#not gonna edit out whole chunks but some parts just feel like me trying to be funny and falling on my face instead lol-

[heroichedgehammer]

Mod: If I may ask... What do you think of Frontier? Not sure if you played it or watched a walktrough or you decided to wait

WOO! Okay! I did play Sonic Frontiers, played it every time I had a moment for the past three/four days, and knocked it out last night. I have thoughts, and there are spoilers in them, so there's the read more below! Read on at your own peril!

TL;DR: Good change in direction, enjoyable game. Story has potential, but it's rushed. Sanded-down character interactions and lack of polish hold it back from being a homerun. Open world is extremely rewarding, but they don't always trust the player to pay attention to their surroundings or figure things out, so prepare to get repeated interruptions while exploring. Combat is easy, but feels satisfying to learn and play. If you're a Sonic fan and like open world games, pick it up. If you're not, wait for a sale.

(This is gonna be long. I used your ask as an excuse to ramble. Sorry!)

STORY

I mentioned in a previous post that this feels the most sincere that Sonic has been in a while—no memes, no forced quips, no ribbing the audience about how much they know how silly the concept of Sonic is. This, to me, feels like the beginning of a new direction for the games' tone (and if Evan Stanley's updates are anything to go by, I'm pretty sure I'm on point). Sincerity goes a long way for me even if the story is rough--I never thought that SA and SA2's stories were particularly good, but I love them because at the time, the affection and passion the creators had for their series was palpable. They thought Sonic was cool, and they wanted us to think Sonic was cool. Frontiers brought that back. It treats itself like it matters and I really like that. I felt emotional at more than one point during the game. I like how this felt like an epic; Sonic, to me, is a superhero story, and like classic superhero stories, its hopeful, confident, and big. This is the direction they took, and I like it.

But moment to moment, the word I would use is "rushed". For one, I feel like the characters don't get enough room to play off each other and show their wonderful personalities. We start a scene, they talk mostly about the plot for a bit, maybe make one small character-relevant joke, character beat or lore reference, and then shove along before the player gets bored. This is a shame; I wanted this to be the game I would point people to if I wanted to sell newcomers on these characters, but the lack of chemistry mixed with the more subtle portrayals leaves them all feeling kinda... watered down. Not terrible, definitely functional, but faint. Seriously; I wanted Knuckles and Sonic to rib each other a little more! I wanted Sonic to try to uplift Tails (I saw what you were trying to do, writers; do more of it! We can learn about the ruins later!)! I miss the more openly upbeat Amy! The bones are there. What happened?

Now, as for Sage; this is pretty on-brand for a Sonic story. The writers introduce a new character, a "heart" that, through their interactions with Sonic and co., start to change for the better throughout the story. In SA1, it was a spread around the cast for almost everyone who wasn't Sonic. In SA2, it was Shadow. In the story series, it was Shahra and Merlina. In this one, it's Sage. And I like the idea so much; I like not only the thread of this character, but her dynamic with Eggman. It's a side of him we don't see in the games. Which is why it was such a huge mistake to relegate most of it to optional memos acquired through an optional mini-game of all things. We absolutely needed to see these onscreen. Again, what happened, guys?

Saved the most... okay for last, I guess! I like the plot. Ancients are cool and interesting. Giving them a connection to Chaos was a good idea. I'd like more opportunities to care about them on a personal level. Again, they tried, but it's really rushed, so it didn't really happen for me. It's not that I was apathetic; it was functional! Just not punchy.

GAMEPLAY It's a video game, so even if the story was Shakespearian, the gameplay needs to be good. It was! I enjoyed it! The biggest problem is their lack of trust in the player's learning curve and their unwillingness to abandon the mechanics they picked up after 06.

It's a little over-tutorialized; instead of easing you into the mechanics in a natural and pleasing way, they slap you with a dozen dialogue boxes and pop-ups instead. I imagine a game where they tell the story and teach you the game at the same time a la BoTW, and I wish that was what we got.

The 2D sections in the open world should not have been there at all. Chaos Island was so painful in particular for me because every couple feet I'm enjoying running full-pelt through the wilderness only to get clotheslined by the 2.5 bat. Every time you make a classic Sonic fan play a 3D section, they're annoyed. Every time a 3D fan like me has to play a 2D section, I'm annoyed. Separate the gameplay styles! Free us all. We can play 2D Sonic later!

Speaking of that, why, oh why do they stop you to introduce the monsters literally every single time you run by them?! Can you imagine playing Breath of the Wild and getting interrupted while galloping around so they could play a cutscene with a big ugly title card reading 'LEGLESS GUARDIAN' every single time you find one?! Stop! Stop it! Let me be Sonic!

The action stages, which were the strength of the SA duo, Unleashed, Generations, etc. are unfortunately the weakest part; every time I had to go into one, I wanted it to be over. This Sonic is not mechanically built for these; he feels stiff here, when he feels great in the open world. I would've liked them to put the time they put into the former into refining the latter.

BUT--the open world. Oh, the open world is such a joy to move around in that I can still say this was a win. Being able to sprint full speed up and down hills wherever I wanted is the Sonic experience I've been dreaming of since I was five. I'm blasting alongside walls and ripping through the desert! Openly laughing as I blaze by enemies I know can't catch me! I felt like Sonic, and that was huge.

The combat does a great job with this, too; Sonic fights by overwhelming his opponents with lightning fast strikes. One of his attacks is literally running circles around them! That's incredibly cool and a really good design choice.

Boss fights are fun! I liked the open world bosses more than the end-stage bosses, but both were fun. A good cap on the new game style they're going for.

Aaand... that's it! That's all I got off the top of my head, good and bad, after my first playthrough. Overall, this feels like a game with the means, but not the time. If this does well enough, I'm hoping the next game will lean harder into this game's strengths. I'm happy to have this as the latest installment; I don't regret buying this, and if you're a Sonic fan, chances are good that you won't either.

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 2.20.2024

Well, I had another very solid week. I hesitate to call it good, because I didn't actually enjoy it very much, but I did grind out 8,642 words last week. I finished Chapter 8 and made a solid dent in Chapter 9a. Basically, I just tried to write at least a thousand words a day, which I accomplished almost every day. Yesterday, I only did 800, but I did 2000 on Sunday, plus the 800 was the ending scene for the chapter, so I deserve a little grace there. And it was a three-day weekend for my kids!

I am at the stage of the fanfic where most of the ambiguity is gone--I know what scenes are left and I just gotta write them. It doesn't matter if I want to or not, the fanfic isn't going to be done until I write them, so I just do it. I always worry that writing in this mindset is going to produce bad, unlovable writing--like, if I don't love writing this, how is anyone going to love reading it? Historically, though, that doesn't bear out--big chunks of Call Me Back and What We Do with Our Hearts were written in this exact fugue state, and I often end up loving them after the fact, and they still contain parts that are really funny or insightful or heartfelt or whatever. I literally do not know how this is possible, it just is. Also, like: there is going to be editing. It is truly astonishing how hard it is to slap anything at all down on a page and then how easy it is to shape it up into something good later on. It is a lot like throwing flat colors down on a piece of art and then adding a little texture and shading later.

The other thing I don't like about writing in this mode is that it makes me actually insane, which I don't like. I just roll word counts and percentages around in my head 24 hours a day and I'm not really able to relax and do things that are not grinding away at my writing. I can do it for short periods of time, but I think I have too much of this story left to tough it through, plus, like, what's the point? This is the thing I allegedly do for fun, and even though I really really really want to be finished, I feel like I should actually try to enjoy the process a little, at least.

So anyway! My first goal for this week is to be less insane about my fanfic. My second goal is to finish Chapter 9a (I think I have about 3-4k to go). My third goal is to edit Chapters 7 and 8 and send them to the beta.

After that, I'll just have 9b (of which I've already written about 4k) and the epilogue to do. After that, of course, there's still more editing, a beta pass for chapters 8->the end, and then I may try to read the whole thing through again from the beginning. So, 3 weeks, maybe, give or take a little?

In the interest of trying to have a little fun, I think I'm gonna try to post some previews for the next couple weeks? In the past, people have enjoyed previews. Today's is a little long, but it's the opening to the whole thing. It's below a cut for those who'd rather wait until the whole thing comes out.

“I don’t know if they’re trying to capitalize on Boy’s Day, or what,” Rukia said, idly inching her hand toward the plate of hot, steaming gyoza sitting on the countertop next to Renji’s stove, “but they’re having some sort of Seafood Festival out in East Sixth.”

A dish towel appeared out of nowhere, the tip whipping painfully against Rukia’s hand.

“Ow!” Rukia howled.

“They’re hot! It’ll hurt worse if you jam one of those in your mouth whole like I know you were gonna,” Renji replied, stuffing the dish towel back into his obi, and juggling the pan of gyoza he was currently frying. “What about a Seafood Festival? Why the Hell is the East Sixth having a Seafood Festival?”

“It’s being put on by the Train Museum, I hear,” Rukia continued grumpily, rubbing at her hand. “I guess they’re hauling a bunch of spring fish up from the Shiranui Sea at the other end of the line. It only takes a few hours to get out to Six. There’s probably carts making the run that we could take, but I would honestly just flash-step, at least on the way out. I want to eat my own body weight in katsuo. Possibly your body weight in katsuo.”

“Mmm,” Renji replied noncommittally, dumping the rest of his gyoza onto the plate and turning off the stovetop.

“I was thinking of asking Hisagi if he wanted us to take some pictures and do a little write-up for the Bulletin,” Rukia went on. “Get us a little walking-around money.” Not that Rukia lacked for pocket money, but it was a little more expensive than their usual weekend activities, and Renji got a little cagey when she tried to treat him to things.

“That’s a bad idea.”

“Why? We had fun the last time we played reporter!”

“Grab the bowl of sauce, would you?” Renji gestured with his chin as he picked up the plate of dumplings and the teapot to carry them to the table. “Don’t you remember when they built that damn train line? Took ‘em over over thirty years, and there were three to four articles every single Bulletin about the delays, the graft, the politics, the environmental impact, whatever. People got so mad about the idea of a train inside the Seireitei that it doesn’t even go anywhere useful. I didn’t even know they used it for anything aside from twee holidays for bored nobles.”

“I heard a story from my friend, Lady Akizuki, that the old head of the Seshimo clan actually lives on the train! He hasn’t set foot outside it in fifteen years!”

Renji cocked an eyebrow at her. He looked like he desperately wanted to hear about the Train Noble, but also did not want to be a guy who cared about Train Nobles. “Anyway, don’t mention the train to Hisagi unless you got six or seven hours to kill. Preferably when I’m not there.”

Rukia picked up the big, fragrant bowl of ginger dipping sauce with both hands. “It was just an idea. So what do you think? Do you want to go?”

“When is it again?” Renji asked, frowning.

“It’s running for all of May, but the weather has been so nice lately, I thought maybe we could go next weekend,” Rukia suggested. 

Renji was quiet for a moment, but Rukia figured that maybe he was just focused on serving her dumplings, which was, in her opinion, very important. 

“Ru,” he finally said slowly, as he poured her a cup of tea. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is it that you want to go to the Seafood Festival with me?”

Renji took a big breath through his nose and let it out again. “If things work out, I’d love to go later in the month. Next weekend’s not gonna work, though.”

“Oh.” Rukia frowned. “That’s fine. That’s no big deal.” She looked down lovingly at her gyoza and then up at Renji hopefully. “Itadakimasu?” she asked hopefully.

Renji blinked. “Huh? Oh, yeah, please help yourself. That… that wasn’t the thing I had to say.”

“Well, spit it out, already,” Rukia groused, her mouth already crammed with gyoza. “Why are you being weird?”

Renji still hadn’t touched his own food. He had circled his right wrist with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand and was rotating it back and forth. He used to make that gesture a lot when he was young, and Rukia realized that she hadn’t seen him do it in years.

“I’m having some surgery,” Renji finally said. 

Rukia froze. After a long moment, she slowly finished chewing her dumpling and swallowed it. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“I’m getting my arm fixed.”

Rukia watched him rub his wrist for another few seconds. “Did it not heal correctly after the, um, accident?” “The accident” was when Byakuya had stabbed him through the forearm during a demonstration fight the week prior. Everyone was being very polite about it.

“Wellll…” Renji drew out. “I mean, no, that healed up fine. Very clean cut, Senbonzakura, as always. But, uh, while I was at the Fourth, the topic of my burnt-out kidou ducts came up. Captain Unohana thinks she can fix ‘em. And I’ve decided to, um, let her try.” “Oh,” said Rukia. Her chest was filling up with a lot of strange feelings. “Oh.”

[toastytoaster22]

How do you plan out your stories/form an outline for what you’re gonna write? Any advice for it?

Hi Hello! Thank you for the ask! I love talking about my weird process for writing long fics. Hopefully you find even a bit of this helpful. Everyone is different and my process isn't going to be the same as what might work best for you.

I went through part of this a while ago for a different ask, so I'll reblog that after I answer in case I miss something (my head isn't really on today) Forgive me if there's overlap.

OKAY!

The first thing I do once I've got a good idea in my head and its fleshed out enough that I think "This is good! I will actually write this!", I start a new notebook (if the fic will be long) or grab a couple pages from a partially filled one (if its going to be shorter). I am a visual person when it comes to writing, so I like to see my story built out in front of me. It helps me organize, plan, and keep track of character arcs/specific events/details I want to include.

Issho's original story map got nearly destroyed with the amount of edits and notes I added over the course of writing it, but here it is in it's delightful, disgusting glory:

As you can see, I am a messy person. This works for me. I am sure some people will see this and want to scrub their eyes out of their heads.

But the important thing is that I have noted down where events happen across the timeline, where the chapters are marked, the three main arcs (if you can see them, good lord) and have a note at the top about what the main theme of the fic is, and Points to Make. Below are some notes on Toichiro and Serizawa that should have been on another page but ended up there somehow.

I tried to be more ... legible... with Nightjar's story map, and even color-coded it by location. It keeps track of each group of characters, when they interact, when the big events happen in conjunction to those meetings, and bc i am like this, the weather.

Nightjar has a lot more moving parts, so I just put a couple words in each spot and wrote the notes for those events in full on another paper. Nightjar has a very organized notebook with labeled tags and everything, with sections on Character Arcs and Emotional Progress, The Government's Response, Counter Attacks by Claw, OCs, and a whole back section of maps that correlate to where in Seasoning they are.

When I have a basic idea of what I want to happen and when, I go ahead and get a word doc going with the whole outline in one place. I just shorthand write down everything I want to happen as messily as I want. It doesn't matter what it says so long as i know what it means. If i get an idea at any point that i want to include, I throw it in the appropriate place asap. It could be a cool scene, a specific line I want, or a point of progress I need a character to make. Anything. The Outline Doc gets LONG. like 30 pages.

When I sit to write an actual chapter, I go to the outline doc and copy/paste the selection of events I want in that chapter into a new doc and work from there. I keep both docs open so i can throw ideas in anywhere or move events around if I need to change where the chapter ends.

I try to be open minded and flexible with my story construction. And I sure do call it Construction. I tend to change events and move chunks of story and plot around like puzzle pieces until it feels Just Right and makes the most sense.

Sometimes I do this more on paper than on the word doc bc my brain likes seeing things a lot less... up and down? Than a computer can provide. Like this section of notes I have on Issho Teru's emotional state after his parents leave:

I wanted to have a map of Teru's 5 Stages of Grief along with events that move him along toward accepting Reigen into his life and which chapters those events happen in. This got abandoned before I ended up writing any of it, so the top part about him acting out against Reigen never came into play. Originally he never went to the Children's Center, but I couldn't pull that off, so i had to send him away for his Angry period. It worked better.

Obviously not every story needs this level of attention and mapping! My Issho side stories get a few notes in the notebook and then go straight to a word doc. Anything that's only a couple chapters tends to go right to the computer bc I don't need to move events around or map out arcs.

My brain has run out of juice at the moment, but I got more out here than I expected. If you have any follow up questions, feel free to ask!

[tessabennet]

Hello!!!! I'm an absolute fan of your work!!! I've read your series "What I'm looking for" and I loved everything about it. I think I've never seen such a detailed and well thought fic about the MCU and Steve and Bucky. Everything about their past, their feelings, the relationships they crafted, and that sadness and loneliness that surrounds specifically Steve after he comes out of the ice is beautiful. And while I obviously love the Stucky, I think one of my favourite things about your fic is Steve relationships with other people, like Tony, Sam, Natasha... Seriously, you made their friendship seem so organic, so real, they all have so much emotion and baggage and yet they all care so much, they are still sometimes distant, they fight, they don't always agree, they annoy each other, but they care and are trying to built something more. I read some other fics about the Avengers and when they are made to be super friends and family right after the battle of New York that really annoys me (kkkkk), like they literaly just met Clint? How are they like brothers now? None of them know each other but Nat and Clint like ????? How???? I love when they are friends, but they need to built it, and I think you've done it perfectly.

Anyway, super excited to read the other parts of your work!!!! (I'm literally melting and dying with curiosity, begging time to move faster). I'm curiouss about a few things if you could answer, like are you gonna keep everything canon compliant? All the movie deaths in Endgame are still going to happen (if Nat dies I don't thing I will get over it)? Is Bucky going to be snapped? I always thought it was such a wasted oportunity to make Bucky die in Infinity War, because him being there in Endgame with Steve and Tony could make good conclusion for them, and it would make the rebuilding of their friendship feel way stronger...

Again, love your work!!! You are incredible!!!! Big kiss for youuu!!!

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Oh wow, hi!! Thank you so much, I'm happy to hear how much you enjoy the series. And I'm especially glad you like the friendship dynamics just as much as the stucky parts themselves, that really means a lot to me. Tbh those relationships between the different Avengers really took me by surprise when I was writing the whole thing, they just sort of... happened? I guess?

Anyway, to answer your questions: Yes, I will stay canon compliant, all the way to The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. And yes, that means everrything that happens in Infinity War and Endgame happens in the fic but please don't worry it definitely doesn't stay that way. In the post-Endgame parts, I went into fix-it mode. I've done my absolute best to give everyone a happy ending.

And maybe as a small comfort in the meantime: I'm all but finished with writing the last part of the series!! There's only 3 chapters to go, and then a lot of editing - but once that's all done and dealt with, I'll forgo my established posting schedule and drop large chunks of the series (possibly all of it) in one go. My goal is to get all of it out there sometime next spring, though of course I won't make any promises.

So... yeah. Thanks again so much for taking the time to read my writing and for coming here and leaving such a lovely message in my inbox, you really brightened my day! And of course you're always very welcome to talk to me about the fic, and to ask more questions that may come up, ask for snippets (I'm very liberal with those) or background info. Or, you know, talk to me about the mcu and stucky in general ❤️

[glitterge1pen]

You Only Water Plants With Cool Water

Rukawa Kaede x reader, sfw, fluff, word count 1,435

reader is a painter 

Rukawa and you both had practice. Studio sessions, gym time, he needed to go to the store for new basketball shoes, you needed new paper or canvas. He knew when you had had a bad day. When every stroke of pigment was wrong, when you had to change water too many times. You knew when he had messed up his scoring percentages, or when he’d landed a shot not to his liking.

You also had good days though. Ones where you would be electrified, dragging Rukawa to the tiny bedroom studio in the apartment, excited to show him a new piece. He tried to be subtle about sharing his smaller successes with you. Quietly asking to go on a walk to the park on weekend mornings, picking up a basketball before heading out the door.

While Rukawa couldn't exactly understand painting, or art, he did understand you. He saw how hard you worked, the same as him. You too were striving for something. So he lets you ramble on about new art books you had bought, different painters you admired, ones you hated, an art supplies store you wanted to try your luck at. This was also how you understood him. You saw how at home Rukawa watched all the NBA games, kept tabs on different players.

The two of your respective passions consumed lots of your life. Which is why he didn't mind when you had the door to the studio closed when he got home from the gym. You didn't bother him when he was watching a game. He would sleep on the small couch you had tucked in the corner of the studio, the radio giving a play by play of some game. Legs hanging off the arm rest, simply enjoying being in your presence. Some days you would go to his practices, half watching, half sketching out ideas for a new chunk of canvas. This was one of those days.

Looking up from your lap you see that practice is almost over. You set aside your work to focus on Rukawa completely. He really is something else on the court. Brash, aggressive, and still sly. Those parts of Rukawa were the same. The part of him that bluntly told you while out shopping what did look ugly, that way you swore he moved stuff around in the fridge to mess with you, or how he shoulder checked people a little too often. When he was playing basketball it was like the various gears and screws that made up Rukawa were perfectly made to play, like it was the only that life made sense to him. It added something to his outward psyche, a fire of energy that exuded from every pore.

You watch as the team starts to wind down. Shooting from various points on the court, running sprints from one side to the other, to end practice there was a complicated passing drill that you couldn't follow. You were prepared to leave, grab some take out on the way home, but when Rukawa came over to you he flopped onto the bleachers.

“Hey! Come on you can't sleep here”

With a sweat towel covering his face he mumbles,

“I can sleep anywhere, just give me a couple minutes”

But you know with Rukawa that a couple minutes can range from thirty minutes to hours. You pull on his arm trying to get him up, his eyes are stubbornly closed though. You poke, you blow air on his nose, you ruffle his hair and pull on his clothes. When that doesn't work you try threats.

“I won't pay for dinner”

“I was going to pay”

He says, words muffled by the towel. Exasperated you sit back onto the cold bleachers. You reach into a plastic bag you have settled down by your feet. It's from the craft store, new paint, new brushes, you had stopped there on the way to see Rukawa. Cautiously you pull out some paint and let it rest against Rukawa's skin.

“If you don't get up, I’m gonna paint you”

“I dont care”

“Really?”

“Why would I care?”

Before you two had been playful, teasing, but when he asks that he is genuine. Like he couldn't possibly comprehend why that would bother anyone. He has one eye open now, peaking at you, seeing that you are considering it now.

“I don't care, go ahead, just let me sleep”

At first you're still a little apprehensive. You are slow to fill up one of the paper cups from the players bench with the water fountain. You use the colors little by little. Mixing them in the palm of your non dominant hand. You start with his arm. The paint moves differently on his sweat tinted skin and you have to adjust.

Rukawa floats in and out of sleep. Lazily watching your concentrated expression move expertly over him. He likes the way the brushes feel, the cool of the paint. He notes that you're holding his hand differently, it's deliberate, your fingers not laced with his but clasping onto him. You do this so you can twist his arm this way and that. He can see blues and greens mixed onto your own skin in puddles. Then he’s back asleep.

You are no longer paying attention to Rukawa, or the dance group that came to use the gym for practice. You like working here. The gym lights are bright, the AC blasting cold air. You were originally only going to do something small. But now Rukawa's entire right arm has been consumed by paint. You are putting the last few strokes of detail on his arm knowing that you aren't done yet. You are afraid to dab at the paint to see if its dry, you blow on it and Rukawa gives a small smile at the sensation.

You pull the towel off of Rukawa’s head and lay it over his chest, placing his arm there too. You grab your bag of supplies and move to the row of bleachers below Rukawa. His left leg your new target. This is harder for Rukawa to sit through at first. The bristles of the brush more ticklish, but it is soon calming once again. He wants to see what you’ve painted on his arm but his eyes are still so heavy, he so tired.

“Wow you're really good!”

���Thanks! He’s a pretty good canvas!”

Rukawa wakes at the sound of your voice.

“Oh sorry I didn't mean to wake you!”

It must be one of the girls from that dance team he decides.

“It’s okay he sleeps plenty”

You tell the girl, she laughs a little before waving herself away. You're packing up your things, swirling brushes into the cup of water, twisting paint tubes closed. Finally feeling satisfied with his nap, Rukawa slowly gets up. Used to sleeping wherever he pleases the dull ache from the bleachers doesn't bother him much. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and sees it.

You've painted a river. From his right shoulder to his left ankle is a river. Patches of grass and flowers growing along parts of it, stones, clouds, waterfalls, waves of water. It’s dynamic, twisting over the grooves of his muscles. You are surprised at how gentle his fingers move along the outline of the water, tracing it down his whole arm. In between his knuckles the water fades off his hand in droplets. The red flowers a bold contrast to the cool colors of the water. Fish leaping in and out of the water, some not even breaking the blue surface of paint, shadows of warm color beneath the water.

“You like it?”

You ask, he only nods, still admiring your work. You get him off the bleachers, once standing the daze he was in wears off. He grabs his duffle bag and the two of you head out. The night air is refreshing, the sky dark blue but bright like how it is in the summer. The street is still buzzing from the dusk. People on the way home from work, light traffic in the street, store and street lights flickering in the newness of the night.

“I’m sorry”

“Huh?”

You don't know what Rukawa could possibly be apologizing for.

“I’m gonna have to take a shower and the paint will wash off”

“That’s okay I knew that when I did it”

Rukawa seems discontent with this answer but you aren't sure how to help ease him. At the next block Rukawa turns the wrong way.

“Where are you going the-”

“Walgreens”

“What?”

“They have disposable cameras at Walgreens.”

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　

A/N: If someone made a bingo chart of my writing Walgreens would be on it. Will post this on ao3 later today :) Also no :) I did not :) edit this :) 

[loversandantiheroes]

Hotel Hobbies - Part 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: This was not going to be a multi-chapter thing, but then people liked it and Whiskey wouldn’t shut the hell up so here we are, folks.  I no longer know where this is going so strap the fuck in I guess.  This is so long and I am so sorry. Edited for a cleanup 10/5/2020 Summary:  A co-worker gives the Reader a little nudge, which backfires just a bit when Whiskey runs unexpectedly late. Warnings: Public sex, exhibitionism, angry sex, mild choking/breath play, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, spanking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (do as I say not as I fictionalize), creampies, come eating, vague allusions to Whiskey’s job and all the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, very brief mention of Whiskey’s past, exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn’t fuck up too badly. Rating: Explicit / NSFW / 18+ / How much clearer can I make this? Word Count: 12k+ (oh GOD do not look at me I have no idea what happened) Previous: Prelude / Part 1 / Interlude Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder @sarcasmisakindofmagic

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren't even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could've filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result.  At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn't help your case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes.  You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There's moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course this would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn't it?  Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can't help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

"So what's his name?" she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so funny when you're irritated?

"Whiskey," you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. "Oh my god," she sputters. "Are you fucking a biker?"

And okay, maybe that is a little funny. You shake your head, mutter back, "Cowboy."

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. "Save a horse," she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia's leaning back over to quietly add, "The dick must be good to get you this distracted."

"Shut up," you shoot back, but you're already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia's hand clamps down on your arm.

"I'm buying lunch and you're going to tell me everything."

So you do.  Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with rapt attention, this not being the first time she's poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it's possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

"So you're gonna see him again," she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey's invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. "I dunno. Maybe."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You're gonna see him again. You've been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there's no way you're turning down that invitation."

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. "I will stab you, I swear."

"Not with this many witnesses," she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning.  

When she doesn't drop that annoying, knowing look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. "I mean...ok yeah I thought about it."

"All morning," Claudia provides.

"Fuck you," you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. "I just...I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh my god, why not?" she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

"Well it's not exactly fucking sensible, is it?"

"Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn't have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar," she says with a shake of her head.

"Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was James fucking Bond?  I mean c'mon Claudia.  That's gotta be...I dunno, some kinda red flag."

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. "Oh please, when the bullshit's that obvious I don't even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway.  Besides, honesty is the backbone of a solid relationship, if you're just poking fun it's more like a bonus.  As long as he's not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit?  You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s...well that’s not wrong.  It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here's some rational thought for you." She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. "He's hot. He likes to eat pussy. He's a fuckin' sub, which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking shit. Plus he's packing and he actually knows what to do with it.  Oh, and he bought you fuckin' breakfast!" She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. "Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if you don't fuck him I'll do it for you just so I don't have to eat another shitty continental breakfast."

You laugh, but there's a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It's almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see.  And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension.  Whiskey doesn't scare you.  His lines don't scare you.  The way he fucks you doesn't even scare you.  But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that's been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you're about to develop a taste for something that you'll never have the chance to get again.  

Maybe it's better to leave it.  To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he'd feel just as good the second time as he did the first.  Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box.  "Look, hon.  I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you're overthinking this. You don't need to be fucking sensible all the goddamn time. So what if you're thinking with your pussy right now? You had fun. He was fun. You have the option to have more fun. You are entitled to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking fun."

You nod. It's reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure.  "Okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am always right, thank-you-very-much," she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

                                                           ⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it.  Because if you think about it, really think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times.  But you've decided now: the absolute last thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You've been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you're loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair.  At least he's given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name.  

You take the time to change when you make it to your room.  Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress.  Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it's seemingly lodged itself in your throat.   Whiskey's nowhere to be seen, which isn't a complete surprise.  He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before.  Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you've been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait...and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement.  Despite the fact that you're practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head.  Your face feels like it's burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It's nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off.  He stood you up.  You cannot fucking believe it.  What's worse is you feel like you should believe it.  Should've expected it.  As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed.  At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

"Room for one more?"

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you're not sure if you've got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might've laughed. Might've fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might've even kissed him. But not now.  Now you've built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you'd had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

"Fuck you."

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head.  The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can't see them for the brim of his hat.  It's satisfying in an awful sort of way.  Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood.  Too late to take it back now, though.  You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked CLOSE DOORS, and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

"All right," he says slowly.  "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy," you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down.  Forward.  Anywhere but on him.  It's hard, too many reflections.  Even the distorted shape of his  silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

"I know I'm late," he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

"You don't fucking say?"

His hands drop. "Can I at least explain myself?"

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard.  "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I'd stick around before I came to my fucking senses?" 

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince.  You're overreacting. It's not like you're unaware of it. But you're pissed off, and worse now, you've committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually apologizing.

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don't blame you for thinkin' the worst. I know I left you waitin', and I apologize for that -"

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. "Christ, y'know what, don't flatter yourself.  I like that bar.  The pretzels are nice and they don't water down the liquor.  I didn't show up for you."

"Oh horseshit," he snaps. He doesn't raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. "If you didn't want to see me tonight you wouldn't have turned up at all. You and I both know that."

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

"Here. You forgot this."

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. "Right.  I see," he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there's a twinge of something that might be disappointment. "Just came to do the decent thing and return a man's property."

"Yes." Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration.  But it's like you're a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that'd brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won't allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He's scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you've finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you're not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

"Do you always make returns without any panties on?"

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful click.  "Fuck off," you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

"You know what I think?" Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren't for the way he's looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat.  "I don't think you're just mad because I'm late.  I think you're mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don't know what to do about that.  Bet you can't even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me 'til you can't come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?"

Oh fuck you very much, Mister Perceptive.  "Christ, you and your fucking ego-"

"Oh to hell with my fucking ego, and yours too." He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren't so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. "If you want me to go, just fuckin' say it. But don't bullshit a bullshitter.  If you wanted rid of me that bad you would've tossed me out on my ass last night before I'd even finished coming."

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. How dare he-

How dare he what, exactly? Be right?  Again?

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you're trying to light him on fire. He doesn't flinch.

"What you did last night...that made for a hell of a first impression," he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes.  "One I don't expect I'm liable to forget this side of fuckin' doomsday. Shit, I don't even know your fucking name and I ain't been able to shake the thought of you all damn day.  Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.  But the only thing I'm asking from you right now is to be fucking straight with me.  If you want me to go, you fucking tell me, and I'm gone.  But if you want me to stay, honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait."

"Fuck you, Whiskey," you breathe.  It's all you've got left, all you can even think to say, but it's too soft. It's too hard not to believe him when he's looking at you like that.  Even if he's still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there's no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for anger.

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. "That ain't an answer, honeybee."

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

"You can punish me if you like," he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. "Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you've had your fill and never lay a finger on me.  I don't mind a bit.  I'll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too."

Oh god. It's too hot. It's too hot and he's too close and it feels like there's no air left.  Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully loud that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can't drag your eyes away from.  And the bastard just keeps talking.  

"Then again, maybe the way you've been acting up you'd be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I'd bet you'd drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I'd kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now.  I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you'd see fit to let me. But only if you let me.  I ain't here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don't want to give.  So I need you to tell me, honeybee.  Do you want this? Yes or no?"

Everything inside you burns and twists.  Fuck, you want that.  All of that.  And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and admit that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you still want it.

You're burning up.  There's sweat on your palms.  It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing.  He hasn't just turned the tables on you, he's flipped the whole fucking room and cornered you with it. And God help you, it's infuriating how much you like it.

"Hate you. So much."

"Hm." His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. "So you keep sayin'. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I'm picking for you and we're both gonna be disappointed in that result."

There is a long long beat where that threat hangs between you.  Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this...whatever the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

"Yes. Fucking goddamn it.  Yes, I want this."

"Yeah?" He leans in, nose brushing your cheek.  Somehow it's that little gesture that sets off a bomb's worth of butterflies in your stomach.

"Yes."

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. "Knew it."

You choke back a sigh.  "Smug bastard."

"Yes ma'am."  His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering.  He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: "Here?"

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator.  "Camera. Fuck."

"Sure enough," he drawls, still grinning.  "You want to give the boys 'n' girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

Sensible. God, If he'd chosen any other word, you might've agreed. Private. Safe. Anything but fucking sensible.  

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck me."

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles.  The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don't fucking deserve gentleness after all that.  And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

"You're gonna eat me alive, honeybee," he growls.  He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. "Mm, I have been thinkin' about this all day," he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs.  You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

"All that fuss and you're wet for me already, darlin'," Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit.  "Shut up and kiss me."

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge.  He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I'll kiss you, baby," he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder.  "Don't you worry."

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he's got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

"Jesus." The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet.  A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch.  Christ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall.  The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey's head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better.  From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There's a gentle ding, and for a moment you're so scrambled you think maybe your phone's going off.  And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you've been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator.  

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, Going down?, which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer's mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can't quite formulate.  He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus.  You don't know and you don't care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening.  "Get the next one," he snarls, and punches the CLOSE DOORS button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed.  "Penthouse, darlin', if you please."

Oh he would be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn't he?  Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move.  The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs.  Someone's watching this.  The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue.  You roll your hips, swearing roundly.  It's not enough.  It's fucking glorious, but it's not enough.  You know what you need.

"Fuck me," you gasp.  "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock."

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised.  "Is that what you want, honeybee?" he asks.

You bear down on his fingers hard as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It's only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don't sink straight to the floor.  Christ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands.  His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that's so fucking perfect you can't stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little tighter. Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

"Shoulda known you'd like that.  Well?  Cat got your tongue?  Come on, darlin', lemme hear it."

"Yes."

"Louder. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Oh god-d-d-damn it!"

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you.  "You can do it, honeybee.  I know you want it. I just need hear you say it."

You bare your teeth.  "I want you to fuck me."

"Good girl."  He grins down at you, wide and wolfish.  "Now: ask me nicely."

Oh he would, wouldn't he?

"B-bastard," you snarl, then begin to laugh.

"Oh come on now," he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. "I'm sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain't so bad.  And I promise I'll make it worth your while. C'mon."

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: "Please."

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you've been burned.  "'Please' what?"

"Please fuck me.  Please fuck me."

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you.  "With this?  Hm?"

"Fuck, yes."  You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response.  

"Come for me first, honeybee.  Then I'll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart."

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up.  The rail digs into your back.  You'll bruise tomorrow, but you're not sure you've ever cared less in your life.  

"You gonna come, for me?" he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek.  

"Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin', I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me every single time you're gonna come, you understand me? Count them out.  Let's see just how many you got in you tonight."

"Oh you ass!"  You moan and laugh all in the same breath.  

"You like it," he says simply.  

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity.  "Don't stop.  Fuck, I'm close."

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee.  Watch yourself."

You try.  Everything's a blur; inside and out.  Fuzzy and disconnected and hot. Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey's body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you've bitten him. He's pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that's all you need. If it wasn't for the his body against yours, you'd buckle.  As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek.  "Count it out."

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans.  "One."

"Good girl," he murmurs.  Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There's the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – finally! But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft ding.  Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin.  The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

"Well wouldn't you know it," he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It's all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you'd forgotten it was even there.  

"Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas." He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren't still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

"Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they'll be jerkin' off over that for weeks," he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. "C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor."

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite.  You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights.  The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble.  Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you.  The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

"Tell me how you want it," he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse.  The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. "Hard," you breathe.  The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him.  "Don't you dare be gentle."

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash."

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt.  "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine.  "Yeah you do.  A little honesty would be appreciated tonight."

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor.  "That's funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke."

"Not my fault you don't believe me."  It's pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there's something in his eyes.  Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine.  "I ain't lied to you yet, honeybee."

And that almost brings you to a halt.  Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly.  If that's true. If that's true...oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to wait because...because....

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn't stop kissing you.  He just doesn't stop.  And he's moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it's the most decadent thing in the world.  You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it's almost alarming.  Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what's wrong...and then it just flutters away because God this is what you want.  This.  This, this, this.

"You want it hard?" he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod.  Work your fingers through the mess you've made of his hair. "Ruined you last night, didn't I?"  You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and pull.

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him.  "Goddamn right you did, honeybee."

"So ruin me back."  The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin.  "Fair is fair.  Right?"

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady.  "Jesus, girl, you're gonna soak straight through my jeans," he mutters. "All right, honeybee.  All right.  I only got one rule.  If I do anything you don't want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain't stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?"

"Whiskey-"

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his.  "You tell me 'no' or you tell me 'stop.'  Got it?"

"Yes." Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. "Now come on."

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse.  And that's good. That's fair. And what's even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts.  When you finally free his cock there's only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples.  The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

"Hands off, honeybee," he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

"Too much?" he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands.  "Not enough."

"Fuck, ain't you just the sweetest, dirtiest thing." He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward.  His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

"Oh, c'mon.  You promised," you whine.

"Oh I'm gonna keep my promise, baby, don't you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you've been thinking about this all day, too, haven't you?"

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more.  And maybe that's what does it.  A little mental-short circuit.  Because God knows you haven't been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this.  But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: "You wish."  

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling.  For a second he's amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it's like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn't the man who'd begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn't even the man who'd put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he'd pretended to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn't the costume – this is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.  

"Oh, really?" he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial's ramped right back up to 11.  "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin' to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain't been thinkin' about me?  I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were."  His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. "Are.  Ain't no face left to save, darlin'."

He's in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn't even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek.  When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound.  But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you.  "Do it again."

Swallowing hard, you slap him again.  Harder this time.  For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he growls, seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him.  You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth.  He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back.  A choked sound that's a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

"Swallow."

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

"You nasty little thing," Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. "Maybe you are the one that needs the punishin'."

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he'll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

"In," he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. "Now."

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow.  The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an impressively large bed swallowing up the majority of the space.  One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee.  You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts.  "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain't been thinkin' about takin' my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat."  

There's the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades.  For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand.  The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides.  

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek.  A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down.  You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded.  You know what's coming, and you know what you asked for.  The last thing you wanted was to be sensible.  And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you've ever done.  

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand.  "Do it."

The first strikes are quick and brisk.  They tingle, warming your skin, but don't hurt. Not yet.  This is just a tease of the real thing.  A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek.  Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

"Sweet Jesus will you look at that.  Open that up, baby.  Lemme see just how fuckin' wet that gorgeous little pussy is."

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first real slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring.  The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him.  A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time.  You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

"This what you wanted?"  Crack.

"Fuck!"

"Is it?" he demands.  His hand descends again.  Crack.

"Yes!" You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you have to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don't even know now. It's more. It's just more. His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

"You gonna behave?" Crack. "You gonna stop lyin' to me now?"  CRACK.

"Yes!" The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey's leg.  One more, God help you, one more and you'll tip over, you'll come all over his knee, you're so close.

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

"Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach," Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. "And damned if you don't drip twice as sweet."

"Please." Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. "Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear."

"Ye-yes," you mutter.  "Goddamn it yes.  I've been thinking about fucking you all day.  All goddamned day...God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn't show. Thought you'd ditched me.  Made me want - want it and then ditch me."

You bury your face in the quilt. It's a fucking cop out and you know it. You don't just want it.  You want him.  Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn't ditch you, baby. Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it."  His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. "I'm right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all."

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking magic but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. "Jack. Please."

It doesn't even register to you that you've called him by his name – God, you didn't even think you remembered his name – until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn't for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might've heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. "What is it, honeybee?" he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me.  Please.  I waited all fucking night."

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There's a sticky slide to it; you're not the only one that's wet.

"Hand to God, baby, I'll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin' life." The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There's a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes.  

And then he finally makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it's bliss. But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it's the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it's just how overwrought you are already. Maybe...fuck, you don't know, maybe somehow he's even harder than the night before.  All you do know is that he feels so big you can't hardly stand it. It's so much, bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it's just an overwhelming sense of pressure and fullness that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can't make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no right to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you're so glad he does.

"Fuck," he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. "This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?"

You can't find the air to give him an answer.  Whiskey's still moving forward, you're not even sure how. Christ how much more of him is there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down into you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it's startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. "Shit, oh shit, Jesus fuck, Jesus fuck-fuck-fuck-"

He feels it. He must. There's no way he can't. "Oh fuck, that's it honeybee," he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. "Come on. Come all fuckin' over me."

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you're slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey's hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There's a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: "T-t-two."

Whiskey groans. "Beautiful.  Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that."  He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. "Been wantin' to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up.  Ain't been able to think of nothin' else. Just this," he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It's hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he's rolling into you slow, far too fucking slow.  And that isn't what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out.  

"Ha-harder," you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. "F-fuck me harder, god-d-d-damn it. Make me fuckin' feel it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my God, don't you stop."

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey's mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth.  

"Careful what you wish for, honeybee," he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. "Words like that will get you in a whole mess of trouble."

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah god – his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you're suddenly glad he can't see the way your eyes flutter and roll back.  

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

"Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?" His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. "My dick finding all the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?"

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, really move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly flares up at it like a backdraft.  

"M-more," you grate out. "Oh f-fucking God please more.  D-don't...d-d-don't-"

"Don't you worry, baby.  Ain't gonna stop," he mutters harshly against your ear.  "I'll give you all you want. Ain't stopping 'til you tell me to stop."

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right there f-fuck-"

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

"Oh fuck, are you comin' again for me already, angel? Shit, you are, aren't you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can't stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin' heaven when you come. Pussy's so good it oughtta be fuckin' blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin' mean it-"

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you hard, muscles seizing up so tight it's like they're trying to wring the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey's arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

"Got you, honeybee," he grunts, rhythm never faltering. "I got you.  Keep comin' for me, baby, keep comin'."

And god help you, you are. You're still quivering, still coming, and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn't even rub, it's just a heat and a pressure and it's like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you wail at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven't got the strength to force your eyes back open. There's a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you're on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck.  You can't hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. "Thr- I- f-four?"  Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can't quite make it steadier. "I...I don't-"

"Honeybee," he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. "Good girl."

A shudder goes through you as you realize he's still fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it's a privilege to do it. Like it'd be a fucking crime to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It's only when you gasp out a broken cry of "S-sih-s-six!" that Whiskey's hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock again. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

"Tight - fuck!  Goddamn it girl you get so fucking tight when you come. So fuckin' wet. Sweet Jesus. I don't know how m-much more of that I can fuckin' take."

"God, fuck, do it, just do it," you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can't stop shaking. "C'mon Jack."

He laughs at that, but it's a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. "I – ungh! Oh s-shit – I got... your p-permission this time, honeybee?"

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. "Please."

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. "W-where? Fuck, fuck, where do you want me, baby? Hurry."

"In-inside. Inside me. 'S what you wanted last night?  Right?"

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. "Y-yeah. Oh shit, yes. Jesus fucking Christ, honeybee."

Growling, he flips you over and slides in deep, pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even more, pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax.  His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can't help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

"Fuck, fuck. Nngh, ho-holy shit." He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - "¿Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?"

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders.  "Better be a compliment."

"You have no idea," he pants open-mouthed against your skin.  Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he's settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he's made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

Take a picture, you almost say, it'll last longer. But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he's drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he's made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey's mouth.  "Careful," you warn.  "Oh, G-God, careful."

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching.  Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey's head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It's not a thing you've ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you're not sure if he's enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it.  Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your mons, gloating over the state he's put you in.  Fuck, he's made you come so many times you're sure he'll never let you forget it.

Only he isn't.  His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper.  The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously gone is maybe the single most erotic thing you've seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey's vantage point, and he groans against you.  "One more, honeybee," he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking pop just long enough to gasp air.  "You can gimme one more, can't you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven."

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.  

"God, you greedy b-bastard," you rasp out.  The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him.  You're not sure you can stand another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out.  

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come.  It's not your fault. Honestly it's his for working you up to this point.  To this high, nervous overload that's barely left you any control over your body.  It doesn't seem to faze him, though.  Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed, like he isn't even here.  Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it's too much.  Goddamn it, it's too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. "S-s-seven.  Sev-seven.  F-f-fuck, Jack.  No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can't, I can't– "

He's pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try.  All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses.  Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. "'M sorry," you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes.  "What for?"

"'Two minutes and a cigarette.'" You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected"

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you'd made after you'd tied him up the night before. "Shit," is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter.  His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you.  

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It aches. The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it funnier.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again.  Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

"You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn horse."

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. "God yeah, actually.  'M fuckin' starving."

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey's dime. Or his employer’s dime, he insists.  You're not sure if that's better or worse.  It's a little ridiculous.  Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you're absolutely famished and the second he's on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you're stomach's growling so insistently you're almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He's chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck.  For the first time you notice just how much his mustache tickles, and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

"Love me a woman with an appetite," he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

"God, what the fuck are we doing?" you stutter out through your giggles.  It's not meant to be a real question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can't quite parse the look on his face. "Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm." He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. "Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee."

"You didn't strike me as the repeating kind."

"Mm. Didn't strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either.  So I'll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character."  His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. "But if you're looking for a polite way to tell this old man you've had your fill, there ain't no need to beat around the bush about it."

You might've appreciated the easy out once.  After tonight, though, you're almost offended at it. You're not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for fun. Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it now.

"Is that what you want?" you ask, and it's only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. "What I want...shit, what I want is to get me somethin' nice an' artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin' sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That's as far as my wants go right this second."

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter.  “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. "How much longer are you going to be here?"

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer.  "Well.  That sorta depends on you, honeybee.  My work's all wrapped up.  But if you're gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin' for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer."

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it.  "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition," you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. Proceed.

"I need to know something first.  Some things. Plural."

He cocks an eyebrow.  "How many is plural?"

You consider for a second, squinting.  "Three."

"All right," he says, resting his chin against your shoulder.  "Fire away."

You pop out your thumb.  "Are you a serial killer?"

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. "No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer."

You nod, grinning. "Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?"

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he's about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that's going to leave you hating him and yourself.  But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would've ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand.  But then, very quietly, he adds: "Was. But not for a long time."

You nod dumbly, mutter, "Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he's poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath.  "And number three?"

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: "What do you do?  What do you really do?"

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch.  "Shit, is that all?  Well.  Officially, I'm a businessman.  I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from," he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully.  You don't think he's lying.  And yet....

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs.  "You're scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy."

The twitch turns into a grin.  "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while."

"I don't know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit."

Whiskey huffs a laugh.  His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket.  From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you.  

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky.

You blink at it, giggling a little.  "Jesus Christ that is actually your name?"

"More or less.  Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things."

"What was it before?"

There's an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you'd never have expected from the costume cowboy you'd met down in the bar.  For a moment you're sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you've overstepped a line you weren't even aware existed.

"That's four questions," he says, "not three."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades.  "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?" He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Mm." He nods. There's only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. "C'mon, darlin. A deal's a deal."

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name.  He repeats it back, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says.  "Literally."

"Jackass."

[d-criss-news]

Actor And Producer Darren Criss Reveals His Creative Process

The producer, singer and actor talks his approach to songwriting, discovering his sound and how he’s ready for the next chapter.

We don’t know about you, but we’re currently experiencing the Bank Holiday blues. With the realisation that our days of summer maybe coming to an end were in need of uplifting sounds and singer-songwriter Darren Criss is keeping the energy going with his fun-filled EP “Masquerade”. Between the slick alt-pop productions and high-octane energy, the artist puts his theatrical abilities and prowess at the forefront of the EP. Laced with serene dance floor-ready melodies, the actor and musician instantly gets the party going on the project, kicking it off with “f*kn around”.

“The dirty secret is that every song is character-driven,” the artist revealed when discussing the project. “I just chose wording that could perhaps aid people into understanding this exploration of genre, this self-aware exploration of genre a little more. For those people that only know me as an actor, I’m trying to guide them into this notion of music and songs being a form of acting.”

No newcomer to the scene, the artist has spent the past decade gracing our screens in the cult favourite Glee and the thrilling Assassination of Versace: American Crime Story. Wanting to continue his musical journey in the form of producing and writing, we caught up with the multi-faceted artist talking his growth over the years, staying creative in a pandemic and how he’s ready for the next chapter.

Check out the interview below now…

Hey Darren, how are you? How has this past year been for you? It’s a strange question to answer because everybody’s answer is so much more complicated than what you can say in a quick easy tight polite answer. You know, I’m well, as well as one could be given the situation. I feel, you know, luckier than most. Even with the music that I just put out there’s still more that I’d like to do, but I got to do even more than I thought I’d be able to. So that tends to be kind of the theme of the past year and a half. I feel like I’ve been so consumed by working on so many things for so long, that not a lot of people outside of my inner circle know about that. You know, it’s been a lot of high output but seemingly low visibility. So now finally getting to put out some of these things and talk about them… tipped scale of visibility versus output is hopefully having a chance to even out for a bit, to where the amount of work I’ve put in can somehow match that people you know may or may not know about what I’m doing. You know, I’ve been really busy. I’m the kind of guy where if you give me a white canvas it’s a more…I wouldn’t say stressful, but I’m more likely to fill up a blank canvas immediately with as much shit as possible – I guess that is more stressful than having only a few places to fit things in, and I usually keep pretty busy. Ironically when I’m really busy, that’s when I can get stuff done. Like you know that phrase ‘if you want something done ask the busiest person in the room’, and I think there’s a degree of truth to that because you know, the chaos kind of begets chaos, and productivity begets productivity, and in a lack of anything else to do it was like ‘I wanna do all these things!’ and then it gets really crammed, so it’s nice to be kind of simmering down from this overwhelming call to arms to get as many things done as I could with this new unprecedented free time that I had. So, in short, I guess, am well if you wanna use that! I feel, I’m just relieved that a lot of this stuff can exist somewhere outside of my head but it’s a complicated answer, I’ve been able to do a lot more than I thought I’d be able to.

With everything that happened last year, was your creativity affected? The time that it yielded is the kind of time that a lot of creative people fantasise about. Of course, we would have all preferred it in a very different way when you say ‘if only I had time to sit down and work on this’. I think we all have; I say creative people but we all say, ‘if only I had time to paint the kitchen, learn a language, get in shape’, you know do something different that requires a bit of time and focus. We were all given that golden ticket, of course take that with a massive grain of salt, I’m fully aware of the price with which that came, of course if we had the choice, I don’t think any of us would have wanted it to happen the way it did. But none the less, for those of us who did take the time to focus, to hopefully be productive and proactive with the situation we were thrown into, it was creatively beneficial to finally get to address things that had been sitting kind of on deck and dormant in my mind, and it was just a matter of having the time to give them any attention. One of the joys of jumping between acting and music is there is a battle of time commitment, because neither one is a thing you can do casually. If you’re acting in something, there’s a great degree of scheduling that really eats up a large chunk of your day. While I’m in an acting project, I’m writing stuff and playing music but the actual logistics of producing music is as time consuming as the acting. I am envious of people that can kind of just show up, sing a song and leave. I, unfortunately, am not that kind of person. Writing a song is only a small piece of putting music out. Production really does take a large part of my emotional and intellectual efforts, and I really dive in head on. And that’s not even mentioning the promotional side of it. So, it really does take a lot of time to dive into those things, and I was finally given that. If anything, it was hard to decide what part of my musical menu that I wanted to serve up. It just came to a matter of what felt right at the time, what seemed fun. I kind of wanted to put out something that was positive and fun, and unapologetically so. And something that really showed up for a side of me that I felt like hadn’t been represented in the past. The musician side, and unfortunately, we haven’t been able to perform these very much. We’ve done little videos here and there. Stuff that really showed my roots as a musician, a garage rock guy, a guy that really likes getting in the weeds of production. In the past I’ve put up things that are a little more analogue, singer-songwritey, and this is more me as a producer and a musician.

How did you first get into music, what sparked the interest? Well, I’ve been playing music my whole life, and not casually either. It’s such a massive part of my identity, and that’s one of the main driving forces of me wanting to put out as much music as I possibly can. These five songs on this EP are a small part of a much larger body of work that I’m dying to get out whenever I can. When you’re a songwriter, or just in general a creative person, you have more ideas back logged than your body can execute. This is only a small part of a much larger puzzle, and a lot of these songs, the ones that I’ve put out and the ones I’m still trying to put out, are ghosts that have been haunting me however many years., some more than a decade, some more than two decades. The reason I mention this is because I’m trying to illustrate how pivotal music and making music has been throughout my life. I started playing violin when I was 5, and that was a big part of my cultural education, learning how to play an instrument that is so dynamic and requires a pretty specific ear and technical ability. Now I’m not saying I was fantastic at the violin, but I think the training that I had on it from 5 until my late teens really shaped the way that I would create music and think about music, certainly as a writer and a producer, but with just how I would jump between other instruments as well, because the violin was such a great touchstone for me to end up taking up the piano or guitar, or drums, or other instruments that would really formulate how I create music. Between being the orchestra nerd kid that played a lot of music throughout my young life, and also being the guy that would play in bands, its just been such a huge part of my life. As I’ve gotten older and gotten to understand this other version of myself that exists in more of a public view, that has little to do with that I know, I have started to notice that person, that avatar of myself, isn’t necessarily associated with music. And that was troubling to me, so I wanted to rectify that.”

And now you’ve just dropped your EP, talk us through your mindset going into the project? If I was just a recording artist, and that’s all I did, I’d like to think that I’d have a much larger body of work to show for. I feel like a lot of songwriters feel this way. There is just simply too much music…now I’m not gonna say it’s all fantastic, there’s a reason you have to triage the ones that you think are the best at the time, and there are many songs that I feel would be outdated, they feel very of the time 10 years ago. But you’re always trying to put your best foot forward with the pile you have lurking behind you. So, it is a hard thing to decide which thing you want to put out. Killing your darlings is always a hard thing, figuring out which ones to really focus on is difficult and it usually comes down to who you decide to collaborate with – right before the pandemic was one of the most tumultuous times of my career where I was producing and acting in a show for Netflix, and I was also kind of show running, acting, writing music for, editing, doing everything for this other show I created called ‘Royalties’ on another platform. I was doing both at the same time, and one of the things that made this possible was the people that I would collaborate with. A young man by the name of CJ Baron who I produced and wrote this EP with, he’s sort of the midwife that I chose out of working on Royalties because we had a lot of great songs together. I keep referring to myself as a producer, but I do it from a much more cerebral space, whereas he is a much better technical producer than I am. We really shared a lot in common, so by the time I realised that I wanted to make a piece of music you have to decide ‘who do I want to go down this yellow brick road with?’ And when I decide with CJ, that kind of already hinted at the kind of music that I would put out because he has his own fingerprint, and so I thought there’s something that I have that might mesh well with that fingerprint, so that kind of helps the decision process along of what songs am I gonna put out. But in another world CJ wasn’t interested, so then I think ‘Okay let me try and produce an album with this person’, and that person would reveal a different selection of songs. I’m very open to seeing what the universe is allowing and pushing towards, and I kind of follow that northern star to figure out what songs I’m gonna put out. But the mindset was always ‘put something out’, on a completely pragmatic level. What did I want to have to show for if whenever we got out of this crazy, new age of ‘what does this pandemic mean? We have time to do stuff, when it’s over what do I want to sit there and say that I accomplished?’ And at the very least I needed to put out a few songs, so that was really my mindset – no excuses, this is the time that you used to hope for, and so what are you gonna do if you’ve got the golden ticket, you’ve won the time lottery – so don’t fuck it up Darren! That was my mindset.

You describe them as character-driven singles, why is this? The dirty secret is that every song is character-driven, I just chose wording that could perhaps aid people into understanding this exploration of genre, this self-aware exploration of genre a little more. For those people that only know me as an actor, I’m trying to guide them into this notion of music and songs being a form of acting. The number one question I always get it ‘which one do you prefer?’ and I always say they are the same to me. When I’m an actor I treat characters, characterisation of my voice and body, characterisation of how I deliver words like a piece of music. You’re scoring it the same way, there’s cadence, dynamics, volume, nuance, all kind of things that can make ‘a piece of music’ unique to a person. And that’s how I treat dialogue and characterisation. The other side of that coin is I treat music like I’m acting, like each song has its own character when you’re playing live or recording in a booth. You are donning the proverbial mask of that character and what it requires. I really wanted to keep people into this idea that at the end of the day, it’s all performative and all part of a narrative that don’t necessarily have to do with each other and the way that if you ask Alexa to play a ‘Jack Nicholson playlist’ it would be very disjointed. It would be like okay The Shining, that’s a vibe, and then it would go to As Good As It Gets, and that’s a completely different vibe. They wouldn’t necessarily be on the same playlist, but they are distinctly and undeniably Jack Nicholson. So I always thought that it was a bit of a double standard that actors can do this but in music, you know, I’m proud of this but it’s also very annoying – a lot of my songs would probably not playlist together on the same genres because you have more jazz songs, like a trip hop chill tune that might end up in the back of a Starbucks, but that wouldn’t necessarily go on the same playlist as a tune like ‘I Can’t Dance’, which is a crazy song because it doesn’t even sound like me, I’m literally putting on a different voice, I’m singing like two different people putting on an affectation. There’s a lot of things that are very different but uniquely and distinctly me. The word masquerade is a celebration of a lot of different masks, and in theatre we talk about ‘The Masque’, and how each Masque has it’s own style, history and culture, and I really love the genre, and I love Masques, and I love things that make them interesting, and celebrating things that make them unique, and really trying to maximise their effectiveness as a genre with whatever tools I have as an artist, so that’s really what I’m trying to go for, this whole character driven idea is – it’s all a masquerade.

It very much has a fun-filled vibe to it, was this your intention and why? I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I sat in a studio saying ‘Hey lets not have fun!’, especially during a time that was as fraught with a lot of troubled times. This EP was recorded during very troubling times, so I think I’d be delusional to think that whatever joy is in this EP was not some kind of reaction to that, trying to offer something positive is definitely my MO in life in general, so that’s always gonna bleed its way onto my records. Like it or not. The intention is to record things that can be effective. If the vibe you feel is fun, great. If you feel any vibe at all, whatever the fuck that means, that’s a win for me. If that happens to be the word ‘fun’ then awesome, there’s a lot shittier adjectives that can be derived from this body of work so I will absolutely take it. My intentions are again to try and honour the songs. When you write something it has its own magnetic pull, it has it’s own gravitational pull that you have to kind of follow. If a song sounds a certain way, you want the lyrics to feel the same way that it sounds, and you want the production to feel the way that it vibes for lack of a better word. All songs have different body types and dressing it up and knowing how to tailor it to accentuate the things that make it fun or sexy is really sort of a strange alchemy. It’s not up to me how people experience it, but that’s what makes it fun. Once you put something out into the world it’s up to other people to use their own adjectives of the suit you tailor. I’m always excited when it leaves my head and becomes somebody else’s experience. So hey, if it’s fun – great!

What do you want people to take away from the project? Obviously, I hope people enjoy themselves. Any musician or artist would hope that there’s some kind of memorable experience to be had from it. If I was talking about what I hope people take away from it, that doesn’t have to do with the music itself, I hope that every time I put out music it’s me broadcasting this notion that this is something that I do, and that this is a big part of my identity. I think the songs themselves and what they’re about and how they feel are less of an insight into my identity as the notion of me putting out music is, because I feel like for any artist your journey is a constant negotiation between how you see yourself and how you would like to be seen, and how audiences are willing to see you. And you know, sometimes that balance is not always even. Sometimes the way they see you isn’t the way you see yourself, and sometimes the way you see yourself isn’t the same as the way they see you, so you want to be somewhere in the middle. And ‘Masquerade’ is a huge step forward for me to try and represent who I am and what I’m about to folks who might not see that. So that’s the biggest goal I think with any release but particularly this one.

Who would you cite as your inspirations? I’m one of those people that, when I say that everything inspires me, I’m not trying to be cute. It’s a problem. It’s an actual scourge on my life, where I find everything interesting. I find everything inspirational. It’s such a core belief that I have that there is inspiration to be derived from every walk of life. Stuff like from a lawn chair to a Bach cantata, there are so many things that can be interesting and incorporated into some creative output. It’s just all about how you look at it and how you can perceive and understand where it comes from. There are so many things that are inspiring to me. Of course, this is the massive macro answer that you weren’t looking for, you’re probably looking for ‘what artist are you inspired by?’ I think I’m just inspired by people who are really genuine to themselves, and this is an ironic answer considering that I actually try to be as many different people as possible. It’s a strange thing that actors are celebrated for not being anything like themselves professionally. And musical artists are separated for being as close to themselves and putting their souls as close to the chopping block as possible. I think I’ve really found my niche as a storyteller. I’m envious of some of the great troubadours of history, that can put their souls out on the record for us and put their own personal experience into things. Leonard Cohen and Joanie Mitchell, and Carole King, more modern people like Taylor Swift who really can just bare their souls for us. I really admire them because that’s not a muscle I have. And when you’re an artist I think ‘Okay so what muscle do I have?’, and I think ‘Okay I’m like a playwright, I can make each story for these songs and try and bring them to life with as much accessible ability and reality, and as much truth as I can convey, that’s not to say they’re disingenuine, they’re born from a genuine idea but they’re supported by my background as an actor. Baring myself isn’t something that comes as naturally for me, I really admire those people and I try and perhaps emulate a lot of their song writing in whatever limited way that I can. Genres are inspiring to me, lets talk about song writing, and then there’s producing which are two different things to me, because when I hear music I hear chords, I hear melody, I don’t listen to the snare sample, but I always hear the bare bones and then I think about production. So as far as producing is concerned I think it’s really important to know all genres and to listen to what makes each one interesting and respecting those genres, and then when you are producing something yourself, and then taking from each thing by knowing why and how they work within that genre, so again to use a song like ‘I Can’t Dance’ which is a nod to late 70s/early 80s, somewhere between disco and new wave, I’m employing the things that make those genres fun, to me at least, and trying to smoosh them together in a way that sounds cohesive. So…everything is inspiring to me, it’s hard. But each song has a different source of inspiration, but they don’t transfer between all songs.

You’ve also wrote for animated series and for Glee, is the process different for producing? “This is actually a very good question. I think this ties into what I was saying before about writing for narrative is something of a calling that I think I’ve realised more recently is kind of where I can plant my feet more easily than any other type of song writing. I was mentioning the people that can bare their souls, some people have a really good ability of putting themselves out there but also writing as a satirist of character that he creates. The person that is a master of this is Randy Newman, he’s one of the greatest American songwriters of the 20th century. He has an amazing ability to create these scenarios or create first person accounts of people that aren’t actually him, but he can contextualise with his literal voice, his song writing voice, and make those their own sort of satirical version of himself. There’s a lot of layers going on there, but I’ve always thought of him as really excellent. He’s like a playwright with music, he’s writing musicals, I mean he’s won Oscars for writing music for narrative! That’s something that I’d really like to do – from a technical standpoint it’s actually very liberating because when you’re writing music with your name on it, you’re the artist, then there’s this sort of weird expectation that you’re trying to service which is why I like this idea of putting the mask on and separating the songs from my own personal experience, because I need to separate myself from my own experience of the music you’re hearing, at least on the surface. My big break was A Very Potter Musical, that I feel to this day are my biggest hits because I don’t really have hits, but as far as the songs that people know that strangers know of songs that I’ve written, they were songs that were written for characters. It’s a bit like painting by numbers. If you just write a song from scratch about anything, it’s like the canvas I’m talking about again. You can do anything, or go anywhere, and that’s overwhelming. Having parameters, knowing where the gates are, is extremely helpful, knowing when the deadline is, knowing how long your party can go for. It means you can maximise the space you know you have. When you write for narrative you go ‘this is the character’, ‘this is how they speak’ – so you already have your lyrical information there – ‘this is how they talk’, ‘this is the singer, the singer has a great range that goes from this note to this note’, ‘in this scene we need the character to go from point A to point B, and we want it to be a song that sounds like X’, so you create all these amazing little ingredients, and I look at artists like a service industry, I really enjoy servicing what the person or the experience requires. When I have a menu of ‘we want this, this, this’, it’s like okay great I’ve got you! A three-and-a-half-minute song that sounds like this song, but has to be in this key and has to be a duet, I really thrive on that. And it’s probably one of my more favourite versions of song writing. And usually there’s a deadline, so I can get it done! Because I need to get it done for production. I really enjoy coming back to writing for narrative, because I did that for Royalties with CJ, and when I realised how much I enjoyed doing that and how productive I was when I was writing for a narrative, that’s when I got into the idea of ‘I need to stop trying to bare my own soul in music’. I think if I treat it like I’m writing for a character, not only can I get it done faster but I feel like I can make things stronger. So that’s when I decided that’s what I’m gonna do for this next EP. Writing for other shows and characters is what helped me realise my strengths as a songwriter.”

What is next for you? What are you most excited for? “As I mentioned I think productivity begets productivity, and that’s exactly what happened with this EP. Even if the pandemic hadn’t happened and I didn’t have the time, I think I would have been just as emboldened from working on Royalties with CJ and it got me very excited about working on music and how much joy that gives me. Any artist will say the same answer, but I think by the time stuff comes out artists are already over it because they’ve been living with it for a year and a half, and in my case over a decade with these songs, so I’m always ready to move on and go to the next thing. Everything is a stepping stone, so I’m very happy that this EP is out, I think it’s a great representation of a lot of stuff that’s been unaddressed for far too long. I just wanna get going, it gets me excited about keeping the ball rolling as a songwriter or as a producer, I just don’t want this to be like ‘This is the thing I did during the pandemic’, I want to keep it going and be more proactive about keeping time aside for it, because that’s the name of the game. When you’re acting or doing music, you have to balance it with time, and this pandemic has shown me how much I enjoy spending time on music, so I’m gonna carry that on. But of course, as soon as I say that, that’s when something unexpected and something too juicy that I can’t keep my hands off it happens on the acting side. One learns to be pretty flexible, because as soon as I say one thing something else will happen, and that’s been the narrative for the past decade of my life. I hope to just keep going. I’ve been this lucky for this long so I’m not gonna pretend like I’m going to keep being this lucky. If I get to act great, if I get to do music great. I can’t believe I’m in a position where its like ‘oh if the acting thing doesn’t work out, I’ll just do music!’ or the other way around, it’s a highly privileged list of options, and I’m fully aware of that. So as long as I can have one or the other to fall back on, I will always be excited about option. It’s not always up to me, so we’ll see. Everything that I’ve put out is just a way for me to renew my lease with my ability to show up for myself as well as people that I don’t knows ability to be interested in what I have to do next. But I won’t flatter myself, I’m not gonna say that lease is forever, so I’m just trying to put in the time and work to keep it at the very least somewhat interesting.”

Photography - Amanda Demme

[everwitch-magiks]

7, 21, 24 for the bts fic asks for count the stars and the constellations aka space gays

hi! thank you for sending this in! ♡♡♡

Count The Stars And Constellations

7. What inspired the idea for the plot?

Okay, I really love getting this question for this story, because this is actually super typical for how I usually come up with plot. Basically, there was this one line I wanted to include: ‘I guess you’re my best fucking bet.’ And I wanted that to be said in the context of marriage, and I had this whole idea about how the person they were talking to (and about) should be someone who had put the idea of marriage on the table before, but been rejected — and years later, the person who’d rejected them comes back with “I guess you’re my best fucking bet”. Pretty terrible, right? But I wanted it to be kind of terrible, and very complicated, and the slowest of burns with the most excruciating pining until they eventually figured out their bullshit and tied the knot.

So the whole ‘yearly-space-cruise-to-meet-your-computer-calculated-potential-matches’ thing… all came from wanting to use that specific line. Literally all of it. Because if person A was to be person B’s ‘best bet’ in the sense of prospective partners to marry, how does that happen without there being a limited pool of candidates for person B to choose from? Chucking the whole story into space made it a little easier for me to construct a reality like that. I got some excellent help from absoluteaudacity on figuring out the logistics of the Match system, and then I just took that and ran with it and typed.

So, basically, this whole AU was written for the sole purpose of getting to use one specific line I had in my head. And in the end, I didn’t even use that exact line word for word. Kind of wild when you think about it, and I’m not sure how to tell you this, but my process looks like this very often; a lot of my fics start out from me going ‘oh shit, this One Line is so good, but how the hell do I get there?’ A lot.

21. What is something you didn't expect people to notice or gravitate towards in this fic?

I’m gonna go with a rather liberal interpretation of this question and say: ‘seven years’. There is a time jump of sorts in this fic — again, this is the slowest of burns, and there is plentiful pining — and when I wrote it, I didn’t feel like the time jump and the period when Alex and Henry weren’t talking to each other was that unexpected. Sure, it was a long time, but to me it all made sense and kind of had to happen. But apparently, from the perspective of the reader, this time jump was quite a shock, so there were some very vocal reactions to this part of the story. Which was fun, and interesting, and definitely an experience in and of itself! Some people (to be clear: my friends, who I love and cherish) probably still haven’t quite gotten over this particular plot point, but we must all suffer a little for the sake of art. ♡

24. Did you write every scene in order? What was the first scene you wrote, and what was the last?

I’m gonna let you in on a lil secret with this one. Did you know that, in order to write, what an author needs most of all is constant validation? ‘Tis the truth. And did you know that one of the most effective ways of obtaining said validation is by posting the entire fic in chunks in your group chat while you’re writing it? I know this sounds chaotic, but it’s actually so great. Not only because your writing is fueled by screeches and keysmashes, but also because it effectively forces you to keep moving forward; there’s no sense in stopping to tweak a past paragraph, because in a sense you’ve already posted it, so onward it is. And once the first draft is done and all gathered in a doc, that’s when you make edits and changes and add paragraphs and entire scenes when needed, and finalise the story.

This is literally how I wrote this story, and a couple of my other stories. We call it ‘live writing’, and it’s brilliant. You should try it!

… so to get back to the question: yes, I wrote this story completely in order. Only a few paragraphs were added afterwards. So the first scene I wrote was the first scene of the story, and the last scene I wrote was the last scene of the story.

[arpmemething2]

The Master/Missy Sentence starters

Quotes from the Master/Missy from the Doctor who used as sentence starters.  Send one for my muse’s reaction.  A few have been edited slightly to take out names and/or make them more generic.

"He keeps trying to kill me. Sort of our texting. Been at it for ages."

"Listen, listen, listen, listen. Every minute, every second... every beat of my hearts. There it is. Calling to me. Please listen."

"I've just been executed.  Show a little respect."

“ You're about to have much bigger things to think about. I told you before that everything you knew was a lie. Well, now you get to face the truth, with me at your side. “

"Give us a kiss."

"What the hell are you up to, man?"

"Now then, I've got a planet to run."

“ Wake up. I know you're broken, but it's all over now. “

"This is not an exodus, is it? More of a beginning, really, isn't it?"

"You did this to me! All of my life! You made me! One! Two! Three! Four!"

“ When I said "someone" did that, obviously I meant... I did. “

"Without hope. Without witness. Without reward... I am your friend."

"I've got some requests.  I want some new boots.  Some toys, like a particle accelerator.  A 3d printer and a pony."

"I'll scratch his eye out."

“ I do believe you're appealing to my better nature. And we both know I don't have one. “

"You do not understand hatred as I understand it.  Only hate keeps me alive.  Why else should I endure this pain?"

"I need my friend back."

"Never, never, never, never. Never dying. Never dying! Never dying, never dying, never dying!"

“Give a good man firepower, and he'll never run out of people to kill.“

"This country has been sick, this country needs healing, this country needs medicine – in fact I’d go so far as to say that, what this country really needs, right now, is a Doctor.”

"When I arrange for your death, I expect you to stay dead. "

"You could take the usual precautions...sticky tape on the windows, that sort of thing."

"Envy is the beginning of all true greatness!"

"You can't do this! You can't do...IT'S NOT FAIR!"

"Sorry sorry, I have this effect, people just get obsessed. Is it the smile? Is it the aftershave? Is it the capacity to laugh at myself? I dunno, it's crazy!"

“The human race… Greatest monsters of them all.”

"How sanctimonious is that?"

“Have you seen these things? This planet is amazing! Televisions in their stomachs, now that’s evolution.”

“Oh my giddy aunt. The quiet ones are the worst. “

“Oh, don’t be disgusting. We are not animals. Try, Nano-brain, to rise above the reproductive frenzy of your noisy little food chain and contemplate friendship. Friendship older than your civilization, and infinitely more complex.”

"Want more. I want cheese and chips, and meat and gravy, and cream and beer, and pork and beef, and fat, great big chunks of hot, wet red!"

"Believe it or not, we were at the academy together."

"Armies are for people who think they're right"

"Though, didn't you used to be a woman? I'm gonna be a woman, fairly soon. Any tips? Or maybe... I don't know, old bras?"

"Nobody could be more devoted to the cause of peace than I!"

"You know, I should shoot you in a jealous rage. Now wouldn't that be sexy?"

“ Please, try to keep up. Short for "Mistress" “

"How many times have you died?"

"Would it help you focus if I extracted some of your vital organs and made a lovely soup?"

“You don’t smell half as bad as you think you do. “

"Oh my giddy aunt.  The quiet ones are the worse."

"You can't miss him. He's wearing yellow trousers and a vulgarly coloured coat."

"Did you never think, all those years standing beside me, to ask about that watch? Never?! Did you never once think, not ever, that you could set me free?!"

"I only need two things. Your submission and your obedience to MY WILL!"

"You make it sound like an invasion."

"Oh, the way you burned like a sun, like a whole screaming world on fire. I remember that feeling, and I always will... and I will always miss it."

"It's where we've always been going, and it's happening, now, today"

"Life is wasted on the living! "

“ Ooo, you look rough. Or is that a choice? Don't mean to conversion-shame you. “

“You know the best part about knowing? Not telling you! “

"Before we start all that, I just wanted to say: thank you. Thank you, one and all, you ugly, fat-faced bunch of wet, snivelling traitors."

"What's that in your pocket."

“ And spend... the rest of my life, imprisoned, with you? “

“Let the work of government begin “

"You remember all the people I've killed? Every day, I think of them all. Being bad... being bad. I didn't know I even knew their names. You didn't tell me about this bit."

“I’m in no hurry, I’ve got all day. And I’m not going to kill you until you say..something…nice.”

"Everything we were told was a lie."

"I'm going to kill you in a minute."

In 24 hours, the human race as you know it will cease to exist.

"You know the key strategic weakness of the human race? The dead outnumber the living."

"I always dress for the occasion."

“Take my hand or I turn them into tiny human dolls right here. “

"You see, you're my intellectual equal.  Almost.  I have too few worthy opponents.  When they've gone I always miss them."

"Won't you show mercy to your own ... ?"

"You made it. I hope my boyfriend wasn't too mean to you."

“It’s a gas mask.”

"Ooh, nice little game of hide and seek, I love that! But I'll find you"

"That's because I locked it, idiot!"

"I have suffered long enough from your stupid, stubborn interference in my designs! Now we are coming to the end of our conflict"

"All or nothing, literally! What a glorious alternative!"

"This body was born out of death; all it can do is die."

"Okay, cutting to the chase. Not dead. Back. Big surprise. Never mind."

“This should be SPECTACULAR!”

“Have you seen these things? This planet is amazing! Televisions in their stomachs, now that's evolution. “

"No! No! You can't destroy me! I am too strong for you! I am too strong for you!"

"To do my will shall be the whole of the law!"

"No! You must be mad! Why with this, we could control every galaxy in the cosmos! We could be Gods!"

[heyitsjay03]

Fighting for Tomorrow

Chapter Two

AN: I changed a few minor details (ie Reiner’s age) to help with the story line. Other than that, it should be pretty close to the actual canonverse. Enjoy!

Edit: So sorry! I didn’t realize that the last couple of chunks were weirdly super condensed! I’ll keep an eye out for it next time!

Disclaimer: I do not own AOT! All rights go to the respective owner(s) :)

Reiner x Fem!Reader, eventual Captain Levi x Reader, Sasha x Sister!Reader

Word Count: 8.9k words

TW: gore/blood/violence, adult language/swearing, loss/grief, arranged marriage/misogyny, partial nudity, classism

-------

You can read parts one, three, and four! Just give the number you want a tap ;)

  It’s been two years. 

   I haven’t found Eren or Mikasa or Armin. I haven’t been able to find someone that can transfer everything left to me in Fynn’s will. I haven’t even made my way to my own family or gone back to Dauper. I’ve been going around in circles and I haven’t. Found. A single. Thing. And they had announced that 20% of the population had been chosen to go on a mission ‘in the name of the King’ to retake Wall Maria a year ago…  

   What a load of shit.

   If that winter in the fields taught me anything, it’s that they were out of food and they were scared of an uprising. So they decided to… ‘reduce’ the problem. I can only hope that they weren’t chosen. They wouldn’t have recruited children, would they? They’re just kids. They don’t eat much, they don’t take up much space… It would be even more homicidal if they decided that kids would have to fight. And what if I’m too late? What if Eren, Mikasa, Armin; what if they’re-

   I can’t think like that. Once I start down that path, it’ll be impossible to think any other way. 

   They’re still out there. Eren’s probably gotten himself into countless fights with these morons of soldiers. Mikasa’s always been there to back him up, to protect him. And Armin has managed to get them both out of trouble nearly every single time. They’re still out there. They’re still alive and living just the way they did before. 

   I can only hope that to be the case.

--.--

   Walking down an alleyway is a horrible idea- especially now. It’s past midnight, judging by how high up the moon has climbed. I’m alone and the fraying briefcase in my hand is held tightly. Nervously, I twirl the ring around my finger. 

   It’s almost too quiet.

   I continue through the alleyway, heading towards the abandoned building I made to be my home. A door opens and closes behind me. Even as I weave through the alley, I can feel their presence behind me. Two men. Tall, muscular. Instinctually, I tighten my grip on the briefcase and stop twirling my ring. I can’t take them in a fair fight. As I continue down the alleyway, my hand snakes into my coat pocket. They walk close together- they’re friends at the very least. They will fight well together, outgunning me even further. Fingers wrapping around the switchblade, I steady my breathing. 

   I dart around a corner and slam my back against the wall. I can hear them speaking to one another, getting closer. My heart’s beating in my ears. I have to get one before the other knows I’m onto them. If I alert them both, I’m done for. I can feel my grip tense around the blade as I pull it from my pocket. The men get closer, lowering their voices. 

   The first rounds the corner and I press the blade up to his neck. “Why are you following me?” I hiss, looking up at him through my eyebrows. “Who are you?”

   “Jeez, lady!” The man’s hands fly up in surrender. “We thought we knew you!”

   The other man runs around the corner, eyebrows drawn together as he looks at the scene in front of him. My eyes flick from the second man to the man before me. I press the blade even more against his neck. “Who are you?”

   The second man’s eyes soften slightly, his blond eyebrows coming undone. “...______?”

   My grip tightens on the knife again. “How do you know my name?” I ask through gritted teeth.

   “______, it’s me!” The man yells, desperate to save his friend. “It’s Eld!”

   My grip falters and the knife clatters to the ground. My eyes scan the man in the darkness. The blond hair tied up into a small bun, eyes green in the starlight. “...Eld…?” I whisper, slowly reaching out to touch him. I’m eyeing him warily- like he’ll fall away in front of me. 

   My hand dusts against his jaw, the stubble pricking my fingertips. My eyes meet with his. Small smiles graze our lips and I throw my arms around him. He does the same, lifting me off the ground slightly. “I thought you died!” I laugh incredulously. “When Maria fell, I… I thought I lost everyone.”

   Eld puts me down and gestures to the other man with him. “You remember Oluo.”

   “Oluo! It’s so nice to see you again!” I smile, opening my arms to him. 

   He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Try pulling that stunt again, brat, and you’ll be sorry.”

   I don’t remember him being this rude. But I did pull a knife on the two of them. “I am sorry already, Oluo,” I mutter, “It’s… It’s been a rough couple’a years.”

   Eld elbows Oluo in the ribs and turns back to me. “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s picked up some rather annoying habits.”

--.--

   “It’s really no trouble,” Eld admits, shrugging with a smile. “You helped save some of us when Weinfeld would’ve had them die. I’m just… paying you back.”

   Oluo scoffs again as we walk towards the compound. “Hoping you’ll get something else in return, as well.”

   “Thank you for looking out Oluo,” I say with an edge in my voice, “But I can take care of myself. Considering I got the jump on you.”

   Oluo’s eyebrow shoots up as he eyes me up and down. Slowly, his mouth opens and he licks his lips. An annoyed smile graces them before he goes silent once more. 

   “You’re sure this isn’t gonna cause issues with your superiors?” I ask quietly as Eld pushes the door open. The hallway inside is abandoned and only lit with a few swinging lights. 

   Eld shakes his head, “It shouldn’t. People are known to bring… outsiders for late-night escapades. So this shouldn’t be much of a deal in comparison.”

   I nod and step inside, letting Eld guide me down the hallways. Oluo is hot on my heels. I can feel his sunken eyes staring at me. Shudders trail up and down my skin. 

   Men freak me out.

   Eld turns a corner and opens a door, gesturing inside. Oluo quickens his pace to cut me off and darts inside before me. Eld shakes his head and rolls his eyes. I smile slightly and pat his arm as I step inside. 

   It’s nearly completely dark. The only light is from the moon that pushes between the blinds. I can make out the silhouette of a neatly organized office. “I’m sorry I can’t give you an actual bed,” Eld mutters, grabbing a blanket and pillow from a small closet. “A couch is the best-”

   Excitement bubbles inside of me and I rush to take him in my arms. Squeezing him tightly, I smile into his shoulder. “Are you kidding?” I laugh, “I’ve slept on the filthy floor of an abandoned house for nearly two whole years. This is… fantastic. Thank you.”

   Eld goes slightly pink in the moonlight as I pull away to take the blanket and put it to my face. So soft… and it smells like fresh soap. Oluo clears his throat, “I found you in that alleyway, too.”

   “Thank you, too, Oluo,” I mumble, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. “I appreciate it, really.” Eld rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment before walking to Oluo and clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

   “Let’s get going,” he says, “Lady needs her sleep. And we have training tomorrow.”

   Oluo takes the hint and turns on his heel to walk out the door. Eld flashes me a crooked smile before following him. “Eld?” I call out, gripping the pillow to my chest. 

   His head pops back around the corner of the doorway. 

   “I really do appreciate it,” I say softly, “It’s been hard.”

   Eld dips his head. “...just… paying it forward.”

  And just like that, he’s gone. And I’m alone. In his office. In the dark. 

   I lay down, pulling the blanket up towards my eyes. The pillow tucked under my head smells like… Shampoo. It’s all… so tiring…

   My eyes fall closed and before I can think about anything, I’m asleep.

--.---

   “Walls above,” I mutter, sitting up. I can feel my hair sticking out every which way and my muscles are bunched together like tiny balls under my skin. Slowly, I rub my eyes and stretch. My hands run painfully through my hair, undoing the knots and tangles I had worked so hard to create while sleeping.

   “Well!”

   I spin around, fists coming up to a fighting stance. Eld stands in the doorway with a steaming cup of… something that smells amazing. I instantly relax and smile warmly. “You look well-rested,” Eld hums, handing the cup to me. “How’d you sleep?’

   Tea, I’ve determined, is what fills the cup. It’s my favorite, too- mint. “Fantastic,” I laugh, taking a sip. 

   “I’d hope so,” Eld chuckles, sitting down at his desk. “You slept for three days.”

   “You’re joking,” I mumble, stopping half-way into a sip. 

   He shakes his head, “Oluo came in here to check on you the first day and you were still out. And then by night two, I started getting worried so we had a friend of ours- Petra- check on you. And last night, I said if you didn’t wake up in the morning, I’d take you to the hospital wing.”

   I roll my eyes at myself and duck down behind my tea. Nice going, ______.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, “I didn’t mean to-”

   “Don’t apologise. You needed it- you said it yourself. These last couple years were hard.”

   I chuckle heartlessly and take another sip of tea. “...you have no idea.”

   “...if you want to talk about it…”

   My eyes meet his. They’re soft, scanning over me like I’m some sort of glass doll or lost cat. For some reason, it irritates me. I shake off the irritation and take a deep breath. He’s not looking at me like I’m helpless. He’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I’ve been through. And he probably does. 

   “My fiancé died right in front of me,” I start and take another sip, the image of the watchtower falling in on us playing over in my head. “Just… died. We were hiding in a watchtower and… that… Armoured Titan? that everyone was talking about- it walked into it and the whole thing came down on us. My fiancé, Fynn, pushed me out- saved me and died in my place.”

   I take another sip, eyes glazed over as I remember Carla being lifted into the air, the skinless smile of that Titan… The crunch of her bones and the blood. Just… everywhere, the blood. 

   “And someone I considered to be a second mother… She… she was eaten. Right in front of me and her kids. The house she lived in had collapsed on top of her and-,” I stop for a moment, my grip on the cup trembling with force. “And we tried to get her out. We tried but… We couldn’t. We… we had to leave her to die.”

   “And she told me to take care of them,” my voice is shaking now as I see her eyes staring at me. Pleading and desperate and watery and fixed on me like I was the thing that would save her. “She told me to take care of them and I tried to, I tried to. I couldn’t let them pass up the ferry- they would’ve died then if I had,”

   “And I’ve been looking for them around the entirety of Wall Rose but they’re just… Gone. Disappeared. All I can think about is if they’re gone forever- if something happened and they didn’t make it-”

   “______.”

   My head snaps up to look at Eld. I can feel the heat of my tears and the shaking in my hands- how long have I been crying?

   “You’ve done everything you could,” Eld says calmly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You deserve a break.”

   “...I don’t want to give up.”

   “You’re not giving up if you’ve exhausted all your resources.”

   I open my mouth and shut it again. There it is. It was always there- I always knew it was a possibility. But now it’s out and it’s in the air and it’s in words. 

   They might not even be around anymore. 

   Tears flood down my face. Sobs wrack my body, too powerful to even make a noise. They just choke me at my lungs, at my throat. Eld takes the cup from my hands and places it on the table. I can feel him around me but it’s just… cold. Freezing cold. Numbingly cold. 

   I don’t know how long we sit there like that. It feels like hours and days and years all at the same time as feeling like it was only a few moments. All I know is that when he pulls away, the same thought has been buzzing around my head for far too long to be disregarded. 

   “I want to join the Scouts,” I whisper, eyes wide and staring at the floor.

   “______, I don’t think-” 

   My eyes flick up to meet his. “One of the little boys I used to look after, all he wanted was to join the Scouts. Every day, we would talk about joining them when he got older. See the world, retake the life that was stolen from humanity… If Eren truly is gone… The last thing I can do for him is make sure one of us gets to see the outside world without being locked in a cage.”

--.--

   The sun beats down on us as we stand in rows, all equally spaced out. It’s not hot, not cold. Just… sunny. A man paces through the rows and picks on certain rookies. It’s kind of a show- a little guessing game. Who is going to get yelled at so badly they shit bricks next? 

   It’s kind of genius, really. Forcing us to become blank slates. Easier to make us into the soldiers they want us to be. The man stops at the end of my row, facing the girl standing there. Blonde hair all done up into a neat ponytail- she can’t be more than thirteen. He screams at her, demanding her name and place of birth. ‘Christa Lentz’ is her name. She was born in Wall Maria. Poor thing. 

   He directs her into another row, telling her to run. Slowly, he makes his way down the line until he stops at me. His eyes ghost over my figure before they meet mine. He nods and continues going even further down the row. The man continues yelling at recruits and even picking one up by the head. A small smile graces my lips as I watch him chew the poor boy out for saluting backwards. When the man stops halfway- jaw dropped- I lean slightly forward to see what was going on. 

   The man drops the boy and turns to someone a few rows behind me. I can’t see exactly who. I can, however, hear the man speaking. “...what’re you doing?”

   Silence. 

   “You!” The man yells, charging through the rows to a girl. She has long brown hair that’s tied up into a ponytail- hair falling to frame her face. “I’m talking to you! Who the Hell are you?!”

   The girl freezes for a moment before going into a salute. “I’m Sasha Braus- from Dauper Village on the south side of Wall Rose!”

   The blood in my veins stills.

   ...Sasha’s… Here?

   Why the Hell would she be here? What about Mom and Dad? Are they okay? Why isn’t she taking care of them? Why isn’t she at home-?

   “...whatcha got in your right hand?”

   My skin prickles with both rage and fear. Knowing my sister, it’s probably food. And knowing me, I’ll find myself running to protect her before I even realise. 

   “A steamed potato!” 

   I knew it.

   She’s always had a thing for getting caught stealing food- even when we were kids. I had to fight off angry store-owners and upset townswomen when she came and stole their food off their stands. ‘It was her fault for putting it in the window! Made the whole forest smell like pies!’ was a regular excuse. It wasn’t entirely her fault. Food was scarce for a very, very long time. We ate what we could… And stole what we couldn’t afford. 

   Sasha was just the one always getting caught.

   The man is looking at the piece of steamed potato in his hand now, mumbling to himself. I can hear Sasha chuckling nervously. The man takes a single bite of it. The man snarls, spitting the potato at her shoes.

   I walk out of line, marching down towards him. “Commandant!” I yell, snapping into a salute. “I am ______ Braus and I am willing to accept the responsibility of my sister’s misdemeanors!”

   The Commandant’s eyes widen as they dart from me to Sasha. I can hear Sasha mumbling to herself under her breath, staring at me. The Commandant sighs and rolls his eyes, “Fine. Both of you are to run until you’re about to drop.”

   I bow my head, “Thank you, Commandant.”

   “And food privileges have been revoked for both of you for the next five days.”

   I wince as Sasha lets out a strangled scream. This isn’t going to be easy.

--.--

   Sasha collapses onto the dirt, breathing heavily. I hunch over and feel my stomach tense like it’s trying to get rid of something. “You…” I mutter, pointing a finger at her, “What the Hell are you doing here?”

   “I… I could ask you the... same thing.”

   “I asked... you first- what the Hell are you doing here?”

   The two of us go silent, only panting and staring daggers at each other. 

   “You need to get that food stealing shit... under control.” I mutter, dusting myself off. 

   “Like you didn’t use to... do it,” she huffs, rolling over onto her back. 

   “I did do it. I just… didn’t get caught.” I sit down beside her, staring up at the stars.

   The air is thick with tension as we sit in silence for a while. She’s bound to have more questions than me right now. 

   “...is he dead?”

   I look over at her. Her eyes are locked with mine. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “...yeah. He’s dead.”

   “Was he… ya know…”

   “No, he wasn’t eaten. He was… A building fell on top of us and he pushed me out before I was…”

   Sasha hums and nods, sitting up and tucking her knees to her chest. “...was he… nice… to you?”

   “Yeah,” I mumble, picking at the leather strap around my thigh. “He, um… He wasn’t even going to marry me, ya know.”

   “What?” Sasha’s head whips around to stare at me, her mouth hanging open and eyebrows drawn together. “He took you away from us for two years and he wasn’t even going to marry you?”

   “Ease up, there,” I shake my head and sigh. “...he was going to let me go back home… with the money and the land, no marriage required-”

   “______!” She snaps, grabbing my arm. “Marriage or not, he took you away when you were fifteen. He took you away from everyone- from your family, from me, from home. You were a kid and you were going to get married. It doesn’t matter if you ‘didn’t have to marry him’- that was his first plan, whether he changed his mind or not.”

   “Sasha, I never said I forgive him for what he did,” I whisper, eyebrows drawn together. “I will never be able to forgive him for that- for taking advantage of a girl with no other choice and stealing her away from her family at such a young age for two whole years… I’ll never forgive him but…,”

   “I have everything now. The money and the land- it’s finally going to be okay and this time, I’ll be with my family instead of some house in a town I only moderately liked.”

   Sasha nods and sighs, releasing her grip on my arm. “So… Ma and Pa are gonna be taken care of?”

   “If I can find someone that can transfer everything to my name, yeah… How… How are they?”

   “Pa’s getting better… And Ma’s not as tired anymore.”   “That’s good,” I smile, nudging her with my elbow. “All thanks to you, potato muncher. Thanks for takin’ such good care’a them while I was gone.”

   Sasha smiles and leans against me, her head resting on my shoulder. “...I missed you,” she mumbles, “...when Shiganshina and Wall Maria fell,” Sasha mumbles, scooting closer to me. “Ma and Pa and I… we… we didn’t think you had… we didn’t think you had ...made it.”

   “There was a lot of death,” I whisper, remembering the body parts and blood scattered around the city. “I wouldn’t expect you to think I had made it.”

   “I’m glad you did.”

   A huff-like laugh leaves my lips, “I’m glad I did, too…”

   I shift around and let my head rest on top of hers. “Once everything is done with and after we get out of here… do you… wanna come live with me? I know that’s a long ways away but I have… A lot of money now and I missed out on so much stuff with you so I was thinking…”

   Sasha cackles, “What? Live with you? You’re so old and clean.” 

   “I’m only six years older but... Yeah, you’re right,” I laugh, “You’re so filthy. I’d lose my mind.”

   The two of us go quiet for a moment.

   “Yeah,” she says finally. “When we’re all old ‘nd decorated officers, I’ll live with you.” 

   I press my lips to her hair, “Fantastic. When we’re successful, famous, then... Now,” I clear my throat and get back to my feet, holding a hand out for her. “Ya up t’steal some food?”

   Sasha grins and takes my hand, jumping to her feet, “Hell yeah!”

   The cafeteria is bustling with noise. Figures slide past in the windows, carrying trays of food. The smell of bread and vegetables drift through the door and out into the darkness where Sasha and I stand. My arm is wrapped around her waist, holding her in place as she frantically tries to fling herself into the cafeteria. “Will you-” I mutter, picking her up slightly and setting her back down, “Stop! Stop, stop, stop!”

   “I can’t!” She squirms around, almost frothing at the mouth. “I can smell everything in there! It all smells so good!”

   “If we don’t do this right, we won’t have anything to eat,” I snap, pulling us away from the doorway and around the corner. Taking her by the shoulders, I turn her to face me. Her eyebrows draw together as she looks me up and down. 

   “Have you always been this short? And when did you get that scar?” She asks, prodding the skin around my left eyebrow. 

   I bat her hand away, “Focus! Do you want food or not?” She nods enthusiastically, sticking her hand into her pocket. “Good…,” I whisper, turning to look around the corner. The golden light is still pouring out onto the porch along with the laughter and chatter from inside. “Now, I’m gonna go in there and talk to some people. When I tap on that window three times,” I point to the window hovering just above us. “I’m gonna drop some food down for you. You run to the cabins and tuck it away somewhere until I get back… got it?”

   Sasha nods and leans up against the window. Her stomach lets out an abhorrent growl, causing her to wrap her arms around it tightly. “Hurry.” 

   I turn around the corner and duck into the doorway. My eyes scan across the room, flicking across the various plates left unattended. I start forward while eyeing a plate of what seems solely holding fresh bread. Until someone collides into me, knocking me into a table. “Hey!” I snap, grabbing the person by the shirt, “Watch it!” 

   The man holds up his hands, staring down at me. He’s blond, a lot taller than me, and is built like a goddamn freight train. An amused smile crosses his lips as he looks at me, “Sorry, miss- didn’t see ya there.”

   My eyes narrow as I stare up at him, “What’re you gettin' at?”

   The man shrugs, pink lips downturning as he glances to the side. “Just didn’t see ya.”

   I scoff, letting go of him and waving him off. “I don’t have time for you anyways.”

   “Would you be willing to make time?” He asks, following after me as I sit down at a bench. My eyebrow quirks up and I look him over. 

   He’s… not bad-looking. At all.

   Wide jaw, a little stubble gracing it, cocky grin, green eyes, broad shoulders… 

   “Name?” I ask. At the very least, I can get some food out of him. 

   “Reiner. Braun,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit. “Yours?”

   “______,” I smile, “Braus.”

   Reiner smiles and leans back, “That’s how I know you- you’re that girl’s sister.”

   “The very same.”

   “...have you been able to meet anyone yet?” Reiner asks, getting up from his seat. “You were, uh… busy with…” he gestures outside, “...so I wasn’t sure.”

   “Nope,” I get to my feet, “Why? You know people already?”

   Reiner shrugs, “A few. Bertholdt was from my village and then we were talking with some others when I, um… Saw you walk in.”

   My eyes flick to him as we walk across the room. Pink is dusting his cheeks as a thick hand rubs the back of his neck. I laugh softly, elbowing him in the ribs, “Is that blush I see on you, Braun?”

   Reiner shakes his head, very obviously turning another shade of red darker. There’s a group gathered around a table, chattering excitedly. Reiner taps on a few people’s shoulders, pushing others out of the way. “Hey,” he says, only needing to lift his voice a little in order for it to overtake the chatter. “Found someone else- her name’s ______.”

   I push through into the center of the group, waving slightly at the faces. “Hey, I’m-”

   “______?”

   My eyes dart to the voice. It’s so painfully like his voice. But… It’s not.

   Right?

   I place a hand on Reiner’s arm and push him back to see the end of the table. 

   Holy shit.

   “Armin?” I whisper, staring at him. He’s older now- still young and still the same blue eyes, blond hair but… so different. 

   We stand there staring at each other for what seems like ages before my name is whispered again. All breathy, like I’d fly away if it were said too loud. My eyes flit down to the seat beside me. “...Eren? Mikasa?”

   They’re here. They’re all here- my sisters, my brothers… They’re here and they’re alive. Holy shit, they’re alive.

   Eren’s the one that moves first, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me into him and Mikasa. Armin hurries around the corner of the table and all I can do is laugh and wrap my arms around them as tears stream down my face. 

   “I thought I lost you,” I laugh, pulling away for just a second to look into Eren’s eyes, into Mikasa’s, into Armin’s. My hands lay against their faces, turning them slightly so I can see every nearly-forgotten inch of them. “I’ve been looking for you ever since that goddamn ferry- look at you!” I laugh again, “You guys look…” I trail off, staring at each of them. 

   Armin’s in tears, Eren looking about the same. Even Mikasa’s eyes prick with tears. “Where were you?” Eren asks, eyes searching my face.

   “Everywhere,” I sigh, “Everywhere but the one place you were apparently… I even went to the Underground for you three.”

   I stare at each of them for what seems like ages, only stopping when a soft tap on my shoulder brings me back to the present. Turning around, I catch a glimpse of the happy- albeit slightly confused- faces surrounding us. Reiner’s eyebrow shoots up, gesturing to the kids. “Guess you knew some people, huh?”

   “How is it you three know each other?” A boy with a near-shaved head asks. 

   “I worked for this one’s father,” I explain, ruffling Eren’s head. “Mikasa lived with them and Armin was their best friend so...”

   “She was like our older sister, really,” Eren explains, flashing me a smile. “Got us out of a lot of trouble.”

   “And into some,” Mikasa adds.

   “I moved to Shiganshina when…” I trail off, remembering that night of goodbyes to my family in the starlight. Shaking my head slightly, I force a smile. “When a... When I bought a house out there.”

   The group starts back up again, asking us questions- about Titans, about the Armoured Titan, the Colossal Titan, the fall of Shiganshina… I elbow Mikasa and gesture to Eren’s plate, left neglected as Eren tells an extremely self-inflating version of the one of the times he chewed Hannes out. She knows exactly what I want. Silently, she slides her hand over and tugs the plate over towards me. 

   “Thank you,” I whisper into her hair as I slide off the bench and to the window. I knock three times and open the window just a crack, sliding the plate into Sasha’s hands. I can hear her malicious giggle on the other side.

   Mikasa and I continue the song and dance- stealing plates while people are captivated by Eren and Armin’s storytelling. Finally, after the third trip, I can hear Sasha hissing at me. “Jeez, ______! I can’t carry all this!”

   “Then open your skull- there’s a ton of empty space in there!”

   She goes quiet for a moment before something pinches my back. I jump, causing her to burst into laughter on the other side. “That’s what you get!”

   “Whatever,” I mutter, “Go ahead and start eating when you get to the cabin- just save me some!”

   I can hear her sprinting away from the window, giggling insanely. I roll my eyes and walk back to the group, sitting back down between Reiner and Mikasa. Armin and Eren are bickering about something- some detail from a story that Armin had told incorrectly. 

   It’s just good to have my kids back- all of them. 

--.--

   “Always the hothead, I see,” I mumble as Eren and Mikasa walk out of the cafeteria. “You haven’t changed that much, have you, Eren?”

   Mikasa nods, siding up next to me as we walk towards the cabins. “Not much has changed.”   “Not another lecture,” Eren groans, rolling his eyes. “I already had Mikasa on my tail- now you’re back and already you’re scolding me.”

   “Ha!” I laugh, “I’ve got a whole two years to make up for- I’m not letting anything slip past.”

   Eren sighs and gestures to Mikasa and I, “Never mind me. Worry about your hair- it’s too long. It might get caught in the ODM gear and cause an accident.”

   Mikasa and I each look at our hair. It’s true- the length of mine runs down my back, ending just short of my waist. I hadn’t cut my hair in a very long time before the fall of Shiganshina and these past two years were too chaotic to do it myself then. It was usually thrown up into a loose bun but that might not be an option anymore. 

   “Well then,” I mumble, running my fingers through the length of my hair. “Look at that… I guess I’ll cut mine. It’s a bit too long for my taste, anyways. I prefer my hair short… Do you want me to do yours, Mikasa?”

   Mikasa’s still fiddling with the ends of her hair, studying the length. Finally, she nods, “Thank you.”

   Our footsteps crunch in the dirt as we come to our cabins. Eren hurries up the steps of the cabin on the right while Mikasa and I go to the cabin on the left. “‘night, Eren!” I hum, smiling at him as he opens his door. 

   “‘night, ______. ‘night, Mikasa.”

   The two of us head into the cabin and I can already smell the food. “Sasha!” I hiss, peering into the darkness. “You save any for me?”

   It’s silent. 

   I look to Mikasa, who eyes me warily before taking another step into the room. I do the same, trailing my fingers along the wall. “...potato-muncher, you in here?”

   “______!” Sasha screeches, lunging at me from the darkness. I fall backwards as she climbs on top of me, gripping my shoulders and shaking me. “God has visited me! I have been blessed by God herself!”

   “What?”

   “Christa!” She screams, shaking me so violently my head snaps back and forth. “She brought us bread!”

   So like my sister to relate food to godliness.

   I sit up and push her off of me, getting to my feet as she runs back into the darkness. “Look!” She screams, holding out two whole pieces of bread. 

   They look… So good.

   I snatch one out of her hands, taking a bite. Using the bread, I point at Mikasa and swallow. “This is Mikasa- you remember me telling you about her in my letters?”

   Sasha, bread held in her mouth, turns to look at Mikasa. A blush crosses her cheeks and she stands up straighter, waving slightly. A muffled ‘hello’ is mumbled through the bread. 

   “Mikasa, this is my little sister, Sasha,” I explain, taking another bite and sitting down on one of the bunks. Mikasa dips her head, smiling gently. My eyes widen as I remember what I was going to do. “Sasha, you know where I can find any scissors?”

   Sasha nods, heading back into the darkness. Rustling and the sound of things falling to the floor fill the room as I tie my hair back. She hurries back out, licking her fingers as she hands me a pair of scissors. “Mikasa, grab that dresser and pull it over here,” I mumble, finishing off my bread. 

   Mikasa drags the wooden dresser from the corner over and sits down on top of it. “How short do you want it?” I ask, running my fingers through her hair as I get up to stand behind her.

   Her hand comes up and levels off towards the middle of her neck. “Do you think it’ll be good here?” she asks quietly, turning her head slightly to look at me. 

   I nod, eyeing the length of her hair, “Should be…” 

   Sasha appears at my side and hands me a hairbrush, “It’s not so much for Mikasa as it is for you.” She winces, eyeing my hair. 

   “Gee, thanks,” I mutter, starting to brush Mikasa’s hair out. 

--.--

   Mikasa has fallen asleep, face buried in Eren’s old scarf. Sasha’s passed out, too, surrounded by plates and crumbs. It’s just me as I hold the scissors in the moonlight. My eyes flick up to the moon- full and bright and lonely in the sky. 

   But it’s not lonely. Surrounded by stars and clouds, it breathes and relaxes above the earth. 

   I take the scissors, admiring the way I look in the reflection on the metal blades. Sasha’s right- I didn’t have this scar when I saw her last. It was from Shiganshina, when that building fell. A piece of wood or stone or something sliced my skin deep enough to leave a curving scar from my temple down to my eyelid. 

   Reaching back, I undo the bun I had tucked my hair into and feel the weight of my hair cascade down my back. It’s thick and heavy- and so irritating. 

   Enough theatrics.

   I grab a section of hair, looking in my faint reflection in the glass window. The scissors find their mark and…

   The first section is done. A length of hair falls to the wood floor, curling slightly. More and more lengths join it and mix the black with ______ on the floor. Just above my shoulders- like Armin’s. I laugh a bit, continuing to feather the edges as I picture the two of us standing beside each other with nearly-matching haircuts.

   My head feels so much lighter and so much more free. I’ll never let it get that long ever again. I place the scissors down on the windowsill and look down at my feet. Mounds of ______ and black hair blanket the space between bunks. There’s bound to be a broom somewhere around here, right? I peek outside, watching for anyone passing by outside. It’s late… I should be able to sneak in and out without anyone noticing. 

--.--

   The leather straps around my chest, waist, hips, and thighs keep me suspended in mid-air. I can feel the toes of my shoes barely scrape the ground as my body twitches here and there. Slowly, I breathe in and out. My eyes focus on the ground as my back straightens. My abs and legs tense slightly when I straighten up completely- but I don’t swing. 

   I’m balanced. 

   My eyes flick up from the dirt below me to the other cadets waiting to try their luck on the ODM gear. A cocky smile stretches my lips and I look to the left of me to see how the others are doing. Armin has both arms held up at his sides, lip in-between his teeth as he shakily hangs in the harness. Further down, I see Mikasa nearly perfectly balanced, a focused yet impassive look in her eyes. 

   And then I see Eren. 

   Upside-down and flustered, all red and wriggling around like a worm. His legs are bent at the knees, his feet up in the air. His hair is grazing the dirt as he tries to pull himself upright. Some recruits are laughing, gesturing to him. 

   He is not going to like this at all. 

   Groaning, I look over to my right. Sasha is leaning slightly forward, her lips forced into a thin, hard line. A bead of sweat slips past her temple, tracing the grooves in her skin as her eyebrows weave together. “How ya doin’, ‘tato-muncher?” I call out to her teasingly. 

   Her eyes flick over to me and then back to the same spot she was focusing on before. “...great!” She says quickly, like her balance was based solely on her not speaking. 

   I laugh a bit, eyes flicking around the crowd. The boy with a shaved head- what was his name…? It was Carl… Cole? Con… Connie. Connie stands right in front of me, standing beside that tall horse-faced boy that got in Eren’s face a few nights ago. Jean, if I remember right. 

   My eyes continue bouncing around the crowd, picking out names and faces. Tall and blond- Reiner. Even taller and brunet- Bertholdt. Freckles- Marco. Pigtails- Mina. Short and blonde- Christa. Angry- Ymir. Bored- Annie. Glasses…?

   A taller person with rectangular glasses stands towards the back of the crowd, hands clasped together over their chest. Their mouth hangs open in an amused smile and I can almost hear their giddy laughter from here. Their longer brown hair is tied back into a bun with pieces jutting out from the base. I can see them turn to face someone else beside them, taking them by the shoulders and gesturing manically to us recruits. My eyes trail down their long arms to the person they’re shaking. 

   Who is that?

   The man they’re shaking is much shorter than they are but just the look he has in his eyes… It’s so intimidating it’s almost painful. Grey like steel, they peer out from beneath his jet-black hair at us. His jaw is strong and sharp- contrasting the softness of his lips. 

   He looks familiar.

   “Hey,” I mutter, turning to the soldier manning the ODM trainer. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the two in the back. 

   The soldier’s eyes land on the two and he chuckles, “You live under a rock ‘r something? That’s Doctor Hange Zoë and Captain Levi- Humanity’s Strongest Soldier. They’re probably here doing some scouting for their squads.”

   I nod slowly, eyeing the two of them. 

   Captain Levi’s eyes are glazed as they trail down the line of trainers. I freeze completely when they land on me. They remain locked on me for a moment before he continues down the line. 

   ...? 

--.--

   “You three are a lot,” I mutter, wrapping bandages around Eren’s head as he blankly stares at the floor. “What the Hell were you even doing?!”

   “Eren was struggling with the ODM trainer,” Armin explains, “And… we said we would help him. We got him strapped in and when we lifted him up, he…” Armin trails off, looking at Eren worriedly. 

   “He what?” I snap, continuing to wrap Eren’s head. 

   “He fell forward and hit his head,” Mikasa answers from the doorway. I can tell she’s just as upset about this as I am. But there’s also something else in her eyes… Relief, maybe? That doesn’t make much sense. Maybe it’s because it could’ve been much worse than it is or maybe I’m just reading into her too much, I don’t know. 

   These past couple years have really messed up my ability to read them. 

   Eren groans, rubbing his head with his hand. I bat his hand away, tucking the bandage so that it’ll stay put. “Listen to me,” I say, taking Eren’s face and turning it towards me. “You’re gonna get yourself killed before you even see a Titan again. You need to be more careful-”

   “If I can’t get this down, I won’t be able to become a Scout and kill the bastards!” Eren snaps, knocking my hand off his face.

   “You also won’t be able to become a Scout if you’re dead!” I yell back, eyebrows furrowing together. “You need to be more careful- ‘nd not just now, either! Careful in the field, too. I’m not going to just let you do whatever you wish and watch you die because of it!” 

   The room goes silent as we stare at each other. Slowly, I let my muscles unravel. I take a step forward, placing a hand on his cheek and turning his face to mine. “...listen… I’m only trying to keep you safe. If you aren’t a little cautious, you’ll die out there- and I… I made a promise. To your mother and to myself that I’m not going to let you die,” I turn to Armin and Mikasa, “That I’m not going to let any of you die- so this goes for all of you. Sasha’d be hearing this, too, if she were here,”

   “Be more careful or I’ll beat your asses, idiots… Have I made myself clear?” I ask, eyes flicking to each face. Each of them nod and I sigh, ruffling Eren’s hair and rolling my eyes. “Now, go eat. No more training.”

   Eren’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open a bit, “But-!”

   “You can train after, when I’m there with you,” I interrupt, “Eat something first.” 

   Eren sighs and follows after Mikasa and Armin before stopping in the doorway. “...are you coming?”

   I nod and gesture to the medical supplies sprawled out on my bunk, “I’m putting these away first- I don’t want Ymir stealing them and putting them somewhere I can’t reach.”

   Eren nods and closes the door. I listen to his footsteps crunching in the gravel as he walks away. Putting everything back into the container and closing it, I slide the little white box under my bunk. I get to my feet and walk out into the darkened sky. Stars prick the skyline and tease the moon. I wonder what it’s like up there- what it’s like outside the walls. 

   In a few years, I should be able to find out.

--.--

   My knuckles rap against the window, “Armin!” I whisper, looking around the corner. Soldiers with lanterns are looking around, talking amongst themselves and asking if they saw ‘which way she went’. They’re too close to the girl’s cabin- I’d get caught before I could sneak in.    “Armin! Eren!” I hiss, staring up at the window. Of all days I had to get caught showering after hours, it just had to be the one time it was for an actual, good reason. I went to dinner and that horse-faced moron Jean ran into me, spilling food all over my clothes. I didn’t have time to shower then so I quickly changed and went to supervise Armin, Eren, and Mikasa with Sasha. 

   I growl, tightening my grip on the towel around me. It’s freezing. Goosebumps litter my bare skin as I clutch the wad of clothes in my hands. Shivering slightly, I knock again on the window. “Armin! It’s ______, dammit- open the window!”

   The window shudders slightly and I can hear it squeak open. “Hey!” I hiss, pulling the towel tighter. “Down here.”

   Someone sticks their head out of the window. Marco turns a slight shade of pink staring at me. “Are Eren and Armin in there?” I ask, peeking around the corner to check on the guards.

   Marco nods, “...um… did… did you-?”

   “Listen, Freckles, I need in there,” I mutter, adjusting the towel once more and digging the sole of my foot into the wall. “Gimme your hand.” Marco stays still, eyes wide as he stares down at me. “Today, Freckles, c’mon!”

   Marco sticks his hand out to me and I take it, using it to pull myself up and into the boys’ cabin window. The quiet murmur inside stops and I can feel the eyes collected on me. Adjusting the towel again, I turn to face them. “Armin, Eren!” I call, head up and shoulders back like I’m not completely naked with only a towel on in a dorm filled with horny boys. 

   I can see them pushing through the others. Eren snaps at each of the boys he thinks take too long to blink as Armin helps me down from the window. “Can you do two me a favor?” I ask, unwadding my clothes. “Hold a blanket up or something for a moment?”

   Armin nods and grabs a blanket off of a bunk, holding it up around me as the towel drops. I can see his ears turn a light shade of pink as he turns his head away from me. Eren stands at his side, glaring at the other boys and silently daring them to say or do something. I smirk, pushing my legs into a pair of leggings. “You okay, there, Armin?” I hum.

   He nods frantically. “All good here, ______.”

   “What are you doing here?” Eren asks, not taking his eyes off the other boys.

   “Got caught,” I mutter, “I was taking a shower and some idiot stumbled in. I only had time to grab my clothes, wrap myself in a towel and run. They got to the girl’s cabin before me- I can’t sneak in without getting caught.”

  “What about the windows?” Armin manages to ask as he blushes even more. 

   “Mina’s a real safety freak- always locks up the windows before she goes to sleep… Okay, you can drop the blanket now.” I stand up straight, now warmly dressed in a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt. Armin drops the blanket, wadding it up and throwing it back on the bunk. 

   Eren visibly relaxes and turns to face me. “You gonna keep sneaking out for showers?”

   “Let’s just say this,” I gesture to the window and the cabin as a whole, “May become a regular thing.” Eren groans and rolls his eyes. “Aw… c’mon, Eren… Ya know I don’t sleep.”

   “Yeah, fine. Just don’t get caught.”

   “Aw, c’mon, Rei- teach the kid how to balance on the gear.”

   “I’m telling you, I can’t explain it,” he huffs, pointing to his temple. “It’s something you gotta do in here. You can’t be taught.”

   I roll my eyes and sigh. “Fine then. Bert, how ‘bout you?” I ask, looking at Bertholdt. 

   Bertholdt shrugs, “If I could, I would.”

   “Please guys, I’m begging you!” Eren pleads, gripping the sheets of the bed we all sit on. 

   Bertholdt and Reiner look to each other before they turn to face us again. “Sorry, Eren.”

   “Tch,” I click my tongue and get to my feet, grabbing Eren’s shoulder and massaging it gently. “It’s alright, Eren. It’ll come to you tomorrow, alright?”

   “Just give it your all,” Armin adds, standing with me. Eren hangs back for just a moment, head hanging. Slowly, he gets to his feet and we get ready to hop off the upper bunk. 

   “You’re… all from Shiganshina, right?” Bertholdt asks. 

   “I lived there for a couple of years,” I shrug and sit back down. “But I wasn’t born there- they were.” I tilt my head towards the boys as they sit on either side of me. 

   “But… you were… there. When it happened,” Bertholdt says quietly. “Right?”

   “...yeah.” I mumble, staring down at the sheets I have pinched between my fingers. “I was there.”

   “So then you know how horrible the Titans are. Why would any of you want to become soldiers?”

   “Unlike Eren and ______,” Armin starts, “I didn’t see the Titans right up close. But I can’t stand the thought that we have a monarchy that forced its people to go on that horrible reclamation mission- I couldn’t stand by.”

   “...and you two?” Reiner asks, eyes flicking between Eren and I. 

   “I, uh… When I was working for Eren’s father, we would have conversations about the walls,” I explain, rubbing the sheets between my fingers. “Mostly about how much we hate them. They’re meant to keep those things out but… They’re also meant to keep us in and keep us separated. The interior- they’re rich and fat off the blood and sweat from our people, from the people in the outer walls. We die in the streets to be picked apart like rats while they host... banquets,”

  I chuckle coldly and roll my eyes, dropping the fabric. “And honestly? I really want to see what’s out there. That… ‘ocean’ thing Armin was telling me about sounds like one hell of a blast- and that’s just one thing. I can only imagine what else is out there.”

   “...what about you,” Armin asks, “Where are you two from?”

   The two go quiet, eyes dropping to the mattress. “We’re both from the same village, deep in the mountains,” Bertholdt says, “On the southeast side of Wall Maria.”

   My stomach drops slightly, “...oh…”

   “That’s…” Armin trails off, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. Eren’s mouth is parted slightly as he stares at Bertholdt. 

   “Yeah… Unlike towns with waterways, we didn’t get word right away- more like the Titans came before the news,” Bertholdt’s head drops, his soft green eyes cast down into shadow. “...it was just around dawn. The livestock were restless. Then I felt tremors that got stronger and stronger. Pretty soon… I realised they were footsteps. And I rushed to the window…”

   He stops, his eyes still wide and unblinking.    “I… I, um… Don’t remember much after that. There was so much chaos.”

   I crawl over to the other side of the bed, wrapping my hand around one of theirs. “You don’t need to remember,” I mumble. “You’ve been through enough- remembering won’t do either of you any good.”

   “Oi,” Reiner says, looking at Bertholdt. “Why’re you bringing this up all of a sudden?”

   Bertholdt shifts in his place, snaking his hand out from under mine. “Sorry… What I wanted to say was- you guys are different from the others. The ones that don’t know what the Titans are like... Most of them are here because it’s the ‘politically correct’ thing to do- if you choose working in the fields when you turn twelve, you’re branded a coward.”

--.--

   “...so I went along and enlisted in the Cadet Corps,” Bertholdt continues as we sneak out of the dorm. “Still… I’m no different from them. I chose to work for the military police so I can work in the safety of the interior. If that doesn’t work out, I might just quit.” He chuckles and shakes his head, leading us through the woods alongside Reiner. 

   Eren and Armin are at my sides, weaving through branches and bushes. My eyes are focused ahead. A poorly-kept path through the woods up the mountain seems to lead up to a clearing. My eyes then drift from the road to Reiner as he helps pick Armin up after tripping over a rock.   His eyes meet mine for a moment. I smile gently, turning away and thanking the moon for hiding behind a cloud. Eren and Armin hurry to Bertholdt’s side, leaving behind Reiner and I in the rear. We walk together silently, the air still managing to be thick.

   “So…’ Reiner drawls, pushing a branch out of the way. “How… how old… are you?”

   I laugh, ducking under a branch and listening to him struggle to break it. “Is that how all you mountain men talk to women? Or are you just bad at it?”

   “I, um… I-”

   “It’s fine, Rei,” I laugh softly as he comes up to my right. “I’m nineteen. You?”

   Reiner nods, “Nineteen.”

   The two of us go silent again as the three ahead of us are chatting amongst themselves. I guess it’s only fair I try to start a conversation, since Reiner-

   My foot slips on a gnarled root and I feel a hand wrap around my wrist, pulling me back. I let out a quick laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Thank you.”

   “Is that a forest girl thing? Slipping in the woods?” Reiner asks, chuckling slightly as his hand releases my wrist. “Or are you just bad at walking?”

-------

You can read parts one, three, and four! Just give the number you want a tap ;)

[irkenheretic]

(How I Learned) How To Read Irken: A Guide

(Pictured: Us....) (From @zimgay​ ‘s lovely animatic!)

Okay, I’m finally making this post. 

If you’ve been following me for a while, you might have caught on that I can read Irken. When I started, I was completely confused over wether or not I was teaching myself correctly, how long it’d take, et cetera. But I’ve finally hashed it out for myself, and I thought:

Why not make a guide for anyone else who wants to learn but has no idea where to start? 

So that’s what I’m doing. Some disclaimers, though:

- This is what worked for me. It may or may not work for you, I’m not sure. I think it’s a pretty good method, though.

- Reading Irken and Writing Irken are two different skillsets. I’m gonna show you how to do both, but don’t worry if you’re better at one than the other. 

- This will probably take a while of daily (or near-daily) practice to learn. It’s not impossible, it’s not super challenging, but it’s not super easy, especially if you have memory problems like I do. (For context: I started in September. But I also have a really shitty memory so, like. It might take less time for you.)

Okay! Let’s do this!

First off, you’d probably do well downloading the Irken font for practice purposes. Messing around with it and typing in it is fun, and can help!

You’ll also need a notebook. It’s not required, but having it all in one place is super convenient. (And, if it’s tiny enough, you can carry it around whenever, and also have it on hand to whip out at cons.)

The first thing I did was write each individual letter over and over and over again. This is what’s at the start of my notebook, and writing the letters over and over helped me remember which were which. I also had to focus pretty hard on what letter this actually was, this is tedious as hell but it’s not something you can do mindlessly.

(Pictured: Normal levels of interest in a show.)

This is what my notebook looks like. Don’t worry about those simplified versions of the letters yet, but you’re gonna wanna leave room for them. Don’t worry about learning simplified/handwritten until later, it helps recognition if you really have to focus on actually drawing the letters, at first.

(And yes, I know my pen is really smudgy. And that my H’s suck.)

After this, three letter words are your friend. Pick just, common three letter words you know, and write them down a lot. I have just, the Irken for “THE” written in the margins of my class notebooks a TON. Once you feel like you can remember that word well, go onto another 3 letter word with a different set of letters. Recognition = good, so pick something you like, use all the time. 

While I was doing this, I tried to string together Irken letters I knew into like, coherent phrases. I was very bad at this at first. Acronyms are your friend here, lmao. (I don’t think I can count the number of times I’ve written ‘u r a qt pie’ in my notebooks.) It doesn’t matter what you write, just that it makes coherent sense. 

There are gonna be some uncommon letters that are gonna be hard to practice, like W and Z, off the top of my head. For Z, that was easy. I just wrote ZIM over and over and over. For W... I used UWU. You laugh now, but the absurdity of it cements that I will always recognize those two letters. 

Four letter words are also good. (Please, absolutely write “FUCK” over and over in order to remember letters. I encourage it.)

There is also the absolute cuntwaffles. Y’know how in English, b, p, d, g, all look kinda the same? Yeah, Irken has that too. 

(Pictured: Head hurting juice.)

The I and Z don’t look that similar now, but good luck without a translation guide. By this point, you should have memorized a good chunk of the Irken alphabet, and be able to recognize some others when you see them. If you’ve been writing common three- or four-letter words, it’s likely you’ve been using letters very common in the English language. Which brings us to our next stage, and the actual fun part: 

READING! 

You’re gonna want a translation guide on hand in these early stages, you will need it. The main goal of this stage is to read anything in Irken you can get your hands on- but start small! Fanart with Irken in it was a godsend to me. It’s not that long, so it’s not overwhelming. I did need to look up some letters at the beginning, and I read really slowly, but that’ll change quickly if you keep up with it! The specific fanarts I used are:

@inimoose​ ‘s The Last Irken comic, specifically chapter one: part one, and chapter two: part two have a lot of Irken. But I’d recommend reading the whole comic; it’s good!

@paketdimensioncomic​ ‘s page of lore for their comic! Spoilers, though. Again, I’d recommend reading through the whole comic, because it’s just that good. 

@xryn-art​ ‘s Linguistic Au’s first comic has a good chunk of Irken! The other comics do have some, but it’s all translated. Still good practice, though, if you wanna... read them......... ;) ;) ;) 

Yes, this segment was partially a way for me to plug my favorite fan-artists, (or at least the ones that use Irken,) sue me. It’s my guide and I make the rules here.

(I am very sorry if I bothered any of you by @’ing you.)

But just some sources isn’t enough, so I introduce you to browser fonts. And changing yours to Irken. 

It will not effect everything in your browser, and it can be toggled on and off, so don’t worry. If you really want, you can download a separate browser to change the font of, and leave your normal one be. It’d be convenient if you could, since having your browser font be Irken is inconvenient if you need to use Wikipedia, like, ever. 

Here’s a guide for that, for Chrome, Firefox, Opera, and Internet Explorer for some reason. You’ll see four options to change, I just changed all of them. Not every page is going to have Irken on it, though. For me, Wikipedia is all in Irken, and so is TV Tropes. And some Tumblr blogs (PAKet Dimension’s is one, just in case you need a reason to go back there ;)) But it might be different for you. 

Whatever it is, now you have a nice way to practice. I read Wikipedia articles on stuff I already knew about (so I wasn’t completely lost and could figure out what letters I didn’t know were from context clues,) but not a page I’ve read before in recent memory- you might just be recalling what the page said, instead of actually reading it.

And about the absolute cuntwaffle letters: yes, this will help you in recognizing which are which. Seeing the letters in context is always going to be much more helpful than just, a bunch of meaningless squiggles floating in the void.

At this point, I personally am much better at reading than writing Irken. It’s one thing to know a letter when you see it, and another to recall it and write it down from memory. Right now, I’m trying to write song lyrics and dumb little phrases in Irken, to improve my writing skills. Again, nothing too long, don’t overwhelm yourself. This sounds stupid, but Vines are good. When I don’t remember a letter, I just leave it blank and look it up after I’m done. 

Another thing that helps is having a friend to practice with, or someone to just give you Irken phrases for you to translate. 

Once you’re around this stage, you can try to learn simplified/handwritten Irken. You can also try to learn it before this, I started it around when I started reading fanart for practice, it’s up to you. This guide is a good starting point, but you don’t have to follow it exactly. This is your handwriting, do what feels natural for you!

(Also, don’t even worry about speedwrite Irken. That has no place in this holy land and frankly I am scared of it.)

And that’s... pretty much it! Most of the process is just... practicing a lot. 

If this post does well, I might make a server for people who wanna learn Irken to practice together and stuff. It all depends if anyone even wants to learn Irken. 

EDIT: Well, guess what I ended up making just the next day. Here’s the post for the server, and please read the joining rules.

Also, if you wanna learn Irken numbers, here you go. But start with letters first, worry about numbers later. These are never used, aren’t even in the Irken font, and three of them look a lot like those cuntwaffle Irken letters. 

Anyway I just really hope this guide helps someone out. If you do use it, tell me! And have fun learning Irken!! It really is just, a blast to do honestly.

[criminalminds4days]

Family Matters | Chapter 10: Believer

Hello everyone!

I apologize for my lack of posting. I have barely survived midterms and I have found myself with a writers block once more. I am hopefully going to be able to give myself a little break between the end of the semester and after finals and the beginning of my summer courses. Thankfully I only have 2 summer classes so hopefully that will make it easier to post. 

I have some announcements coming up soon and I will hopefully finish writing the missing chapters for this story and only have to post and edit. So far, I have not been able to edit anymore so I apologize for any grammatical error. 

I really hope you are enjoying reading the story because I had a really great time writing it. Hope you have a great weekend!

I apologize for constant flashbacks but they are important to the plot, I promise!

Warnings: Swearing, sexual references, violence and murder references, public embarrassment, and very bad jokes!

Word Count: 4k

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tag list: @mcntsee @lets-be-gay-for-the-angel @evelyncade @haylaansmi @paulaern @myfandomlife-blog​

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(This gif is not mine)

Chapter 10: Believer

"Very well, this seems like a good start." She said as she finished reading his confession. She moved towards the camera and turned it off, signaling that she would be taking the paper and would adhere to her part of the deal.

"What is she doing?" Spencer whispered to Emily. "Without a video confession, the written one can be considered coerced. We would be back at square one."

"There is the surveillance camera, genius."

"Of course she has a backup plan." He looked at the black camera, smiling at the knowledge.

"Now tell me, who left you, was it, mom or dad?"

"My dad." She readjusted in her seat. "How many victims did you kill total. We've found five, but it seems to me that is a low number for someone as angry as you."

"Fifteen, some of them are lost in the desert, some are by the arches, they should be found fairly soon." He shrugged and continued to look at her. "Why did he leave?"

"My mother got pregnant when she was young. It was a mistake, they didn't love each other. They married because of me, so it was only a matter of time before they broke, and break they did." She fought the urge to look back, hoping that nobody aside from Hotch would review the security tape. "Did you kill your father?"

"First one. He's in the arches, his favorite place in the world."

"Did your mom not accept his apology?"

"Well, he didn't really apologize until I had a gun to his head, but my mother was always kind, so she forgave him."

"Why did you kill him then?"

"I didn't forgive him." He winked at her. "Did you look for him?"

"I did."

"And?"

"That's your fourth question."

"I don't care, I want to know."

"He is dead. As dead as can be." She said out loud for the first time. "I hired a private investigator and found he crashed his car two years after he left us."

"Karma is a bitch."

"Why keep killing if you got rid of him?"

"For the same reason, you joined the FBI." He smiled at her, "to show my dad that he wasn't gonna dictate my life. That I was not going to let him be my end goal."

"It seems to me he is. You tracked him down, killed him. For some that might be enough. But you never got closure so you decided to pray on people who made mistakes. Where did you find them?"

"I worked at a counselors office."

"Well, that is rather obvious now. Maybe you should have gotten some help yourself." She stood, ready to leave the room, "hope you enjoy prison." She turned to exit the room.

"My final question, if you had found him, what would you have said?"

"I don't know." She responded.

"Bullshit."

"Well, I couldn't  ask him why  he left because I already know that, so I don't really know what I would have said." She turned to him, "what did you tell him?"

"I told him trousers weren't his thing." He stood, the handcuffs falling from his hands as his smile grew wider. "You should really be more careful with what you leave laying here, doctor."She reached for her gun but everything happened so fast she had no time to fire it. He seemed to run into the wall, only this one was not as hard as it seemed and a giant chunk collapsed as he made his way through, and just like that he had exited the station. Prentiss and Reid rushed in and through the now giant hole in the station but the man was nowhere to be found. Lucas Heavensbee had just vanished on her watch.

"Fuck!" She yelled and made her way to the office, the team was now making their way to the interrogation room but stopped in their tracks as they saw her approach. "I need access to the security cameras, now." She moved towards the security office and asked for the feed of the last couple of weeks to be played, there she found there were about three days missing. "He planned this, and someone helped him. He knew exactly what he was doing. That bastard played us!" She rushed out and into an SUV, driving directly to his house that was now under surveillance. She looked around, looking for anything that would indicate he had been there. It was fast to spot it, he had managed to slide through the police cars and left a note for her.

I just wanted to make sure you knew this had nothing to do with you doctor, but I simply can't let my father win. I am sure we will hear from each other, and then we can converse from one orphan to another. Until then.

She was ready to show the note to them, as Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid made their way through the house. The note was still crumpled in her hand, but as the local police entered she decided against it. The two agents were the best people she had ever met, she knew it since the moment she joined the FBI, and she knew they were trying to make her feel better about the whole situation, but there were some things she couldn't get past. This man had killed fifteen people and kidnapped so many more and he had slipped right through her fingers. He had made a fool of her, and she would be damned if she didn't catch him. Telling Emily and Spencer would worry them, and they would be on her case about it becoming an obsession, just like she had done after their first case.

One year ago (I think?)

Her leg bounced as she drove with the social worker and two of her co-workers. This was her first big assignment, and she wasn't sure she would measure up. It was also important to note that while Emily and she tended to get along well, Spencer and she hadn't spoken almost at all since the sweater incident.

"Should I introduce you as FBI agents?"

"No, I think it's best if we come as social workers, there is less hostility." Prentiss' said as she gave both Reid and her their fake badges. She placed her FBI ID inside her bag and took a deep breath, it was a simple mission, they would be in and out.

Never, and I mean never, say something will be easy, as this almost assures you that is not the case. The social worker, whose name was Daisy, had been shot and was now dead. They had become trapped in the middle of a war between the cult leaders and the local police. It's as if the universe wished to remind her just how much bad luck she could have.

She heard them talking to the FBI, and food had been delivered so she assumed they had implanted microphones. Now they had to find a way to communicate with them and let them know what they had concluded.

"Which one of you is it?" The man said as he pointed a gun at them.

"Are we playing tag?" She asked stupidly, earning a glare from her partners.

"Do you think this is a joke? Which one of you is the FBI agent?" She turned to look at the woman and man, trying her hardest not to freak out.

"What are you talking about?" Spencer asked, clearly nervous.

"I will ask you one more time, and if none of you tell me I will not hesitate to shoot all three of you. Which one is the FBI agent?"

She saw Emily stir and knew she had to act fast if she wanted to save her. "I am." She said before either of them could stop her. "I'm the FBI agent. Though I'm fairly new so I don't really have that many secrets to tell. I was barely cleared to be on the field. If you really think about it, I'm not very helpful, so I think maybe if you let it slide I could-" she felt a fist connect with her right cheekbone, silencing her.

"Take her to the back." He instructed one of the men. She gave one last reassuring glance to her teammates, hoping this wouldn't be the last time she saw them.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the door to the room she was in opened and Ben came in. You would think that having a name like Benjamin wouldn't exactly command respect, but she wasn't one to judge cults.

"Why are you here?"

"Because you told your men to lock me here." He slapped her across the face.

"Who sent you?"

"My boss?" Her response was received with another slap.

"Do you think this is a joke?"

"I think that you need to feel powerful because a part of you knows you're not enough." She spoke hoping her team could hear part of their discovery, even if she was receiving punches from the man as she continued. "You think you can get away with stuff because you prayed on the week, but deep down you know that there are people here who could stand up to you, and if they did you would be done for." She felt a warm liquid fall from her lips as he continued to beat her. "I know you pray on young girls. You're nothing more than a pedophile that uses the bible as a way to manipulate women to give their children to you." As she fell he started kicking her and she tried to avoid making noise, but the pain was too much. "This is nothing, I've dealt with worse." She spoke, hoping they would understand. "I've dealt with much worse, this is nothing."

"Who do you think you are?!" The man said, enraged at her defiance.

"Nobody, just the one person that knows you better than you know yourself." That earned her the hardest hit, and she knew she wouldn't be conscious for much longer, she had to let them know. "Your suicide won't work, there are people that are skeptical and you know it. This isn't about God, or even your preferences, this is about you Ben, and how you are so terrified to go back to prison you are willing to kill your followers to avoid it, because you know they would see right through your act, you are nothing but a coward." The last kick took place and the man left the room. "Don't change the plan, I'm okay." She whispered, hoping they could hear her, wishing that even if she died right then and there, they could save the people trapped in this church.

When she woke, a woman was there tending her wounds. "Be careful, I think you might have some broken ribs."

"Don't tell Ben, he might come and finish me off" she joked, but the woman gave her a pointed look as if letting her know that was a possibility. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"I don't know, maybe a couple of hours. They will come and get you for the ceremony, use you as an example."

"That's okay, I've always wanted to be one of those."

"This is not a joke girl, he's dangerous."

"I know. The trick is to have nothing to lose."

"Well, I have a daughter."

"Ben's wife, right?" The woman flinched at the mention. "You're not okay with that, are you?" And then, the pieces of the puzzle fit together. "You made the call, didn't you?" Before the woman could confirm her suspicion, a man entered and pulled her up, not worrying if her body ached, and took her to the church. She used the door frame to help her stabilize herself and took in the sight before her. It was still light, but with the time she lost she couldn't be sure how much time they actually had left. Emily and her locked eyes and she approached, her eyes full of worry, but her facial expression was one of pure anger and hatred. "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you hate me?"

"How could you lie to us?" She asked, and as the men made their way to the front, her tone didn't change, but her questions did. "Are you crazy? Why would you do such a stupid thing? They could have killed you."

"I know, but it was either me or all three of us. Besides, I'm fine. We need you and Reid on the inside."

"This is reckless behavior."

"I know, but you were about to do the same."

"I have experience."

"Exactly, I can be a scapegoat."

"You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."

"I know, it's a gift. Now listen, I think there are mics, in the food, and if I'm right, I think I have been able to feed some information to the team, but we need to figure out when this massive suicide will take place."

Emily nodded and gave her an apologetic look before shoving her harshly. She fought the urge not to wince but it was almost impossible with her broken ribs. "You are a disgrace to this country, and I hope whoever you work for knows that they will not get away with it."

Ben looked over and stared at her, and despite her pain and the fear of another beating, she stared him down, letting him know that he would not get the best of her. She was gonna save as many people as possible and he could suck it. He was just another man who thought they were invisible because they weren't afraid to beat you up.

Spencer observed the interaction and the defiance she had amazed him. Despite the bruises and the swelling of her eye, not once did she lower her gaze or show any sign of weakness. Never in his life had he felt so attracted to someone as he did right then and there, but now was not the time to daydream of your coworkers, especially when they could be on the verge of dying.

As the day progressed, she continued to look for ways to tell the team, finally resorting to using the window to write a message. When she was younger she used to huff into a window to create fog and used it to write, so she did the same, letting the team know she could possibly convince some people to exit and they could come in after.

"What are you doing?" The woman from earlier spoke as she entered the room.

"If I'm gonna die, I might as well go doing something I like. Fog drawings." She said and covered her work. "Listen, don't ask me how I know this, but the FBI might strike tonight and if they do, he's not gonna cooperate, we need to get as many people as possible out."

"No, I can't do that."

"Please, I know you're scared, I'm terrified right now. I might have peed my pants earlier today, but that's not the point. The point is we need to save as many people as possible. Please help me get them out." Through the window she saw a figure, holding three fingers up. She nodded and turned back to the woman.

"Three a.m.?"

"You saw him too?"

"Yeah, one would think the FBI would be a little more discrete."

"We have our moments. Now please, make sure to get everyone out before then." The woman sighed and nodded, agreeing to the plan. "And one more thing, the people I came with, how are they?"

"Are they also agents?"

"No, of course not. I just dragged them into this and feel responsible for them. They are good people."

"The man seems to be fascinated by Ben, and vice versa. The woman keeps pacing around as if hoping for enlightenment. She has talked to some people though."

"Okay good. Please make sure to get them out too." After she left and closed the door, the woman sat down, her injuries making it hard to breathe. "I don't know where I am, or how to get out, but that will not change the plans okay? I need to make sure all these people are safe."

She wished she could hear someone ensuring her that would be the case, but there was no answer. She felt herself get dizzy and knew there was definitely internal damage that would take time to heal. Turns out her mother was wrong, money couldn't get you out of everything. It felt like an eternity, but she knew the time was approaching. She saw and more and more dark figures gathered around the church. She even caught a glimpse of Derek, who seemed to be looking around, as if hoping he could find her. She huffed one last time and wrote a message to him.

The door opened and nobody came in. She knew what it meant, so she gathered her remaining strength and walked out. Everything was dark and she could hear Spencer's voice coming from the main room. She followed it and stopped as she noticed him trying to talk a man down from placing explosives. She cursed under her breath. She stepped forward only to be pulled back by someone.

"Don't even think about it." The man said.

"Derek, we need to help him."

"I know, I'll go, join the rest. Everyone is already out."

"But-"

"Go!" She began walking out before it all happened. Reid ran towards them and Derek pulled the both of them to the nearest and hopefully safest area before a sharp pain on her head made her vision blurry and soon after she lost consciousness.

"I think she will appreciate it if you showered." She heard someone say, once she finally regained consciousness.

"Well, then she can tell me that herself." Another voice responded.

"Emily, you and Spencer have been here for a week. You need to go to the hotel and rest. At least the kid has been using the shower."

"I am not leaving until she wakes up. That includes leaving to bathe."

"Neither am I." A third voice added to the mix. "Though I can't say the same thing about avoiding water."

"How am I supposed to leave if I can't trust the two of you to take care of yourselves?"

"Easy, your flight leaves in less than an hour and you are still here. Unless you want to be paying fees you will get out of here."

There was a sigh of resignation before the voice spoke once more. "Reid, you're in charge until she wakes up. Then she's in charge."

"You're gonna put the one of us that was hit in the head 'in charge'? What does that even mean?" The female voice complained.

"I have made my decision. Maybe if you showered, things would be different." The voice faded, and the steps of the person became less clear, so she assumed the person was leaving.

"I think Morgan is right, you should take a shower."

"Don't make me hurt you, Reid."

"It was just a suggestion."

She didn't want to interrupt their banter, but her urge to sneeze was bigger, so she let her body do its thing. Though it is important to let you know that sneezing with broken ribs is horrible.

"She's awake!" Emily screamed and launched herself onto the bed. She started crying from pain after the action. "You're so happy you're crying!"

"Prentiss, that might be because you just jumped on her ribs." The man clarified as he stood, placing his hand on hers. The feeling was foreign, but she could let it slide once.

"I am so sorry! But I am so happy you're awake."

"What happened?"

"After the explosion, you hit your head, and because you already had injuries your body gave out, exhausted. Thankfully the ambulance was already there and we could rush you to the hospital. You've been sleeping for a good week." He explained.

"Well, then I don't get a lazy day for another three months." She joked and the two joined her. "How are the believers?"

"They're all safe and accounted for. Sadly we lost Ben's wife."

"Does her mom know?"

"Yes, but she wanted me to tell you she doesn't blame you and hopes you do get better." There was a moment of silence, as she processed the message, as well as her guilt.

"And I want you to know I ate your Jell-O." This caused her to laugh again. No matter how painful it felt, she was glad to be alive.

"Remind me to never get stuck in a hospital under the care of Spencer Reid. He'll eat my Jell-O."

"Let's make it a no trip to the hospital policy."

"Do I need to remind you where we work?" The woman shook her head, and both of them looked at her with a heartwarming smile. "I hate to break this moment, but please go shower, Prentiss."

"Ugh, fine." She placed a kiss on her forehead and moved out. "Reid, if anything happens, call me. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Got it."

She walked out and the two remained silent for a couple of minutes. Their hands were still together and she squeezed it to get his attention. "How are you doing? I wasn't the only one that got caught in the blast."

"I'm good. Morgan and I barely had a scratch, they cleared us that same day."

"That's good. What about the rest of the team?"

"They are all good. They wanted to stay but they had another case, Hotch said your family was out of reach so Emily and I refused to leave. Morgan also stayed behind but they called him up today, without three agents they needed all the help they could get."

"You guys didn't need to stay." She assured him. His grip on her hand tightened, enough to let her know he wasn't letting go, but not enough to hurt her.

"You could've died. Because of me."

"That's not true and you know it."

"I should've said I was the agent."

"We both know the reason he didn't kill me was that I'm a woman. You wouldn't have been so lucky."

"Still."

"Reid, listen to me. This is not your fault, and this is not Emily's fault either. I knew what I was getting into, and I would do it again in a heartbeat."

"You are one stubborn woman."

"I know." She smiled at him, "now please go find me some Jell-O."

He laughed, but nodded, letting go of her hand. Just before he exited the room he turned and gave her the most endearing look she had ever seen, "thank you, for saving our lives. I'll never forget that."

"Good, that way I can ask for favors at any time." They both chuckled and he left the room hunting for the dessert.

The reality in her brain, however, was not as calm as she portrayed. For months she had obsessed over what she had done wrong, and she had spent sleepless nights thanks to her recurring nightmare, in which Ben didn't hesitate to pull the trigger, and as she watched Spencer and Emily's bodies lie in a pool of blood. This alone was enough to make her train and perfect her skills, to the point of complete exhaustion. She wasn't going to fail, not again.

That was until Lucas Heavensbee had brought her right back to her dark hole.

[sagamemes]

goodnight moon   —   valley girl, part one.   every single line out of this character’s mouth is golden. here and below the cut, you can find 83 lines of dialogue from the first three videos of the series—i can not emphasis how much the content of these lines vary despite the title. edited for roleplay purposes, feel free to change around whatever you feel the need to to make it fit your muse better.  tw:  implications and imagery of violence, clown mentions, some gore and unsanitary mentions, abuse mentions / implications.

❝  don't be embarrassed!  i love girls who love to have fun.  ❞

❝  nothing spookier than rotting flesh, am i right?  ❞

❝  this dress goes about to right before the knee, is that cool?  ❞

❝  feel free to get up to any more shenanigans you want at the party tonight. fireworks, bees, wherever the night takes you.  ❞

❝  your face is so pale.  ❞

❝  blood all over you scales, bones shards in your teeth—that's tacky. pearls?  high class.  ❞

❝  got any fireworks?  ❞

❝  i would never get between a girl and her snacks.  ❞

❝  maybe i've seen you on instagram or something.  ❞

❝  it's honestly a little spicy when you never know if and when that someone special is gonna steal from you. always a fun little surprise. like, ooh, what's it gonna be this time?  ❞

❝  i have missed seeing your pretty little face here.  ❞

❝  and you have how many teeth left?  like four?  ❞

❝  you seem—really cool. i'm loving your energy.  ❞

❝  i do get pretty passionate when it comes to [food].  ❞

❝  there's something... seductive about scurvy, you know?  ❞

❝  oh, who's he?  ❞

❝  i need to reconsider my look.  ❞

❝  i know it sounds like an impossible challenge to make pennywise any sexier than he already is, but i can try.  ❞

❝  [that girl has/you've] done far too much for me, for me to refuse [her/you] a single thing.  ❞

❝  it'll be so cute, i promise.  ❞

❝  they are definitely clones. sexy clones, but still clones, you know.  ❞

❝  i thought tonight would be a good time to step a little out of your comfort zone.  ❞

❝  pirates are so hot right now. well, they've been hot since, like, the 1700s but they have continued to be hot from /then/ to /now/.  ❞

❝  i know what i'm talking about:  as you can see, i look super hot, right?  ❞

❝  i can help you with that. you know, i just like to see a girl look her best.  ❞

❝  so is it alright if i come up close and personal, touch your face?  ❞

❝  oh, there's a chocolate fountain?  ❞

❝  not to like, pressure you or anything, but you have to go with this one.  ❞

❝  works every time. well, three out of ten times, which is like, almost most of the time.  ❞

❝  it's gonna be cold tonight.  ❞

❝  that's good, it's good to be thorough and like, get a little taste of everything.  ❞

❝  where's the burrito from?  ❞

❝  you're not into the whole  ' titties out '  kind of look for you?  ❞

❝  if you would just—part your lips ever so slightly and like, pout them a little bit?  like they got your order wrong at starbucks?  ❞

❝  wherever the night takes you, it's cool with me.  ❞

❝  my ex stole from me all the time.  ❞

❝  i mean i won't be able to open the jar either, but i'll totally be here for like, emotional support.  ❞

❝  these are not very comfortable, but... very cute. the sacrifice is worth it i think.  ❞

❝  my job is just to make you as happy and comfortable as possible.  ❞

❝  you look /so/ terrifying. and also super cute.  ❞

❝  those, you know, needlepoint heels make me wanna die.  ❞

❝  i think you're gonna represent my brand perfectly.  ❞

❝  i selected for you a myriad—... is that a word? ...yeah, totally, a /myriad/ of things for you to try.  ❞

❝  that's gonna make me look like such a baddie standing next to you.  ❞

❝  you can't be glowing more than me, darling.  ❞

❝  this sweater's got a vibe like,  ' i'm so grungy that i totally live in a trash can '  but also  ' i'm so soft and fuzzy, oh my god, hold me. '  ❞

❝  i like to call this chunky boy my dragon puke necklace.  ❞

❝  can you and me be brow twinsies and both do the bitch brow every day?  ❞

❝  do you have any tattoos?  i thought so.  ❞

❝  you look like you've been dead for three days. gorgeous.  ❞

❝  sometimes i see her at pilates and i'm like,  ' wow, that scrumptious smoothie came at the small price of my heart. but glad you're enjoying the strawberry-banana swirl, britney. '  ❞

❝  do you have any shenanigans planned?  ❞

❝  murders and assassinations i would be all down for, are you kidding?  ❞

❝  you, my dear, are all set.  ❞

❝  no explosives?  oh my god, why are you even going.  ❞

❝  wait, dragons don't eat their treasures, do they?  they just sit on it and sleep.  ❞

❝  have we met before?  you look so familiar it's tripping me out a little bit.  ❞

❝  we're gonna go with the flow.  ❞

❝  you oftentimes tend to prefer the sort of dainty, subdued style, but what if tonight we went a little more avant-garde?  ❞

❝  you can fiddle with it, as a form of absent-minded entertainment, if some business-major won't stop rambling at you about mergers and acquisitions.  ❞

❝  you seemed like, a little bit weirded out last time.  ❞

❝  i've been living and dying for this eyeshadow palette lately.  ❞

❝  let me take a moment, or two, or three... to—reacquaint myself with your lovely appearance.  ❞

❝  or do you need assistance?  because if there's anything i'm good at, it's /assistance/.  ❞

❝  you're my last appointment of the day, i'm happy to take as much time as you need.  ❞

❝  i'll give you a little tip:  when you're having a chat with someone cute, you can just, casually brush a glittery clutch against them and when they get home, the glitter transfers all over their stuff—on their sheets, their clothes, their face, their dog—they'll notice it constantly, and due to the subconscious association with you and the glitter... they won't be able to stop thinking about you. they'll think that you're soulmates when really, you just gave them glitter herpes.  ❞

❝  totally thought i was over that, sorry.  ❞

❝  i think the red would suit you /perfectly./  ❞

❝  [this/i] will keep you nice and warm and like, ward off any dudes you don't wanna deal with.  ❞

❝  i hope your blender sucks and you choke on a chunk of unpulverised peanut butter.  ❞

❝  live for it, obsessed, would wear _____ like that every day if it weren't for the fact that it would make men pee their pants everywhere i go.  ❞

❝  i know i can be a lot.  ❞

❝  doesn't she have like seven cats?  and they're all named after types of metamorphic rock. she's the best.  ❞

❝  if you wanna go for that  ' ugly christmas sweater '  vibe, like  ' i'm so hot that i can wear whatever i want and you all can suck it ', these are perfect.  ❞

❝  it would make men pee their pants everywhere i go. ...now that i think about it, that's actually a perk.  ❞

❝  i would love to hear all about the party you're going to, tell me all about it.  ❞

❝  it was always kinda sexy, mysterious.  ❞

❝  would never do that to you, ever, no way, wouldn't dream of it.  ❞

❝  [you are/it is] a clean slate, ready for clownery.  ❞

❝  i saw you launch a firework through his kitchen ceiling.  ❞

❝  it's a little cliché but clichés are cliché for a reason.  ❞

❝  let's cuddle on the dumpster.  ❞

❝  you mean to tell me you haven't even /seen/ a vegetable since, last summer?  ❞

[dancingstarsbornfromchaos]

Fanfic writer asks: 2, 12, 18, 32, 38

[these were fun! Now I’m off to the other list XD]

Fanfic Writer Asks

2. What character(s) do you find the most difficult to write for? Why?

This won’t shock much the people who know me at least a little, but the characters I find the most difficult to write are happy, good-natured characters. In part is for a personal lack of interest towards that sort of characters, in part it’s because I just can’t relate to them.

In general, if a character doesn’t have some sort of inner conflict or doesn’t have more than a few layers, I have some trouble writing them for the mere fact that they are unable to hold my interest for long enough, but with that sort of good guys...I really struggle. Their psychology is kind of linear, so it shouldn’t be that hard, but...I just find no motivation or satisfaction in trying to wrap my head around them, so I’m always kinda at loss whenever I find myself in the position of having to build up a character like that, even just for a small role. They always come out extremely stereotyped and that makes me like them even less.

I’m not a happy or optimistic person, I don’t believe in happiness or optimism in general...and I have little idea of how a truly mentally sane person is supposed to feel. I know that one of the challenges of a writer is to get out of your comfort zone and try to write stuff that doesn’t vibe with you, but...I’d pick a one-dimensional villain to do that over one of the good guys any day.

12. Who is your favourite author?

I’ve been giving the same answer to this question for literal years, even if I don’t know if it’s still true. I haven’t read a book from a new author in ages, and the ones I think about whenever someone asks me this question...I haven’t touched them for even longer.

One day I’ll start reading again as much as I used to, but for now, I’m gonna list the same names for the umpteenth time: Eoin Colfer, Licia Troisi, Neil Gaiman.

18. Do you prefer editing as you write, or waiting until it’s finished?

It depends on how much time to write I have at hand, tbh. Usually, if I have several hours together, I prefer writing until I’m done with whatever piece I’m working on and edit it only once it’s completed, or I’ve at least written down a good chunk of it.

Most of the times, however, I find myself with just one or two hours at hand, so I have to write the chapter or the one-shot I’m working on in more than one session. In that case, I usually re-read the part I already wrote to get my inspiration back, and I exploit it also to edit and review it. It’s not always ideal, because I end up with even less time to add stuff to it, but it spares me the trouble of having to re-read the whole thing before posting it when I finally manage to get at them bottom of it.

32. What story do you think showcases your signature style the most?

I took a few minutes to think about this one (and to scroll through the list of my published stuff too >.>), but the one story that popped in my head as soon as I read the question is definitely the right answer. Namely, the ST:TNG fic I wrote a couple of years ago.

It’s not the story I had more fun writing and it’s not even my personal favourite, but it came out pretty well, objectively speaking, and I think that it holds almost all the traits that can be found in my writing. Lots of introspection, good descriptions with metaphors and just a touch of oddities, character study, decent dialogues, additional lore and theories about parts of the fandom I’m writing for.

I guess this are all elements that can be found in my IZ fic too, but I’m not choosing that one ‘cause it’s still unfinished and...that alone doesn’t exactly say flattering thing about the kind of writer I can be at times ^^” Scotty and coherence live in different galaxies at times xD

38. What story of yours are you surprised that people liked as much as they did?

Honestly? Every single story of mine that gets more than the minimal level of interest leaves me surprised.

I’m not a popular writer, I’ve never been and I’ll never be. That’s something I’ve made peace with. I don’t produce a lot and I guess that most of the stuff I write either doesn’t reach the right level of quality or simply isn’t the sort of stuff most people are interested in reading. I suck at reading the “market” and, especially, I don’t care much about doing it.

So, whenever one of my works capture the audience’s interest...well, it always catches me off guard (mostly in a good way, but it also comes with a shit tone of performance anxiety, which kinda ruins the whole thing). From where I stand, most of what I write is trash on fire or almost. People proving me wrong will always surprise me. That’s a physical rule in my little universe.

[robinrunsfiction]

Ever so humbly requesting “director’s commentary” for For You (the one where Frank and y/n do a group project together and she thinks he hates her), Frank Iero on the Stage Who Will He Injure, and I Don’t Believe in Luck (Fun Ghoul x reader where y/n thinks Fun Ghoul hates her so she runs away and almost gets dusted) pls and thank you, I love your work so much it gives me life!

For You

So I actually struggle with writing the enemies to lovers trope. I have a tough time coming up with situations where two people can be so at odds and yet eventually fall in love, and so this one is sort of a cop out. The "enemies" angle is just perceived by the main character. Frank never actually has reason to hate her, she just assumes he does. And he doesn't!

This story was one that was written in chunks and scenes that had to be pieced together and ended up getting edited down a lot. There were variations of the dialogue where she was much more... I'm not even sure of the right word... sassy? I hate that word, but I guess that would be a fair assessment. Especially in the scene where he walks her back to her dorm, she does read as sorta defensive, but it's toned down from what I had before.

I had ZERO idea where this story was gonna go after the project was done. That was another part of it that I edited and reworked, trying to make the timeline reasonable. I figured it'd end around the end of the semester, but I didn't know how exactly.

I really like the scene when he comes back and she's able to say all the things that she's been keeping pent up, and just talks right over him, like no, I need to get this out.

“God you’re so soft and cute, I can’t believe I was ever intimidated by you,” just feels like peak dealing with Frank energy lol but I'm really pleased with how the story ended for not being sure about it from the get go.

Frank Iero On The Stage, Who Will He Injure

First of all, how amazing is that gif? lol

I totally dig this request because I'm sort of a slut for hospital bed feeling confessions. I mean in real life I am TERRIBLY afraid of hospitals, I FUCKING HATE THEM SO MUCH OH MY GOD! But in stories, especially ones that I'm in charge of, I know that the outcome is gonna be ok and I just love the vulnerability and the fear, and the comfort and all of it. Ugh yes.

I really like that this one is short and sweet and to the point. There are some funny lines, and Frank being a softie again and the whole thing is just a good time while getting stitches after taking a guitar to the head lol

But I think my favorite part may be this exchange:

“Shit, I think (YN) has brain damage,” Ray muttered from the doorway, as the Way brothers joined him, coffees in hand.

“Why’s that?” Gerard asked nervously before he saw you and Frank making out on the hospital bed.

“I just hope this means he’ll stop throwing stuff,” Mikey muttered.

I Don't Believe In Luck

Another enemies to lovers, and I think it's a bit easier in the context of the Danger Days universe. I think there's a level of I guess you could call it suspicious trust between Killjoys who have just met. You both know you're against BLI, but do you know that they won't blast you in the back and steal your food when you aren't looking?

Anyway, Fun Ghoul's problem with her being the fact that he's actually into her, but he's in denial of his feelings is fun. Like "Oh I hate her and her perfect face" sorta thing. Add in the jealousy factor of him thinking she was with Party, and that's just like ooh yes. You fool, you adorable fool lol

I love that he figures out that she didn't mean to leave because of the necklace. And I love the character development. The fact that he actually confesses his feelings AND apologizes? Yes, we love to see it.

I love the Danger Days universe so much. It's so much fun to play around with and I should honestly write more of it (and not just my OC)

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

20 more minutes.

[Kuripa’s apartment, 6pm]

Oh, hey, there’s a slight drag mark over here. She might’ve dropped the pencil badly here and it dragged...

Hifumi: It shouldn’t matter too badly once we trace over it with a computer.

Yeah, I know, just pointing it out so we don’t miss it.

*Kuripa is talking online with Ryota, Hifumi and Iroha. The three of them are tirelessly working together to help Iroha finish her manga from her rough draft.

Iroha: I’m sorry...

Ryota: Huh?

Iroha: I’m such a horrible person...

You don’t need to apologize Iroha-chan. 

Hifumi: Indeed. This is, quite literally, my job. You’ve been working so hard at your own job the entire time we were facing the Four Horsemen. Now it’s my turn to repay the favor thanks to your hard work.

Iroha: I appreciate the help Hifumi...but...even still, that whole Four Horsemen thing was my fault too...

What do you mean?

Iroha: Had we not met and hit it off, I wouldn’t have dragged all of you into it. We barely even knew each other at the time, and yet I decided to come to you, almost a random stranger, to help Kuripa. I do dumb things when I’m desperate. That VOID side of me has never disappeared.

I wasn’t helping you because I wanted you to come to Comiket with us Iroha. I was helping you because I understood the situation and decided I should solve it!

And I work with the Remnants of Despair closely here at Future Foundation. Why should I give a damn if you’re VOID?

Ryota: We don’t mind helping you Iroha. And we know that you’re generally the one who has it worst.

Hifumi: Iroha, I’ll sent you the finished screen tones.

Ryota: Yeah, and you forgot to fix the second panel on the 4th page. I did it for you.

Iroha: You guys are Gods among men!

Haha...

*cough!* *cough!*

Ryota: You alright Kuripa?

Hm? Oh...yeah, I’m good...I just kinda forgot that I’m still a little battered and bruised from all the fights I was in yesterday...

Iroha; And you’re still helping!?

I didn’t say it was bad. I’ve healed up a lot since then. Just feeling a little tired and dizzy is all.

Ryota: Then I tell you what. You go on break for half an hour. Send me some of your stuff.

You sure!?

Ryota: Yeah, can’t promise I’ll get it done, but I’ll at least make some slight edits.

Damn! Thanks Ryota! I owe you dinner.

Speaking of dinner, I think I can hear someone messing around in the kitchen. BRB.

Iroha: See you in a bit!

Hifumi: Enjoy your meal Mr Kurafto!

*Kuripa hangs up and leaves his study. He walks out into the living room connected to the kitchen. At the same time, Kibin leaves the kitchen with a small pot of food.

Sorry I...This is most of what I could muster.

You made me dinner?

I was gonna come and bring it in for you while you were working, so you could eat it then, but...now you’ve come out...

Well, I’ll eat it while I’m on my break. I’m not expecting much though.

*sigh* Knew you’d say that!

Seriously though, I didn’t know you even knew how to cook.

I didn’t...But I’m trying.

You’ve done so much for me. You gave me a place to live, taught me how to take care of myself, made me food, bought me things and spoiled me...And you’ve spent money on my like a total simp buying me expensive things!

My gratitude to you is unrivalled and I don’t deserve any of your hospitality...So I’m doing the most of what I can, and am trying to pay you back.

*Kibin hands Kuripa her rice dish. He sits down at the table and looks down at it.

Hm...Big chunks of carrots and onions...This part is slightly charred...The seasoning is mostly ineffective...

*He takes a spoonful and eats it.

And the rice is barely fried...

...

But...Overall, not the worst thing I’ve seen. Definitely not on a Mystery Food X level. It tastes good! So it’s a YES!

Don’t be sarcastic you prick!

Come on sweetheart! Everything is a yes with you!

I��m being serious you know? It’s fine! It could use work, absolutely, but it’s not like it doesn’t taste like a rice dish!

I’ve been getting lessons from Hayamoto you know? This is what happened after one day.

Oh, sweet! You got back in touch with him!

Yeah, and his life’s going pretty good now. When I told him I wanted to learn how to cook he was like “It is the duty of the old to tutor the young” or something rather.

How old IS Hayamoto?

He’s like 63?

Damn, he looks good for his age!

Heh. You’re telling me...But he was always way out of my league and that hasn’t changed now.

Oh, right, you had a thing for him, didn’t you? You told me that much.

Not trying to kinkshame or nothing, but isn’t it a bit weird for your mentor, father figure and childhood crush to all be the same person?

Hehe! Yep! I got the daddy of all daddy complexes...

...That being said...I have had my eye on some guys around my own age now...

Oh? Really now? Doesn’t happen to relate to what you told Datenashi back in the Club, did it now?

...

You’re amazing Kuripa...I always thought that I was powerful and skilled...But you’re more powerful and skilled than I ever could be...

You have lots of hobbies, you’re strong, you’re pretty smart and crafty which really helps out, and you have no problems making friends despite being a dork.

What does me being a dork have to do with my ability to make friends?!

Haha...Sorry...

...You know something though...It wasn’t always that way, right?

Hm?

From when I was 7 to about...16? I was a major shut in and NEET. I kept myself occupied with my anime, my games, and my animation, but to be honest, I barely ever even saw the sun.

A few things in my life ended up changing and I pulled myself out of that rut. I even learned sword training to get me to come out of my shell. At first, I was worried that this random person who no one knew about suddenly entering everyone’s lives would be a bit of a culture shock...But in the end, I talked like how I usually do, and I ended up hitting it off.

What I’m saying is anyone can change. Unless they’re too far gone and no one can save them, they can turn their life around. Datenashi was about to go past that line, but thanks to Asayoru, we stopped her.

What was it that made you change?

Well...I’ll be real here...It was because of Kotoko.

Your sister?

Yeah...to be honest, Kotoko and I are only half-related by blood. We share a mother, but not a father.

When I was a kid, and I was already a NEET by then, my parents split up. A year later, my mum met another man and had Kotoko. I don’t know the real circumstances, but she raised her by herself.

She died when Kotoko was around 11 years old. At that point in time, any of her close family relatives were pretty much gone...The officials were gonna pawn her off to some orphanage...

But I know how shitty orphanages are looked at, and I didn’t want that life for her. So I made myself known, but problem was, I didn’t know how to take care of myself, so they weren’t exactly comfortable pawning her off on me.

I panicked...And then I tried my best for once. I spent months trying to learn all the necessary skills. Cooking, Cleaning, socializing. And I eventually got good enough at it that I was able to take custody of her.

Kotoko and I may have some fraying in the rope that tied us in our lives, but there is one fact that is clear. She is my little sister, and I loved her!

I had no idea...But...now I get why you go so far for people you barely even know...

Yeah...How can I turn down someone in need of help? I have no idea if their life depends on it or not, but in the chance it does, I have to act! I may be there only hope...

I’m sorry if that was a bad memory to bring up...I...I don’t...

Kibin, it’s fine.

No, it’s not! I didn’t even consider that you’d been through so much!

*Kibin approaches him.

I-In fact, please, slap me!

Huh!? Wh-What’s this about!?

Please? I won’t feel good about it unless you do something! I was wrong.

Kibin, it’s really alright!

Please Kuripa. I won’t feel better unless you do this.

...

...

...

Ok...fine...close you eyes.

...

*Kibin shuts her eyes and braces for impact.

...

...!

...

*Instead of being slapped however, she opens her eyes to find Kuripa’s lips meeting her own.

...

...

*She lets it happen, after the initial surprise. Kuripa pulls away.

...There...Now we’ve made each other feel like shit. We’re even now.

...

...

Kotoko’s death will always pain me...and it might make me do a lot of...shitty things...

But that’s just a sign of how much I loved her. And I know I’ll have to move on...

For now though...I’m gonna cherish the relationships I do have.

...I understand...We don’t have to talk about this anymore. But, be real with me...

You just wanna do it again, don’t you?

Of course!

Come ‘ere you!

*The two start to make out slightly more ferociously. Kibin falls back onto the sofa, and Kuripa falls on top of her.

You uh...wanna maybe take this somewhere else?

Don’t you have a manga manuscript to finish?

I still have like...20 more minutes...