feels like a release of all the pain, anger, and disappointment that have been building up inside you. The room spins around you, and you close your eyes, trying to find some semblance of stability.

Leon's conversation in the hall becomes background noise to you as you struggle to regain your composure in the bathroom. The noises you've made reach him, and he finally realizes that you're not in your room anymore.

His footsteps are approaching fast. "Gotta go. Update me on it tomorrow. Yeah, got it. I owe you one.”

He enters the bathroom, and you're immediately filled with frustration and embarrassment at his intrusion. "Hey," he says, all that squabbling only for him to show concern.

You snap, your anger fueled by the discomfort of being caught in such a vulnerable state. "Get out, I'm vomiting my guts out for fuck's sake, why did you come in!?"

Leon ignores your protests. "Sshh, I got you," He moves closer and starts rubbing your back, trying to provide some comfort.

Despite your best efforts, another wave of nausea hits you, and you vomit once again. The embarrassment only intensifies, and you feel the heat of humiliation rising to your cheeks.

"Let it out. It's gonna be okay," Leon says reassuringly, his hand continuing to draw shapes on your back in a soothing gesture.

Your voice gurgles at the back of your throat, making it difficult to speak clearly. "No."

"I know, I know," he murmurs, his voice filled with understanding. He was just angry with you.

"Why did I drink that much?" you whine, feeling regretful and sick, wiping the tears away from your face.

He tries to lighten the mood despite the seriousness of the situation. "Don't I know?"

Not caring anymore, you rest your cheek on the toilet seat. "I swear I'm not drinking again.”

Leon stays with you, his presence a comforting anchor as you finally finish vomiting. He puts his hands in your armpits, trying to help you stand up.

"Alright. Up you go," he encourages gently, trying to get you on your feet.

But you comically lower yourself back down onto the cold bathroom floor, finding solace in the cool tiles beneath you. "Noooo, I'll just lie down, let me just..."

He begins to outright nag. "No, you can't sleep here,"

Your body is protesting any further movement. "I'm so tired."

"Let's get you to bed."

"This is my bed.”

"You'll get even more sick if you do that.”

This time, he doesn't bother getting your cooperation. With ease, he lifts you up, effortlessly carrying you to your actual bed. Despite your protests, you can't resist his strength, and you're grateful for the relief of being off the floor.

You find yourself lying on your bed, surrounded by the familiar comfort of your sheets and blankets. The world around you still feels a little hazy, but Leon's presence is a grounding force, providing a sense of safety amidst the chaos.

He tucks you in, ensuring you're warm and comfortable, and you can't help but feel a small twinge of gratitude despite the lingering anger and hurt.

"Rest now," he says softly, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

You nod, too tired and overwhelmed to say anything more. As your eyes start to drift shut, you feel Leon beside you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to be comforted by his touch.

iv. You step inside your cozy little flat with a heavy heart and a head full of the hangover from last night's events and the busy day you left behind in the dust. But all thoughts catch in your throat when you see that familiar silhouette slouched into your armchair, your favorite novel resting open across his lap. A flood of mixed emotions hits you – annoyance at finding him still there uninvited, happiness that he's still here, and anger at the conflicting emotions he stirs within you.

"Welcome back," he says, his voice unnervingly calm. You notice the way he fidgets with the corner of the book. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of distress or discomfort.

You remember how you practically teleported to your workplace this morning, wanting to avoid confrontation and the shame of having been witnessed going green from jealousy and in such a vulnerable state, believing he’d be gone when you came back, along with every trace of him. "Why are you still here?"

He sighs, placing the book on the coffee table and rising from his seat. He comes over to take your bag from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment. "Hop in the shower for now. I couldn't prepare a bath because I didn't know when you'd be home."

"Leon, why are you—" you start to question, but he cuts you off sharply.

"Later," He impatiently runs a hand through his slightly tousled hair, face showing his annoyance. "Go get refreshed. Have you had anything to eat?" he asks, trying to shift the focus away from the uncomfortable conversation.

"Not really..."

"I figured. Made you some food. It's just sandwiches, but they're decent," he says, his voice softening slightly as he tries to be helpful despite your reluctance.

He sets your bag aside to its designated place with gentle care, as if afraid to disturb you further.

"I appreciate the effort, but—".

"I said later. Now, go.”

With a heavy sigh, you decide not to push the issue for now, not when he’s being snippy with you. There's a part of you that wants to scream at him to leave, to get out of your life and stop playing with your emotions. But there's another part that appreciates his presence, his care, and his support in this moment of vulnerability.

This is getting so complicated.

In the end, you find yourself complying with his request and heading to the shower, trying to wash away the physical and emotional weight of the night.

You come back after a while to find him sprawled on the couch, his body tense, and his glare fixated on the ceiling. As you enter the room, he notices you lingering and propels himself up, sitting upright with a stiff posture.

"Come sit," he says, his voice low and controlled, motioning towards the empty space beside him.

You gingerly take a seat, facing him, his fingers drumming slightly on his thigh.

You try gauging his mood. "You're being weird. What is this about?"

"I said we'd talk, didn't I? We're talking," he replies, his tone guarded, his fingers now interlocking tightly, as if trying to contain his emotions.

You feel a bit uneasy under his scrutinizing gaze. "Okay. What about?"

"That was quite the stunt, you know? Don't ever do that to me again,"

Confusion clouds your features as you try to decipher his cryptic words. "What? Do what?" you ask, genuinely puzzled.

He sucks in a sharp breath. "Stop playing dumb," He leans forward slightly, his body language becoming more intense. "Don't ever not pick up my calls in a situation like that, in the middle of the night when I can't reach you or find you. I was about to go searching for you myself—fucking hell."

You try to process what he means by searching for you himself. "How would that even work?"

His lips press into a thin line, and he lets out a deep exhale, the tension in his jaw becoming more pronounced. "You'd be surprised how good I am at finding people." He alludes at something you have no idea about, his voice edged with frustration, shifting his weight, manspreading, hands coming on his thighs. Assertive. "Now, again, pick up my calls. Especially at night if you're out on your own.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your own defensiveness mirror in your body language. "I'm not obligated to do that." You were safe, you knew how to keep yourself safe, what is he going on about?

Leon's eyes narrow, and he leans forward, one hand gripping the edge of the couch as if trying to anchor himself in the conversation, the other waving sharply between you and him. "Is this a joke to you? I was fucking worried sick," he spits, his voice tinged with restrained emotion, eyes burning, swallowing hard, trying to compose himself, his fingers tapping nervously against the upholstery. "This concerns your safety," His voice catches slightly. "Do you have any idea what kind of danger you were in? What if something had happened to you, I—-!" He pauses, his voice cracking with emotion, closing his eyes and taking a second to slow down. "A drunk woman walking all by herself after midnight without any protection—-" he continues after, eyes darting around the room, searching for the right words to convey his feelings.

Your shoulders are squared, chin lifted defiantly, a gesture of strength despite the turmoil inside. "I can take care of myself." You sniffle and look away in agitation, not wanting him to see you as weak or incapable.

"Oh, bullshit," he fires back, voice rising. "Don't take this personally, but you don't stand a chance against a man while piss drunk."

You raised an eyebrow, not willing to back down. "And now you're exaggerating. It was a safe bar just around the block—-"

Leon’s smiling but there’s nothing humorous in it. He points a finger at you, then. "Don't be a brat to me right now. I am serious," he says, tone shooting down. "I need you to acknowledge how stupid this was of you and never do it again. For yourself. Go out and drink however you like, whenever you like, with whoever you like, but be safe. Understand?"

“No.” You barely stutter it.

He’s right.

You can’t take that he’s right.

This topic has to be dropped.

“What do you mean no?”

“Just leave it.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. You shrink from the barely held back glare he shoots your way. “Not until you agree to do as I say.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere, stop being so obstinate and drop it, please."

“Oh, you don’t understand, do you? No idea whatsoever how angry I am with you.” His voice is dangerously low, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll make you understand.”

With practiced ease, he wraps an iron grip around your waist, pulling you near. Your heart leaps against the wall of his chest as his arm encloses you in his hold, cradling you safely within its grasp. A swift intake of air catches in your throat and your whole fips upside down, an arm secured around the swell of your ass as you’re dangling upside down from his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And just like that, you find yourself being taken away, carried effortlessly and unceremoniously towards the bedroom, taking in breath the freshness of Leon’s cologne and just how wide and strong his back is. Before you could utter or comprehend another word, he was already setting you down upon the plush surface of your bed – his commanding presence towering above you on all fours. His formidable frame pressed against yours, pinning you to the bed while a fervent expression of lust and veiled anger stared unabashed into your very soul.

Leon reaches down to undo the buttons of your bottom, deftly popping each one apart until they slide to the floor at the foot of the bed. His warm fingers caress your legs as he drags your pants away from your body and tosses them aside, exposing your bare feet and ankles which begin to curl under the duvet at the base of the bed. Your knees are parted further by the pressure of his palm cupping your inner thighs and guiding them wider apart, allowing him room enough to climb astride you where his weight presses heavily into the bed beneath you both.

“Only stupid thoughts behind those pretty eyes, huh? I’ll just have to fuck you dumb to the point where you just get it.” Beneath your panties, his large, roughened hands cup your sex — hot, slick flesh twitching and yearning toward fulfillment without shame or embarrassment. It only heightens the pleasure when he rolls his thumb against that little knot of heat, dipping down to rub slow circles around it — prodding with lazy delight. Even when his attention falls elsewhere to trace the curve of your belly and navel, your ardor rises despite such restrained attentions. You are lost to longing; helpless as a feather caught in a cyclone of wanton desire.

Leon's hand glides down, descending with lethal intention. With a silent growl born of frustrated passion, he breathes out, "So goddamn wet for me." He burrows into your jugular vein with a probing kiss, seizing your heartbeats hostage, but you have no complaints about how much the simple action arouses your heated body.

There’s no oral, so he has to use lube for this, coating his fingers, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to have sex, it’s like he’s off to a battle.

His anger is something you didn’t know would spur you on this hotly, each hard look shooting directly into your crotch.

Two digits delve into the depths of your awaiting cunt, sliding in seamlessly, filling you completely. Yes!

Your thoughts become hazy, the edges of your mind as raw as exposed nerves, consumed by a surge of heat that flows thick and slow like molten lava.

Delicately, the heel of his hand weighs upon your throbbing and hardened clit, providing a tantalizing pressure, while his fingers work you up and up, knowing just how to hurl you toward the edge.

You could come like this. If he just keeps going the way that he is now, you are so close.

However, this time, he opts to prolong the experience, deliberately massaging his fingers deep within you, unhurried yet uncontrollably thorough. It's as if he intends to extract every last drop of pleasure from your willing form.

You find yourself gasping for precious breath, your arousal flooding you with an intensity you've never felt under the coldness behind his piercing blue gaze. “Please,” you say, body instinctively curving towards his touch, and he eases on the pressure, making you softly whine. “No, more.”

“More? Alright. Like this?”

That sounds dangerous. You should read the moderated vexation, but you don’t.

And then he ups the intensity.

The immense pleasure overwhelms you, rendering you powerless in its wake. Your legs involuntarily jerk, your toes curling as they make contact with the sheets, there’s a frenzied urgency in the way grind against his palm, desperately craving that elusive climax hovering magnetically close but just beyond your grasp.

You teeter precariously on the edge of release, the climb to the impending orgasm has you trembling with anticipation, it’s just a final push away, and Leon is delivering it with flawless precision...

Until he isn’t.

His hand retreats, the fullness of his fingers slipping out of you, leaving behind an agonizing emptiness that your core clenches pathetically around. You're left yearning, aching for more, and you’ve been mercilessly dunked in ice water by a torturer, extinguishing the flames of ecstasy that had been building within you.

Your dumbfounded gaze remains fixed upon him, your breath perpetually caught in your chest, causing a painful tightness. His pink tongue comes out to lick his fingers, drenched in your ever-present slickness and the flavored lube, and the digits disappear behind his sensuous, kiss-reddened pink lips. A tremor courses through your chest, leaving you to pathetically inquire, "Why?"

“You know why.”

You adjust on the sheets, shifty, restless, trying your best to come back down and ignore the biting pleasure sinking like a ship. So he was really doing this.

And you were going along with it despite everything, craving everything he could give you.

“Now, look at me. Look at me,” he demands, gently turning your face towards him, his fingers still moist with your essence. “You know how this ends. Other than that, no means yes. Stop means keep going. Don’t means do it. Wait means continue. Struggling just tells me you like it.”

He generously allows you time to push him away, to draw the line and declare your unwillingness to continue this path.

"Leon—"

"What is your safe word?" he cuts you off, tone both commanding and measured. His eyebrows are low on his forehead, staring you down so hostile one would think you’re his enemy, chest broad, like he’s seconds from attacking.

"Rookie."

He kisses your temple. So loving against his cruelty just now. "Very well.”

It’s gone back to tumbling in bed together again, all two of you are capable of is avoiding whatever it is that you want to say and conveying the frustration through touch instead.

And he’s punishing you.

With all intents and purposes, Leon normally isn’t like this.

You didn’t know he’d snap just like that when all you did was a little push.

Leon's intensity and intimidating demeanor may seem at odds with his surprisingly indulgent and caring nature towards you. While his usual serious and frosty exterior can be off-putting to others, there is a different side of him — one that shows deep affection and thoughtfulness, albeit elusively. He runs on giving you whatever you want at the end of the day.

The first you noticed this was late one evening two years ago when you’d managed to snuggle up to him without him getting all stiff, as you sat together in the dark living room and watched a movie together, Leon's intense gaze softening as he observed you. You'd grown accustomed to his serious expression, but that night, you could see the faintest hint of concern in his eyes. You had yawned, feeling the exhaustion from a long day, and rested your head on his shoulder.

"You should get some rest," Leon said quietly, his voice hoarse and rough, yet gentle. "I can handle the rest of this."

"I'm okay, really," you replied, trying to suppress another yawn.

Leon's semi-frown had deepened as he reached for the quilt draped across the couch. Without a word, he had wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it in snugly up to your neck. "Better," he said with a hint of satisfaction.

The small gesture had warmed your heart, knowing that despite his gruff demeanor, and tendency to not say anything, he genuinely cared for your well-being. As you had drifted off to sleep, he had remained by your side, watching over you in his silent but protective way.

In the following days, little surprises had started appearing around the house the more he came around. A new book you mentioned wanting to read, a set of cozy slippers, or a favorite snack tucked into the pantry. You had wondered where these gifts were coming from, but whenever you brought it up, Leon brushed it off as if it's nothing.

Yet, the repairs and chores he undertook in secret had been perhaps the most endearing. You had noticed the creaky door was now silent, the loose cabinet handle was firmly fixed, and the kitchen faucet no longer dripped. He would never mention these tasks, as if they were just a natural part of his day and you would think to yourself, It’s great to have a man around actually, wow. And it had nothing to do with the sex.

Another evening for example, after you had finished a hearty dinner, you had gotten up to clean up, but Leon had waved you off. "Relax," he’d said gruffly, "I've got it."

You’d decided to watch him from the threshold, curious about how he went about his chores, feeling weirded out by this busy man maneuvering around your kitchen like a housewife. He’d washed the dishes with care, meticulously drying each one before placing them back in the cupboard, cleaned the counters and even swept the floor with a focus when there was no need to.

He wouldn’t accept one praise or thanks for it, and you’d understood a bit late that this was his way of showing the affection he couldn’t with words.

It seems that the only context in which Leon feels comfortable enough expressing it is within sexual encounters; perhaps because the boundaries surrounding such actions are already defined. In these moments, his attention remains focused solely upon generating and maintaining your pleasure. His own satisfaction comes secondary to ensuring yours. And he finds control in it, pushing deep inside and striking rapid fire peak after another until you lay quaking beneath him, other times his ministrations fall closer to tenderness than intensity until even their quietest whispers roil across every part of you leaves you squirming through his attentions regardless of approach.

The thought alone puts you in the most compromising position possible: surrendering your body over to someone who just might leave you in ruins afterwards but whose mercy still tempts you nonetheless. There are times when his touch is harder than others and at other times, it's nothing short of achingly loving.

It’s hard to think straight whenever Leon is taking care of you. How could one possibly find it difficult to let go when you’re being spoiled by the best? Him and this whole arrangement had been giving you a lot of second thoughts while it lasted but you can never deny that every single time you collided together, it always ended in some form of relaxation and satisfaction with the help of the man who has proven that he knows what makes you feel good.

Even though he's not capable of saying his feelings out loud.

But that's never stopped him from making sure that you get all the spoils that he'd never allow anyone else to have in their lives. Maybe he liked to spoil you more than anything because he couldn’t give you much more. Maybe he felt a need to give back to you for staying silent and not wanting anything out of him.

He's a gentle man. Kind. Looks like a jawbreaker but is mushy inside.

You've made a mistake and he’s not going to let you off even if you say sorry.

Enthralled by this all, you don’t want him to.

As the anticipation crackles in the air, Leon's hands remove your ruined underwear, sliding them down your legs, leaving them discarded around your ankles. His hands travel up from your ankles to your calves, sensual in his caressing, and the way he touches the back of your knees has your core twitching, beginning the curling again.

Leaning down against you, his lips press languid, teasing kisses against the tender flesh of your breasts, interchanging between suckling, licking, and half-bites that you want would be stronger as one hand comes up to pay attention to the neglected one, giving you whiplash with the power behind his occasional squeezes and the punishing tugs and flicks on your nipple.

You don’t know how many minutes pass as he overpowers you and stops you from squirming and closing your thighs for any god-sent friction as they become the only things he pays attention to. It starts stinging at one point, aching sweetly that you want him to both keep moving and keep going.

“Stop, come on, please…”

“Why should I? I’m having a good time.” You can practically see the nipple that pops out of his mouth sizzle with soreness. “There you go again, saying stupid things.”

Oh, he’s mean.

He, somehow in a way that adds to the gratification, wrings a nipple that draws a yelp out of you. “My stupid girl. Acting like you’re not getting off on this when you know how to stop me.” With deliberate intent, his mouth embarks on a seductive exploration, trailing butterfly kisses along the path of your stomach. “Don’t use that mouth of yours other than making pretty noises for me, yeah?”

Each flick of his tongue against your hips sends a jolt of desire coursing through your body. Your legs instinctively respond, parting wider, asking for his touch.

There, just before the pinnacle of your thighs, he pauses, holding himself above you, his closeness tangible. He bites down on them, leaving temporary teeth marks this time, and you jolt upward against his mouth, but can’t properly move to satisfy yourself, your tiny moan eliciting a dark laugh from Leon. “That’s it, keep those sounds coming.”

The tip of his nose nudges against the delicate apex of your sex, provoking a surge of anticipation that consumes you. The whine for him to do something comes close to fly out of your throat but you know he’d do the opposite, so you lay there, hands coming down on his taut, strong shoulders and —

He’s still dressed. You didn’t even have a break to notice.

You’re zapped out of your head by the soft, warm breath rolling along your hypersensitive clit to your slit. It's a provocative, nowhere near enough of a drag, a delightful torment that he dangles in front of you. And then, he finally succumbs to his desire — your desire, his mouth descending upon your throbbing pussy and you can’t stop the drawn-out whine of satisfaction. “Oh my god! Yes, keep doing that, just like that, please!”

The sensation is overwhelming, a convergence of his roughened jaw tensing as he skillfully works you open. His tongue, slow and obedient, is a slick slide through your wet folds. He hums into you, the vibrations resonating deeply within your being and your legs attempt to clamp around his head, only to be stopped by the metal band that are his arms holding them down, and he bathes you in soft, slow, torturous caresses, parting you further, making his tongue delve in.

He doesn’t give you what you want. Not this time.

The pace of his relentless pussy-eating remains excruciatingly slow, as if he savors every moment, every lap of his tongue against your delicateness like he’s sipping up a beverage. The fusion of pleasure and pain are crackles that don’t explode into completion, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance.

In your desperate quest for release, your fingers instinctively scramble to clutch and tug at his soft hair, knowing that Leon relishes in the sensation, praying that he will reward you for doing that somehow.

The anticipation throwing a tantrum within you reaches a fever pitch, your entire being a symphony of quivering muscles and trembling limbs. Your body tenses like a drawn bow, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable crescendo. It wraps around you, about to release the arrow, while your gasps and squeaks fill the air.

You’re there, you’re finally there, finally.

Your thighs quiver uncontrollably as his grip is a vice around them, your stomach folding over itself inside in an uncontrollable frenzy, you’re being hurled toward the finish line with such speed intensity that it borders on pain.

Amidst the whirlwind of sensation you forget yourself. Your words dissolve into an incoherent babbling, your fragmented pleas begging for him to continue, to drive you to the brink of rapture and beyond. “Please, please, pleaseplease, almost—"

Each deliberate movement of his mouth, each calculated stroke of his tongue, sends waves of wax-hot ecstasy surging through your body.

Your senses are consumed by frustration and desire, the need to unravel in orgasmic bliss peaking to an almost unbearable level. It feels cruel, unjust, to be held in this suspended state of euphoria, teetering on the precipice of ecstasy without being allowed to take the leap.

And then, he takes all of it away.

What.

The maddening unfairness of it all engulfs you, rendering you speechless, frustrated beyond measure. It's a torment that cuts deep, leaving you trembling with unfulfilled desire. The ache within you intensifies, a cruel reminder of the pleasure withheld, and you find yourself helplessly grappling with the sheer agony of being denied what feels rightfully yours.

“No, nooooo,” you can’t help the pathetic sob. Want to slap his hand away when it comfortingly nestles against the apple of your cheek. “Fuck, this is so unfair!”

As you tremble like a leaf on the edge of frustration and craving, pulled back as the void you wanted to jump in getting smaller and smaller, caught between the pining for release and the ache of denial, Leon's voice reaches your ears like a calming balm. His soothing coos and the gentle stroke of his hands at both sides of your hips is a momentary respite from the overwhelming intensity. “You're doing so well. I’ve got you, sweet girl, you're okay, it'll pass.”

It’s his fault that it has to pass.

It angers you. He's only sweet to melt you like butter and take advantage of that again to fly you up only to make you fall, and catch you halfway so you won’t shatter into pieces.

He kisses up your stomach and peppers your collarbone and shoulders, but when he wants to capture your lips, you turn your face away, trying not to cry, attempts to push him off, futile. “Asshole, no, get away from me.”

He licks a stripe through the outside of your ear instead, and you buck your head toward the touch, ticklish. “Have to be one.”

The ache within you thrums, pricks of a thousand needles not hurting quite in the way you need, each one a reminder of the pleasure you crave. And he denied. You try to turn away, crawl out of the bed. So this is what you get for slipping up and wanting some dick. “Fuck you, let go of me...”

You only manage to flip on your belly when he presses down on you again, still clothed. He knows just how to soothe and alleviate the sting that prickles all over, kissing your nape. “Can’t. Sorry.”

Shivers go down your spine as he plants more kisses on your back, hooking an arm in front of your waist, palm pushing down on your navel and dizzying you again as he pulls you back to him. “You are not sorry—!”

His soft lips, like a healing touch, press against the corner of your shoulder, providing temporary relief as the ache subsides as his hands glide like soothing, cool velvet against your flushed, neglect-irritated skin.

He keeps doing that for a while, until your chest isn’t heaving anymore, and you’re face down, ass up on the mattress, comfortably floating in a state of bliss.

But just when you think you might it’s over, his thumbs peel open the lips of your pussy, and he blows on it to ignite stomped embers, compelling you to arch into his mouth, the dull ache blossoming from flavorless into ready for the ripe sweet. .

Leon shames you. “What’s that? You want more again?” You feel his fingers tracing alongside the outside of your entrance, not diving inside, teasing. “You know what to say.”

It’s all you’ve been saying this far, and you can’t think. “Please. Please!”

“Wrong answer.”

From then on, lost in a haze of pleasure and desire, the notion of time dissolves into insignificance, unable to tether you to the constructs of the world outside of his torture.

With each frustrating high you want to stop building, there comes a devastating low that starts to leave tears burning behind your eyelids until your vision blacks out. Leon skillfully takes you by the hand, a villain in a knight’s shining armor, rolling that boulder up the hill, only to let it come tumbling down to the bottom before it can reach the peak, watching blankly as you crumble.

It happens three more times before you lose all bodily control, knees unable to hold you up anymore, and he rolls you on your back again, sweat leaving the sheets so wet they could be transparent, and at the same time, you can’t focus on anything other than what’s going on between your legs, details blurring in your sensory overload, the world around you fading into a peripheral existence, the thick smell of arousal in the air suffocating.

In this state of surrender and exquisite agony, the pleasure ebbs and flows, slowing down, maintaining the heat that just isn’t burning enough. Any resistance that once flickered within you has now faded, leaving you utterly surrendered to Leon’s will as he moves you around like a ragdoll to his liking, a leg thrown over his shoulder and the other spread wide by an iron grip seizing the back of your knee.

You’re about to break. You don’t know how many times it’s been. “Fuck, Leon, please, please just let me go, let me come, please, I can’t anymore, I can’t, I need to come, I’m gonna go insane—please, please!”

"You're gonna go insane? You don't know what insane is," he states with a low rasp in his voice, his words laced with a sadistic edge. "Should've been there yesterday to see me."

Whining in response, you manage to release a series of broken pleas. "No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, please stop, please!"

He doesn’t care. It’s like he’s made of stone.

The raw intensity in his gaze, the thin ring of blue around the black pool of his pupils threaten to swallow you whole as he props himself up above you, the muscles in his arms bulging and tight, veins prominent. “What are you sorry for?”

An apology is what he wanted from the start, and you no longer care about the reasons behind it. You’re well past dignity and shame, the desire to come overrides all rational thought that you think you would start jumping on his cock the moment he asked you to. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I apologize, okay, just, ugh…"

"You know, I don't think you need to come that badly," Leon snarls, his lips curving upwards in a cruel and cold smile. He raises himself onto his knees, distancing himself from your desperate reach.

"No!" you cry out, a high-pitched noise of denial. Your hand stretches out towards him, desperately grasping at empty air. "Wait! Wait! I do need to come, you can't do this to me, I can't—!"

But he ignores your calls, the smile having fallen into something blank again. "Just so you know, you asked for this." He swiftly undoes his belt, causing his trousers to fall around his narrow hips and then pool around his legs. "Don't be a baby and take it."

He turns away momentarily, allowing you to feast your eyes upon the carved muscles of his arms and back as he removes his shirt. Naked before you, his skin adorned by bruises and lighter-toned scars of old and new alike.

All of them, so attractive.

“Told you I was gonna make you understand.”

You don’t hear him. Not really. Your focus narrows solely on the figure of Leon looming just ahead like an incubus haunting your dreams. The sight of his glistening, pre-dripping cock the object of your attention, instilling a hunger within you that eclipses any concerns or inhibitions that might have lingered within your mind.

"And you don't even seem close to it yet.”

However, your desperate desire overpowers any semblance of understanding at this point. The unadulterated need for him, for his stretch in you, consumes your thoughts, leaving little room for comprehension.

Suddenly, Leon's strong fingers encircle your ankles, and with an unforgiving yank, he pulls you closer, drawing you beneath him. He nibbles on your calves, smoothing your ankles, staring you down, so fucking hot and sexy, before the weight of his body covers yours, and you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, intensifying the expectation that drums inside.

The swollen tip of his cock hovers at the entrance of your slick folds, teasing the threshold of pleasure. You brace yourself, preparing for the inevitable penetration and the sweet stretch that will follow. Yet, it eludes you, leaving you uncomfortably longing for his deep, satisfying intrusion.

Driven by desperation, you roll your hips upward, searching for the angle that will guide him inside you. Confusion dances at the edges of your consciousness as you struggle to comprehend the delay, unable to understand why he hasn't already plunged into you, fulfilling the ache that pulsates within your body.

It seems like you’ve forgotten again what game he was playing with you.

“Want something, sweet girl?” Leon gazes down at you with the shadow of a smirk, reveling in your writhing form beneath him. It's evident that he takes pleasure in this power dynamic, flourishes in the control he holds over your desires. Fucking asshole. How long is this going to continue? “I'm listening.”

Panting and needy, you respond with an indistinct whimper. “Please.”

But Leon refuses to let you off the hook easily. His demand is clear. “Yeah?”

Fuck this guy. Oh god.

“Leon, please,” you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, both from desperation and the building fury.

“I hear you. Tell me what you need.”

So he could deny you it again?

The widened smirk on his face matches the wickedness in his voice, it's as if he celebrates the torment of restating your hunger all the way back up, taunting you. “I won't know if you don't tell me.”

As the words “You. You. I need you, Leon, I want you. Inside me, please.” emerge, your voice a delicate, unplanned balance of pleading and exasperation, Leon's eyes light up, gleaming with a potent blend of pride and an urgent hunger that surpasses mere desire.

The look that graces his face is captivating, drawing you deeper into the vortex of intimacy that swirls between you as Leon offers a husky, excited affirmation, “There’s my girl.”

Without hesitation, he surges forward, impaling you with his throbbing cock, and you’re gone, not even in your body anymore.

The initial glide of his length penetrating your depths transports you to a realm of unparalleled ecstasy. Waves of sweet, electrifying ache surge through your being, igniting pleasure that radiates along every nerve ending. Your thighs quiver and strain as they envelop his hips, nearly overcome by the torrent of blazing heat that overflows from your core. The stretch burns and stings so fucking good.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nails scraping red lines down his back. “Just like that, please, yes, so good. Move. Please move!”

Unable to contain the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins, your body instinctively presses up against Leon's, breasts crushed against his chest, shockwaves from your nipples shooting straight to the pool filling up in your stomach, responding to his presence without conscious effort.

Displaying his infuriating control, Leon allows you a brief moment to squirm around his cock, savoring the desperate feeling of connection, and stills.

Your hands instinctively find purchase on his shoulders, yearning to keep him close, to maintain the blissful fusion. A chaste kiss to the corner of your jaw follows.

And then, with a force that leaves you gasping, he withdraws almost entirely, threatening to sever the connection you crave and perhaps walk away again and you’re fucking terrified. Panic stirs within, and your hands tighten their grip on his shoulders, desperately clinging to the pleasure he provides, his warmth, his presence. You don’t even realize your breathing has gotten frantic.

His gentleness peeks through the blinds, a twinkle in the night. “It’s okay, it’s okay, calm down, you’re okay. I’m not going anywhere. Shit,” he curses, coming down to capture your lips in a consoling, soft tangle for the first time that day, and it almost erases all the shit he pulled on you today.

Almost.

Without warning, Leon thrusts himself back in with an intensity that makes your mind spin. The brain-melting, reason-flaying pleasure that ravishes you in that moment is so riveting, so overwhelmingly good, that your vision darkens, the world falling away. It's as if the very cosmos bear witness to the electrifying union, as you swear you see novas, their brilliance shimmering in your obscured sight.

With unyielding determination, Leon continues his relentless assault, driving himself into you with harsh, deep thrusts that leave you breathless. The pace is unforgiving, hard and fast, each movement becoming a seismic wave of pleasure that crashes through your entire being. The intense sensations cascade, spreading from deep within, coiling tightly around your being like a snake, tightening the knot of bliss that constricts with every stroke.

You can feel the peak of your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure on the precipice of eruption. In a desperate quest for completion, you arch your body, meeting each of his thrusts with an eagerness that borders on desperation.

He notices. Of course he does.

Leon's hips press deep into you, holding there in a maddening stillness. It's almost enough, a flick of your clit away, so close that you can taste it, imagine it.

He denies you.

Again.

It slips away like sand through your fingers, surfacing in an anguished sob that escapes your lips.

As tears stream down your face, they merge into fat blobs and flow in heavy currents, distorting your vision. The profound sense of loss tightens its grip on your body, overwhelming you to the point that you fear losing consciousness.

The intensity of everything building within you becomes a terrifying force, leaving you petrified of surrendering to it fully, as though it may make you disappear entirely. The trembling that envelopes you is no longer connected to pleasure; it is a tremor borne of fear and vulnerability.

Your body stiffens involuntarily, breaths coming in shallow and rapid puffs. The room spins around you, blurring into a chaotic mess. Your voice, shaky and filled with desperation, falters as you utter your safe word, the syllables escaping your lips like uncontrollable vomit. "Rookie...shit...rookie, I'm gonna pass out. No more. No more."

He’s out of you immediately, everything coming to a halt.

With genuine concern etched upon his face, Leon's voice pierces through the chaos, calling for you through the momentary ear ringing, but you can see his eyes now filled with compassion.

He’s back.

His strong arms wrap around you, providing a secure embrace as he takes in the depth of your distress. He holds your cheeks and checks on you,shaking you a bit he doesn’t get a response, and relaxes only when you nod, he leans in, peppering your tear-streaked face with soothing kisses, his tender gestures offering comfort and solace.

But your alarms rise that he might start again reflexively, and try to push him off, and he takes that hand in his, kissing your palm, your wrist, your fingers, slow and one by one, murmuring softly, tone tranquilizing. “No more, alright? No more. It’s over. You’re safe.”

Amidst the emotional turbulence, Leon's reassurance remains steadfast. "I got you. I got you, you're okay," he whispers softly, his voice a warm blanket enveloping you. His unyielding support gives you strength to navigate the overwhelming sensations that had consumed you moments ago. The affection, warmth against the ice you went through with him is so comforting. "You did so good, sweetheart. You were amazing. I’m so proud of you."

His praise resonates deep within, calming you down significantly, that his anger isn’t out to get you.

With a gentle touch, Leon encourages you to sit. He instinctively reaches for a glass of water on the side table, offering it to you with care. "Here, take a sip. It'll help," he murmurs, his tone filled with tenderness, communicating his desire to provide you with the necessary aftercare, allowing you to physically and emotionally recenter yourself.

Sitting behind you and taking you between his legs, Leon hugs you from behind, thick arms engulfing you in the safest of embraces, ensuring that you feel his presence as a steady support. His hands encircle your trembling shoulders, offering a reassuring hold. "Hold onto me. I'm right here," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody amidst the residual chaos of your emotions.

He gets you to lean back against his chest, making you aware of how it puffs up and falls down. "Breathe with me, okay? C’mon, feel me breathe." His words act as a gentle guide, coaxing you toward a calmer state of being, unconsciously synchronizing your breaths with his. “There you go. Doing so well.”

The moment he feels you’re not digging your fingers into his forearm around your middle anymore, he whispers, “More water?”

Your throat is so dry. “Yes please.”

He doesn’t let you take the glass, bringing it to your lips himself insead. “Drink slow,” is a gentle order as your own hands wrap around the cup over his. “Anything you need? Bath? Shower?”

“I want to continue.”

“Are you sure?”

“I need to fucking come Leon, I can’t sleep today if you let me go like this.”

“Alright, okay. I did say anything you need. How do you want it?”

“Comfortable.”

“Wanna flip over? Here, hug these.” You’re handed a couple pillows to keep holding to prop your upper up a little, and he slips one underneath your hips, angling them in a comfortable position. “There. No need to lift your hips.”

You can just rest your head on the pillows like this, it’s designed to make you stay still. “You’ll lie on top of me?”

“I won’t crush you, don’t worry. Leave it to me. You can snooze a bit if you like.”

“Funny.”

Your eyes flutter closed as Leon lowers himself onto you, his weight pressing down on your lower half. He's careful not to push too hard or hurt you in any way. Instead, he holds himself above you, giving you space to breathe and relax. You feel his warmth emanating from him, the moisture of his breath fanning your nape, as he slowly settles over your body, making himself as close to you as possible. It's an intimate act that makes you flush with embarrassment, but you find yourself enjoying how secure and safe it makes you feel, the whole body pressing down on you is delectable, like some weighted blanket. You mewl into the pillows as he slips his cock in, not punishingly languid and calculated this time, but slow, gentle, and sweet.

“Comfortable?”

“Hmm,” you exhale.

As Leon begins to move inside you, you take a deep breath and hold tightly to the pillow beneath your cheek. His movements are deliberate and measured, not harsh not to toss you up the bed, each stroke sending waves through your entire body. You can feel your muscles being kneaded with desire as he works his magic between your legs.

"This feels so good," you hum, craning your neck as best as you can to try maintaining eye contact with him, to see how he’s doing.

Leon is holding back.

You hear a deep rumble coming from him, almost like a purring sound as he rolls his hips into you like gentle sea waves hitting the shore, you can feel him getting harder and swell inside, pulsing. His fingers gently caress your skin, tracing lines across your arms and shoulders before coming to sneak underneath your torso and loosely cup your throat. Slowly, he begins kissing and nibbling on the sensitive area behind your earlobe, sending shivers through your entire body. In response, you arch your back slightly, pushing against him in search of something you barely understand yet desperately crave, feeling the way the plane of his stomach spasms in rhythm with his thrusts.

Leon grasps your waist firmly, pulling you impossibly closer to him, rubbing himself along your curves until your whole body sings with sensation. This is it. This is nice, warm, rolling like ribbons of thick caramel. All at once, you feel like you are drowning in a syrup of desire and sweetness that seems impossible to escape. And yet, somehow, you never want out. For now, right here and nowhere else, all that matters is the soft touch of Leon's hand over yours, fingers lacing with your own, guiding you deeper into a world where only he exists.

“Feel like sleeping yet?”

“As if you ever let me sleep…” Can anyone be fucked into sleep when every single cell is alerted to this degree?

The hand around your throat travels up a little to tip your head back so the crown of your head can rest on his shoulder and he has better access to mark up your neck “Still wanna come, sweet girl?” He nips at the path along your jaw. “Be nicer to me.”

There’s no space left between you and the bed from his weight for him to stimulate your clit, so Leon goes for a position change, making you sigh in disappointment as he slips out of you for the moment.

Your heart leaps at how he combs his damp hair. He looks like a completely different person when his hair is slicked back, and it stays that way because of how wet the strands are from sweat.

Taking charge, Leon gets you to lie on your back, positioning your body in a way that maximizes comfort and intimacy. He gently guides one of your legs to extend straight while bending the other at the knee, lifting it up for ease of access. With careful precision, he positions himself alongside you, lying on his side.

Drawing you closer, he slips his hand under your head, creating a makeshift pillow of support. His arm bends at the elbow, allowing his hand to rest on your breast, his touch gentle and attentive. The warmth of his body pressed against yours generates a sense of security and closeness, and you can reach to cling to his nape and kiss him like this.

His other hand finds its place on the thigh of your bent leg, providing stability and further fostering a sense of connection. His left leg aligns itself along the length of your extended leg, while his right leg is carefully positioned, pushed in between your lifted leg, cock nestled against your pussy, his hips restless, grinding against you.

“Ready?”

He actually lets you grind back, and you can cry from relief. “Yeah.”

“I’ll go slow.”

“Just make me come, please.”

As he releases his hold on your breast, his hand rises to gently tip your chin, guiding your focus back to him. His warm lips meet yours in a languid, passionate kiss, expressing the depth of his desire. Slowly and deliberately, he eases himself into you, letting you feel every inch of his girth and length. The sensations overwhelm you, and your moan mingles with his as pleasure blossoms between you.

His little whiny grunt does something to the ache in your stomach. “Doesn’t feel great to be left hanging, does it?”

“No, no, fuck," You're refusing, but a roll of his hips manage to hit a good spot inside you, and the thought is an aborted prompt in your head. "Yeah, right there…” You open your eyes to find him drinking your bliss in, and remember what you were going to say. “I’m sorry, ah, god, I’m so sorry.” You manage between gasps and moans, your vulnerability and remorse mingling with the intense pleasure. “I was just drunk and I didn’t want to talk—”

In the heat of the moment, Leon's hand skillfully navigates your body, moving downward to the sensitive area where you're connected. His touch expertly pulls up the hood of your clit, allowing his middle finger to press against it with unwavering pressure, all the while continuing his thrusts into your wetness. His question suggests he'll only move if he gets the answer he wants from you. "Will you do that to me again?"

Your hands fly to his forearm, an instinctive response to keep him exactly where he is, lost in the throes of pleasure. "No. No, never, never again," you assert, begging.

With a hint of satisfaction, Leon acknowledges your response, affirming your words with admiration. "Yeah? What will you do, then?" he groans, low and needy. The electricity between you lingers in the air, everything reeks of sex, humid and hot, charged with a sense of possessiveness and mutual longing.

Leaning into the pleasure coursing through your body, you find it difficult to form coherent words, but manage to respond. "Gonna answer all your calls," Your gasp cracks with a particularly strong thrust. "Stay saf-e!"

With his fingers still expertly circling your sensitive, hardened nub, fulfilling your desires, spoiling you with what you need, Leon finally gives in to his own need. He devours your lips in desperate, sloppy kisses, immersing you in the chaos of passion. Breathless and lost in a haze of pleasure, he shares fragmented sentences in between the urgent connection of your mouths. The mingling of your sighs and gasps intertwines. "Just need you to be safe," he murmurs, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and longing. "Need to know you're okay. Don't leave me out like that — don't — fuck, fuck, fuck!" He bites back a grunt that threatens to become a high-pitched moan. You feel him shudder. "You take it so well, so fucking perfect for me," he downright growls. “Shit, I’m close.”

“Almost there, almost, don’t fucking stop, please!”

His voice, accompanied by rapid panting, is raw and husky. “I’m right here sweet girl. Come for me. You need it, don’t you? You’ve been dying for it all night. Break. Come all over my cock. Give it to me—ah god!”

The overwhelming intensity of the moment makes it impossible for you to form coherent words in response. Instead, hold onto him for an anchor in this hurricane as every fiber of your being vibrates, coming close to something, rising, close, close—.

When release finally washes over you, it's a torrential wave that transcends your wildest expectations. The pleasure explodes, the light shining first and the sound spilling forth afterwards, blasting your senses in a cacophony of rippling ecstasy. The experience is chaotic and overwhelming, all the more devastating from having been built up for so long.

As the waves of pleasure ebb and flow through your body, you wait for a moment of respite, hoping that the intensity will gradually subside. However, to your surprise, Leon's rocking maintains the pace, pushing deep into you without slowing down. Your attempts to get away from the overstimulation is vain, as the intensity only escalates. Pleasure intertwines with a sense of urgency and biting, sensitive ache, leaving you unable to catch your breath, unable to control the uninhibited and primal sounds escaping from your lips.

The fullness takes on a new dimension. The line blurs between whether this is a second orgasm or if your initial release has never truly ceased. The pleasure is heightened, potent, whetted, cutting, and you’re lost in the abyss of ecstasy that keeps dragging you down, you’re convulsing around his length uncontrollably.

In this overwhelming state of sensory overload, you cry out Leon's name, mingling with whimpers and moans, meanwhile, undeterred by your sensitivity, Leon relentlessly continues with his powerful strokes, chasing his own peak, ending up making you slide toward the edge of the bed with one final, powerful ram, then he bursts into you, his shout strangled, and it feels as if the moment stretches out indefinitely, his body winded like taut wire and heaving beside you, release seemingly endless, shuddering gasps rattling his ribcage.

After what feels like an eternity, Leon finally stills, his body collapsing. And he pulls you into a hug with post-orgasmic trembling hands, and breathes into your hair as you bask in the afterglow.

Leon's affectionate gesture leaves a path of mellowness in its wake, and you find yourself leaning into the softness of the moment. His lips part from yours, but instead of pulling away abruptly, he lingers for a moment, his breath mingling with yours. “I’ll be right back.” And this time, when he pulls away, it’s not anxiety-inducing that he’ll leave you hanging, and you can relax.

As you lie there, wrapped in the comforting cocoon of warmth and post-coital heaven, the world around you blurs and fades at the edges, you can’t keep your eyes open to wait for Leon, but keep fighting the pull of sleep as it gently tugs at your consciousness. Every fiber of your being craves the soothing embrace of slumber, and you end up surrendering to the honeyed drowsiness.

A gentle blink and Leon is there again, his caring eyes fixed upon you, looking so, so young. In his hands, he holds a warm, damp towel, and you watch with a mix of admiration and affection as he moves with fluid grace to gently wipe you down. His hands look like they’ve been made to handle stranger violences, but they are tamed for you. With every tender stroke, he murmurs quiet praise and affection, his voice a soft caress that wraps around you like a warm blanket, and you drift off listening to the velvet smoothness.

You begin to stir, not knowing how much time has passed, slowly awakening from your deep sleep, when you become aware of gentle movements and moving about nearby. As you open your eyes and rub the lethargy away, you find the door of the bathroom that adjoins your bedroom open, the aroma of fragrant bath oils filling the air. The soft glow of candles casts flickering shadows that are visible from where you are, creating a serene ambiance that envelops you.

Leon comes into view, standing by the bathtub, somehow able to tell right away you woke up, a caring smile playing on his lips. He has taken the time to prepare a luxurious bath for you, filling the tub with warm water and adding petals that float delicately on the surface. The room is filled with a sense of tranquility as he pours some scented bath oils and swirls them into the water, their fragrance enveloping the space.

“You’re up. Morning, night owl. Rest well?” As Leon strides toward you with a towel hanging from his hips, the steam from the bath clings to his glistening, bare upper body. Your eyes instinctively drink in the sight of him, as if they can never grow accustomed to the sheer beauty in front of you. His presence is a work of art, his form seemingly sculpted from the smoothest marble, exuding an aura of strength and grace.

You sit up, the soreness pulling at your muscles, vagina basically weeping with ache. A good kind. “I slept like a log. I wish I never woke up, though. Ouch.”

There’s nothing apologetic in his hoarse laugh.

Your gaze roams his physique, appreciating every chiseled detail, never tiring of the sight. The way his biceps bulge in the sleeves of his clothing, or the way the fabric stretches over the expanse of his chest, captivates your attention endlessly.

“Prepared you a bath.” Gently, he extends his hand, inviting you to join him in the soothing embrace of the tub. “Hopefully that’ll help. Need a ride?”

You allow him to princess carry you, blushing like a schoolgirl, feeling the warm water caress your skin as he lowers you into its embrace. The groan that comes out of you is sinful.

Leon unravels the towel around his hips and slips right behind you, legs bracketing yours, careful your lower half doesn’t touch his but you can lean back to his chest, presence exuding a sense of serenity and comfort. Leaning against the smooth tub's edge, he reaches out with tenderness, slowly taking a washcloth and soaping it up. With delicate motions, he begins to wash your body above the water, his touch almost lulling you to sleep once more..

He breaks the silence, planting a kiss at the crown of your head. "This feels nice, doesn't it?" he murmurs, his words carrying a warmth that matches the water surrounding you.

You nod, relishing in the intimate connection forged by this simple act of tenderness. "Yes, it does," you reply softly, gratitude filling your voice. “Thank you, Leon.”

He hums in response. You can feel the soft smile on his lips when he presses a delicate kiss against the nape of your neck, leaving a lingering warmth that resonates through your entire being.

You don’t know what the hell this is.

But you want all of it.

“Ashley isn’t like you to me.”

God, you could evaporate from shame and make the water boil over. He remembers you going off on him because of that. Oh no.

His chin rests atop your head, drawing you closer. “I was tasked to save her when she was kidnapped—”

“Hold. Hold.” You twist around to look at him, the water around you rippling, petals swimming. “What do you mean you were tasked to?”

He answers like it’s a road trip for a festival to the next state. “I was sent to Spain for that. On a mission.”

“Mission.” You’re searching for any sign of being fucked with. Leon looks weary all of a sudden, jaded, zoning off, it’s like the circles under his eyes deepen to show you. “Like. An agent?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re an agent? Like a federal agent or a secret agent?”

“A special one.”

“Oh, fuck.” The pieces fall into place. His skilfulness in fighting, his built body, the scars and bruises renewed between absences, the inability to relax and just be in crowds. The White House. PTSD. Nightmares. You had an inkling. Just thought he was a bodyguard with an obvious military background, though. Never would have thought it went as deep as this. You sink a bit into the water. “So that was it.”

He gets you to lean on him again, wrapping his arms around you, perhaps, seeking comfort.

He’s spilling all the beans, there’s no reason not to probe further, albeit with care for what would be a sensitive topic for him. “So she was kidnapped?”

One arm draped under your arm, coming up to hold onto your shoulder, Leon’s fingers begin tracing shapes into your skin, his other elbow is propped up against the side of the tub, wrist resting on his bent knee. “Yeah.”

“They sent you? What, like some one man army superhero?” His chest lowly rumbles with a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re serious? That’s what you do?”

“You knew before you came to me.”

“I had theories, but… Spy stuff? For real?”

He hesitates before answering, forehead nestling on your shoulder and nuzzling. “Not spy stuff. I work with bioterrorism.”

Your mind is rapidly trying to generate information and remember global events. “Bioterrorism… Like. Like, in Terragrigia? Monsters? Zombies?”

“And those who make them,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, damn… That sounds tough… I’m sorry.” You have no idea whatsoever how to respond to that. It’s so heavy that it hangs heavier than the steam in the bathroom, and he sounds thoroughly spent just by talking about it —

“Don’t be. I’m trained for it.”

But he still gets hurt. You see him hurt all the damn time. Miserable and sleepless and depressed.

“Stop getting sad, please?” Leon kisses your neck, adoring, damp hair making you ticklish. “I promise, it’s all fine.”

You can’t stop thinking about it. And you just heard of this now. You’ll never be able to sleep sound the way you did oblivious to the world ever again. “It’s not fine.”

“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

“You fight monsters. How can you say that? I know it’s wearing you down—”

You can’t see his face, but know he’s smiling to reassure you despite the fact. Tired. Tired. “That’s just how it is. Every field comes with its baggage. I’m okay. I have you.”

Oh, that’s… That’s big, actually. Your face heats up. Saying that is nothing to him, but hearing it is enough to make you jittery.

You allow your logic to carry you to the blatant conclusion to get away from the feeling, playing with one particular petal in your grasp. “All of that is confidential, I assume.”

Water sloshes around as he bends his other knee up as well. “Very. That’s why they got rid of that one guy who came after Operation Javier.”

Your movements still. He’s talking about the senior you’ve looked up to and came across the legacy of after his suicide.

A shiver shakes you. Leon hugs you tighter. It was suicide.

Suicide.

Got rid of?

They killed him? The government?

“Does… does that mean, if I—”

He’s short in his answer, like he doesn’t want to talk about this out of all things he’s revealed. “Yes.”

Your first encounter with Leon replays in your head. It was in a playful and straightforward meaning you’d taken the, ‘You know how this ends’ icebreaker, he was fucking talking about being offed? “So, you saved me?”

His answer is more unsettling. “I helped reroute you.”

All this time, his subtle meddling and intervening to guide your attention to other fields were to keep you from getting killed and not out of flirtily invested interest?

Oh, god.

“You saved me. I could have died.”

He’s not particularly grateful to receive your thanks. “You’re welcome.”

You’re still imagining things. All the ways they could have set up a self-inflicted death on you. You push out a whooping sigh. “Holy shit—”

“Hey. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” His hold is grounding and safe, and he means what he says, talking like some goddamned hero and you actually feel somewhat okay. “Nobody knows you were looking into it.”

“No found hanging at home headlines for me… Yay…”

He tilts your head to stare you in the eye, the intense, determined look eliciting butterflies in your tummy. “Don’t be scared. Seriously, I’m here. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll protect you.”

You blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Like Ashley?”

Leon kisses the tip of your nose. “I don’t think of her in the way you think I do. We’re not like that.”

You’re positive you can’t hide the way you perk up at that. “Would have been crappy of you to ask me for dinner if you were.”

He’s supposed to laugh at you, but it doesn’t come. “Yeah. Dinner…” There’s a brief silence. “So, when do we go?”

He has some absurd, untimely, irrelevant responses to things sometimes.

“We’re talking about dinner, really? I just confirmed you were a monster-fighting super agent and two whole years suddenly make sense and you’re talking to me about dinner?”

“...Do you want to go or not?”

“I want Indian food.”

v. With coffee cups in hand, the warmth of the beverages provides a welcome contrast to the cool morning air, and you and Leon stroll along the sidewalks, enjoying the chorus of chirping birds. The city is still relatively quiet, with only a few passersby hurrying along, and you cling to the serenity of the moment shared with him. You don’t expect Leon to surprise you with a steaming cup of coffee after leaving you alone for a few minutes, the aroma of roasted beans wafting up to your senses. "Here, your favorite," he says, handing you the cup.

"Thanks," you say, taking a sip of your coffee, which is sweetened and creamed to your liking.

Leon, however, raises an eyebrow playfully. "Sweet as dessert, huh?" he teases.

You grin, knowing that he prefers his coffee black and strong. "Well, I like a little sweetness in my mornings."

“Poor choice in companion today, then.”

“Oh, shut up,” you grimace while smiling, hitting him lightly on the side.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the crisp scent of the city, creating a comforting ambiance, and as you sip on your morning coffee, you relish the warmth of the cup in your hands and Leon's presence next to you. He is still wrinkling his nose at your choice of drink but silently enjoying the simple pleasure of walking together in the early morning light. The quiet intimacy between you two feels cozy, and you are almost tempted to reach for his hand, but something holds you back. The moment feels delicate, and you don't want to disturb the magic that surrounds you, wary of him still.

As you reach the metro station, the automated announcement chimes, indicating that the next train is about to arrive. You quickly finish your coffee, savoring the last sweet sips, while Leon looks on with amusement-hid fondness.

"Just in time," he says, glancing at the approaching train, deeply contemplating something, the wind coming from the train making his blond hair dance in the air.

The station is still relatively empty, with only a few early risers waiting for the train. You hug Leon tightly, not wanting the morning to end just yet, well aware you’re giving him mixed signals.

But this time, it’s different. This time, you know he wants this.

"I had a great time," you whisper, looking into his eyes.

His e cups your cheek, thumb gliding over your cheekbone. "Me too."

He is thinking again, staring at you in that kind of way, and his gaze shifts to your mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing. You step inside the train, and share awkward waves with him despite being an arm’s reach from each other.

About ten seconds before the doors begin to close, Leon leans in, capturing your lips in a tender, lingering kiss, licking outside your lips. Your heart misses a beat, the surroundings fading into the background as the moment feels suspended in time. “Too sweet. As expected.”

So he just wanted to taste your coffee—?

Then, with a soft yet confident voice, he says, "I love you. Have a nice day," barely audible over the train's announcements.

You freeze.

Huh?

But before you can respond, the doors close shut, leaving you dumbly staring at him smiling beautifully through the glass, and the metro lurches forward, leaving you shell-shocked, heart pounding, and narrowly able to keep your balance. You clutch a pole nearby for support, your mind reeling with the revelation that has just unfolded, the bombshell he’s just dropped on you.

As the metro picks up speed, you press your hand to your lips, still tingling from the unexpected kiss — from the confession.

His frame is getting smaller, his face giving way to something vulnerable as he watches you quickly drift away with the train, as if he has just set free a piece of himself he had kept guarded for so long.

Too sweet. As expected.

He was! He was—!

You remember the words of the lady in red just then. Think about it carefully. How do you want this to end?

Fuck.

Happy.

You want it to be happy.

[heartfullofleeches]

Fast food reader having a yandere manager/boss??

What type of shenanigans do they get to and why do I picture the yan manager calling in the reader to their office and when the reader comes in the manager is laying on their desk in a certain "draw me like one of your french girls" pose with a rose in their mouth??

Oh God. Please not today. Standing stationary at your post, you dread the upcoming encounter with the customers next in line. The duo whisper loudly to each other, one nudging the other as they glance over in your direction. You pick up some words of encouragement over the conversation you're currently involved in and are fairly certain the piece of paper in their hand is signed with a heart. Why do so many people think this is a good idea? You hand the customer their change and ponder whether it's too late to switch to retail as the next guests approach. The one holding the note goes first. They slide it across the counter.

"Hey, uh, I've seen you in here during my lunch breaks and was wondering if yo-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there. You're not even the fifth person who's given me their number this week. I'm not sure if you're one of the normal one or the kind who tries to stuff me in their car after I get off, but either way you should probably leave before my boss comes."

The customer looks dejected, but their friend steps in. "You didn't have to be such an ass about it."

"I'm only trying to warn you, and save myself the headache. They polish a hunting rifle in their office with the door wide open and I'm about sixty percent sure majority of the people on the missing persons board are the ones from this exact scenario. I'd ask if you want to order anything, but you should probably just leave. They're always watching the cameras."

"Gooood afternoon."

Well- You'll be able to sleep tonight knowing you did your best.

"I was just checking in on things, and happened to notice the line forming behind the two wastes of space who decided to harrass my favorite employee."

One of customers opens their mouth to speak, but your boss quickly shuts them down."

"Mmm, yeah, sorry- I hear you, but to be honest I don't really care. Here at this establishment, we always strive for customer satisfaction, but employee safety is the most important thing and to bother our most valued member means I don't have to abide by any rules. Moral or otherwise. Kindly get the fuck out of my store before I make you crawl out."

"I'll take this." Your Boss picks up the slip of paper and gives them their best customer service smile. "Have a nice day!"

That smile becomes just a tad genuine as the customers bolt for the door. Your boss turns to you, pulling you from your focus on the cash register as they check you for any damages. Besides the beginning of bags under your eyes, you're relatively okay. Their shoulders finally relax seeing you unharmed."

"Good. In perfect condition like always." They gently pat your cheek. "My office. Ten minutes. Don't worry about the ones you can get to."

Stocking shelves can't be much worse than this, right?

The ten minutes go by in what feels like ten seconds. The door is wide open when you arrive. Your boss has already added the note to their collection in a jar on their desk, a red line through the pages you could see. Your picture hangs on the wall in multiple frames marking you as employee of the month for years with no competition. According to coworkers, that award didn't even exist before you were hired.

You knock on the door frame. Your boss lifts their feet off the desk and shoves them underneath it along with their aforementioned weapon. They sweep the surface clean with the same rag they used to clean it as you approach and politely folds their hands as you take your seat.

"Y/n, what a pleasant surprise! What brings you to my cozy neck of the woods?"

"You called me here."

"Well - yes, but I like to think we're closer than that. Like family. Heads of the household if you will. I understand most of your time here has been manning the register, but with all this attention you've been getting I think we should move you somewhere else. I'm not jealous or anything..."

They crack a guilty smile." Well, maybe a smidge, but this is mostly for your own good. Something like keeping eye on the stock or working the fryers... Maybe even something as simple as, oh I don't know- coming home with me and letting me take care of your every need."

You think over your choices. That cafe down the street is probably hiring.

[broken-risk-assessment-module]

The Adaptation That Shall Not Be Named aside, I had an idea for an interesting way you could represent ART in a visual medium: it's cameras.

We know that, in any visual medium, what The Camera (be that literal in film or figurative in animation) chooses to show and focus on is important. Its the primary way the piece of media communicates to its audience, and the framing of a scene tells us a lot about how we're supposed to interpret it. What is on screen and how it's on screen convey authorial intent.

Take all that, and turn "authorial intent" into character expression (in this case, for ART). A conversation between Murderbot and ART that would traditionally be shot-reverse-shot becomes shot-ARTPOVshot, so both shots would be of Murderbot, but one would be from The Camera and one would be from ART. Even though the subject is the same, the difference between them could show us something about ART in the same way a reverse shot shows us something about any other character.

To me its like those shots from a monster's POV in horror movies, where one second you're with your protagonists, the next you're watching them from a far off angle between some blades of grass, shaky cam, ragged breathing. It's a classic, even a cliche, but it does the job of conveying the sense of unsafety, of Something Out There Watching Them, of monstrosity, of something feral and dangerous. All without needing to see the monster. What if that type of shot was all we ever got of a character?

(Also, in all honesty, some of my favourite meta about this series is how it's in conversation with the horror genre. ART and SecUnits being the type of characters that would be The Monster in another story, or from another perspective, is compelling to me, so i'm drawing on that a bit here. The idea of characterising but not visualising ART by taking pages out of horror monster cinematography? I just think it's neat.)

Anyway, you could also do all the sci-fi Augmented Vision stuff with it too. ART POV shots where we watch it pull up a feed tab over the camera feed and replay a section of audio, or check Murderbot's diagnostics, or look at Some Code Or Perhaps A Graph. ART POV shots that are broken into multiple feeds showing different things. ART POV shots that give you the sense of it being textually present without it being physically present.

You could use some of this for Murderbot itself, if you leant into how its drones are an extension of its awareness. You could even use it in a similar way to how Murderbot uses its narration, narrating less when it's upset as well as leaving out major details. What if, when Murderbot is tired of people looking at it or in a more vulnerable headspace, we get more drone POV shots without Murderbot in frame. It's still there, but present in a different way, behind The Camera rather than in front of it.

I think there's potential in using POV shots from ART's cameras to characterise it without visualising it in a traditional way. I think there's potential in using horror movie monster language on ART and Murderbot. I think there's potential in having the cinematography focus on what they're seeing in a way that emphasises the amount of Surveillance both of them are constantly doing.

I think there's potential in a show using The Camera as cleverly as the books use Narration.

[literary-motif]

I've read all your Zaros fics, and it's so gooood! Btw, since some of it was flower themed, would it be okay if you incorporate hanahaki disease? Hehe. Thank you, and have a good day!

Everything with Zaros is flower themed to my eyes. I try to match their symbolism to the sort of deeper meaning of the scene or story I’m writing and so on. Glad you noticed!

Wilted Petals

Zaros Atha'lin x Reader

Zaros was running out of time. 

He had shrugged off the cough at first, soothing all the worried glances and concerned mutterings of the trials being postponed if he was sick and instead pushing through. 

It was what he always did, never allowing himself to stand still for too long when the reputation of his family and his mother’s expectations weighed heavily on his shoulders. Less than perfect was unacceptable. 

The scratching in his throat had not lessened, no matter the amounts of honey he swallowed or the herbal remedies he tried. The cough seemed to worsen with every passing day, and it was getting harder and harder to hide.

“Look at Sarl Zaros, at it again,” he heard the muttered snicker of a passing noble. Zaros was leaning against one of the pillars, discreetly wiping the blood from his mouth and hiding the daffodil petals in his handkerchief. You did not see him, too engrossed in your conversation with the palace gardener.

It had been easy to hide at first, but now the scratching in his throat had evolved into a tightness in his chest, squeezing his heart and suffocating him as he gulped down breaths in between coughs. Being around you now has that effect. 

He felt like he was dying, and according to his mother, who gave him a disapproving look when she saw the dark circles under his eyes and his ashen face, he looked the part, too. 

“Stop wasting your time in the library,” she had said, shaking her head as they strolled through the garden. “Focus on what is important now. Get rest and take the throne, Zaros. I’m counting on you to succeed.”

That was a lofty goal. He could not even say for certain that he would live to see the sunrise.

Despite the library’s excellent catalog, it had taken him days to find a book relating to his condition, and as Zaros skimmed through the pages hastily — telling him this was brought on by unrequited love, telling him his salvation was a reciprocation of his feelings — the loud thumping of his heart grew deafening. 

He was going to die. 

Zaros leaned back, breathing shakily. It was out of the question that you felt anything but burning hatred and occasional annoyance for him. He was done for.

Everyone died in the end, but what kind of shame would it be to do so now? He would disappoint his mother, depriving her of the opportunity to restore the Atha’lin’s standing in society. He would fail in his purpose to better Serulla and tip the scale in the favor of the people. But most of all, how would it look if Sarl Zaros, contestant for the throne and seemingly arch nemesis of the Earis, was found choking to death on daffodil petals? Someone was bound to know about this disease and figure out the rest.

Yet there was no way out. 

Zaros shuddered, contemplating his options. He could stay in the palace, carry out his duty to Serulla and his family until he suffocated on his love under the scornful gaze of the nobles, or he could flee, abandon everything, and find a quiet place to die, taking this secret to the grave. 

He sighed. As appealing as the second option looked, he knew he could never fail in his duty. He could never betray the responsibility put on him, even if it meant withering away for all to see. 

“Are you sick?” you asked, slipping into the seat opposite Zaros and making him jump. “‘Rare Diseases and Cures’ is not what I’d include in my preparation for the trials.” He choked, feeling his eyes water again as his chest tightened. 

“Exc— me,” he heaved as his frame was wracked by coughs, turning away from you to hide behind his handkerchief. 

You watched him quizzically, contemplating getting up to fetch him something to drink. His wheezes sounded painful and the tears escaping his tightly shut eyes made you wonder just how much this was hurting him.  

Zaros had never allowed himself to show his pain, insistent on keeping tight control of himself at all times. It was hard to make him loosen up a bit, even harder to break down his walls. 

No matter how much you wished to comfort him, you knew that was not the relationship you had. He hated you after all, and you were fine with that, truly. Still, it tore you apart seeing him like this, in shambles as he desperately fought for breaths. 

You resolved to have a talk with the Queen about postponing the next trial, lowering your gaze to the page Zaros had been reading. You froze as your blood ran cold.

“Pardon,” he rasped, clenching his fist around the stained crown of the daffodil and wiping away his tears. This was tearing him apart. He just wanted to have the inevitable over with. Why did the universe need to draw out his torment?

“Who is it?” you asked flatly. 

Zaros raised his eyes, steeling himself for another coughing fit that thankfully did not come as he looked at you. “Who is what?” he asked, clearing his throat while tucking away his handkerchief and hiding the droplets of blood on his wrist. 

Your face was unreadable, not betraying the turmoil raging inside you as your eyes remained fixed on the book before him. He muttered a curse. 

“Don’t test me right now,” you warned, lifting your heavy gaze to stare him down. “Who is it? I will have them brought here. I will make them love you if that’s what it takes. So who is it?”

He sighed, shutting the book. “Not even you can force love,” he said, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth. There was no merit in telling you, and he quietly resigned himself to his fate instead as he got up, prepared to leave.

Your hand shot out to grab his wrist, yanking him back into his seat. He could feel your hand shaking and looking into your eyes, he saw both determination and heartbreak in them. 

What did you have to feel heartbreak about when it was him struggling to breathe? 

“Tell me!” you screamed, finally losing your composure, but you did not care. There was no point in keeping up appearances when Zaros — your Zaros — was dying because of unrequited love.

It made your heart ache knowing that he adored someone this much when he saw you as nothing but a spoiled brat, but your hurt was overshadowed by the chilling terror you felt at the prospect of losing him. 

You refused to let him die. It was something that you simply could not permit, and if whoever it was that had poisoned his heart did not feel the same, you would move earth and heaven until they did. 

“Drop it, Earis!” Zaros spit, wrenching his arm free as his patience ran short. The tightness in his chest only grew worse by your touch. Every moment spent in your company was a cursed blessing and he hated himself for being unable to enjoy his last days with you, his last moments. 

No matter how much you hurt him — by your actions, your words, or by his love for you — he longed to spend every moment of his time with you, engraving the gentle sound of your laugh and the softness of your skin into his mind forever as his love suffocated him.

“Leech! You think you can just leave me like this?” You grasped the front of his sherwani, pulling him towards you and making him stumble against the table. Your blood was boiling with rage at his stubbornness, fear and desperation making you see red. “Tell me!”

“You!” Zaros screamed, his anger at your insistence quickly bleeding away into sorrow. He sighed brokenly, averting his gaze. This was a secret he had meant to take to the grave. Ironic, since it was the one digging it for him as well.

It took your mind only a moment to process before you pulled Zaros into a kiss. 

‘True love’s kiss,’ the scholar had penned near the bottom of the page, listing it as the only known remedy for the disease, and as you felt Zaros’ hands resting gently against your cheeks while he kissed you back, you were grateful that you had remembered. 

“I do, too,” you said as you broke apart. 

Zaros’ mouth was slightly agape, unbelieving of the pressure lifting from his chest in an instant. He could breathe properly again, his hacking coughs seeming like a faraway memory. That he had ever felt pain appeared absurd when you looked at him with such fondness. 

“I love you too.”

[charlieg1rl]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄!𝐀𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀!𝐀𝐔

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝟏𝐊

𝐒𝐒:𝟓

You were minding your own business at the bustling student café, immersed in a mountain of textbooks and scattered notes as you prepared for your upcoming exams. The café was your sanctuary during this chaotic period—an oasis where the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the lively chatter of your classmates. The sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the polished wooden tables and creating an inviting atmosphere that often made studying just a little more bearable.

As you took a sip of your steaming drink, letting the warmth seep into you and invigorate your senses, you couldn’t help but momentarily lose yourself in your thoughts. Your eyes drifted over the pages filled with highlighted notes and scribbled formulas, your mind racing with the daunting weight of upcoming assignments and exams. You sighed softly, trying to push away the creeping anxiety that threatened to overwhelm you. Just as you were starting to lose focus, a sudden presence broke your concentration.

You looked up, startled, to find Hwang Hyunjin standing beside you. He was one of the most popular guys on campus, a member of the illustrious dance crew known for their dazzling performances and charismatic presence. Today, however, there was something unusual in his eyes—an intensity that suggested he had something important on his mind. His hair fell perfectly over his forehead, framing his face in a way that made him even more striking. He flashed that trademark smile that made your heart race, but today, it sparked more curiosity than the usual flutter of attraction.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of your table, his presence suddenly making the café feel smaller. His confidence radiated, and you could sense the allure he exuded, a combination of charm and mystery that was hard to ignore. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” you replied, your voice slightly hesitant but tinged with intrigue. “What’s up?”

Hyunjin shifted his weight, his casual demeanor faltering just a fraction as he hesitated, as if gathering his thoughts. “I have a… proposition for you.” He paused for a moment, his confidence seemingly wavering. “I need a fake girlfriend.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. “No.” You answered without a second thought, surprised at how quickly the word had escaped your lips. The absurdity of the request hung in the air, and you couldn’t help but wonder why someone like him would even think of you.

“Please, Y/N,” he urged, his voice almost pleading, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. “Just hear me out.”

You raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on your features. “Why on earth would I pretend to be your girlfriend?” The question was heavy with disbelief. It was hard to wrap your mind around the idea of being associated with someone so well-known and revered.

“Because,” he said, leaning in a bit closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as if sharing a secret, “I’ll pay you, and we both know you need the money.” His eyes searched yours, trying to gauge your reaction.

Your heart raced—not because of his looks, but because of the shock of his unexpected offer. You had heard whispers about his family’s immense wealth and the extravagant lifestyle he led. Living on a student budget had its challenges, and with your student loans piling up and a part-time job that barely scraped by to cover your rent, the allure of extra cash was undeniably tempting. The idea of being able to afford a few luxuries, or at least lessen your financial burden, was hard to resist.

“Why can’t you just ask someone else?” you challenged, trying to resist the pull of his proposition. “I’m not exactly the first person that comes to mind for something like this.” You crossed your arms defensively, hoping to mask the internal struggle of interest and reluctance battling within you.

He smirked, clearly entertained by your initial resistance. “Everyone else would want something more from me. I need someone who won’t get all starry-eyed and will just… play the part. Plus, we both know you’d be perfect at it.” His gaze locked onto yours, and you felt a mix of annoyance and intrigue bubbling inside you.

You paused, weighing your options carefully. The prospect of some extra money was certainly appealing, but getting involved in a charade with someone like Hyunjin—what could possibly go wrong? Or right? It was a gamble, and you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was more to his request than met the eye. Did you really want to dive into the complexities of a fake relationship with someone so out of your league?

“Okay, let’s say I’m interested,” you said, trying to maintain an air of composure. “What’s in it for me?”

“Besides the money?” he asked, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. “You’ll get a taste of my world—exclusive parties, a bit of respect, maybe a few free meals. Plus, I promise to make it entertaining.” His enthusiasm was infectious, but you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of caution.

“Entertaining how?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, genuinely curious. The thought of being swept into the glamorous world of college elites was both exhilarating and daunting.

“You’ll see.” He grinned, leaning back slightly, clearly pleased with himself. “So, what do you say? We can kick off this little arrangement next weekend?” His confidence was intoxicating, and the prospect of adventure was hard to ignore.

You took a deep breath, your gaze drifting momentarily to the stack of notes on your table, a reminder of the reality you were trying to escape. “Fine. But if I do this, you better keep your end of the deal. No funny business.” You felt a mix of excitement and apprehension wash over you, as if you were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

He extended his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, you took it, sealing the agreement with a firm grip. As you did, little did you know that there were requirements he hadn’t disclosed yet.

"Good.

Because my parents want to meet you."

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 | 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[seirindono]

two questions.

one, HOW DOES ONE COMIC/STORY BOARD??

IM OBSESSED WITH HOW YOU DO IT ITS SO BEAUTIFUL

two, HOW DO YOU SO IT SO FAST( that’s question is more just me being super impressed oh my goodness)

you’re very good😳

Aw, sweet, a board question *puts on serious glasses*

Ok, bring it on anon.

So, the first thing to ask yourself when starting a comic, as I see it, is what type of board are you dealing with. Webtoon? A4 pages? 4 panels? There are many ways to go about it, and each involves different processes. For example, pages will allow for more superfluous scenes, whereas the webtoon format has to be super succinct because of the reading direction. I personally think that's the main reason I do pages, among other advantages: •narrative density •variety •Tumblr-friendly format

There are quite a few disadvantages too but you have to go through the process of trials and errors to really find out what suits you best!

Then there's the ambition of the sequence you're boarding for. And it goes from 1. how used I am to boarding this kind of sequence/drawing these characters/setting and backgrounds, to 2. is it an emotional sequence? Dialogue-heavy? Or more contemplative?

It changes the way you work and how you should approach your board! For example, in TMS, the very wordy chapters (4 and 5 for ex) generally called for simple and narrow framing. Of course, you don't want to bore the reader so you can spice things up to match the characters mood and reactions once in a while, but you have to bear in mind that the sequence aims to provide dialogue and information = the text bubbles are key and WILL take a lot of place. So let them.

( then again, it's all about pacing and balance. A page full of dialogue and one with too much happening are equally hard to read and boring to do)

Only dialogue, simple squares, no compostion, the focus is on Mel's reaction

On the other hand, parts 7 and 8 are all about action and atmosphere! This makes for wider and more varied shots!

They're fighting, things are going fast so why not use a single line to show many actions! They're still basically squares and rectangles but the pacing is totally different!

Or why not give the action a full page to really show its sheer impact

You can also split things, with a zoom or small time gap, depending on if it's a gag or if you want to put the focus on a reaction. Here, the asymmetry helps reinforce the unstable, jerky aspect of the scene. The situation is getting out of hand, and visually, the pages are affected too.

Now, these are case-by-case examples. And I never work on my pages separately.

For context, this-

-is the "first" board I did for part 8.

The drawings are very small and frankly difficult to make out, but the intention is what matters at this point lol I have the script (very important) next to my canvas, and I scribble the pages one after the ither. This allows me to see if the actions flow well, if the compositions are varied and also whether certain passages are too long or too short in regard to their importance. Which scenes can be merged? Removed? Toned down or if they deserve more bite?

This is a really fun and creative part but, I'll say it again, made a lot easier with a solid scipt. And I'm talking about a text document with clearly defined dialogues (or at least outlines) and actions.

I can't really explain how to write a script, it really depends on your work flow and how confortable you are with writing, but it's too important to just rush through it. No matter how much it changes before, during or after your finish boarding (cuz you gotta break your own rules sometimes and you'll often realize some things don't work as well once you put them on paper/sometimes art block can be resolved by writing the scene and just taking the time to imagine) but it's still your one guideline.

Aaaand, that's about it.

Other than that, I can only highly recommend reading lots of comics, Webtoon, books, watching movies, paintings, illustrations, animatics or listening to music, to inspire you and expand your own "personal library of references". Professional or not, anything your find inspiring and well executed. Boarding is at its core, telling stories. No art skill involved, just pure subjectivity. At the end of the day, it's all about squares, rectangles and bubbles so you gotta work on your creativity. The rest is gut feeling!

Constantly ask yourself how to tell this story, and how you want to tell it. How this sequence should be perceived? What do you need to show to make pages and pages of words appealing and interesting.

Be patient, be bold. Start with easy stuff to get some confidence if you need to. Accept that "boring" pages are smt necessary and that it's up to you to build up tension for a scene to really pop. Try new ideas and be ready to scrap many of them, the result will be worth all the work!

Now, concerning the "fast" part, I'm flattered but I personally think I'm super slow xD You prbly get that impression bc I finish the whole chapter before posting it, but behind the scene, I'm just working at a very regular pace.

Thank youuu anon ♡( ◡‿◡ )

[theholypeanut]

Planet Hotline Disaster

Summary: Kurona got a crush on a new girl… who is way taller than him

Cw: fluff, insecure Kurona, cute Kurona, tall!Reader f!reader, Isagi, Bachira and Chigiri being disasterous virgin besties, getting secondhand embarrassment for Kurona [*], 1.1k words

Kurona Ranze never expected to fall in love. Love was just something he never thought about, he had other things in his life: football, sharks, his routine, braids - just not romantic love. And it was fine - his life felt full and happy.

Then one day he met you and everything just went upside down. Before, Kurona never thought twice about his height - it’s not an important thing for football so why would he care?

“Ah Damn, she looks like a freakin’ giraffe” he heard his classmate commenting loudly on the hallway. When he turned around, his stomach flipped. You were so beautiful: long legs, beautiful eyes, amazing hair just right for braids - and you were definitely taller than him.

“Dude, shut up. Honestly she must be a model, because damn” - he had no idea who said it, but Kurona agreed in his mind. He never saw a more beautiful human being.

It was the beginning of your second year in high school and you changed schools because of your parents new job in this city. You felt so out of place, still awkward and way too shy to answer to the comments, so you just pretended like you cannot hear it. Anxiety was eating you from inside out and the fact that you were easily taller than any other girl in your year did not help.

The fact that you became desk mates was like in a movie - Kurona definitely felt like it was a string of fate in his favour. You were always so nice to him, so polite, that he couldn’t help but blush way too often for his own sanity. On the other hand every time he wanted to talk to you, words were just stuck in his throat. Sometimes you’d ask a question and he answered the most ridiculous and incoherent thought he had, because his brain just stopped responding. And you couldn’t stop thinking how adorable he looks when he blushes.

At this point all of his football friends knew what was going on.

“You know, you should ask her for her number” suggested Isagi during lunch “she seem to like you, and you can always use the excuse that you didn’t hear what was the homework, or ask her about school”

“Actually this is not such a bad idea” Chigiri agreed “it’s not like you are asking her out yet. Also maybe writing will go easier than talking.”

Kurona avoided eye contact and just sit there quietly eating his bento.

“You know you cannot just look at her and blush forever” Bachira added, what felt like a knife in the heart. He could. Actually, looking at you from the distance and watching you laugh, smile, or focus on the lesson was just enough for him. What made him feel sick to his stomach was the idea you’d find someone and fall in love. That this another person will come to your desk to flirt with you, hold your hand in the hallways, or take you home. Idea of watching you happy shouldn’t feel so bad, however all of this potential images just made Kurona nauseous. The truth is, he was too embarrassed to admit it even to himself, that he wants to do all of that stuff - not seeing someone else taking you away. However how could you ever choose him? You were so out of his league. Girls like you don’t want short guys like him.

The closest he’d ever gone to a romantic moment with you, was when you were doodling animals in your notebook during a boring class, and he couldn’t stop looking at your hands. You noticed how much he paid attention to the drawing, so with this beautiful smile, you took his notebook and drew the cutest shark he ever saw, with a tiny heart next to his head. If he could, he’d cut this page out and frame it, put next to the bed and just look at it before going to sleep everyday.

“How do you even ask girl for a number?” Kurona asked with a weak voice. His friends went silent. The truth was, well, all of them were quite disasterous virgins.

“You can for example told her to send you photo of her notes later, because you didn’t pay attention during class” Chigiri suggested.

“Or you can tell her that her number would look so good in your phone!” Bachira said with enthusiasm. Isagi and Chigiri sent him a stinky side eye.

“Yeah Bachira, I don’t know if you remember, but the last time she asked him if she can borrow his notebook, he answered “mozzarella”” Chigiri were ruthless in his words. “I think this line might leave a wrong impression”

Just for the reminder of Mozzarella Incident Kurona’s face turn red.

“You can just say she looks pretty” Isagi added. “Simple, easy. I don’t know. Compliment her hair.”

“Yeah, girls love it when you compliment their hair” Chigiri nodded. “This one would be the best. From there when conversation starts, you can ask if she maybe wants to exchange contacts. You can do it!”

All hyped up, Kurona came back to class. I can do it, he thought. I can ask her. He gathered all of his mental strength when you sat next to him for the next period. And for entire class he was repeating in his head what he will say to you.

Your hair are so pretty. I didn’t pay attention, could you maybe give me your phone number, so you can send me your notes later?

“Kurona-kun, lesson already ended” he heard your angelic voice. He felt like his brain got overheated.

“Oh, yes, yes. Sorry” he said, feeling that his hands begin to shake. It’s now or never. “Em!” He said to get your attention on him.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention on class, could you maybe give me your number so can you send me your hair later?” He said on one breath.

“You want me to send you… my hair?”

Brain.exe stopped responding.

“No no no, I mean, your hair are so pretty, and I think you would look so pretty in my phone”

Oh no.

At this point you couldn’t even keep a straight face. Kurona’s face had almost the same colour as his hair. You giggled. He wanted to just vanish from the face of the earth.

“Oh really?” At this point it was almost cruel to tease him. “You know, I think you would look very pretty in my phone too.”

You took a step towards the pink boy and leaned down right next to his ear. You touched his cheek right next to the short braid and made him shiver.

“I really like you too”

By slowlyholypeanut

I was 🤏 this close to naming this fic Mozzarella Incident

Also this was supposed to be his birthday fic, but I was too tired with life - but happy birthday to our best boy!

[nolita-fairytale]

sister-in-law | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader one shot

pairing: boyfriend!carmy x fem!reader

word count: 5.2k

warnings: use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person pov, swearing, tooth rotting fluff, talks of marriage, marijuana usage, long term relationship

summary: set two years after the ending of ‘make my heart surrender.’ you and carmy have settled into a comfortable rhythm between creating something spectacular with the bear and exploring your relationship. now that you’ve been together for a while now, sugar asks you a very important question… while you’re both violently high.

a/n: this is a fun and silly little idea i had after discovering two year old videos of me and my best friend 60 minutes after taking an edible.

It’s not often that you get dressed up, but you don’t want Natalie to think that you’re a total slob. You’re mostly in comfy clothes at home, then kitchen clothes here at the restaurant so it’s a welcomed change up from the status quo. Every now and then you get dressed up for a date night with Carmy, but most date nights you’re so tired that you prefer to stay in.

After slipping on the wrap dress you found at the back of your shared closet with Carmy, you run your fingers through your hair making sure that it isn’t too messy from a full morning and afternoon’s worth of work. You notice that your hair falls in soft waves from being twisted into a bun earlier that morning, so you smooth out a few stray hairs that look a little too messy. You slip on your leather jacket, as it’s getting chillier at night, and make your way out of the bathroom. 

If you didn’t know how hard Gary worked to keep everything clean, you’d have your hesitations about changing in the staff restroom. While most of the restaurant had gotten a face lift during the remodel, the staff restroom was one of the remaining parts of The Bear’s past. You pass through the kitchen one more time, your pristine white sneakers clean only because you never wear them here, heading right to Carmy’s office. 

He’s got his head buried in some paperwork, a pen in his mouth as his eyes scan over the legal jargon that runs all through the first page. A stray curl frames his face perfectly, earning a smile from you as his focus remains unbroken. 

“You still cool with me taking the car tonight?” you ask your boyfriend, causing Carmy to look up from the new lease agreement he has yet to sign. 

“Woah,” he sounds, raising his eyebrows as he checks you out. He’s not used to seeing you like this – let alone in a dress. 

He wonders for a moment if he forgot an anniversary of some sort, panic beginning to set in. 

“What’s uh-, what’s going on?” he stammers, caught completely off guard by how good you look. 

You chuckle, knowing he’s only a little tongue tied because he hasn’t seen you in a dress in a while, “I’m heading to your sister’s, remember? For dinner. We talked about this last night.”

“Shhhhhhit,” he swears, hanging on to the first syllable. He tosses the lease agreement down on his desk in defeat, turning in his chair towards you. “I-, I just talked to Sugar earlier today. She didn’t say anything about dinner plans.” He pauses, swearing under his breath again. “Will you tell her I’m sorry? It must’ve slipped my mind and I’ve got to stay a little longer till Syd gets in.”

“Oh don’t worry about it, babe. You weren’t invited anyways,” you reply casually, letting him off the hook. 

Or at least you think it’s going to let him off the hook. 

You watch as his facial expressions move from panic to pure confusion. Carmy’s racking his brain for any kind of recollection, searching for any recollection of the conversation you’re referencing. Between training new line cooks and working overtime so that Sydney could take a vacation, his brain is fried and he has no idea what you’re talking about. 

You giggle again, stepping into his office, “I take it you don’t remember the conversation we had before we went to bed last night?”

Truthfully, you suspected he might’ve been half asleep when you’d curled up to him and let him know that you and his sister had plans tonight. He’d been working so hard at the restaurant lately that you’re not surprised he’s reached this level of burnout. 

“Baby, Nat invited me over for dinner tonight. We’re gonna hang out… catch up a little,” you explain pivoting to the whole ‘you’re not invited part.’ “If it makes you feel any better, Pete’s not invited either.”

You search his facial expressions, looking for any kind of familiarity, but it seems your words have only caused him more confusion. 

“Wait, let me get this straight,” he says, trying to put all the pieces together. 

“You’re going over to my sister’s?” he repeats back to you.

“Uh huh.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Without me,” he emphasizes. 

“That is correct.”

He takes a beat, before finally coming to his conclusion. 

“You and my sister have plans together without me?”

You laugh at how surprised he sounds. 

“Jeez, Carm. You’d think after knowing her for two years we’d be able to have a conversation without you, babe,” you joke with him. 

But he still looks like he’s trying to solve a calculus equation. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll try my best to steer clear of any embarrassing stories,” you reassure him, hoping to put his mind at ease. “And let her know that calling you a ‘soft shitty bitch’ in front of me is not your favorite.”

He laughs dryly, still trying his best to wrap his head around the fact that you and his sister are hanging out. It’s not that it’s a wildly radical concept for him to stomach, but between your relationship and the restaurant, you and Natalie had only spent a handful of times solo over the last two years (which was precisely the point she’d made when she called you the other day). You’d told her that you had a night off and appreciated the invitation for some quality time. 

“We’re kicking out Pete too. Maybe… you could give him a call,” you suggest, cautiously. You’re not even sure why you suggest it, considering the look he sends you that says, ‘not likely but nice try.’

“Or not,” you conclude, taking the option off the table as soon as you see the look on Carmy’s face. “You stickin’ around here tonight?”

“Just till Syd gets in,” Carmy replies. And considering how fried his brain feels, he could really use the night off. 

“Okay, well I’m gonna head home and feed Aioli before I head over to Sugar’s,” you tell him, in reference to the cat you both rescued just shortly after you moved in together. “See ya at home?”

“Sure,” Carmy replies, pressing his lips against yours in a gentle, goodbye kiss. 

He’s not sure whether he feels relieved that he doesn’t have to go to dinner with you, or nervous about the fact that you and Sugar are hanging out without him. What did you have in common with his sister? What the hell were you going to talk about and why did he care?

Sydney comes in a little later and she and Carmy catch up about her time off, things at the restaurant, the progress of their recently hired new line cooks. Before he knows it, she’s practically kicking him out of their restaurant, insisting that he get a head start on his night off. 

Carmy’s not sure whether it's the progressively chillier air, or the fact that the days are getting shorter that’s got him in his head. While he entertains the thought of going home, opening a window before he lights a few up, and crashing on the couch early, he’s not sure he’s ready to go home yet. With his plaid coat to keep him warm, Carmy enjoys a leisurely walk to a meeting instead. 

He doesn’t feel he needs them as much as he used to, but Carmy still likes to go at least once a week. You’ve joined him a few times and while he appreciates the support, he likes that it feels like a place that’s just his. That’s just for him. It’s almost been three years since Mikey died and while the pain isn’t as sharp, it continues to shapeshift. He likes having the outlet – whether he wants to stand up and talk about it or not. It’s a place he doesn’t have to be anyone – not chef, not a business owner, not a partner – but just some fucked up kid with a dead brother and anxiety.

Across town, you sit at the Berzatto kitchen table, flipping through old photo albums as Natalie finishes assembling dinner. You’re not sure how you got on the topic, but she’s telling you about her soulcycle class and running a successful campaign of trying to get you to come with her. 

“There’s one near River North and everything,” she says, glowing with her own excitement. 

“No, yeah, we should definitely go sometime,” you reply, as she’s just taken out the casserole dish of eggplant parm out of the oven

“I know your work schedule is sporadic. Why don’t I send you the schedule and you can just let me know which one you’d like to go to?” Natalie suggests, hopefully.

You agree, half to placate her and half because you’re genuinely curious about this ‘spin class’ that she can’t stop raving about. 

“Oh my god. Look at you guys!” you guys, pausing the minute you see a photo of all the Berzatto children. 

Mikey must have been a teenager in this one. He’s got a young, and exceptionally blonde, Carmy hoisted up over his shoulders, while Natalie glaring into the camera lens, a popsicle in her hands. 

“Oh my god… I haven’t seen this one in forever,” she says, glancing over at the photo album page you’ve held up to show her. 

“There was a heatwave,” she begins to recall fondly. “And Uncle Jimmy had set up a sprinkler in the yard for us so that we could play in some water. Mom always hated community pools and refused to let us join one.”

“Carmy is so blonde. And the bowl cut?” you laugh, running your fingertips over the photo. 

Natalie nods in agreement, “Yeah not the best look for him when the curls came in. He and I were both very blonde when we were younger… but Mikey… he always had that tall dark and handsome look from the get go. 

You take a beat, listening to her talk about Mikey. You turn the page of the photo book, your eyes scanning over a few new photographs. There’s one of Mikey in a tux that’s so 90’s it’s painful. He stands with a stunning redhead, her corsage matching his tie. There’s a younger Carmy in the background of the photo as well and suddenly, there’s a bittersweet feeling in your belly. 

“I wish I could've met him,” you finally say out loud. “Mikey,”

“Yeah,” Sugar says sadly. She rests her back against the kitchen counter, her glass of wine still in her hands. 

“He would’ve really liked you,” she offers up, sympathetically. “Actually, he probably would’ve hit on you just to push Carmy’s buttons a little.”

“Oh really?” you ask, a light chuckle escaping your lips. 

“Carmy didn’t date a lot. I mean… he hasn’t dated a lot… really till you. And Mikey on the other hand never had any trouble in that department, which I think only made him more eager to be Carmy’s wingman. Even when his methods were… questionable,” she replies, remembering her complicated older brother. 

“Is this your mom?” you ask, pointing to the middle-aged woman in the photo. 

“Yeah,” Sugar nods. “I know. She looks so different.”

You’re quiet for a moment. You’d only met the Berzatto matriarch once in the last two years you’d been living in Chicago, and it had gone less than swimmingly. Natalie and Pete had invited everyone over for dinner, and it hadn’t taken long for Carmy and his mother to get into it, leading to an early exit for you and him. 

“Carmy never really talks about her…” you trail off, shooting Natalie a look. 

“He-,” she starts, not sure how she wants to explain it. On one hand, while she can understand why Carmy keeps his distance, she resents him for not trying. “He had the least time with Dad… and then Mom, in her right mind. I’ve been thinking a lot about that actually… now that Pete and I are trying to get pregnant.”

You understand. But it’s tough to hear the sadness in Natalie’s voice as well, especially since she’s worked so hard to accept the relationship she'll never have with her own mother.

“Anyways, uh… I think the eggplant parm is ready,” Natalie says, changing the subject. She nods you over to the kitchen counter, prompting you to close the photo book, and follow her into the kitchen. 

*

By the time his meeting ends, the sun has almost set. Carmy makes his way out of the church, pausing at the bottom of the steps to pull out his phone. He’s not sure why, but he’s still not ready to go home just yet. The restaurant’s really taken off, which means he and Syd have been able to hire more line cooks, and he’s not needed every single day, day in and day out. While it’s great that they’ve grown so much, Carmy finds it a harder adjustment than he expected. He’s always had a complicated relationship with rest – with sitting still. 

After furiously entering in his passcode, he types up a quick text to Richie. 

Carmy: Yo. I got the night off. Up for a drink?

He sees the three dots at the bottom of his message with Richie and anticipates his reply. In a matter of seconds, a reply pops up on his screen. 

Richie: No can do, cuz. I got Ava tonight. 

Carmy knows that Richie’s fought hard to get more time with Ava. He’s been spending more time with her during the weekdays too, now that the staff that made up The Bear wasn’t made up of five people anymore. Everyone seemed to be experiencing shifts these days. 

Carmy: Another time. 

Carmy moves his thumbs over a few different screens, opening up a previous message that Syd’s sent him. 

Carmy: How’s everything going?

Sydney: All good, chef. Enjoy your night off. 

It’s a strange feeling – not being needed every single shift at the restaurant. He knew it meant that they’d made huge progress – had come so far from where they started – but Carmy was still adjusting to this new rhythm of… not shitty and maybe sort of a legit spot. They had, after all, taken home the James Beard “Best New Restaurant” award last year.

Carmy thinks about it for a moment. He could go back in, see if they needed help around the kitchen, but he knows he’d just be in the fucking way. He huffs out a stubborn puff of air as your words echo in his head:

We’re kicking Pete out too. Maybe… you could give him a call.

He shakes in his head in disbelief, not sure what possesses him as he thinks to himself, what the hell?

His fingers hover over Pete’s name in his contact list, before he finally just bites the bullet and clicks on the contact. He’s really started to warm up to Pete over the years, but it’s not like they’re hanging out or grabbing drinks by themselves or anything. It’s mostly family gatherings, little text message exchanges here and there, hanging out at the restaurant. 

Carmy waits as the phone rings: once, twice, three times. It’s on the fourth ring that Pete finally picks up. 

“Hey, Carm. What’s going on?” Pete greets. It’s so chipper that Carmy has to fight his impulse to throw his phone in front of a moving car. 

“Yo! Uh… you want to grab a drink?” Carmy asks, cutting right to the chase. 

Pete, completely caught off guard by his brother-in-law’s ask, rushes to answer. 

“Oh yeah! Definitely. I’m just uh-, leaving the Y downtown. Shootin’ some hoops. With the boys,” he replies, trying a little too hard to sound cool. Carmy’s not sure if he’s oversharing out of surprise, or if Pete is really just this much of a nerd. 

“Where you at?”

“Uh… River North. All-Family meeting,” Carmy answers. 

“Cool cool cool,” Pete nods. “Why don’t uh-, why don’t I come meet you up there?”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll uh-, see you soon.”

They discuss details and Pete’s eager to throw out a place that Carmy will think is cool. Carmy’s not sure what he’s in for, or why he called in the first place, but he’s already set the ball in motion. 

Before taking off, he shoots you a quick text message:

Meeting up with Pete. How’s it going?

You’re mid-bite as you receive Carmy’s text message, almost spitting out your food as you read what he’s sent you. 

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Sugar asks, concerned. 

“Carmy called Pete,” you say, still in shock. The two of you exchanged glances. “They’re gonna grab a drink. I mean, I kind of suggested earlier thinking there was no way in hell but-.”

Sugar rolls her eyes, “Well great. Looks like Hell’s frozen over. I won’t be surprised if the two of them bring on the end of the world.”

You laugh in response because it’s funny, and because you know that she’s deflecting – trying not to get her hopes that this could be a good thing. 

It’s not till you finish eating dinner that it hits you that Carmy really took your advice and is probably with Pete right now. You send over a quick text, because you can’t help yourself from checking in. 

You: How’s it going? You haven’t punched Pete in the face yet, I hope. 

Carmy: All good. 

You roll your eyes at his short reply, before your phone powers off. 

“Shit, my phone’s dead. Mind if I charge it?” you ask. 

“Of course,” Natalie replies. “Here, I’ll go plug it in for you.” 

“Thanks,” you say back, handing her your phone. 

She gets up out of her seat, making her way back to the kitchen where there’s a charger. You hear her slide something over, and the sound of plates being put into the sink before she says, 

“Fucking-, Jesus Christ. What a fucking loser!”

“What?” you call to her, not sure what she’s talking about. 

Natalie returns to you, a small pack in her hands and a look on her face like she can’t wait to tell you a secret.

“Pete’s been really stressed out at work,” she begins, on the verge of laughter. “So I told him to pick up a thing of CBD gummies.”

“Okay….”

“Only he’s a fucking idiot and…” she continues, before handing you the package that she’s had in her hands. “... clearly doesn’t understand the difference between CBD and THC.”

You examine the packaging and, in Pete’s defense, the letters that read THC are small. You laugh, turning the package over in your hands. 

Weed gummies. Pete accidentally bought weed gummies. 

“I gave him specific instructions on what to look for and where to-,” she says with an eye roll. As annoyed as she is with Pete, she also finds it endearing that he’s this much of a goody-two-shoes. 

“I’ll have him go back to the dispensary and exchange them tomorrow.”

You take a beat, not sure if you should say what’s in your head. Weed is legal in Illinois after all and he DID get them from a dispensary. You figure the worst thing she can do is say ‘no’ and think that you’re weird. 

“Okay but,” you begin deviously, pausing for dramatic effect. “What if you didn’t?”

“Didn’t…?” she pauses, eyeing you suspiciously. 

A smile creeps up on her face as the corners of her lips curl upwards. 

You shrug, “I think we deserve to let loose a little.”

Sugar waits, thinking it over. Really, she’s just looking for a reason to say no, and she can’t find one. 

“Okay, yeah. Why the fuck not?” 

*

“Do you feel like maybe it’s possible that we could… sink into the couch?” you ask, as the edible has officially hit. 

Natalie lets out a loud laugh, “YES! Yes, that’s exactly how I feel right now.”

“Like somehow our bodies will liquify and we’ll be a part of this couch for the rest of eternity.”

You sit side by side, feeling your bodies sink into the couch, relaxing into it. Damn, you haven’t felt this relaxed in a while and you can only imagine Sugar hasn’t either. Between carrying the weight of parenting everyone in the Berzatto family, you’re just glad that you two can blow off some steam together. 

“Okay, I want to ask you something,” Natalie says, turning her whole body to you. It feels like she’s turning towards you in slow motion and she definitely knows the edible has hit. 

“Hm?” you hum in response, turning just your head towards her. 

“It’s a very serious question.”

Only she can’t keep a straight face and the harder she works to be serious, the more the two of you laugh. 

“I’m not convinced this is serious,” you point out through a fit of giggles. 

“No, it is, I swear! Just-. Hold on.”

When Sugar finally collects herself, she has a very serious look on her face for a moment as she stares you down. Your eyes watch as she grabs your hands in hers, following with eight words you’re not expecting her to ask. 

“Are you and Carmen going to get married?”

“Wh-,” you start, unable to finish your sentence before bursting into another fit of laughter. It’s not that the concept is all that funny, but you are high after all. “Wh-, what-? Woah! Where did that come from?”

“No, I’m serious!” she demands, before lowering her voice to a whisper. 

“You said that.”

“Okay, well I mean it! Listen, listen, listen.”

You’re listening. 

“I mean, what’s the hold up? You moved your whole life here and it’s been two years! You’ve got to at least be talking about it right?”

You shrug casually, “Yeah, I know we’ve been dating for a while but-.”

Surprised by the hesitation she can hear in your voice, Sugar pauses. 

“Wait-, do you not think that Carmy’s-?” she begins to ask. 

“Oh my god, no!” you cut her off, eager to squash any notion that Carmy isn’t the one for you. “No, that's not it at all.” 

“Carmine…” you trail off, tickled by the nickname you’ve heard Richie use on more than one occasion. “... is the love of my life.”

“Aw.”

“Yeah… I guess we just haven’t really talked about… marriage… all that much.”

“Well, why not?” Sugar practically exclaims, startling you with her overenthusiastic rally. “You guys are fucking perfect for each other! You’ve been dating for long enough!”

“We’re just not in a rush, I guess!” you reply, with a shrug. 

“That’s such bullshit,” she argues, wondering if she needs to have a few words with her little brother. 

“No! No, it’s not, I swear. Let me explain,” you justify, sending her a ‘just hear me out’ kind of look. 

You clear your throat, trying your best to be serious, even though you feel you may be melting into the couch at this point. Sugar waits for your explanation, unconvinced that this isn’t all Carmy’s fault. 

“Would you think I was cheesy… if I said we’re not-, well at least I’m not in a hurry…” you begin, letting the words fall out of your mouth as you finish your sentence with, “...because I know we have forever?”

“Aw, no it’s-,” Sugar starts, before breaking into another fit of giggles. “Well yeah it’s totally super cheesy but it’s also… really sweet.”

You share a genuine moment of love and appreciation – for each other, for Carmy, for the fact that someone loves her little brother this damn much – before bursting out into laughter again. 

“Oh shit,” Sugar hisses, feeling her phone go off. She sits up, reaching for her phone that’s somehow fallen on the floor. The caller ID reads ‘Carmy,’ and she swears again.

“Speak of the devil,” she mutters, answering the phone. You cover your mouth, trying your best to be quiet. 

“Hellooo?”

You hear him ask if you’re still with her. 

“Uh, yeah, what’s up?” Sugar asks back, doing her best to sound sober. 

“Her phone’s off and I got-. Will you just put my girlfriend on, please?” Carmy asks. Sugar simultaneously finds it annoying and also sweet that he sounds worried about you. 

“It’s Carmy,” she whispers to you, handing you the phone. 

In a sing-song voice she teases you, “Someone is in trouble.”

You take the phone, mouthing back, ‘no i’m not.’ 

“Hello?” you answer, immediately hearing the worry in his voice. 

“Hey, I’ve been trying to call you but your phone’s off. Everything okay?” he asks, concerned. 

“Oh shit,” you swear. “Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone died right after you texted me about going to meet up with Pete. It’s been charging on the kitchen counter.”

“Okay,” Carmy sighs, relieved. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, babe. But um yeah, no,” you reassure, your facade quickly slipping. You know you sound less sober by the minute. “Everything is… very cool. Very cool beansssss.” 

Natalie laughs at your explanation, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh. 

Carmy pauses, noticing something different about the way your voice sounds.

No. It can’t be. 

This is the last possible thing that could happen this evening. Tonight was supposed to be about you and his sister bonding and probably talking shit about him. 

He can’t believe he’s going to ask you this. 

“Are you… are you high right now?” he asks, in pure disbelief as the words leave his mouth. 

You and Natalie shoot a ‘busted’ look to each other as you reply, “Um yeah. High on life. And also a gummy.”

Carmy chuckles at your juvenile response, “Okay, well, I’m glad you two are having fun. Promise me you won’t drive home?”

“Mhm,” you hum in response. “I’ll just uber home. To you, Carmy-Bear. The love of my life.”

“Wow, you really are high,” he comments, still trying to wrap his head around it. 

Carmy chuckles at his new title. It’s not the first time he’s heard you call him that, but it seems out of place considering. It makes him wonder what kind of trouble you and Sugar have gotten into this evening. 

“She’s fine, Carmen. She’s in good hands!” Sugar yells, loud enough so that he can hear it through the phone.

“Will you turn your phone back on though? I was a little worried there when I couldn't get a hold of you.”

“You were worried about me?” you ask, softly, his words affecting you even more now that you’re blasted.

“Awwww he loves you,” Sugar says softly.

“I know it’s pretty fuckin’ great,” you agree with a giggle. 

“You’re ready to go? Okay, yeah, we can-,” you can hear Carmy say. He pauses and you can hear him exchange a few words with someone else. “Don’t worry about getting a car back, sweetheart. Pete’s gonna drive me back and uh, I’ll take you home.”

“My hero,” you swoon playfully, eliciting another fit of giggles from Sugar. 

“Sweetheart, will you please tell Sugar that I’m coming to get you?” he asks, almost as if he’s talking to a child. 

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now!”

You pretend to cover up the speaker of the phone before saying, “Um, so, Buzz Killington on the line here wants me to tell you that I’m not allowed to drive home and he’s gonna come pick me up right now.”

“Oh, you’re no fun, Carmy!” she shouts back to him. 

“Babe, will you just put Sugar back on the phone?”

“Fine,” you scowl, handing the phone back to Natalie. “Sugar, my dad would like to talk to you.”

Carmy’s not sure how he has somehow found himself in a situation where he is the only adult in the metaphorical room as he hears your comment, dodging strange looks from Pete. 

“Fucking christ, Bear. Relax,” Sugar sighs out, annoyed with her little brother as she takes the phone back. “Sounds like he needs a gummy too.” 

“Sugar are you-, are you high too?” he asks, much more surprised to find out that she also seems to have had a gummy. 

“Yep. See ya soon, little brother. Byeeeee,” she says, before hanging up on him. 

Carmy’s surprised to discover that his sister has just hung up on him. He’s not sure whether he’s annoyed with the two of you, shocked that you’re both high, or humored by it all. At least he can stop worrying about you.

“What’s uh-, what’s goin’ on?” Pete asks, having witnessed that more-than-strange interaction with you, Sugar, and Carmy on the phone. 

Carmy lets out an amused chuckle before saying, “They’re high right now.”

*

It feels like a second and also three years later that Carmy and Pete come home, bursting through the front door. You and Sugar are still on the couch gossiping, barely paying attention to the Bravo TV show she’s put on in the background. 

Natalie offers to pack you guys up some leftovers, which Pete assists with, until you’re all standing in the doorway of Nat and Pete’s home. 

“So how exactly did this happen again?” Carmy questions, hesitantly. He’s almost too afraid to learn the answer. 

“Because my goody-two-shoes of a husband doesn’t know the fucking difference between THC and CBD,” she says, glaring at Pete. 

“Ohhhh no wonder they asked me for an ID,” Pete replies, his eyes widening. 

“You ready to go?” Carmy asks you, and you nod with a stupid lovesick smile on your face. 

You say your goodbyes and Natalie brings you in for one more hug. 

“And you’re still going to come with me to my soulcycle class right?” she asks with a very serious look on her face.

“Yes, yes. Absolutely. I will, I promise.”

“Awww okay. Thanks for coming over. I can’t wait for you to be my sister-in-law,” Natalie gushes, as she hugs you goodbye. 

“Woahhhh, okay. Uh, let’s get you home,” Carmy interjects, practically dragging you out of the door. 

Carmy ushers you to the car, and before you know it, you’re on the way home. 

“Do I even want to ask?” Carmy asks, sending an amused look your way. 

“No,” you giggle in response, resting your head on your shoulder. You’re sleepy as you cozy up to him. “What’d you and Pete talk about?”

He shrugs. They had kept the conversation pretty surface level. Pete had tried really hard to connect with Carmy over being a self-proclaimed foodie. 

“Best way to cook a steak.”

“Laaaaaame,” you reply. 

Carmy waits a beat, a soft smile on his face as he looks back over at you. 

“Sugar’s a bad influence on you,” he teases playfully, and you groan in response, shaking your head. 

“Mmmm did you ever think that I'm a bad influence on her?” you challenge, your tone light.

“Okay, bad influence,” he chuckles. Let’s get you home and into bed because we both have to be up in the morning.”

“Fffffffuck,” you shout, earning an amused laugh from Carmy. 

Halfway through the drive home, you fall asleep on his shoulder. Carmy looks over at you once more, a warmth filling his belly as he sees you passed out. He wonders what Sugar meant earlier, by calling you her sister-in-law. There’s no way she could know, right? He’d barely talked about it with you – let alone his sister. 

But Natalie’s always been ahead of him – always had the words for his feelings long before ever he had. And he’s been thinking about it: your relationship, marrying you, making it forever, legally. There’s no way she could know, right? That he’d taken a curious gander at engagement rings the other day. That he’d been cutting onions before dinner service and thinking about how he’d propose to you. That when you’d fall asleep before him, he’d lay there, wondering how the hell he got so lucky and how it’s humanly possible that you’re his.

Maybe, he’d just have to start thinking about keeping you, officially.

taglist: @allthefandomstogether @gaysludge @sobshoney @harrysmatcha @starbritestarlite

[sailorblossoms-rankane]

Framing: the first one is a panel with comically deformed faces, a "freaking out" comedic scream, it has a realistic background. It's not a "special moment," it's fanservice and a punchline (or the set up, if you consider something like Ryoga's consequent reaction the punchline). The second is an entire page with a dreamy, ethereal sort of background. The posing is comical but there's no comical deformation, Ranma's face and eyes are focused and entranced. What's happening is meant for Ranma's eyes only. Every choice communicates that this is a showstopper.

For one reason or another, Ranma being around naked girls is usually paired with some level of stress, some "look elsewhere" or "get out of this" freaking out and/or shyness (a shyness more traditionally associated with female characters). His reactions can make it feel like he's invaded/unwilling.

When we reach the doll arc, the situation should be stressful given that this is a possessed Akane trying to kill him, and yet this is the 1st time everything STOPS (a showstopper, if you will). Even if there's comedy in Ranma's reaction, someone being naked here is framed not as raunchy fanservice (that's less about Ranma and more about the reader looking at him and going "that should be ME") but as Ranma ~being seduced~

The FULL page is important. Akane's nakedness is never for "this should be happening to me" fanservice comedy, but for romantic tension (even if it's funny) so only she is framed like she's the dream girl (note that only Ranma gets that full page, how Akane is facing him and how Ranma's location censors what he's seeing. What's happening huge and just for him, not for the reader.)

What characters want/don't want is also part of the comedy (Mousse really wants to see Shampoo, so he doesn't). Ranma just wants to see Akane... so he doesn't! What happens in the doll arc is the exception because it's not really Akane. but it still shows Ranma's feelings (I'm not bringing up how much the whole eldritch nightmare of an arc sucks for Akane simply because it's not the focus of the post, but if it happened to me I would have been on the news, let me tell you)

Part of the comical misunderstandings is Akane toon-force kicking Ranma out of situations, but the intervention is to separate him from the other person (and to remove him from the situation)... but it's not because Ranma is enthralled and can't stop looking (hell, sometimes he doesn't even know what's going on). With Akane, the intervention is because he is enthralled and can't stop looking.

(this is all to convey Ranma's interest being tied to his romantic feelings. Interesting to see how it's done, becaue some form of "special framing" is applied to other situations too... like to elevate the feelings of the delusional suitors lol)

[amerricanartwork]

RW Headcanon: Goodnight, Moon

AHHH YESSSS, now that that Lilypad essay is done I can FINALLY share these—!

Hey, @ghostlycoze! So you remember a few months ago how I made that drawing acting on the Moon beepsnort headcanon, and how in my last reblog I eluded to the possibility of drawing out some of your headcanons again? Well, it looks like that time has come, and this time I've got not just drawings, but lots of additions to another headcanon of yours!

This time, it's from your tags in these three posts, which I also saw a while ago! Yet for some reason I began thinking about it again recently, and as is my nature with ideas I like, I decided to develop it further, and even draw it this time!

Also, just to preface, you'll see I did a bunch of notes beside the actual drawings as well. I'll share the picture and roughly type out the notes (in case my handwriting is a bit hard to read) as well as whatever info I couldn't fit on the page. Some of the text also just says "robots" rather than "iterators" because some of these ideas are stuff I actually imagine applying to robot characters in general! Maybe I'll make a post on that someday...

With all that out of the way though, the actual headcanon is under the cut! Hope you like it!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

What are iterators like when they’re sleepy? Do they even get “sleepy” the way we humans do? This headcanon answers that question with a focus on the iterators’ puppets. Much of this info is also framed in the context of a hypothetical “worm-off-the-string” scenario, since I believe that’s the main situation where sleep and getting tired would actually matter to the iterators.

Firstly, when iterator puppets are low on power, until they find a place to recharge they usually enter a power-saving state where, to conserve what’s left of it, their energy is temporarily redirected away from some of their less-important processes. The side-effect of this, however, is that iterator puppets show symptoms of drowsiness kinda like humans! Whereas humans may yawn, stretch, or rub their eyes when sleepy, iterators will often make sloppier/less precise movements, close their lenses a little, and may even have a harder time thinking, since they sometimes shut off some processors and other cognitive functions until they can recharge. The most common symptom, however, is slurred speech, coming from less power given to their speech-forming software.

Another very-common sign of iterator sleepiness is frequent beeping, often in place of words. This is because, like slurred speech, beeps take much less energy and processing to make than analyzing data, formulating a complex response, then vocalizing it clearly. Beeps are thus far more efficient for conveying simple emotions and reactions than words. Looks to the Moon in particular gets super beepy when she’s tired because she and other early models relied more on beeps for communication — they were made back when things like vivid emotion weren’t as taboo in Ancient society, and iterators were meant to be more friendly and openly interactive with their citizens — so she’s more used to beeping to easily express her emotions. 

As a side-note and mini-headcanon (wow, real headcanon-layering action here), while even the newest iterator puppets can beep, the older iterator models, as a result of this design influence, also have a much greater “beep-vocabulary” with a wider range of sounds that shrunk with the generations. Their beeps are thus a lot more expressive as well, with some sounds even being similar in nature to animal noises or regular speech! I imagine the entire range of their beeps would closely resemble shorter versions of the “droidspeak” sounds of the astromechs in Star Wars.

But, back to sleepy iterators. 

When it’s hibernation time, iterators enter a “sleep-mode”, where almost all of their systems are shut down and recharging becomes the primary objective. However, compared to how I imagine other robots, iterator puppets have a unique way of recharging. Rather than shutting off completely and absorbing power from an external source, iterator puppets have a few key systems within them that remain on even during sleep-mode. These systems, just like those in their superstructures, are capable of converting nutrients into power directly. They emit a soft, rather comforting whirr while the puppets sleep — the only sound iterators make while sleeping, and comparable in nature to stomach sounds during digestion. Otherwise, though, the only other systems remaining on during sleep-mode are a few basic senses, and a program that decides when to “wake up”. The presence of this program also means, uniquely to iterators again, they can wake up on their own, rather than having to be powered back on by someone else like other robots. Overall, these systems are yet another aspect of iterator designs that make them far more biological than many iterators (*cough* *cough* Pebbles *cough*) would like to admit.  And in my imaginings of a “worm-off-the-string” AU, systems like these are one of the main sources of both physical and internal conflict for these characters.

Also, since most of their systems are off during sleep mode, iterators sleep, both figuratively and literally, like statues. Whatever position they fall asleep in is the position they remain in the entire time unless a.) someone moves them or b.) they wake up and move on their own. This also means (unfortunately, if you thought these ideas would be cute) that iterators do not snore, shift around, sleepwalk, sleep-talk, or dream while in sleep mode.

That’s about it for this headcanon as it applies to iterator puppets overall. Now, I’m gonna get into how I imagine Looks to the Moon specifically likes to sleep.

In addition to getting very beepy, Moon also gets very cuddly when sleepy, though some of this comes from her affectionate personality. However, it's also due to a lasting trauma from her collapse. Of course she's learned to tolerate the rain over time, yet after spending so many cycles being rapidly drowned over and over in her can — with endless disorientation and senses so out-of-control from being disconnected from most of her superstructure, no one around to comfort her save for the occasional wandering creature, and the knowledge that her own beloved brother was responsible for this — it’s still left a fair amount of bad memories with her, especially from those cycles most recently after her collapse/revival, and this general unease often resurfaces with the sound of the rain. Therefore, whenever the rain comes, this trauma serves as another, more internal reason Looks to the Moon always wants to fall asleep holding onto/being held by someone, or at the very least while sharing the shelter with someone she loves. 

On a more positive note, since I’m now officially a Lilypad shipper, I imagine that No Significant Harassment is Moon’s default choice of cuddling partner! It can be a little hard to get in position — I imagine Moon always likes to be the little spoon despite her being slightly taller than him — but they manage! Moon pretty much always falls asleep first, because, as the oldest model of the group, and having sustained the most damage post-collapse on top of that, she simply doesn’t use power as efficiently as the others do and therefore gets tired much more easily. In some ways, the poor thing even feels a little guilty about it; she’s supposed to be the leader of this group, and yet here she is, tiring out after less travel and growing drowsy before the rain even starts! Luckily, Sig makes an effort to ensure her she’s more-than worth keeping around, because after every awful thing the world has thrown at her kindness, the least she deserves is some quality guilt-free nap time! And sometimes, if they want a little alone-time (or if Pebbles gets too fed-up with their lovey-dovey gestures), it’ll be just the two of them, and perhaps their slugcats, cuddling together in the shelter. 

And speaking of slugcats, Moon’s second choice of cuddles is Rivulet! Being very soft, warm, and equally cuddly, she makes another good source of cuddles for Moon. And sometimes, if Hunter’s also around and willing, the two join forces with Sig and Hunter for a big, soft, cuddle-filled slumber party!

Still, though, Sig is definitely no. 1 provider of snuggles for Moon. But he loves her dearly, so for the most part he doesn’t mind! Since she falls asleep first, some of his favorite moments each cycle are from just watching her and holding her close as the rainfall echoes from outside; she always looks so beautiful when she’s relaxed, and having her in his arms makes him feel like he can protect her no matter what. So he never really minds when Moon, slurring her words, tiredly asks for him to hold her while she enters sleep mode. 

That is, except when this happens and he’s stuck in that spot for the next several hours…

A few more ideas to this headcanon:

Moon’s third choice of cuddles is Five Pebbles. It’s a bit interesting, because in basically all other scenarios Pebbles insists on sleeping alone in a separate shelter, even though he’s actually rather touch-starved (though it'll be a while before he admits it). Moon is one of the only people he’s actually willing to sleep with, besides occasionally Artificer (in which the feeling is mutual and no one else must be in the room). If I someday decide to ship Pebbles with someone, I imagine he’d also be willing to sleep with them, again, only if no one else is around to see it.

To elaborate on the last point and shift to Five Pebbles’ perspective, the reason why Pebbles always wants to sleep alone is because, as I imagine the worm-off-the-string story so far, Pebbles’ biggest internal conflicts are learning to accept all those “worldly attachments” the Ancients so strongly rejected, and overcoming his god-complex and fear of relying on others. And one of the main ways this manifests is him being so deeply embarrassed to be dealing with these basic survival needs — like yet another one of the savage beasts roaming the world, after having been a vast mechanical god so far above those primitive creatures — that he refuses to let others, even his friends and family, observe him in such a “pitiful” state whenever possible, and resolves to try and overcome it alone. 

To further continue this idea, this is why Moon sometimes insists on sleeping with him. Even though he’ll have to overcome these conflicts on his own, it doesn’t mean he has to be alone while he does it. She makes an effort during these and other moments in this scenario to assure him that it’s okay, no one’s gonna judge or punish him for living this way, and she’ll always be there if he ever decides to accept some help. Pebbles always falls asleep with his head buried in her chest and holding onto her very tightly.

The iterators often like to sleep with their slugcats, who in the AU also stick around a lot to help guide them as they figure out the ins-and-outs of organic survival. 

Both Moon and Pebbles tend to sleep in a curled position. It's actually very similar to how slugcats generally sleep!

Pebbles is quite the workaholic in general, but it also means he has a hard time falling asleep — not because he doesn’t get sleepy, but rather that he often denies it or its significance in an attempt to get more done that cycle (and because, again, he’s “too advanced” for animalistic things like sleeping). The group often has to literally drag him to bed to get him to sleep, and Sig often teases him when his lenses start drooping and his syllables begin to stretch.

In extreme cases, where almost all of their power has been exhausted, iterators won't just slur their words anymore, but their speech will often lose coherency overall, like a spoken case of very drunk typing .

When sleepy, Moon not only slurs her words, but has a tendency to say rather strange and very silly things. It’s another side-effect of less power being used to actually think through her words. There have been many instances where the whole group erupted in laughter after Moon made a really out-of-left-field comment!

Oh, and here's one last quick doodle based off one of the ones above:

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Aaaand that's all for another headcanon! Even though it took me a whole week to do the drawings, it was SO fun getting to develop this idea, especially since sleepy Moonie is such a cute concept! I am so glad that you shared that little idea, Ghost!!

And speaking of which, if you've made it all the way down here, Ghost, may I invite you to add any more ideas to all this, if you want? I'd especially love hearing ideas for the other iterators' sleeping habits (how fast they get tired, what position they like to sleep in, who they usually sleep with, how they wind down before bed, etc.)! I mainly focused on Moon and a bit of Pebbles at the end, since I'm still trying to get a read on Sig and Suns's personalities (especially Suns), so it'd be fun to even further expand on this idea in that regard! Of course, you don't have to, but it's a proposition!

But regardless, I hope you and anyone else who made it to the bottom enjoyed my contributions to the idea! And be sure to keep the adorable headcanon ideas coming!!

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Bonus: Here are the full sketchbook pages, in case anyone was interested in seeing the completed layout! I think I'm gonna be making more of these kinds of drawing/explanation combo artworks!3

[eyeodyssey]

When it comes to books that act as ephemera for the Tokyo Grand Guignol’s plays, most collectors would seek out items like the retrospective 2-MINUS magazine Ameya Style or the volumes of Theater Book and June that featured contemporary articles about the TGG’s plays. The information included in these books is incredibly valuable as many production stills, descriptions and even whole screenplays were printed in these publications. That isn’t to downplay the importance of other adjacent books though, such as the Suehiro Maruo magazine Only You, which features a digest version of Galatia Teito Monogatari’s screenplay. There are even more magazines that have since been shrouded in obscurity, two of which acted as the direct source of several of the most iconic images affiliated with the Tokyo Grand Guignol. The above image is from the October 25th, 1985 volume of Emma magazine. My knowledge of these publications is pretty much nonexistent outside of the fact that on the auctions I found this (and the next featured book) on, both volumes were listed as “photo magazines” or something like that. They definitely contain pictures, that’s for certain. Either way, this photo was a specially shot production still derived loosely from a scene in the TGG’s first play, Mercuro (1984). Despite the close association, this photo is usually given with the play, there was no scene in the original screenplay where Ameya emerges from Kyusaku Shimada’s torso. It was said on the Twitter account TGG_Lab that this scene was based on a variation of the play that was performed at an event hosted by Peyote Workshop known as End of the Century Live, said version of Mercuro being a loose descendent of the iconic televised performance of the play that was shown on Tokumitsu Kazuo's TV Forum. Both renditions were heavily abridged variants of Mercuro’s most iconic special effects scenes, with the televised version specifically being a crossing of the openings of act one and act two. One thing of note is that near the end of the article on the side, a special teaser is given for the upcoming December 1985 debut of Litchi Hikari Club.

The next photo spread is of a similarly iconic production still, this one being a direct capture of (what was likely) the opening of the first act of Litchi Hikari Club. In said opening scene, an execution is conducted to the tune of the S.P.K. song Culturcide wherein the light club hang a student who crossed their strict rules. This student is apparently different from the one who is blinded by a spotlight later on in the same act. This photo is from the April 11th, 1986 volume of Focus, a magazine that happens to contain a fairly interesting coincidence. In my prior essay regarding the parallels between Litchi Hikari Club and the futurist movement, I mention how Ameya at one point cited an airplane accident as a direct influence for Litchi’s story. According to his recollections, the accident occurred not long after the televised performance of Mercuro, which was in 1985. While I originally had a hunch while writing the essay, I’m fairly certain the airline accident he’s referring to was the Japan Air Lines Flight 123 crash on the 12th of August, 1985. The time frame matches Ameya’s descriptions, and to this day it’s still recalled as being one of the deadliest airline accidents in history. In the same volume of Focus that this image came from, an article is featured a few pages earlier that concerns the accident. A description of Litchi's opening can be read in this excerpt from a lengthy Twitter thread by user Shoru Toji where she gives an in-depth description of the play's 1986 rerun and the subculture around it: I saw Litchi Hikari Club on March 27th, 1986, the first day of its rerun, at a live house called Super Loft KINDO. It was a renovated iron factory in the Tokyo Metropolitan area. The place was previously destroyed by Hanatarash with a live set where he went through the space with a bulldozer. If I recall correctly, the hall was illuminated by fluorescent lights from a high ceiling with exposed steel frames. The walls were painted black. The curtain separating the audience seating from the stage was a set of white sheets, like the kind you’d find in a hospital. There was no announcement when the play was ready to begin. Instead, the fluorescent lights suddenly went out, and a set of speakers in the ceiling emitted hissing noises. The stage was dimmed to the opening queue of Culturcide from the Seppuku Dekompositiones EP, and I thought to myself “This is SPK!”. And with the sounds of synchronized stomping and a ringing flute, the curtains were drawn back to show the scene of a line of students marching through the darkness in single file with lights hoisted over their shoulders. The way the lights aligned in their rows reminded me of spotlights. They marched all about the stage, going right, left, forward and to the back, all at once in an orderly manner. They were taking orders from a man standing on a podium. That man was Tsunekawa in the role of Zera. He stood with an overhead spot bathing him in red light. He pointed in many directions, with the students loyally following each command he made. Eventually, the left side of the stage began to loudly rattle with the starting of a U-shaped quarry conveyor belt. Another student is carted into the stage from the belt, screaming “Please, don’t do it! Please, forgive me!” as he’s suspended upside down from the belt. The light club place their lights in the back of the stage and hang their first victim at the front with a chain.

Sources: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4