#notion storage

[surfinthehighway]

Simplicity 9448 Collars:

[vaniliens]

You guys got any character storage sites thats not toyhouse or unvale or characterhub or ai or story plotters or gacha life or dnd stats or google drive or amino or obsidian or notion or

[womb-complex]

Maria must’ve been like superrrr passive if she had no idea what was going on in River Fields. Like personally if that were me I’d camp out in the mortuary and break in to see what Raymond has been up to for the past decade

[junkologistsgoods]

[manicassandra]

Idealogue - 1, G(o)d(s) and The Ineffable

1a The ambiguity of gods

One of my favourite aspects of The Silt Verses is the way the handle gods, in the way that they are both these unknowable, untamable, wild, and devastatingly powerful thing, while also being these greedy, animalistic, and at times childlike forces. Take the Trawler Man, it is both is this terrifyingly cryptic god of the rivers and waters, with the strength to level cities, and a spiteful and childlike god often used as tools by people like Katabasian Mason and to an extent later the Adjudicators.

The very idea of a god both being this unknowable force of nature, and also infantile and spiteful is terrifying as it always keeps you guessing towards the motives and next actions of these terribly powerful gods.

My favourite, most absolute favourite example is the finale of season one, in which Carpenter and Faulkner sit in a dodger car rink, with a half-completed sigil of the wither mark, a symbol of the Trawler Man's sheer destructive force. Carpenter, tired, heavily injured, and 110% done with everything, renounces the god she's served all her life. She has a direct monologue with her god, insulting him and refusing to die in the god's name. The pair then pray, Faulkner for safety, and Carpenter for "some kind of an end."

I love this because this is Carpenter pushed to her brink, her faith fully tested and the weight of genocide resting on her hands. Her family has served this god for generations, each and everyone of them save for her dying in it's name. Despite all of this sacrifice and tragedy, her god does nothing, makes nothing, says nothing. She needs to pray alongside the "child messiah" just to provoke it to act.

A god, even when faced with ultimate suffering, makes no reaction. Even when spat upon, besmirched, goaded, and insulted in every way possible, makes no reaction. Only does what it needs to when asked, and then does so in the most cruel, destructive way possible.

Gods do not care about the suffering of mortals. They don't even understand things like our joys or pains. We can only see the outlines of our gods, see their actions, so who's to say they don't see us similarly. They only see us for our actions and requests, in the same way could never comprehend their emotions.

1b When our logic breaks down

False vacuum decays, parallel universes, pocket dimensions, and every other sci-fi trope has explored the idea of universes or dimensions with different entire logics. If it's more sci than fi, one might expect different universal constants, more or less dimensions, quantum field differences, fundamental break downs of laws of physics (die in a hole, Newton).

This is what I find interesting. A realm where the very fundamentals, the rules of our world break down. Sure, you can easily imagine altering abstract fancy stuff like the speed of light, gravitational strength, or thermodynamic laws, but lets bring it down a level or two: Causality, x no longer equals y; things happen without reason. Forward progression of time, not every particles moves at the same pace, nor direction on the timeline.

Lets keep going: features of matter, nothing retains permanent features. Rocks might be hard, might be soft might be something else entirely, these features constantly changing. The differentiations of particles. Now sometimes things can be made of energy, energy can be made of rocks, light can be made of nothing, and rocks can have a frequency to them.

You see what I mean? Sure, everyone talks about how we take gravity for granted but gravity is the very surface of the laws that bind our reality so.

but you want the really confusing part?

We've only been altering/removing here. Imagine adding new rules. Replacing causality with something new. We add another dimension to time, no longer a time line, its a time graph. Matter doesn't have to have a consistent shape, size, form, or features.

Now imagine all of these different possibilities in flux, constantly affecting each other in a storm of bending rules and reality beyond your comprehension. A realm that lives on the edges of your understanding. A storm hanging just away from your calm seas of reality.

Next time you find some time to yourself, thank your gods for how your reality works.

[hungergameshyperfixation]

Everyone bear with me.

I’m hopefully going to be posting/sharing things that were written Pre-Excerpt, which I’ll tag as such LMAO, and things written during this time.

I use a mix of Notion, Google Docs, and Word for all my various hunger games shenanigans (YES I know it’s excessive).

I mostly use notion though, and apparently there’s no way to see when you edited/added something to a Notion page like you would on Google docs, so!! That has pissed me off a bit because now I cannot ‘prove’ “I posted this before…” WHY DID I WAIT TO SHARE THINGS (you’ll see why, a lot of them are unfinished thoughts I would’ve wanted to fester on more/polish).

Yall are just going to have to please please please believe me when I say that it was all pre-excerpt (I still haven’t read it fully btw)

Or don’t—I just want to claim integrity because I’m kicking myself in the foot for not posting these sooner😭

This was NOT the timeline that I had for these next couple of months 😭😭😭 (more on that in a bit)

[lucaswarmhotchocolate]

Pros of getting a job: infinite yarn money

Cons of getting a job: if I have 5k in yarn notions and projects sitting around I can no longer use the defense of “it’s not like we have anything worth stealing” when I forget to lock up before leaving the house

[2kiran]

“FEEL YOU”

pairing jaime lannister x reader genre smut reader is a male. top!reader x bottom!jaime cw drinking beforehand, reader has a big dick, first-time anal, mention of jaime being a whore (1), spit as lube, abrupt ending

Jaime Lannister despised you.

You were a new addition to the Kingsguard by the recommendation of a seasoned commander, and yes, you’re exceptionally skilled and determined and like no other man.

But you’re crude with a young ego festering like a deathly disease Westeros hasn’t come to discover yet.

You challenge Jaime—no, worse than that. You mock him, and you do it frustratingly well.

And Jaime hates all of it.

He hates you; your handsome grin that vanishes too quickly to be completely seen, your familiar frown that haunts his mind late at night, your stupid strength that immobilizes just about anyone, and your equally stupid, large cock.

One thing about Jaime was that he wasn’t a crippling alcoholic, gods no, but he drank and you drank and now he’s bent over a table in a dirty storage room.

The upper half of his armor and smallclothes remained worn, but his pants were loosely bunched around his ankles. You, on the other hand, were the exact definition of a nightmare. Your own pants were undone, and they were hanging around your thighs, but not enough to feel bare.

Then there was your hard cock. Your hand wrapped around the base, guiding the head of it to rub against Jaime’s clothed hole. He can feel how wet you’ve become, the slickness of your pre-cum dampening the soft material of his smallclothes.

It was disgusting. You were disgusting.

But that didn’t stop him from angling his hips backwards to press against you, as if he was wordlessly coaxing you to come fuck him like he was some easily disposable brothel whore. A status that he will never achieve, but he felt like he has. You were shamelessly rutting against him like an animal; your cock sliding right in between his lower cheeks but never entering him.

Gods, it was maddening. He can feel the weight of your cock, the mere thickness of it rubbing over his ass—and for once, he allowed himself to want another like this. Allowed himself to want a man, above all.

But you just had to tease him.

“Come on...” Jaime muttered through clenched teeth, not realizing that he did utter the words aloud until you respond with a low hum.

“Hm?”

“Fuck me,” he growled, a tinge of heat flushing his face. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

You breathe out a short laugh, “Not yet. Just let me feel you.”

He was going to have your head on a spike after this.

Though, the mere notion didn’t last long enough to take complete root into his head when you hook your thumb beneath the waistband of his smallclothes and tug them down, making Jaime let out an embarrassing gasp. He was dry, and his inexperience in receiving cock was nothing but guaranteed.

That won’t stop either of you, not when Jaime himself was eager.

Jaime instinctively arched his back as he folded one of his arms in front of him to act as a shield for his face while the other, the one with his only flesh hand, braced the edge of the furniture. He didn’t look your way, not yet at least, but he sensed you leaning down and that’s when he felt it.

Drool—slick and yours. It dripped over his untouched hole, and you spat directly against it once more in a way that had Jaime lightly biting down on the skin of his inner arm to suppress the pathetic whimper that wanted to escape him.

You gently pressed the pad of your finger against him, feeling up the intense coil of muscles attempting to resist the pleasure you were about to bring. “Stay still,” you whispered low, before slowly sinking your digit into his heat.

“I am—fuck,” his voice broke into a rough groan, his walls automatically clamping down around you. Both his mind and body uncertain if they want to push you out or keep you right where you belonged.

You gladly make the decision for him, and you carefully ease your finger in down to the last knuckle. The stretch itself was supposedly mild, but Jaime’s thighs shook with the solidified effort of keeping himself where he was. His brows drew together in a line, his muscles growing taut, but just for you, he tried to focus on breathing through his nose to have you know that he can take more.

It was a matter of reckless pride on his part, but there was no reason for applause.

...Perhaps there was, if only it was for the way Jaime’s hole swallowed your cock like a true king born to sit on the Iron Throne.

You were barely halfway inside, and the Golden Lion in front of you mentally concluded that it was more than enough. He whimpered—the small noise bitten-off and no less whiny, and stubbornly, it was decently masked with a sharp exhale. Your cock was so fucking thick and, even worse (or better), throbbing inside of him. Like you found pleasure in nowhere else besides torturing him.

“Wait,” Jaime barked, the command useless in his breathless tone.

“Is it too much, Kingslayer?” You teased, kindly brushing the palm of your hand over the small of his back to ease the tiniest of tremors currently ruling his skin. Though, your use of his supposed title that’s known for its derogatory nature was anything but.

You did not judge him for putting an end to the Mad King.

And that made Jaime unexpectedly clench down around you.

“Shut up—!” Jaime snapped, his chest heaving as he bucked backwards against you. Only to gasp when he realized too late that it caused you to sink further into him, “Ah! Haah, fuck—ah—don’t m-move until I tell you to.”

You huff, mildly exasperated, but you obey anyway.

Your actions were contrasting with his usual viewpoint of you—a man too cruel and too unloving to fuck someone else so considerately in spite of the agonizing words you speak. It made Jaime want to cry, both from how you were splitting him inside out and from how you were being somewhat kind towards him.

He felt an unreasonable gush of greed.

You didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t belong to you, but he sensed no inkling of an opposing front left if it came down to that.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Move. Now.”

There’s no way around other than to feel your cock sliding out of him inch by inch until only the head was being clung onto by his wet, stretched rim. Jaime panted, a bit irritated now, as he tilted his lower half to further accommodate and unmistakably please you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, leaning over his back, “How many men have fucked you like this?”

Slowly, you roll your hips, making him full once more.

“Mmh... n-none. ‘S just you—!” Jaime gasped, his words honest, the pressure sending a shudder across the length of his spine. “Just—hmmn—you!”

And you’ll make sure it stays that way.

[vixstarria]

Seeing stars

Welp, I wrote more porn.

Astarion x F!Tav/F!Reader

18+, smut, porn with plot, porn with feelings, jealous Astarion, soft dom Astarion, dirty talk, fingering, PIV, elf ears and more! Humour, banter and fluff mixed in per usual. Tav failing several insight checks in the process.

I also poke fun at the in-game romance mechanics, and Wyll's Act 2 scene in particular.

This is the last time they have sex before the "I want us to be something real" conversation.

Approx. 2,900 words

AO3

“You won’t believe the ludicrous encounter I just had with Wyll.” 

You burst into Astarion’s tent. Well, it was ‘Astarion’s’ tent only notionally at this point. Yours still stood, but it now served solely as storage space for your assorted junk. You had effectively moved in with Astarion, having first coerced him into replacing the wooden plank and bloodstained rags he slept on with some sensible rugs and blankets. 

Astarion lounged half-naked on one of the bedrolls, reading something by candlelight. 

“Oh?” he looked up at you. “Do tell.” 

“First the massage you promised earlier,” you said sinking down onto the floor of the tent and stripping off most of your clothes. “My back is killing me after carrying everyone all day.” 

“Oh please...” he rolled his eyes. “I recall you nearly walked into your own cloud of daggers, again, and would have if I hadn’t pulled you away in time. And then you blasted Lae’zel off a cliff. It’s a wonder we haven’t kicked you out yet.” He shook his head. “And if you’re carrying anyone, I’m the one carrying you.” 

Still, he sat up as you laid down on your stomach.  

“Who do you think you’re fooling with this modesty, darling?” he murmured, noticing that you’d kept your underwear on. “Just lose it now,” he added, as he slid it off, leaving you completely naked, before he settled over you, his fingers commencing work on your shoulders. “So what happened with Wyll?” 

“I was making my way back here, and found him... performing some kind of jig by the campfire, pretending like he didn’t know I was there.” 

“The ‘Blade of Frontiers’, dancing alone in the middle of camp?” Astarion snickered. “Did you mock him? Please tell me you mocked him.”  

“Well... I was going to, but then he asked me to dance with him, very earnestly.” 

“That scoundrel...” he mused. “And let me guess - you agreed, didn’t you?” 

“Oh trust me, at that point it would have been more awkward not to dance with him, I had to play along.” 

Astarion scoffed, with a chuckle. 

“Do you always go along with whatever people want from you just because it would be too awkward to say no?” 

"I try not to – last time I did, I ended up with a vampire who won’t stop sucking me dry,” you deflected. “I figured there was no harm in indulging him. Besides, I don’t see you dancing with me. It was kind of nice,” you teased. 

“I hate dancing,” he said. 

“Right,” you said. “I’m sure you hate dancing just as much as you hate poetry, flowers, art, cats... What else?” 

“Children,” he answered. “I also can’t stand children.” 

“No, that one I could see being true,” you grinned. 

“So anyway, you two dolts pranced around the fire to the sound of crickets, then what?” 

“And then he tried to kiss me,” you admitted, with a sigh. 

Astarion’s hands paused for a moment before resuming their work, slightly harder than before. 

“Well look at you, receiving the Duke Ravengard’s heir’s attention. Moving up in the world, hmm?” 

“I didn’t let him.” 

He laughed. 

“Is there even a single person left in camp that hasn’t tried to get into your pants, darling?” 

You had to think for a moment.  

“Are we counting Volo?” 

“Sure.” 

“Then just Karlach and Withers.” 

“Gods, I fucking love Karlach,” he murmured. “Don’t tell her I said that.” 

“Why? Getting jealous all of a sudden?” 

Astarion was silent for a few moments. 

“I just don’t understand it,” he said. “You’re with me every night. I’m at your side every day. They see us. They hear us. Still, they don’t take me – or you and me – seriously. Tell me, is there something about me that screams: ‘Please, go ahead and take my lover for yourself. Come on in and snatch her right out from under me, I don’t mind’?”  

Perhaps you’d made a bad judgment call when you thought Astarion would find the absurdity of the situation humorous rather than offensive. Still, you had to bite your cheek to keep from laughing at the dramatics he added to the delivery of the last few lines that left his mouth. 

“Stop laughing,” he said.  

“I’m not laughing,” you laughed.  

“I can feel your back muscles twitching in your efforts.” 

“Well, they’re aware this all started as a joke. Perhaps they never realised that it’s long stopped being one?” you offered. 

Astarion’s hands had been moving lower and lower along your back. They had now reached your ass and continued to rub, stroke and squeeze, as you let out a soft groan. 

“That’s not my back, Astarion.” 

One of his hands kept squeezing an ass cheek, while the other dipped to stroke you between your legs. He gave a satisfied hum when two of his fingers entered you effortlessly. 

“Maybe if they could see how wet I can make you just by rubbing your back they’d reconsider how much of a joke this is,” he said, his voice low. He continued to pump his fingers in and out – you were almost embarrassed by the loud squelching sounds that came out of you. You moaned and tried to lift your hips higher, but your legs were encased between his thighs, pinned down on the bedroll. “Do you think you’d be reacting this way to young Ravengard, darling?” 

“Stop it,” you hissed. “You know I don’t want anyone but you.” 

“Stop?” he pulled his fingers out, to your dissatisfied whine. You looked back to see him studying your slick on his fingers. “I should go smear this on his face right now... The audacity to try to get his hands on what is not his.” He licked his fingers clean instead. He turned his attention back to you.  

“Maybe if you were more vocal about your devotion to me the others wouldn’t make these mistakes.” 

His hand returned between your legs, spreading your wetness and slipping lower to tease your clit.  

“I could be... encouraged... to be more vocal about it,” you breathed, trying to grind against his hand.  

“Yes... I should make you scream my name, so they all know who you belong to.” 

His fingers returned inside you, teasing you with shallow strokes.  

“You can try,” you taunted him. 

Astarion let out an indignant huff and shifted to spread your legs open with his knees, simultaneously placing a hand on your back to firmly hold you down. You expect to feel his cock enter you, but he continued to stroke you with his fingers, turning his hand to curl them downwards.  

“Is that a challenge, darling?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “You should know better by now than to bet against me,” he said, continuing to flex his fingers inside you. 

It started off pleasant enough, but rapidly grew into... more. And more. You weren’t sure what he was doing but whatever it was, it was just about making you see stars. 

You sputtered as the new sensation started to take hold of your whole being.  

“Ast… what..”  

You couldn't manage anything coherent, as his fingers continued to dig into you, gradually picking up speed and pressure. You started to squirm to try to get away despite yourself, but he simply put more weight against the hand on your back, securely pinning you to the bedroll. 

“Always getting yourself into situations you're not prepared for…" he murmured. "You're not talking your way out of this one.”

His fingers were relentless. You were worried you really would scream and wake everyone in camp. All you could do was bite down on the pillow, hoping that it would muffle your drawn-out moans. 

“Let go, darling... I know you want to.” 

It's not so much that you let go – rather, all your decorum was ripped from you, as your muscles convulsed, the orgasm rolling through your entire body. You panted and shuddered, trying to keep quiet, your hands clutching desperately at the covers beneath you, trying to hold on to anything like your life depended on it. 

Once the feeling subsided, you came back to your senses to find Astarion hovering over you, kissing the back of your neck and shoulders, grazing them with his fangs, almost but not quite hard enough to draw blood. You felt his erection rubbing against your hip. 

“Has anyone fucked you like this before?” he whispered hoarsely into your ear, his breath ragged from his own arousal. “Tell me.” 

“No,” you gasped, trying to catch your own breath.  

“I thought so,” he whispered with a smile, kissing your neck before he sat back up. 

You turned back to look at him over your shoulder. He watched you with a self-satisfied grin, his fingers returning to stroke you lightly between your legs once more. 

“Do you want me to do it again?” he purred. 

A part of you wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face after what he just put you through. Another, much larger part, wanted nothing more than to submit yourself to whatever he would do to you.  

“Yes,” you admitted sheepishly. 

“Turn around...” he narrowed his eyes mischievously. “I want to see your face this time.” 

You flipped around onto your back, under his watchful gaze. His eyes never left yours as he stroked your slit, teasing your engorged clit with his thumb, before his fingers slipped back inside you. 

You found yourself mewling in anticipation before he really even started doing anything.  

“So eager,” he smirked. “So wanton...” 

He curled his fingers again, moving his whole hand to mercilessly claw into a sweet spot you didn’t even know existed inside you.  

You tried to relax into and accept this sensation, now that you were familiar with it. A growing pressure kept building at the bottom of your stomach. It was too much. It was entirely too much. You couldn’t take more of it. You couldn’t- 

“Let go, I’ve got you...” His whisper sounded so tender in sharp contrast to the depraved way he was handling your body. 

You sobbed as what you hoped was cum gushed out of you, your legs quivering.  

“Good girl”, Astarion laughed with glee, bending down to place a kiss on your lips, continuing to stroke you lightly, “Your body reacts so perfectly to me... Do you want more?” 

“You... I want you...” you groaned, biting his lip. 

“If that’s what my good girl wants,” he purred, discarding what was left of his clothes.  

You groaned as his cock entered you, rocking your hips against his, trying to find that feeling again. 

“So wet and needy for me...” he goaded you. “I’ve completely ruined you for anyone else, haven’t I?” 

He held absolutely nothing back as he fucked you, lewd insistent sounds of skin slapping on skin combined with your shared grunts and moans disturbing what was likely otherwise a silent night. 

“Anyone awake knows exactly what I’m doing to you right now,” he rasped, voice thick.  

Your walls clenched at the thought, making him shudder and sigh as well. 

“You like that thought, don’t you..? I know you do,” he continued. “So shameless...” 

Despite yourself, you whimpered, clenching again as another orgasm started threatening to overtake you. 

“That’s it... Come for me again,” he groaned. “Come for me, my love.” 

‘My love’..? Just a figure of speech, you thought. You’d thrown that phrase around, jokingly, but it’s never sounded so... raw. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to keep hearing it.  

“Your what?” you gasped.  

He didn’t answer. Instead he caught your lips in a deep, devouring kiss, pinning your arms over your head.  

Your body gave in and you trembled under him, caught up in waves of pleasure again.  

He released your arms and eased his movements once you rode out your high, but kept kissing you, hungrily, unwilling to release your lips from his.  

Clearly, no further words of love would follow, you thought to yourself with a tinge of both relief and disappointment, deciding to let it go. 

“You’re so good to me,” you managed, breaking your lips from his. 

“Aren’t I just?” he groaned, speeding up again to chase his own release.  

You kissed your way up his jaw to his ear, pausing to nibble on his earlobe.  

You couldn’t see it, but a ditsy, open-mouthed smile started to play on his face. 

Astarion gasped with a sharp intake of breath as you continued further, running your tongue over the inside of the shell of his ear. 

“Oh sweet hells,” he sighed with pleasure, immediately grinding into your harder. 

You smiled as he tilted his head, just about pressing his ear against your lips. 

“Do you like that?” you whispered in his ear, running your tongue over it again, lifting your hands to run your fingers through his hair. You knew he did. You just wanted to hear him say it.  

“Yes... Don’t stop...” His words sounded like a desperate plea. 

You continued to gently nibble on the edge of his ear, soft moans escaping you from his movements. 

“That’s it, take what’s yours” you groaned, as his hips crashed into yours harder. 

His breathing and movements were becoming more and more frantic.  

“Astarion...” you whispered, grazing the shell of his ear with your lips. 

He let out an uncharacteristic whimper, all his usual composure slipping from him, as he bucked his hips, fucking you with quick, shallow thrusts.  

“My sweet...” you breathed against his ear. 

He came completely undone, spilling into you with forceful, jagged thrusts, before finally stilling. His whole body seemed to melt into yours as he stayed on top of you, trying to regain his breath. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, not wanting to let go of him yet, but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to lift himself from you either. Instead he trailed light, tender kisses from your neck up to your lips.  

You delicately traced the contours of Astarion’s face with your fingertips, running them from his cheekbone down to his jaw, as he leaned into your caress, gazing into your eyes.  

Astarion parted his lips slightly, as though to say something, only to seal them again. He tilted his head to kiss your knuckles as your fingers gradually made their way back up, to run through his hair. Eventually he spoke. 

“You would really choose me over the more... blatantly obvious options you have at your disposal here?” he asked quietly.  

“Haven’t I made that abundantly clear already..?” 

“Well of course you have – no one else is this good,” he said with a tired smirk. 

“I’m not talking about the...” you blinked. “You know I’m not with you just for the sex, right..?” you frowned, looking into his eyes. 

He looked away, slipping out of you and moving to lie down next to you.  

“Is that so?” he said softly.  

You found yourself suddenly feeling rattled. Was he simply fishing for compliments again, or had you been utterly oblivious to just how deep his insecurities ran this whole time..? 

“You have a wealth of other qualities that I... enjoy and appreciate,” you said, somewhat lamely.  

Astarion propped his head up on his hand and raised an eyebrow at you quizzically. There was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes despite his outward nonchalance.  

Oh for fuck’s sake, you thought. I’m not ready for any serious conversations now, especially not with cum running down my thighs.  

You turned away to grab something to wipe yourself down with. 

“A gentleman would clean up his own mess, by the way. Not one of your strong points. But you do have some virtues that make up for it. For instance... I can leave cheese unattended around you, knowing you won’t eat it.” 

Astarion went to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing.  

“You’re a treasure trove of useless information,” you continued. “But unlike some of our companions you usually keep it to yourself.” A hint of a smile played on his lips at that.  

“Your hand feels nice and cold on my forehead when I have a headache.” You laid back down next to him, mirroring the way he was lying. 

“You always smell nice, especially for a dead guy. You never hog the mirror.”   

“What about my hair, won’t you mention that?” he smiled. 

“No, fuck your hair, it makes mine look awful in comparison.”  

He chuckled at that. 

“I do rather adore the garnet puppy eyes though,” you murmured. “What else... You make me laugh, and, more importantly, I make you laugh – which is great for my ego,” you continued.  

“As long as you understand that I’m usually laughing at you,” he countered. 

“Prick... Then there’s the fact you’ve saved my life four times.”  

“Seven,” he said quietly, looking into your eyes.  

“Five.”  

“It’s seven, dear, I counted.” 

“Whatever. When it comes to battle, you’re silent but deadly,” you said. “Like a-” 

Astarion’s hand covered your mouth.  

“Do not finish that thought, darling.” 

You grinned from behind his palm.  

“I think we can be done with this conversation,” he said.  

“Wait, wait, one more...” you laughed. “You’re eccentric, unpredictable, often irrational. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.”  

You smiled as Astarion groaned dramatically, covering his face with one hand.  

“Knowing I’ll get to spend another day in your mad company gives me a reason to get up in the morning,” you added, softly. 

“Come here, you sweet fool,” he whispered, drawing you against him.  

You hugged him tightly. It took so long for him to start initiating these embraces that wouldn’t lead to sex... You relished each one.  

Tomorrow, Astarion thought to himself, unbeknown to you. I have to tell her tomorrow.  

~~~~~

Follow up bonus scene

This work is part of a series - here is the master list

Next in series - Confession

AO3

Tags: @littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tallymonster @tragedybunny @spunky-89

@spacebarbarianweird @kittenintheden - hey, I heard you like elf ears

[poetryvampire]

painfully needy Rolan going into rut

Had this on the brain lately. I don't think it would take much to make Rolan an absolute mess but imagine how worse it would be when he's going into rut. Boy would snap so fast

Rolan x afab non-tiefling reader

Have some 🔥spicy🔥 musings

*this went longer than I wanted lol. But if you like it tell me if you want more 🧡

● Rolan had been doing this dance with you for months now. Both working at Sorcerous Sundries you saw each other regularly, even tried to work together as much as possible (not that he'd ever admit that). The banter, the playful mockery leading to not so subtle flirtation was easy until now.

● The conversations didn't flow like before. A joke about becoming a doe eyed scarcely dressed maiden -like the ones on the covers of those novels you so enjoy- suddenly lead his mind to wander. Any wisecrack replaced with the image of you gazing at him so lustfully. An image that stays with him for the rest of the day (and night).

● Lia and Cal are very vocal about his uptick in irritability. He tries to ignore them but they're not wrong. Ever little thing sets him off. He's frustrated at himself. For letting the feelings get so far without truely noticing. For being too proud or too embarrassed to act on them.

●He often forgets his words as his eyes lingered on your lips, your neck, your figure. More than once you caught him staring and to his surprise no offense was taken. Just a quizzical look, perhaps a soft smile that flooded his face with warmth.

●Rolan would have almost preferred you'd have met him with anger. Now the hope of you ran rampant through him. That if he was ever to give in he may be met with the embrace he so longed for. The need for you was growing by the day. He even took care to not stand to closely to you now. He coursed himself for it. How had he become so starved for affection that even the scent of you sprung his body to life.

●The wizard had spent many nights forced to take action if he was to ever find sleep. He'd be tangled in his sheets, hair wild, trusting violently into his own fist. He tries to keep his fantasies to more abstract forms of pleasure but as hard as he tries the vague shapes melt into crystal clear images of you. It would always be you around him like a vice that would push him over the edge.

● There were times he'd lose himself so throughly he'd cry out your name as he came. Embarrassed by this lack of control, Rolan told himself it was better to happen here than in front of you.

● Going into work that morning something felt off. Rolan's whole body felt extra sensitive, aching. The horrible thought finally struck him at midday. Was he going into rut? Now!? With such little warning? He calms himself. He's not certain after all.

● Until he's been paired with you to clean out and old study turned storage room. He's hyper aware of your scent. Its filling his lungs,making his knees weak. The room isn't exactly small but it's stuffed with stacks of books making moving around a problem. You're constantly having to squeeze (delightfully, terrifyingly) close to each other.

● Luckily you're busying yourself with the task at hand. Rolan prays you won't notice how red (red-er) his face is or the sizable bulge he's currently cloaking with a stack of books. The straining against his pants is almost painful. He's eyeing the door, anything to escape the heat building in his blood.

●His eyes fall back to you and all notions of making a run for it leave his mind. Along with everything else that isn't right in front of him. You looked a vision, standing on and old box body spread across the book self as you attempt to reach something on the top shelf. Not only was it a perfect view of your form, it reminded him of a pose one might see in an old painting.

●Suddenly the box wobbled threatening to send you falling backwards. Your scream was cut short as you felt Rolan catch you, arms wrap around your middle tightly pressing you to him. His face buried in your hair he couldn't help utter a deep groan. The wave of intoxicating aroma washing away his last bit of restraint.

●With ease he flips you around, pressing you into the shelf, a maon escaping your lips. Your hands came to his chest not to push him away but in a gentle caress.

●'Rolan? Please,' was hardly out on your mouth when they were swallowed by his lips. He kisses you like a drowning man breaking the water's surface. Madly, desperately as if any second you may be taken away for him. Hungrily he deepens the kiss and your lips part for him with ease, both of you relishing in the taste.

●It's only when you part for air he realizes he's been rocking his hips into you. An apology catches in his throat as you grind back against him. He's dizzy with lust, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

●His lips find your neck, kissing, sucking and biting. Trying his best not to break the skin. Your moans drive him on. His hands are frantic running all over you. Soon your hands lead his to the laces on your dress. He makes quick work of it.

●Rolan takes you in his arms again and lays you down on a near by table. A little too eager he tears your under things away completely. But to his awe you only laugh and spread yourself out for him to drink you in fully. You're a goddess in his eye and he intends to worship.

●Words spill senselessly from him as he lavishes you with his mouth. 'Fuck, Fuck! You're beautiful you're perfect. I need- God's, l need you I need you.' He hasn't the brain for elegance now. He's kissing you everywhere maoning words of love into your skin.

● As he makes it to your thighs he cannot help but bury is face between them. The sweet taste of your sex has him throbbing with out so much as a touch. He wants to make sure you're nice and ready for him. You're not a tiefling after all and he couldn't bare the thought of hurting you. It doesn't take long before you're dripping wet against his tongue as he slides wildly between attacking your entrance and your clit.

●You stifle a scream as an orgasm suddenly rips through you, your thighs shaking in his grasp. Youre still panting but you pull him away, drawing him closer to you. As you pull him into a soft kiss your hands unlace his pants (finally) freeing his erection. Though to hold him lightly his gasp is sharp. He's painfully hard; his head already glistening with precum.

●As he runs he length against your folds he tries to center himself. He doesn't want to be too rough or finish terribly fast. He wants to go slow but when he catches on your entrance he can't help but thrust into you, the relief of his agony so close. You tremble but encourage him on. His name quickly becoming a soft prayer on your lips.

●He's wrapped inside you now, almost all the way. The pleasure overwhelming him he opts for quicker shallow thrusts. He's taken aback by how vocal he is as more sweet lustful nothings spill from him. Rolan's control is fading fast. He's practically shaking, slamming himself into you losing whatever rhythm he had. The sight of your face contorting with pleasure is pushing him to his end. He can feel the hot pull in his gut. And suddenly something else as.

●A chill runs over him as he feels the swelling at the base of his cock. He grasps it and pulls out not wanting to subject you to something he didn't even take the time to explain. In part he's too late. He didn't fully knot but he still comes hard, spilling thick ropes all over your stomach and thighs. Fuck, you're beautiful like this.

● He blushes deeply and panics, apologizing over and over. He didn't want it to be like this. You run your fingers through his hair and kiss him gently. You don't know that much about teifling biology but Gods you wanted to learn. Rolan tries to believe you, that this wouldn't scare you off.

● He adjusted his pants, somehow still as uncomfortable as before. Perhaps it was the sight of you dressing. How you made no move to do away with his mess before you did. He could take you again easily. But not here.

● You convince him to claim illness and leave work early. To take time to rest. He agrees wanting to lock himself away from the world. And yet he also agrees to meet you that night. Then he'd have a more level head. A chance to explain himself and perhaps to hold you in his arms for longer.

Xoxo thanks for reading friends ❤️

[coco-loco-nut]

Take a Chance on Me

pairing: charles x reader

summary: a secret can only stay a secret for so long, especially when you aren’t really trying to hide it

masterlist series masterlist soundtrack

requests open

——————————

You made Charles put in the work, but it felt as easy as breathing for him. He was just thankful to have you in his arms again. Charles took every opportunity to travel from Maranello to your home near Ravenna.

The relationship has been kept under wraps, needing to focus on yourselves and the relationship. It’s been hard to remember that you aren’t the same people as you were before and your relationship won’t be the same either.

Charles really stepped into a father figure role quickly. Neither you or Alessandra expected him to do so right away, but it was an easy adjustment. Truthfully, the whole relationship has been an easier to fall back into than expected.

“Good morning,” Charles kisses your shoulder, voice groggy as you roll over to face him.

“When do you fly out?” you blink away your exhaustion. You’ll be relieved when the season is over.

“I’ll have to leave here in a couple hours,” he replies, pulling you in for a cuddle.

“That’s so soon,” you groan, wanting to fall asleep on his chest.

“I know, but it’s the last race. You’ll see me in a couple days anyway,” Charles is bringing you in Friday evening for Saturday and Sunday. Alessandra has been not-so subtly asking to go to another race and you are happy to go and support him.

“I know,” you reach up and play with the ends of his hair. “I think you need to swing by Monaco and have your mom cut your hair,” you smile, giving it a light tug.

“It’s in my plans for after the race, don’t worry. I do recall you begging for me to grow it out longer,” he smiles lazily.

“Well now it’s too long,” you give him a quick kiss and sit up. “I’ll start breakfast,” you slide one of his shirts on and a pair of shorts before heading to the kitchen. It doesn’t take too long before Charles joins you, easily sliding beside you to help cook.

“Morning, Mom. Good morning, Charles,” Alessandra yawns, wearing an old Ferrari hoodie she stole from Charles after you washed it.

“I was wondering where that went. Remind me to bring you to Monaco, I have a storage unit full of old team kits,” Charles greets warmly.

“Really?” her eyes widen as she sits at the kitchen table.

“Of course, we can go after the prize giving ceremony,” he promises. You never could’ve imagined this being your family. You’ve noticed the little things. How he clearly wants to be a father, but holds back until it’s clear that you and Alessandra are comfortable with that.

“Are you packed?” you set down a plate of pancakes as Charles helps set the table. Alessandra is leaving for the race with Charles after she spent a week begging you. He was kind enough to pull some strings and ‘hire’ her as a temporary personal assistant. She’s been packed for the last few days.

“I’ve been packed,” Charles hides his smile at her response. He’s a little stressed, it’s a lot of responsibility to bring his girlfriend’s daughter on a trip overseas. It’s a test, he knows it is. If something goes wrong he wouldn’t blame you for calling it off.

“Maybe I should change my flight plans,” you joke, taking a seat beside Charles.

“Just say the word and it’s done,” Charles says, making your heart flutter at the notion.

“Can’t, I have some big meetings today and tomorrow,” you remind him.

Breakfast passes by quickly and you find yourself alone in the kitchen cleaning up as Charles finishes packing. A picture frame catches your eye and you grab it. You are beaming at the camera as Alessandra takes some steps out of your arms and towards the camera. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the picture, but that was one of the hardest years of your life.

You were struggling being a single mom, even with your parents help, and your depression didn’t help. The news was filled with Ferrari’s championship year and Charles’ track dominance as he won his first of three championships. You couldn’t escape it. You were even struggling in your career, being a single mom fresh out of college was a challenge you weren’t ready for.

“Mom?” Alessandra’s voice pulls you out of your memories. You hum in acknowledgment, looking away from the photo. “I’ll finish up. Go help Charles pack,” she offers.

“Honey, it’s okay, I’ve got it,” you set the photo down and pull yourself together.

“No, go. Spend some time with your man,” she nudges you away from the sink.

“Okay,” you breathe. Glancing once more at your grown up baby girl before heading to your bedroom.

“When I was a driver, sweats were perfectly acceptable flying attire,” Charles frowns as he buttons up his shirt.

“I don’t know, I like this look,” you fix his collar.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you feel your cheeks flame as you place a stack of folded clothes into his suitcase.

You notice nervous energy as Charles double checks his backpack.

“Hey, everything okay?” you extend your hand and gently touch his shoulder,

“I know we pretty much have the championships on lock, but what if something happens? It came down to the last race for a reason,” Charles stresses.

“Then it wasn’t meant to happen this year. Trust yourself and your team like you have every time, have fun, and just remember it’s another regular weekend at the track,” you use roughly the same speech you gave Alessandra many times before a dance recital or football game.

“I don’t know how I survived without you,” Charles steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against your back in a hug.

“Alright, you need to get going,” you sigh, feeling his warmth leave you. Charles watches you quickly get dressed to go to work, wishing he could just stop time and spend the day in bed with you. You feel a greater sadness when he and Alessandra get into his car and drive off.

“Excited?” Charles asks as the plane nears Abu Dhabi. Alessandra looks like a younger version of you, wide eyed and ready to take on the world.

“I am, thank you for bringing me early,”

“Of course. You did the hard part of convincing your mom,” Charles feels like it is thankless.

“You know, it’s all kinda crazy. I went from being a fan to having a guy who is basically my dad be the team principal of Ferrari,” Alessandra mentions, warming Charles’ heart at the words.

“Well I never thought I’d have the chance to have a daughter figure, or ever see your mom again, so I think I’m the lucky one,” Charles is careful with his words. He doesn’t want to overstep, but he does want to be honest.

“I know we aren’t there yet as a family, but I do look forward to the day where you will be my dad,” Charles reaches across the aisle and gives her a hug.

“Soon,” Charles promises. Does he have a ring already picked out? He bought one a couple days after reconciling.

The next two days pass by quickly. You get so many updates from Alessandra and Charles that you feel like you are right there with them. As you lock the door to your home, your phone pings with a text. It’s a photo of Alessandra on the pit wall where Charles usually sits, headset on and looking at data while Charles points something out. You quickly dial his number as you carry your bag to your parents car.

“Don’t you think she’s a bit young to manage the team?” you ask when he picks up, your smile audible through the phone.

“She’s learning from the best. Our future leader of Ferrari,” Charles replies. Our. Your heart warms at the word, at his want to be a part of your family and the integration of your family into his life.

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend that she sits on the pit wall during a race, but to each their own,” you laugh.

“I take it you are on your way to the plane then?” Charles asks, you hear shuffling and the shut of a door in the background. You have his full attention.

“I am, my father says hello by the way,” you sink into the car seat, anxious to arrive in Abu Dhabi.

“Hello back to him,” you chat for a few more minutes until he has to go again. Your father turns up the radio once the call ends, an old CD that has played on many trips. With the sun streaming through the window, you are taken back to the days when he would take you to a nearby town as an adventure.

“I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but I am glad you two are back together again,” you dad speaks as you get closer to the airport.

“You are?”

“Of course. He’s one of the few people who have ever made you truly happy. It was unfortunate when you ended things the first time. I’m happy to see my baby girl happy again once more,”

“I am just still a little on edge. It’s hard to trust after all these years,” you pick at the hem of your shirt.

“How does my stellina feel about the relationship?” your fathers asks, briefly glancing at you.

“She adores him, and not just because of his occupation. She is the reason we found each other again after all,” your words have a fondness to them that you hadn’t recognized yourself yet. Maybe Charles isn’t the only one ready to take that step.

“Then why the hesitation?” you open your mouth to answer but no words come to mind. “Tesoro, everything you have done for nearly the last seventeen years has been for Alessandra. It is okay to allow yourself another source of happiness, especially one that already seems to have her approval.”

“How did you become so wise?” your smile meets your eyes.

“The same way you have, raising a headstrong daughter,” your father stops at your drop off point, following Charles’s instructions to a t.

“Thank you,” you give him a hug goodbye and head inside. You spend the flight watching movies and napping. Charles is still at the track for free practice two when you land, so a hospitality staff member is sent to pick you up and bring you to the track.

“Miss Rossi?” the staff member isn’t hard to spot, their crisp Ferrari polo standing out in the crowd.

“That’s me,” you smile tiredly.

“We should get going, best not to leave Mr. Leclerc waiting,” the British accent sounds almost harsh against the Italian you are accustomed to. “How was your flight?”

“Pleasant, thank you for asking, and for retrieving me from the airport,” your luggage is loaded into the waiting car and you slip into the back seat.

“This is your paddock pass, please do not lose it,”

“Thanks,” the car ride is short, and a little awkward. You expected it, retrieving your boss’s significant other is probably not a fun task.

“We will handle your luggage from here,” the staff member leaves you at the front of the hospitality center.

“Mom!” Alessandra rushes over to hug you.

“Hi,” you hug her back, squeezing a little tighter.

“Charles is in a meeting but he will be right out,” she says professionally, practicing her assistant role.

“Well then, what do you recommend we do?”

“Y/n?” a familiar voice distracts you.

“Carlos? What are you doing here?” you take a step forward to hug Charles’s former teammate, but quickly stop yourself.

“I could ask the same, I haven’t seen you in, god almost twenty years. I’m here to support the team in winning the championship, you know, former driver things. What are you doing here?” Carlos also seems unsure of how to proceed.

“I, um, Charles and I got back together recently. This is my daughter, Alessandra. She pulled the strings and here we are,” you motion to your near carbon copy. Carlos quickly tries to identify any of Charles’ features but finds none.

“Hi, I’m a huge fan,” Alessandra is giddy. It seems like you both just arrived.

“Two of my favorite people arrived,” Charles steps into the room with a smile.

“Your wife is here,” you point at Carlos with a teasing grin.

“Forget him, let’s run away together,” Carlos teases back. It takes Charles back, like you never broke up.

“Don’t do that. Ready to head out?” Charles asks you, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Yep, although your staff did something with my luggage,” you look around for someone to ask.

“On its way to the hotel as we speak. Are you hungry, we can go get dinner?” Charles asks like you are the only person in the room.

“I would love some, thanks for asking,” Carlos replies as Charles rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Maybe we can order in?” You suggest, not in the mood to go out anywhere.

“Sounds like a plan. Carlos you are welcome to join,” Charles extends the offer, knowing Carlos will take it anyway.

“Send me the time and room number, we have some catching up to do,” Carlos leaves the three of you.

“Sometimes I wish you two never split. Like, can you imagine if Carlos was my uncle from birth,” Alessandra says as you near Charles’ car. Carlos is only a few steps ahead, so you and Charles capitalize on it.

“You don’t want that, he has horrible jokes,” Charles deflects, but speaking loud enough for Carlos to hear.

“That’s true, and his singing is worse,”

“Aye, take that back,” Carlos turns around.

“Smooth operator,” Charles sings mockingly.

“Are they always like this?” Alessandra asks, looking at you.

“They always were. Some fans didn’t believe it, but they were good friends, even if they didn’t spent much time together outside of work,” you answer. Even if you were only present for that one summer, you took every piece of information and carefully stored it in your mind.

Dinner comes and goes, Carlos told many stories as you exchanged life updates before Charles kicked everyone out for a ‘strict bed time’. He just saw you falling asleep on his shoulder and took advantage of the opportunity.

“What do I even wear. What do the other partners of a team principal wear?” you rummage through your bag, stressing out.

“You could show up in sweatpants and I’d be happy. But to answer your question, the same thing as you wore when you attended my races before,” Charles reaches into your bag and pulls out a red top and white dress pants.

“People will see us together and judge, I don’t want bad opinions on day one,” you quickly change, stressing over the smallest details.

“There will be every kind of opinion no matter how you dress, but the only one that matters is mine. Your return to the paddock will be one looked upon favorably,” Charles promises.

“I love you,” you tell him for the first time since before you split. Charles pauses, running the moment back over in his head to make sure he heard right.

“I love you too, I never stopped,” Charles sweeps you into a kiss, carefully restraining himself since you don’t have much time before you leave.

The morning seems quiet to you, not quite the normal excitement that a race would bring. Maybe it’s fatigue, everyone ready to make that final push to the end of this season and the start of the next. Perhaps it’s just the time, having been among the first to arrive in order to get settled and for Charles to ensure he has time with you and Alessandra before his busy schedule. Either way, you soak it all in, not wanting to take everything for granted.

“Okay, we have a meeting with some of the development drivers. See you in a bit,” Charles presses a soft kiss to your lips, and as he pulls away Carlos walks in with two coffees.

“Have fun,” you take a seat beside Carlos, who generously offered to spend time with you.

Alessandra trails Charles into a conference room where three teenage boys around her age talk excitedly.

“I’ll be right back, stay here,” Charles looks down, realizing he forgot his computer.

“Who are you?” one of the boys asks, not bothering to state his name first.

“Alessandra, Charles is my, uh, father,” she replies, standing awkwardly by the doorway.

“Are you sure, you don’t sound confident about that,” the same guy replies.

“Sorry about that. This is my daughter, Alessandra. Alessandra, these are three of our junior drivers,” Charles sits down and Alessandra takes a seat beside him, feeling more confident. The meeting passes by quickly compared to the others, talking about targets and progress rather than times and data.

Alessandra rejoins you and Carlos, taking a snack to boost her energy while waiting for her next duty. Charles walks in with one of the reserve drivers, who is almost immediately distracted by Alessandra’s presence.

“Absolutely NOT, she is off limits to you and any other Ferrari member,” Charles narrows his eyes, the scariest he’s ever been.

“Okay, my bad,” the kid quickly apologizes, a little embarrassed.

“Charles, don’t scare him,” you chastise, leaving Alessandra with Carlos who is more than happy to talk her ear off. “She is off limits though,” you agree with Charles.

“Come with me, mon amour,” Charles takes your hand, leading you to his office. The door clicks behind you, locked for privacy.

“Don’t you have things to do?” you ask, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“I have some time before qualifying,” he steps close to you, tenderly kissing you.

“Is that so?” you grin, gently pulling him closer to you. He hums lowly, letting the tension softly build between you.

“I should bring you to every race,” Charles says lowly, cherishing the quiet moment in a hectic weekend.

“You’d get nothing done,” your soft laugh fills the room, still sending Charles’ heart racing.

“Worth it,” a knock breaks your bubble making both of you sigh.

“Go, they need you,” you press one last kiss to his lips.

“I’ll see you later,” Charles swiftly exits the room, leaving you behind as he heads to the track. You follow behind a few minutes later, finding Alessandra where you left her.

“You look just as flustered as Charles,” Alessandra smirks before it falls a second later. “I don’t want to know,” she grimaces, erasing the thought from her mind.

“Oh, shush. Nothing happened,” you take a seat beside her. Ollie and Kimi’s partners approach carefully, unsure what the proper way to greet your partner’s boss’s partner.

“Hi, we think you should see this,” Ollie’s partner turns their phone towards you and Alessandra. It’s an article with a picture of the two of you and Charles entering the paddock. There’s also an old photo of you and Charles from your prior relationship.

“I didn’t think they’d catch on so soon,” you frown.

“How widespread?” Alessandra asks, mind jumping into solution mode. With only half an hour until qualifying, it isn’t the moqq as

“It’s spreading quickly. Kimi told me that Charles is in a meeting but the PR team is usually on top of this stuff,” Kimi’s partner answers, not sugarcoating it. Alessandra quickly gets on social media.

“The reaction seems positive. Not too much is known about us, so everyone seems to be congratulating Charles on a happy relationship,” Alessandra chooses to hide the speculation around her paternity.

“Hi, could you follow me?” as expected, the chief communications officer finds you swiftly. You and Alessandra follow her to a small meeting room where Charles is looking at a summary on a tablet. Carefully, you take a seat beside him, his hand immediately finding yours under the table.

“So, how do we approach this?” Charles looks into your eyes, ignoring his communications team.

“We need to be honest when asked if we are together. It isn’t that big of a deal now that it’s out there, especially since I’m not some celebrity,” you answer honestly. “We reconnected after running into one another after a long time apart, it’s pretty simple.”

“I’m afraid there is something a little more concerning than that,” the communications chief voice doesn’t match her slightly nervous expression. “There is a lot of growing speculation around Alessandra’s father, and her working under Charles this week isn’t helping,” you feel anger bubbling up, a squeeze from Charles’s hand holds you back.

“I don’t understand, why do they have a right to ask about a child who is not one of our drivers,” Charles practically seethes, wanting to protect the girl he’s come to see as his daughter.

“Alessandra has no father, there is not one on her birth certificate. She is my daughter and that is that,” your eyes narrow.

“Charles is certainly like a father to me at this point, but my mother is right. If asked, my father was never in the picture. I’d prefer that my relationship with Charles is kept between us at this stage,” Alessandra shifts in her seat, bridging yours and Charles’s statements. Alessandra has no doubt that she will be adopted by Charles eventually, but that isn’t information that needs to be known outside of the family.

“Right. We will address the press outside and quickly draft some bullet points for when you get stopped by the press,” with that, Charles dismisses himself, ending the meeting. This wasn’t how he planned the weekend on going, but he should’ve known better to plan for this. You stand up, following Charles without a second thought.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” Charles runs a frustrated hand through his hair. While he’s supposed to be focusing on the race he now has the press to think about.

“They were going to find out at some point. Best they learn during the last race than the first,” you bitterly smile, walking with him.

“You’re right, you always are,” Charles lets out a deep breath.

“Hey, I trust your judgment. Whatever you say to the press, I will back you,” you gently take his hand and give it a squeeze. You aren’t used to giving up control like that, but you are partners in your relationship.

“I love you,” Charles presses a quick kiss to your forehead before heading to the garage. Alessandra stays in hospitality with you, watching the television feed of Quali.

Once you return to the hotel, you sit in Charles’s hotel room to discuss your options.

“This is what the team sent over,” Charles turns his computer around to face Alessandra.

“I don’t think we should hide anything, just ignore any inquiries into the family,” Alessandra shrugs.

“I’m okay with that,” Charles agrees. You don’t speak, simply nodding in agreement. Alessandra yawns sleepily after the long day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she stands, yawning as she stretches.

“Sleep well, love you,” you hug her tightly.

“See you then,” Charles offers a small smile and a reminder of when to meet in the morning.

After a quiet morning, the three of you make your way into the paddock. Almost immediately you are swarmed. Some yell questions about the team and qualifying results, but the majority ask questions about you. Security stalwarts to break them up, but Charles seizes the opportunity to make a statement.

“My family is a private matter. Unless the questions are relevant to the team and racing, I will not be answering them,” Charles says firmly, holding you a little tighter as your grip on Alessandra’s arm is firmer. Security makes a gap and the three of you slip through, quickly moving away from the media vultures.

As you walk into the Ferrari motorhome, your mind fixates on one word. Family. You don’t know why Charles chose that to describe you and Alessandra. Convenience or his truth - that you are his family.

“You look… rattled,” Carlos greets you. Charles was pulled away as soon as you stepped foot inside. Not that you are complaining, it’s race day, of course he is busy. Alessandra went off with some interns she befriended over the weekend, needing to be around people near her own age.

“I, um, we got surrounded by the media,” you explain, a little frustrated. Carlos nods sympathetically, clearly having seen the articles about his former teammate.

“They are ruthless, they used go call Rebecca and I a PR relationship,” Carlos scoffs, relating to your frustration. You want to ask him for his insight, try to know what Charles meant by the word family, but you just can’t bring yourself to.

“It comes with the territory, I suppose,” your bitter smile matches his own.

“Well, I haven’t seen him so happy in a while. That’s what matters,” Carlos offers his support.

“Isn’t it crazy how much we all have changed?” you glance as Carlos’s lock screen, a photo of him and his son - Carlos Sainz III wearing race suits.

“We are all grown up. You three should come to Madrid. There is a nice karting track and I can show you around,” Carlos suggests. He and Charles keep in touch, but they aren’t that close. Carlos thinks it might be nice to grow that relationship, especially with his son expressing interest and talent in karting.

“I’m sure Charles would like that. We should find a time before the season starts or you won’t see Charles until summer break,” your smile is genuine, glad to have a friend in Carlos.

“Has she ever karted?” Carlos glances at Alessandra, who is eagerly saying something to one of the development drivers.

“No. She asked, but the money and being a single mom,” you trail off, unable to add another truth to why you kept her away. “Being Italian, it’s impossible to not love Ferrari and she’s always had an attraction to the sport. Karting just wasn’t an option,” you shrug.

“Charles isn’t?” Carlos doesn’t say the rest, letting the implied question speak for itself. You shake your head.

“Her sperm donor has never been in the picture, that relationship was a mistake - a rebound from Charles - and by the time I knew both were long over,” you admit.

“And how does she feel about Charles?” Carlos prods, enjoying the story session. It feels like a conversation you would have laying in your best friends dark bedroom room at 3am during a sleepover, or at brunch over a mimosa.

“She adores him. I think they see each other as a father and a daughter, but they won’t admit it yet. They’ve really taken to each other,” you feel warm and fuzzy thinking about it.

“I’m glad, you deserve that. Having someone to support you for once and to care for you, it’s nice,” Carlos still sees you and Charles as the energetic carefree couple that you were twenty years ago, so sure that you had an endless amount of time together. He never asked why you broke, but he is sure that would cause too much pain to bring up. Carlos has overheard bits and pieces, but he doesn’t know the whole story. It wasn’t his place to ask.

“I’m glad to have you as a friend,” you tell Carlos who smiles warmly at you.

You spend the rest of your day and the race with him. Charles joined you for a few minutes while he had time to spare before the race. Alessandra joins you, eagerly listening as Carlos points things out and shares his experiences as a driver. And when Kimi and Ollie cross the line taking a 1-2, you practically jump into Carlos’ arms hugging him.

Carlos guides you towards the podium when the time comes, joining Charles and the team to celebrate the championship and win.

“Mon amour!” Charles pulls you into his arms, squeezing you tight.

“You did it, just like you did as a driver,” you smile, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Congrats, Charles,” Alessandra says as you pull away, allowing her to hug him as well.

“Thank you, piccola,” Charles says softly, not thinking about using the nickname he’s only ever said in his head. Charles’ hand finds yours as you stand beside him proudly. Alessandra stands at the other side of him with Carlos, happy in the family she’s gained.

As you sing among your compatriots and the team, you don’t know how it could get better than this moment.

[glowettee]

✧ preparing for next semester series (7/12): digital organization dreams ✧

hi angels, digital organization is sooo important nowadays especially since now most schools + universities/colleges require devices and laptops for students to use. so here's a little guide for digital organization for your academics! <3

essential digital organization:

folder structure:

semester folder

subject subfolders

assignment folders

resource folders

archive system

file naming convention:

date_subject_assignment

class_topic_version

project_draft_number

reading_chapter_notes

homework_week_number

cloud storage setup:

google drive

dropbox

onedrive

icloud

backup system

app organization:

study apps folder

productivity apps

note-taking apps

calendar apps

communication apps

digital maintenance:

weekly backup

monthly cleanup

organize downloads

update apps

clear cache

note:

consistent naming

regular backups

easy navigation

clean desktop

organized bookmarks

pro tip: create a digital dashboard in notion or your preferred app to access everything quickly!

sweet thoughts, mindy x

p.s. what's your favorite organization app? let me know! ✨

[mariacallous]

The internet—it seemed like such a good idea at the time. Under conditions of informational poverty, our ancestors had no choice but to operate on a need-to-know basis. The absence of pertinent, reliable, and commonly held facts was at first a matter of mere logistics—the stable storage and orderly transfer of knowledge was costly and troublesome, and entropy was free—but, over time, the techniques of civilization afforded us better control over the collection and transmission of data. Vast triage structures evolved to determine who got to learn what, when: medieval guilds, say, or network news reports. These systems were supposed to function in everybody’s best interests. We were finite brutes of fragile competence, and none of us could confront the abyss of unmitigated complexity alone. Beyond a certain point, however, we couldn’t help but perceive these increasingly centralized arrangements as insulting, and even conspiratorial. We were grownups, and, as such, we could be trusted to handle an unadulterated marketplace of ideas. The logic of the internet was simple: first, fire all of the managers; then, sort things out for ourselves. In the time since, one of the few unambiguously good things to have emerged from this experiment is an entire genre of attempts to explain why it mostly hasn’t worked out.

This effort—the attempt to hash out what went so wrong—had something of a rocky start. After 2016, many liberals were inclined to diagnose the pathologies of the internet as a problem of supply. Some people have bad ideas and beliefs. These are bad either because they are false (“climate change is a myth,” “vaccines cause autism”) or because they are pernicious (“we should have a C.E.O. as a monarch,” “foreigners are criminals”). These ideas propagate because the internet provides bad actors with a platform to distribute them. This story was appealing, both because it was simple and because it made the situation seem tractable. The solution was to limit the presence of these bad actors, to cut off the supply at the source. One obvious flaw in this argument is that “misinformation” was only ever going to be a way to describe ideas you didn’t like. It was a childish fantasy to think that a neutral arbiter might be summoned into being, or that we would all defer to its judgments as a matter of course.

The major weakness of this account was that it tended to sidestep the question of demand. Even if many liberals agreed in private that those who believed untrue and harmful things were fundamentally stupid or harmful people, they correctly perceived that this was a gauche thing to say out loud. Instead, they attributed the embrace of such beliefs to “manipulation,” an ill-defined concept that is usually deployed as a euphemism for sorcery. These low-information people were vulnerable to such sorcery because they lacked “media literacy.” What they needed, in other words, was therapeutic treatment with more and better facts. All of this taken together amounted to an incoherent theory of information. On the one hand, facts were neutral things that spoke for themselves. On the other, random pieces of informational flotsam were elevated to the status of genuine facts only once they were vetted by credentialled people with special access to the truth.

There was, however, an alternative theory. The internet was not primarily a channel for the transmission of information in the form of evidence. It was better described as a channel for the transmission of culture in the form of memes. Users didn’t field a lot of facts and then assemble them into a world view; they fielded a world view and used it as a context for evaluating facts. The adoption of a world view had less to do with rational thought than it did with desire. It was about what sort of person you wanted to be. Were you a sophisticated person who followed the science? Or were you a skeptical person who saw through the veneer of establishment gentility?

This perspective has come to be associated with Peter Thiel, who introduced a generation of conservative-leaning acolytes to the work of the French theorist René Girard. This story has been told to hermeneutic exhaustion, but the key insight that Thiel drew from Girard was that people—or most people, at any rate—didn’t really have their own desires. They wanted things because other people wanted those things. This created conditions of communal coherence (everybody wanting the same thing) and good fellowship, which were simultaneously conditions of communal competition (everybody wanting the same thing) and ill will. When the accumulated aggression of these rivalries became intolerable, the community would select a scapegoat for ritual sacrifice—not the sort of person we were but the one we definitely were not. On the right, this manifested itself as various forms of xenophobia and a wholesale mistrust of institutional figures; on the left, as much of what came to be called cancel culture and its censorious milieu. Both were attempts to police the boundaries of us—to identify, in other words, those within our circle of trust and those outside of it.

The upshot of all of this was not that people had abandoned first principles, as liberals came to argue in many tiresome books about the “post-truth” era, or that they had abandoned tradition, as conservatives came to argue in many tiresome books about decadence. It was simply that, when people who once functioned on a need-to-know basis were all of a sudden forced to adjudicate all of the information all of the time, the default heuristic was just to throw in one’s lot with the generally like-minded. People who didn’t really know anything about immunity noticed that the constellation of views associated with their peers had lined up against vaccines, and the low-cost option was to just run with it; people who didn’t really know anything about virology noticed that the constellation of views associated with their peers had lined up against the lab-leak hypothesis, and they, too, took the path of least resistance. This is not to say that all beliefs are equally valid. It is simply to observe that most of us have better things to do than deal with unremitting complexity. It’s perfectly reasonable, as a first approximation of thinking, to conserve our time and energy by just picking a side and being done with it.

Liberals were skittish about this orientation because it replaced our hopes for democracy with resignation in the face of competing protection rackets. But what they really didn’t like was that their bluff had been called. Their preferred solution to informational complexity—that certain ideas and the people associated with them were Bad and Wrong and needed to be banished from the public sphere—wasn’t much better. The urge to “deplatform” made liberals seem weak, insofar as it implied less than total confidence in their ability to prevail on the merits. The conservative account was all about allegiance and power, but at least it didn’t really pretend otherwise. They were frank about their tribalism.

Recent discourse attending to a “vibe shift” has tended to emphasize a renewed acceptance, even in erstwhile liberal circles, of obnoxious or retrograde cultural attitudes—the removal of taboos, say, on certain slurs. Another way to look at the vibe shift is as a more fundamental shift to “vibes” as the unit of political analysis—an acknowledgment, on the part of liberals, that their initial response to an informational crisis had been inadequate and hypocritical. The vibe shift has been criticized as a soft-headed preference for mystical interpretation in place of empirical inquiry. But a vibe is just a technique of compression. A near-infinite variety of inputs is reduced to a single bit of output: YES or NO, FOR or AGAINST. It had been close, but the vibe shift was just the concession that AGAINST had prevailed.

One side effect of the vibe shift is that the media establishment has started to accept that there is, in fact, such a thing as a Silicon Valley intellectual—not the glib, blustery dudes who post every thought that enters their brains but people who prefer to post at length and on the margins. Nadia Asparouhova is an independent writer and researcher; she has held positions at GitHub and Substack, although she’s always been something of a professional stranger—at one company, her formal job title was just “Nadia.” Her first book, “Working in Public,” was an ethnographic study of open-source software engineering. The field was inflected with standard-issue techno-utopian notions of anarchically productive self-organization, but she found little evidence to support such naïve optimism. For the most part, open-source projects weren’t evenly distributed across teams of volunteers; they were managed by at most a few individuals, who spent the bulk of their waking hours in abject thrall to a user-complaint queue. Technology did not naturally lead to the proliferation of professional, creative, or ideological variety. Tools designed for workplace synchronization, she found at one of her tech jobs, became enforcement mechanisms for a recognizable form of narrow political progressivism. In the wake of one faux pas—when her Slack response to an active-shooter warning elicited a rebuke from a member of the “social impact team,” who reminded her that neighborhood disorder was the result of “more hardships than any of us will ever understand”—she decided to err on the side of keeping her opinions to herself.

Asparouhova found that she wasn’t the only one who felt disillusioned by the condition of these once promising public forums. She gradually retreated from the broadest public spaces of the internet, as part of a larger pattern of migration to private group chats—“a dark network of scattered outposts, where no one wants to be seen or heard or noticed, so that they might be able to talk to their friends in peace.” Before long, a loose collection of internet theorists took on the private-messaging channel as an object of investigation. In 2019, Yancey Strickler, one of the founders of Kickstarter, published an essay called “The Dark Forest Theory of the Internet.” The title was an allusion to Cixin Liu’s “Three-Body Problem,” which explains the Fermi paradox, or the apparent emptiness of the universe, as a strategic preference to remain invisible to predatory species. The writer Venkatesh Rao and the designer Maggie Appleton later expanded on the idea of the “cozyweb.” These texts took a fairly uncontroversial observation—that people were hotheaded dickheads on the public internet, and much more gracious, agreeable, and forgiving in more circumscribed settings—as a further sign that something was wrong with a prevailing assumption about the competitive marketplace of information. Maybe the winning ideas were not the best ideas but simply the most transmissible ones? Their faith in memetic culture had been shaken. It wasn’t selecting for quality but for ease of assimilation into preëxisting blocs.

In the fall of 2021, Asparouhova realized that this inchoate line of thought had been anticipated by a cult novel called “There Is No Antimemetics Division.” The book is brilliant, singular, and profoundly strange. Originally serialized, between 2008 and 2020, under the pseudonym qntm (pronounced “quantum,” and subsequently revealed to be a British writer and software developer named Sam Hughes), as part of a sprawling, collaborative online writing project called the SCP Foundation Wiki, “There Is No Antimemetics Division” is part Lovecraftian horror, part clinical science fiction, and part media studies. (This fall, an overhauled version will be published, for the first time, as a print volume.) Its plot can be summarized about as well as a penguin might be given driving directions to the moon, but here goes: it’s a time-looping thriller about a team of researchers trying to save the world from an extra-dimensional “memeplex” that takes the intermittent form of skyscraper-sized arthropods that can only be vanquished by being forgotten (kinda). The over-all concept is to literalize the idea of a meme—to imagine self-replicating cultural objects as quirky and/or fearsome supernatural monsters—and conjure a world in which some of them must be isolated and studied in secure containment facilities for the sake of humanity. What captured Asparouhova’s attention was the book’s introduction of something called a “self-keeping secret” or “antimeme.” If memes were by definition hard to forget and highly transmissible, antimemes were hard to remember and resistant to multiplication. If memes had done a lot of damage, maybe antimemes could be cultivated as the remedy.

This is the animating contrast of Asparouhova’s new book, “Antimemetics: Why Some Ideas Resist Spreading,” published with Yancey Strickler’s Dark Forest Collective. She has devoted her attention, as she puts it in the introduction, to the behavior of “ideas that resist being remembered, comprehended, or engaged with, despite their significance.” She is interested in ideas that cost something. Her initial examples are a little bizarre and slightly misleading: Why do we still observe daylight-saving time when nobody likes it? Why don’t people wash their hands when they know they should? (A clearer and more salient reference might be to the newly memetic “abundance agenda,” which remains essentially antimemetic in substance, insofar as it attempts to replace procedural fetishism and rhetorical grandstanding with the hard, unglamorous, possibly boring work of applying ourselves to basic problems of physical infrastructure.) What she’s ultimately after is a much bigger set of questions: Why can’t we manage to solve these big, obvious collective-action problems? Why, in other words, can’t we have nice things? As she puts it, “Our inability to make progress on consequential topics can be at least partly explained by the underlying antimemetic qualities that they share—meaning that it is strangely difficult to keep the idea top of mind.” These antimemes are crowded out by the electric trivia of online signalling: “As memes dominate our lives, we’ve fully embraced our role as carriers, reorienting our behavior and identities towards emulating the most powerful—and often the most primal and base—models of desire. Taken to the extreme, this could be seen as a horrifying loss of human capacity to build and create in new and surprising ways.”

There are plenty of different frames Asparouhova might have chosen for an investigation into how the structure of a given channel of communication affects the kind, quality, and velocity of information it can carry, but she has settled on the cool-sounding if cumbersome notion of “antimemetics” for a reason. The decision alludes to her conflicted relationship to a clutch of attitudes that are often coded as right-wing. Like many Silicon Valley intellectuals, she thinks that figures like the voguish neoreactionary Curtis Yarvin—whose more objectionable statements she explicitly rejects—and Peter Thiel had long demonstrated a better grasp of online behavior than liberals did. Thiel’s invocation of Girardian scapegoating anticipated the rise of “cancel culture” as a structural phenomenon, and Yarvin was early to point out that the antidote to dysregulated public squares were “smaller, high-context spaces.” If she accepts their descriptive analysis of how the open internet deteriorated into a tribal struggle over public “mindshare,” she rejects their prescriptive complicity with the breast-beating warlords of the new primitivism. Memetic behavior may have got us here, she writes, “but as we search for a way to survive, it is a second, hidden set of behaviors—antimemetic ones—that will show us how to move forward.”

Asparouhova’s basic intuition is that both of the prevailing theories of information on the internet (either that it had to be sanitized and controlled or that it was simply natural for it to remain perennially downstream of charisma) have been wrong. It was foolish to hope that the radical and anarchic expansion of the public sphere—“adding more voices to a room”—would prove out our talent for collective reasoning. But neither do we have to resign ourselves to total context collapse and perpetual memetic warfare. She does not think that all communication can be reduced to a power struggle, she is not ready to give up on democratic values or civilization tout court, and she considers herself one of many “refugees fleeing memetic contagion.” These refugees have labored to build an informational and communicative infrastructure that isn’t so overwhelming, one that can be bootstrapped in private or semi-private spaces where a level of trust and good will is taken for granted, and conflict can be productive and encouraging instead of destructive and terrifying. As she puts it, “If the memetic city is characterized by bright, flashy Times Square, the antimemetic city is more like a city of encampments, strewn across an interminable desert. While some camps are bigger and more storied—think long-established internet forums, private social clubs, or Discords—its primary social unit is the group chat, which makes it easy to instantly throw up four walls around any conversation online.”

The book “Antimemetics” is gestural and shaggy, which makes it a generative and fun read. The central concept is not always clear or systematic, but that seems to come with the antimemetic territory. At times, Asparouhova suggests that antimemes are specific proposals, like the importance of extended parental leave, in perennial lack of a lasting constituency to sustain them. Elsewhere, antimemetic ideas represent the sacred reminder that we are frail and uncertain creatures deserving of grace. This is quite explicitly a pandemic-inflected project, and she often returns to the notion that antimemes have “long symptomatic periods” and are “highly resistant to spread”—if one manages to “escape its original context” and spreads to networks with high “immunity,” it can be prematurely destroyed by the antibodies of “pushback.” The concept can thus seem like a fancy way to say “nuanced,” or like a synonym for “challenging” or “hard-won.” There are places where she implies that antimemes are definitionally good—as in, a name for elusive ideas we should want to propagate—and places where she argues instead that they are morally neutral. Sometimes antimemes are processes—like bureaucracy—and sometimes they seem more like concrete goals. What makes this conceptual muddle appealing, rather than a source of irritation or confusion, is that she’s quite clearly working all this out as she goes along. The book never feels like a vector for the reproduction of some prefabricated case. It has the texture of thought, or of a group chat.

As is perhaps inevitable in even the best internet-theory books, Asparouhova’s antidote ultimately entails the cultivation of the ability to decide what matters and choose to pay attention to it. She recognizes, to her credit, that such injunctions are often corny invitations to flower-smelling self-indulgence; her icon of patience and stamina in the face of obdurate complexity happens to be Robert Moses, which makes for an odd, if refreshing, contrast with the bog-standard tract about the value of attention. More important than one’s individual attention, she continues, is one’s concentrated participation in the subtler kind of informational triage that high-context communities can perform, but she doesn’t think it’s sufficient to give up and tend only these walled communal gardens. The point is not flight or bunker construction. She envisions a recursive architecture where people experiment with ideas among intimates before they launch them at scale, a process that might in turn transform the marketplace of ideas from a gladiatorial arena to something more like a handcraft bazaar: “Group chats are a place to build trust with likeminded people, who eventually amplify each others’ ideas in public settings. Memetic and antimemetic cities depend on each other: the stronger memes become, the more we need private spaces to refine them.”

She grants that this sounds like a lot of effort. It’s an invitation to re-create an entire information-processing civilization from the ground up. But if the easy way had worked—if all you had to do was get rid of the institutional gatekeepers and give everyone a voice, or if all you had to do was remind people that the institutional gatekeepers were right in the first place—we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Antimemetics” arrives at an opportune moment for two reasons. The first is that private group chats have matured in precisely the way she predicted. “Somewhere out there, your favorite celebrities and politicians and executives are tapping away on their keyboards in a Signal or Telegram or Whatsapp chat, planning campaigns and revolutions and corporate takeovers,” she writes. A few weeks ago, Ben Smith of Semafor provided ample corroboration, reporting that the venture-capitalist Marc Andreessen turns to group chats for the coordinated dissemination of “samizdat”—the opinionated venture capitalist, according to one source, apparently “spends half his life on 100 of these at the same time.” As the Substack economist Noah Smith put it, “Group chats are now where everything important and interesting happens.” Not all of Asparouhova’s predictions were quite right, though: “No journalist has access to the most influential group chats,” she asserts, a statement rendered hilariously inaccurate by the events of the last two months. None of these examples seems quite like the models of high-minded exchange Asparouhova described on the basis of her own experience, but their apparent pervasiveness underlines the consensus that the public internet exists only for the purposes of yelling into the void—or for the putatively spontaneous expansion of support for campaigns that were coördinated in darkness.

The other thing that’s rendered the book particularly timely has been the development of something like a moral self-audit among Silicon Valley intellectuals, Asparouhova among them, who have come to wonder if their own heterodoxy over the past decade has had politically disastrous consequences. In a miniature drama published online titled “Twilight of the Edgelords,” the writer Scott Alexander, of the widely read blog Astral Codex Ten, has one of his characters declare that “all of our good ideas, the things the smug misinformation expert would have tried to get us cancelled for, have gotten perverted in the most depressing and horrifying way possible.” The character outlines a series of examples: “We wanted to be able to hold a job without reciting DEI shibboleths or filling in multiple-choice exams about how white people cause earthquakes. Instead we got a thousand scientific studies cancelled because they used the string ‘trans-’ in a sentence on transmembrane proteins.” Alexander has more or less done what Asparouhova would have recommended: supervise the rigorous exchange of controversial ideas in a high-context, semi-private setting, and hope that they in turn improve the quality of the public discourse. What Alexander seems to be lamenting is the way the variegated output of his community was, in the end, somehow reduced to FOR or AGAINST, and the possibility that he inadvertently helped tip the scales.

Given the revelations in Ben Smith’s reporting—and his argument that Andreessen’s group chats were “the single most important place in which a stunning realignment toward Donald Trump was shaped and negotiated, and an alliance between Silicon Valley and the new right formed”—Alexander’s honorable exercise in self-criticism seems more like a superfluous bit of self-flagellation. From Asparouhova’s perspective, the lesson we should draw is not that bad ideas should in fact be suppressed but that good ideas require the trussing of sturdy, credible institutions—structures that might withstand the countervailing urge to raze everything to the ground.

For all of its fun-house absurdity, qntm’s “There Is No Antimemetics Division” seems legible enough on this point. Humanity, in the novel, has lived under the recurrent threat of catastrophically destructive memes—dark, self-fulfilling premonitions of scarcity, zero-sum competition, fear, mistrust, inegalitarianism. These emotions and attitudes, which circulate with little friction, turn us into zombies. The zombie warlord is an interdimensional memeplex called SCP-3125. The book’s hero understands that her enemy has no ultimate goal or content beyond the demonstration of its own power, and in turn the worship of power as such: “SCP-3125 is, in large part, the lie that SCP-3125 is inevitable, and indestructible. But it is a lie.” The antidote to this lie is the deliberate commemoration of all of the things that slip our minds—antimemes such as “an individual life is a fleeting thing” and “strangers are fellow-sufferers” and “love thy neighbor.” In the universe of the novel, these opposing forces—of what is too easy to remember and what is too easy to forget—have been locked in a cycle of destruction and rebirth for untold thousands of years. For the most part, it has taken an eternal return of civilizational ruin to prompt our ability to recall the difficult wisdom of the antimeme. The march of technology insures that every new go-round leaves us even more desolate than the last one. This time, Asparouhova proposes, we might try not to wait until it’s too late.

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

♤|♡ "BARGAIN" — Overlord [IDW]

Post Overlord’s Defection, Pre-G-9! based off of my HCs you can find right here.

summary: Overlord left the Decepticons and word spreads fast in the Decepticon ranks. You could've cared less. And you realize that mistake a little too late when someone crashes in your ship on a fine day.

warning: robo-gore

cross posted on ao3!

Overlord was in here just to find a functioning ship and Decepticon ships were ones he was well-versed with, just about every model so it’s no surprise he chose the nearest one he could find at the moment. Overlord was an educated mech, many may have the notion he's merely a mindless brute with nothing in his helm other than destruction and while that is true, the mech is keen on educating himself. With adequate knowledge on Decepticon engineering; he knew what circuit was beneath which panel on the hull’s exterior so it was relatively easy for the behemoth of a mech to break a few panels using his abnormal brute strength, rip out the ship's shielding circuitry as well as weaponry, rendering the crew defenceless. Not like the ship’s weapons were doing much against his standard Warrior’s Elite ununtrium frame to start with but he did find being fired at slightly annoying at the moment. His own little ship was running out of energon which was the only reason he was honestly here for… and maybe a good old chaos session. The mad warrior was insane enough to jump from his own ship to the hull of this one, holding onto it for dear life as the rather skilled pilot of this ship tried to shake him off to no avail.

His pedes make a loud metallic thump as he lands onto the floor, stretching his servos a bit as he looks around. The ejection bridge, just where he wanted to be. This was probably the type of ship to have a little more skilled Decepticon personnel given the size and model but he's more than prepared for a fight, he's craving one if anything. But firstly, Overlord thinks about what he should do for his ‘fun’. He takes his blasters and aims at the escape pods, damaging them enough so that they wouldn't be able to eject; chances of escape left in flames as he walks away. The silence within the ship confuses him; there's none of those usual pleasant sounds that come along with his grand entry— no screams, no begging, no panicking, no blaster shots. Just utter silence.

No matter, he'd have his fun somehow.

Now, he could just go directly towards the storage and take all their energon but where’s the fun in that? The doors were wide open; as in whoever ran this ship had a feeling he was here for fuel and thought he’d be sane enough to just take what he wants and frag off. But Overlord’s been itching for his daily dose of violence, the one good thing about being a Decepticon was that it meant he had a daily quota of violence ensured for him always. Generally, he’d get a kick from the mortified faces of the crew members as they try to shoot him down trying to defend their ship. All in vain of course, no standard Decepticon blaster was powerful enough to pierce through ununtrium but it seems the crew of this ship was much smarter, not even a shadow of their presence in his line of sight. Or maybe they were cowards, cowering and hiding like the rest would.

At least Overlord loved a good game of hide & seek.

He roams the desolate hallways of an eerily familiar ship as he hums a tune, only alarms blaring and the echoes of his pede-steps could be heard. There is nothing but malevolent intent radiating from his frame. He can’t find the crew so far, they must be huddled up somewhere. Overlord found that slightly strange given most Decepticon commanders would’ve probably fled to a safe room, or the crew would fight over escape pods and leave the weak to fend for themselves… But this was a ghost ship. Perhaps they’ve all used the escape pods, Overlord muses. However, he knows that's not the case. He made sure to break in the exact area where the ship’s escape pods would be and he made sure to note the exact number of escape pods. Not a single one had left the ship. Decepticon engineering had gotten far too predictable for the Phase Sixer.

All in the meanwhile, you and the rest of your crew huddle in the common room, the make-shift break room. You’ve managed to calm down all of your crew, hushed whispers between them as they discuss the situation at hand— there’s all sorts of bots with you; combatants, engineers, pilots, medics, M.T.O.s and even a few of the ship’s drones for the sole purpose of keeping track of the ship’s systems. It was a tactical decision on your part; the security drones allow you to access the cameras of the ship, at least the ones that weren’t broken by his entry. There's an overwhelming sense of responsibility surging through you when you look at the twenty or so fellow ‘Cons under your charge as you struggle to compute, struggle to think of an idea to make this better somehow while you watch Overlord humming a tune as he walks through empty halls.

Why was he here? What was he here for? You have so many questions but all you know is that Overlord isn’t a Decepticon anymore and that means you have absolutely no assurance for whatever he’s planning. You know what he's capable of very, very well and it does nothing to ease your anxieties.

But you don’t have the right to panic. You can’t. You have to put up a strong face for your crew. They all rely on you. You tear your helm off the monitor to just make sure everybot was here for a moment. A little relieved you made it this far. You SIC, Faust pats the armour plating on your shoulder for a moment to calm you down— Decepticons generally don’t comfort or accept it when offered but you can't help but appreciate the action, evident from the soft smile he draws from you. You turn your helm back to the monitor of the drone, watching the hulking blue and pink mech intently with an understandably worried expression on your faceplates.

Now, usually, Overlord would’ve gotten bored by now but the mystery of where the crew went is rather intriguing to him. The captain of this vessel was intelligent; he’d give the mech that much, you had managed to sound the emergency alarms as well as override the lock systems. That meant each and every door was locked and Overlord would have to waste his time punching through doors to find the bots of this ship and this ship wasn’t exactly small, large if anything.

What a pain. But it would make his victory all the more sweeter.

He’d made his way to the safe room, he knew where those were on almost every Decepticon engineered ship at this point and he’s a little surprised to see no one inside after he rips through the door effortlessly. Overlord’s patience is wearing thin now, a small frown over his face as he storms back out onto the hall. He turns his helm to a rather… familiar door. He brute forces his way through it— it’s a CO’s workstation and he can’t help but sneer at the realization as he stands by the metallic doorway. He hated them. Having to report to those clearly less than him… but something’s familiar about the metal desk in front of him. He inspects it, long strides helping him get close quickly around the dull room.

Those datapads. Those desk stands. The hyper-specific method of file arrangement. A datapad with roll call list with ticks next to names.. Dates penned down next to it…

The realization of who’s ship he’s in sinks in and an absolutely dastardly smile spreads across his face, crimson optics gleaming with dangerous intent. He walks out of the room with a wide smile— he’s going to be dealing with you. Of course he couldn’t expect his usual routines or methods to work on you. You were far above those regular brutes that call themselves Decepticons and that meant a new experience for him, maybe even a challenge and Overlord wouldn’t refuse that. Overlord was going to enjoy this, throughly.

And the best part? He didn’t come here initially for you. This is a bonus.

He hums in thought, knowing you… you probably told all your crew to hide in their respective quarters. Of course, that would be something you would do. Not only did living space rooms (as well as weapons storage & ammunition) have doors thicker than the rest but also could only be opened by the ones who live in said respective habisuites of living space wing. He could punch the doors out too but it would take slightly more effort. He guns straight for the captain’s quarters, hoping to find you there. Overlord’s always wanted to be in your quarters before, he’d got a rather giddy look on his face only to be replaced by a scowl the moment he smashes the door open along with the HUD to see an empty room. But despite his annoyance, he lingers there for a moment longer than he should just to admire what you’ve done with the place; it literally screams out your designation to him with how boring it looks to him. He walks away, not willing to lose this game yet.

Your crew seems to go increasingly restless but you’ve managed to calm them down with Faust’s help. A quick flash of fear passes through your faceplates as you continue monitoring his actions, he is getting closer to the common room, entering the living pace sector only to tear through various habisuites for his amusement. His strength scares you, how he effortlessly rips through standard reinforced titanium doors like it's a datapad. It just makes your growing dread at what's impending worse as you continue to try and figure out what his intentions are.

Because Overlord is not a mech you can fight off; it's not even an opinion, it's a fact. But, you could mislead him. At least that you could do. Make him think and search while you keep scheming for a contingency plan. You know he gets bored easily and that’s just about the only thing you can rely on. You’ve made sure to leave the doors of the fuel storage and weapons storage open, hoping Overlord would take what he wants and leave but clearly, the mech can’t do fuel without entertainment. Besides, you were able to send Axel and Argon to grab whatever heavy artillery there was to keep with all of you as you hid in here, you knew Overlord would break through eventually and you weren't going to take any risks. It paid off.

“You know, I find myself enjoying this little game of ours, deary~” Overlord says out loud in his usual smug tone, frustration from before skimming down to none. He honestly impressed you’ve lasted this long, the other ships he’s taken down lasted about... what? Ten minutes?

You feel a primaeval fear grip your spark. He knows you’re listening. Somehow, he knows you're listening. You try to make it seem as if you weren't scared. Faust, Axel, Argon and the rest were busy whispering as quietly as they could amongst themselves.

You listen to what he’s saying, focused, on the lowest volume setting possible as your highly tuned in audio receptors take in his words. You make sure the rest of the crew can’t hear, solely in order to avoid making them panicked because the moment they are, they’d make enough noise for the Phase Sixer to figure out you’re hiding in the common area. You can’t speak back to him currently given your… compromised position so you listen to every word intently, studying his figure keenly.

“I must admit, most don’t last this long, dearest Commander…” He sighs out, making sure to stay loud. You can see he suspects that you can hear him. You can’t help but furrow your optical ridges, optics never leaving his figure as you observe him. Not daring to look away as you lean in towards the monitor on the drone. From what you can tell, he suspects you’re in the main console room because that's where he’s strutting towards, carrying an air of idyllic malice you knew him well for.

“Making me think. But that’s what I like about you. You make sure I’m never bored~” His digits scrape against the metallic walls as he walks along the lonely corridors. Now, that wasn’t good. You have a visible frown on your face. Your entire plan was to: A. let him take the weapons, ammunition and energon he needs without resistance so he would go quickly or B. make him bored out of his mind if he was looking for a fight so that he’d take whatever it was that he needed and leave.

But you made two fatal flaws: you underestimated his tenacity; you left out his inability to accept defeat and his unshakable want for something more than what he came for.

He enters the main console room and you can’t help the hitch in your vents as an idea of what he might be doing crosses in your processor, he seems rather unfazed when he doesn’t see you there; as if he wasn’t expecting it and it unnerves you, because until now, he seemed to get frustrated with all of your disappearances. The others hiding behind you seem to take notice of your subtle shift in demeanor, exchanging panicked glances amongst themselves but not daring to make a noise. You gave them a strict order to ‘keep quiet until you can hear your own internal systems’.

Overlord is the most dangerous when he thinks outside of brutality— you knew that well. You refuse to take your optics off of the screen, the reactions of your cowering crew going unnoticed.

He’s at the surveillance console. You can’t help the shallow vents that leave you but you try to keep your composure, you can't afford to panic, you keep telling yourself. Was he trying to access the ship’s camera feed? You’re certain he can’t… Only the Surveillance Officer and CO could; and your Surveillance Officer, Eris, was cowering under a desk with some of the other crew like you asked them too. But the disappointed huff you hear from the monitor's speakers as Overlord bends over to access the surveillance console has you letting out a relieved sigh. He can't access it.

Overlord walks over and sees red flashes over at the communication panel, a small beeping noise from it and walks up to it, crimson optics widening. “Oh, you are vile...” Overlord laughs as he sees the communication log. You sent a distress signal to the DJD.

::Ambushed by armed assailant in a M-18 model— Decepticon manufactured, recognized as a Decepticon, identity unclear. Thrusters damaged, ship immobilized. 12:87:09, Kimera Sector.::

::status: sent, unread.::

Unread. Narrow luck was on his side and it made him smile. Tarn and his bootlickers must've been too busy with a hunt. Even if the DJD does see the distress call, it would take them time to get to these coordinates and Overlord knows full well that The Peaceful Tyranny does not have a Transwarp Engine because of their ‘encounters’, perhaps you weren’t aware of such a thing. A miscalculation on your side. But you still had him on a timer and Overlord wasn't even aware of it.

He would’ve busted a fuse from sheer rage if he weren’t actually impressed with all that you’ve done within the time he managed to break through into your ship. Not only that but you’d manage to send a description of the ship he had arrived in. That would mean he was going to be tailgated for an annoying span of time… But unidentified? Every damn bot on this ship knew who he was the moment he recklessly made a landing on the weak point on your ship's hull. Why didn't you mention his designation? Surely, the DJD would be coming faster in that case. Unless you want to buy time… But for what?

You're a puzzle to him, a complex one. One he intends to solve. He admires your thinking. Maybe this was a slip up from your side? Not enough time to type out his designation? He sincerely doubts it. Meanwhile, you continue to watch with growing trepidation. Optics never once tearing themselves away from the monitor screen.

He takes a seat by the captain’s chair although it's a little small for him, his servos lay on the armrest of your chair, it irks you but you let it be. You had more pressing matters. His helm leans down on his servo, helm supported by his servo as he seems to be… thinking?

“If I were my dearest Commander, where would I go with my crew?”

Overlord always believed that a good tactician is half psychologist and half sadist, which is why he made sure to try and understand the way you think… but you were truly something else in his optics. He remembers seeing you read a datapad on ship mechanics during breaks and he remembers your answer to his snarky inquiry on your choice of reading: “I believe it's important to be educated on a topic before you make a decision.”. Wisdom, he might’ve said if he weren’t so prideful. It was why you were the only other mecha in this entire faction to have at least a shred of his respect. He was getting frustrated as he tries to think but masks it with a chuckle.

“Hm… I’d be with my crew… Not because I’m one of those bot that babble about ‘honor’ but because I know that they would give out positions of every bot on-board if I’m not there to keep them in line.” He muses and you scowl from where you sit and watch because he was right. If you let one of them out on their own, out of their sight and Overlord found them, they would sell all of you out immediately… and you wouldn’t blame them. Overlord was beyond sadistic.

“But… where could my dearest Commander hide with the whole crew? Judging by the number of habs in the living space, I’d say there’s maybe… eighteen? Twenty if I’m pushing it…”

Overlord says out loud, you know what he’s doing. He wants you to listen. Overlord rises up from the chair, heading out of the main console room, strutting down the corridors with an unreadable expression. He’s saying his thoughts out loud, he’s not talking to himself but to you, to make you panic, you know that. Fear is a powerful tool and Overlord is counting on getting you on edge; you can tell it's not only for baiting you to do something brash but for his own enjoyment as well.

“Now, the only rooms in the ship's layout that could fit that many would be…” He takes a turn and you continue watching as that nagging trepidation continues to build up in your frame. Your circuits feel unnaturally cold.

“One, the engine room, but you’d rather face me directly than let me near volatile engine parts with your whole crew around.” Overlord chuckles as he continues, his stride unnervingly calm and patient. He’s near where he breached through the hull and you can’t get a live security feed, earning a curse from under your ex-vent.

“Two is definitely not the main hall, I quite literally walked past it…” You can hear his voice with slight static over it but you’re able to make out what he says. The security feed returns and an immediate look of temporary relief floods your face as you continue keenly observing; however, you remain acutely aware that you cannot feel relieved yet as this threat to civilizations itself continues roaming your ship. He walks and he is getting closer to the living sector again.

You prepare yourself for the worst.

“Three, the mess hall. Plenty of space to run around in but in most Decepticon warships? Mess halls don’t exactly have doors…”

You can hear his pede-steps now. Heavy. Measured. You can’t help the fear that engulfs your whole frame as you watch in horror, glancing across to your crew. An expression that clearly conveyed the situation at hand and they all understand that look. Some whimper and some pray like they never have before to deities they relinquished when they became Decepticons as silently as they could while they remain huddled behind you. Some cling onto each other. Eris and Faust are, in hopes of some sort of comfort. Anxiety and dread continue to bubble up from deep within your frame at the sight— you don’t blame them for hiding behind you as you stand near the door. Pedes quietly shuffling away from the large metallic door as you hear Overlord’s loud, measured pede-steps right outside.

He’s here.

“Lastly, that would leave us with four, the common room.”

All of you remain prepared, your crew huddling behind you as you face the door. They really did believe you could save them from this and it just makes your tanks churn with a sense of… melancholy because of this situation… Overlord, he was far out of your control and you always had everything under control. You see a balled up servo punch at the door, about to break through. The door can only last for so long, some of your crew have hidden behind furniture in the common room and many remain huddled around you as you back away from the door. Putting the cannons and whatever artillery they had in their servos in place, knowing it would be futile.

But what choice do they have against Warriors Elite? Going down with a fight is better than mindlessly being slaughtered like cattle.

Overlord can hear the audible flinches and it just fuels him even more to take this slow and build this up so he could see the faces of mortification. But a part of him is excited at the prospect of seeing you again. There’s a wicked grin on his face as he finally bursts through the metal door and the sight makes him laugh— you at the forefront as the rest of the crew remains huddled behind you, pointing cannons and cheap Null Rays as if they could do anything against his superior frame.

And he knows they won't shoot, he can see it. Servos shaking like cowards, even if they did shoot, they'd miss and end up hurting one of their own. A pathetic attempt at a display of hostility against a force of nature like him.

Soon enough, his hulking figure looms over you, malicious intent practically radiating off of his frame.

“Got you.” He can’t help but feel smug as he purrs it out, that was absolutely fun and the result was a hundred percent worth it because he can see the absolute terror that grips all of your sparks. It took a while and that's what made the end result all the more sweeter.

His optics lock on to you as you stand on the forefront, it was humorous to see you like this now given you used to shoot daggers at him. You were supposed to look at him like this back then. Even if your optics only subtly betray your emotions, Overlord can tell you’re scared despite the stern glare you give him, he can see that you’re trying to stop your lower derma from trembling slightly.

“Aww. What’s with this face, Commander? Aren’t you happy to see an old soldier? A good old comrade?” Overlord gives a deceptively cheery smile as he leans down to you, keeping an uncomfortable closeness. You say nothing but your crew seems to take that as a signal to further huddle behind you and move back, away from him. A good call. Your crimson optics narrow at him and he can’t help but laugh at your display, he can see the swirling defiance and fear behind your optics all too well; he’s seen this look before. Many times. Though, he liked the look more on you.

“You should be proud, dearest. Not many have succeeded in making me resort to actually thinking for once… Or lasting this long, really.” He pats your back with little force but you continue to stand tense, refusing to fall into his ploy of false security. Overlord was treating this as if it were a game and he’d won in good sport. Mocking you. You uncomfortably purse your derma into a thin line, trying not to recoil from his touch; even if it was light for the metaphorical weight behind it was heavy.

“...What do you want?” You manage to speak, you try to make sure your tone isn’t shaky.

  Overlord comes to appreciate your cunning even more after making him run around circles in your ship to try and find everyone as if it were some hide & seek royale. As frustrating as it was, he will admit one thing; no mech other than Megatron himself has managed to get him to resort to using his intellect as much as he did in this situation because if he were any other somewhat sane Decepticon, he would’ve given up and just taken what he came for initially. But now you and your whole crew are basically his prisoner now.

“Why I want to have fun, catch up with an old friend maybe.” He says in a mockingly non-threatening manner with his eerie yet cheery smile but you can feel malevolence basically enveloping your frame as his intimidating stature stands upright, looming over you. Overlord chuckles as he sees you’re not buying it, a hard glare from your crimson optics. He can see the distrust and defiance. You don’t even have to use your words to tell him what you feel.

“You think I would crash a party without having some fun of my own?” He leans close towards you, his helm moving towards your crew and looking back at you with a wide wicked grin and that gleam in his crimson optics. You knew damn well what he was planning.

And you were afraid that it would indeed work.

“Don’t you dare.” Your words fall onto deaf audials as you catch on to what he’s saying

“Firstly, I want to know a few things.” He quickly snatches up one of the bots that cowered behind you, a small green bot that maybe reached up to your chassis at best and you recognize him, it was Axel. You prepare yourself for the worst. This was going to be one hell of an interrogation.

“You send a distress signal to the DJD saying that your ship was under attack, why?” Overlord asks as he holds a shaking Axel in one of his large servos, wanting to know if he was right about his previous assumption. Was it because of orders? What went through your helm? The questioning clearly caught you off-guard and he could see that in your crimson optics despite your stoic demeanour, he assumes you thought he would ask something classified which he would but… not yet.

“They aren’t too far from this star system and they could deal with you for treachery.” You reply rather blankly but he can sense your disdain, Overlord hums. He can easily feel the venomous edge in your tone. You were making it seem like you were following protocol.

“Partly true. But the real reason, not the painfully obvious.” You did not mention Overlord even once in the signal. Why give a description of his ship but not say that it was Overlord’s?

Without a second thought, Overlord’s free servo clutches on Axel’s servo, almost half his whole limb in his large servo as he begins slowly crushing his servos in front of you, his arm components giving a grinding crunching noise. Your optics widen, a scream that could freeze the energon in any mecha’s lines rips through his vocalizer. The metal of his arm slowly gets compressed, flattening in Overlord’s grip as the rest of your crew stands stupefied, far too fear-stricken to do anything as sheer horror flashes onto all of your faces. You’re no exception.

“Fine, fine, fine! I-I’ll tell you! Just… Just don’t-”

You fumble around, clearly distressed. It was a rare sight from the oh, so stoic Commander and Overlord, that sadistic streak of him, relished it. But, it was too late. You hear a horrifyingly loud crunch noise. To every bot’s sheer mortification, Axel’s entire servo gets flattened and ripped off of his frame as he writhes helplessly in Overlord’s gasp, screaming so deafeningly loud that his vocalizer cackles static and energon splurts out from where once his shoulder was. His faceplates contorted into one of utter agony and for a moment, you feel… frozen. His energon slashed a little on your faceplates and you just kept that look of horror.

You have never felt this helpless your entire functioning.

“For every lie you tell, I rip off a limb, fair?” Overlord keeps his menacing cheery smile on, as if he didn’t just mutilate a live bot in front of them.

You usually don’t feel bad when you witness Decepticons commit atrocities. Far too desensitized. Besides, you can't be a Decepticon without being either apathetic or sadistic. But the fact that this happened to a bot under your command, under your watch… it makes your tanks churn as you let out a shaky ex-vent. As if you've failed your duty as a commander. Failed to keep your crew safe as their captain. You honestly expected Overlord to kill him but of course, the sadist would only make someone suffer as much as he could before finishing them off.

“I signalled the DJD and gave a description of your ship. The model, the colours and the fact that it’s Decepticon manufactured. That way, you won’t be able to just… slaughter us all and run off. And all Decepticon communication lines contain the ID of the ship the message is sent from. So even if you wanted to use our ship instead, they would track you down.”

His smile falters, his dermas now pursed as he listens on keenly. That meant he could just kill all of you without an issue, he just had to make a rather daring escape and he could do so with an escape pod from your ship after he blows up the main console, not really convenient considering he was rather low on energon however it still works in his favor... nonetheless he listens on. Since you mentioned his ship was stolen Decepticon manufacture, it was without a doubt that wet blanket Tarn would assume Overlord’s ship had some second-rate opportunistic traitor… but why not mention Overlord? Tarn was practically aching to get his servos on him, that fanatic would come a lot faster if you did though it would take time regardless.

“But, the signal can be… shut down. You can cut off a distress signal. The receiver will only be able to save the ship’s location from where the signal was sent, not the ship’s identification. They can note it down, sure but they won’t be able to track or tell who the ship belongs to. The DJD will come here but they won’t be able to find our ship, they’ll assume some other ship already assisted us but they’d still keep a look out for the ship we described.” You speak, studying his face as carefully as you can. Optics narrowed at him. Trying to figure out anything that he’s feeling. Anything at all. But he just… stands in front of you, a shaking Axel clutched in his servo like some sort of doll missing a limb.

“Location is not an issue because you didn’t damage our transwrap-drive when you entered. We have enough energon in our ship to make one warp.”

You add on, trying to make sure your voice doesn’t shake and somewhat succeeding. You were going to break many, many, many lines of protocol for this but… it's either Overlord or Tarn. And that is basically the same thing but one of them comes with four others to deal with. Sure, Tarn would not be very happy with you and he was honestly just as scary as Overlord but you’d rather deal with a harsh lecture from the DJD leader about how important his time is (if he doesn’t find out you covered up Overlord, you’re sure that would get all of you on The List) than watch your entire crew get mutilated by Overlord. Overlord’s optics wide slightly as you’ve outwitted him yet again. You’ve managed to get quite a sweet deal and the better of him in a situation where you’re supposed to be compromised because you knew damn well he can't pilot an entire Decepticon battle cruiser without a crew.

“However, I can’t do that alone, I’ll need my Communication’s Officer and technicians to help me because I don’t have Decepticon communications protocols in my memory banks… and you don’t know which bot does what duty either. You can't pilot this ship entirely by yourself. Plus, this sector of the galaxy is practically abandoned. You won't be able to find another ship here for vorns.”

Overlord can’t help but smirk at that, you really were something else. His optics subtly lights up when your quick wit finally registers in his processor. If you had mentioned Overlord, Tarn would certainly come quicker but it would take time regardless, space travel was not as quick as all those engineers boast about… and he would have more than enough of a reason to leave behind a mess for Tarn. Not only that, but then Tarn would have a description of his ship and know that it was his as well. What's the point of leaving Overlord over to the DJD for their 'justice' if it meant all of you would die?

You left out his designation so you could buy time. Not only to put Overlord on a time constraint.

“That means, you can’t cripple or terminate any of my crew if you want to hitch a ride. Otherwise, you can take what you want, kill us all, leave and have the DJD tailgate you for vorns.” You finish off, looking at an impressed and near awestruck Overlord with a convincing but fake blank look. You don't want him to know just how scared you are, though you know he probably does. From one tactician to another, he had to applaud your thinking, he wouldn’t have seen that coming. Ever. He drops Axel haphazardly as the ‘Con continues groaning in pain. But you don’t dare to help him as you continue looking at Overlord, you can’t afford to show weakness in front of him.

Meanwhile, the crew behind you mutters amongst themselves with understandable skepticism. Some try to protest, intakes agape to say something. Overlord as a houseguest? Insanity! That would never work out! Not to mention, harbouring a high-profile traitor was practically treason. You’d get them all on The List. But, they’ve come to trust you. You wouldn’t go this route unless there was no other alternative. You know what you’re doing.

Right?

“Well played, Commander.” He claps, you’re not sure if he’s mocking you or if he’s being genuine but you’re honestly… surprised. Surprised that he even considered; Overlord was not a mech of reason. The energon from Axel splattered across his servos dripping as tiny droplets onto Axel’s frame as the ‘Con weakly groans, crawling away as quickly as he can away from Overlord. The sight is… unsettling, straight out of those circuits and wires gore montages, you keep your focus onto Overlord as much as you can. He is actually genuinely impressed.

You’ve managed to secure your own safety and your crew’s in a matter of moments as well as manage to evade confrontation with him for this long. He can see how startled you look, as if you didn’t expect him to ever agree. However, you're well aware that this will only be forever the time being and that any promises with Overlord wouldn't last unless you had leverage or an offer. But he wasn’t going to let you win so easily.

By agreeing to do this for him, you were going to keep him under the radar, Overlord wouldn’t have thought his old stick-up-the-aft commander would ever even fathom about harboring a fugitive… but if it came at the assurance of your life… Overlord can see what you’re offering. You’re basically giving him a choice to remain hidden; to return to his ship, take the energon he needs and frag off to the farthest corner of the galaxy as if this never happened. Or even stay for an indefinite period. You’re giving him a major advantage in exchange for the mere promise he won’t kill you.

And lately, Tarn’s been getting a little too close to him. Regardless, Overlord has his own plans.

“Fine. But I’ll leave, only after you and your mystery Communications bot distorts that signal.” Overlord completely accepts this, folding his servos over his chassis as his figure looms over you and it… somehow feels more strange to you. You were honestly prepared for him to just shoot you on the spot. Overlord can see your crew more at ease as well. But it’s a mystery.

He has something he wants from you, you feel it.

But you can’t tell what it is.

A silence fills the room, almost as if all of them can’t believe that you managed to actually talk your way out of this with Overlord of all mechs. All of them honestly can’t believe that they have a chance of walking out of this functioning. Your processor races, millions of possible reasons flashing through. The silence is deafening as you continue to stare up at him, surprised and studying.

“Well? If you wait around, the DJD is going to show up and your sweet deal will mean nothing, commander.” Overlord unceremoniously breaks the silence with a frown as he stands with his servos on his hip struts.

“...Right.”

You can’t believe that worked but you and a group of technicians and your crew’s Communications Officer hurry to the main console, working on it near immediately as Overlord walks around the room. He moves around, seeming… bored. His optics are fixed on you, its unnerving. But almost nostalgic. It used to be one his many, many ways of annoying you.

You're mostly silent as he looms above you.

"...how do I know that you won't kill us off after we disable the signal?" You muster up the courage to ask, looking at him. Overlord would definitely do something like that. But he just smiles, again, a deceptively cheery one.

"You'll just have to see." Vague answer. This isn't a solid contract. You're gambling away lives on the basis of a chance. You know that. You're safe as long as he's not having his itch to do something heinous. He looks as bored as ever.

But his boredom is short-lived when his optics befall the navigation panel behind you. You move away as he's bending over slightly to get a better look. A flash of worry on your faceplates but its quickly replaced with the strong cold stoicism.

“Garrus-9?” Overlord mumbles, reading the location this ship was supposed to be heading to rather curiously. Why the prison planet? You freeze. You’re not supposed to say a word but.. There is a chance he might go back on his word if you don’t let him have what he wants and you still don’t know how you managed to bargain for all of your lives.

“Lord Megatron wants us on stand-by.” You say, not revealing too many details of your benefactor’s orders as Eris and the others work on the console. Too risky. Too sensitive. Your faceplates do not betray a hint of what you feel.

How Overlord wished to change that. But he pushes such thoughts away for now. Seems like the two of you had a common destination.

“Interesting.” He says, sounding disinterested. He doesn't feel like murdering all of you anymore. Even if seeing how downright devstated you would be in such a situation would be a sight for his sore optics but…

Now, at least he will know where to find you later.

this is one of my stuff back on ao3, i'll post each of them onto here one by one.

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Locked In

Ah, the classic forced proximity trope (I'm such a sucker for this). This idea was suggested by @blueberrysquire so thank you very much! This one's for you, I hope you like the fic!

Fandom: Tokyo Debunker

Characters: Sho Haizono x gn! Reader

Word Count: 2.1k (2,170 words)

This fic can also be read on AO3!

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You and Sho get stuck in a classic forced proximity trope. What will happen when you have no choice but to confront your feelings for each other?

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Sho was going to kill Leo this time.

He really was. Sure, he’d said that before and Leo had talked his way out of it or Sho’s anger had dissipated once the issue was passed. But this time, he was serious.

That grey-haired idiot had pushed him too far this time and Sho was going to kill him.

What had happened to get him to that point? Simple.

The food truck had been a great success. Better than he’d ever imagined it would be. Each day came with more and more customers and, while Sho was happy his cooking was finally getting the recognition it deserved, that also meant more and more trips to and from the storage room to replenish his ingredients.

And then there were your visits. At the end of every day, Sho would experiment with whatever leftover ingredients he had on hand and make up new dishes. And somehow, you’d found out about this routine and started dropping by just as he was closing up for a free feed of whatever he decided to cook up that day.

Not that he minded the company. In fact, far from it. Despite his initial mental refusal, Sho had started developing something of a crush on you ever since your support of his food truck idea. He’d been around Leo so long, all it took was a few kind, encouraging words from you to get his heart racing.

And then, just as he was starting to accept his feelings, the last person he ever wanted to find out, found out.

~

“What, you got a crush on the NPC or something?”

Sho turned his back on where Leo was sitting and concentrated on not burning the chicken he was cooking.

It was the middle of the lunch hour and, as usual, Leo had dropped by to “help out” and “keep Sho company”. Of course, Leo’s version of helping was sitting nearby and gossiping about everyone on campus.

Today, he had been gossiping about you, the Honour Roll, the NPC, who was going around being a goody two shoes and helping all the houses with their unresolved daddy issues. Or mummy issues. Depending on who it was.

Sho had been distracted by his cooking and had made the stupid mistake of defending you.

And that was all the encouragement Leo had needed.

“Oh my god, you do!”

Sho refused to turn around. He could already imagine the look on Leo’s face, smug and vaguely disgusted at the notion of his friend having a crush on someone. And he refused to let Leo see the blush that had spread across his cheeks.

“Really? Honour Roll?” Leo sighed, “You’ve got to improve your taste. But whatever floats your boat, I guess. Could be fun after all.”

At that, Sho turned to face his friend. “No. No, no, no. Don’t you dare. I know that tone. You’re going to keep out of this. I don’t want any dares or bets or gambles. You’re going to keep your pointy nose out of this for once. Okay?”

A slow grin spread across Leo’s face. “You really like them, don’t you?”

Sho felt his face begin to burn again and turned back to the stove. “What is it to you?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

But Sho knew it was never just nothing with Leo.

~

Which brought him to today. The food truck had been exceptionally busy, even by his standards and by the end of the day, he’d had barely any ingredients left over to cook dinner for the two of you. He was just considering another supply run when your voice broke him from his thoughts.

“How was the truck today?”

You were standing in the door, grinning at him and he had to bite back a goofy smile of his own. Sure, he liked you but that was no reason to go blurting his feelings out so obviously.

“Busy. I’m all out of ingredients. No dinner today.”

Sho watched your face fall, then lift as you scrambled to cover your slip up. “Oh, that’s all good. Can’t get a free feed all the time I suppose.”

Sho nodded, letting the moment drag out before he let himself laugh, a smile breaking across his face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I was about to go do another trip to pick up some fresh ingredients for dinner. I have to eat too after all.”

The way your face lit up was all worth it and Sho felt his heart race faster.

“C’mon. You can tag along this time. Since I’ve got to get the ingredients, you can pick what we have tonight.” He untucked his tie from where it had been sitting in his chest pocket and walked over to join you at the door.

On the walk across to the storage room Sho let his mind wander as you ranted about your day. Apparently, the latest house you had been assigned to was full of weirdos and you had no idea how you were going to make them all want to work together.

 “And then they decide to just leave. I mean who does that?”

Sho shook his head, smiling at your incredulous tone as he unlocked the storage room door. Leaving the key in the lock, he gestured you through, turning on the light with his outstretched hand. You pushed past him and he tried not to relish the warmth from your body.

“So, what’s on the menu?”

You made a humming noise as you looked over the shelves. Sho followed you into the room so he could better see what ingredients your eyes lingered over.

And then the door slammed shut.

Sho spun on his heel to try but it was far too late to prevent it from closing. He sighed and placed a hand on the door handle. But just as he was about to turn it to open the door a click came from the other side.

Sho felt panic build in him and tried to turn the handle. It didn’t move.

“Yeah, I locked it.”

Sho covered his hands, trying not to yell. Of course Leo was poking his nose into Sho’s business. And of course he would take matters into his own hands in this way.

“Leo. Unlock the door. It’s not funny.” Sho glanced behind him to see how you were holding up. Being locked in a room was never fun, even if there was plenty of food around. You looked more annoyed than concerned and Sho remembered that, even if he’d known Leo longer, you’d still had to put up with your fair share of his nonsense.

Leo made a tutting noise. “Uh uh uh. You and Honour Roll aren’t getting out of there until things get cleared up between you two. I don’t care how it gets resolved. As long as you leave that room with…no secrets.”

Sho turned away from you quickly, hoping you didn’t notice the blush on his face. “Unlock the door.”

“Enjoy!”

“Leo.”

Silence.

“Leo!”

Sho banged on the door with an open palm but there was still no reply. Leo must have walked away. Sho could imagine him going, swinging the key in one hand.

He sighed, resting his head against the door. He was pretty strong, maybe he could break down the door. But no, this room was specially designed to survive the brunt of ghoul strength to prevent theft. He’d left his phone in the kitchen, assuming it would be a quick trip to the storage room and back. And he’d seen you put your bag down inside the kitchen door and he guessed your phone was in there. Unless you were able to think of a plan to get out, you’d both be trapped until Leo took mercy and came back with the keys.

“So. Guess we’re stuck in here huh?”

Sho turned around slowly, almost dreading your expression. But other than lingering annoyance that he hoped was because of Leo, you didn’t look that put out by being forced to spend possibly hours in a locked room with him. Sho decided to take that as a good sign.

“Seems like it. Sorry.”

You shook your head. “Nah, all good. I didn’t have any plans tonight anyway. I don’t mind spending time with you. Despite the circumstances.”

Sho exhaled through his nose and sat down cross legged on the floor. He gestured for you to do the same. “No point in staying standing.”

You nodded your agreement as you lowered yourself to the floor and mirrored his position. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

~

The conversation had been flowing better than Sho could have hoped. Usually, you talked while he cooked and listened so it was a nice change being able to have a proper two way conversation with you. But it had reached a natural lull and you were both staring at the ingredients, trying not to make the situation awkward.

What was Leo anyway? There was no way of telling the time in the storage room but it had to have been a while. Surely he wasn’t going to leave them there overnight?

Then again, this was Leo. Even Sho didn’t know what he was capable of.

“Hey, Leo said something about clearing the air right?”

Oh no.

“Do you know what that was all about?”

No, no no.

“I think things are great between us. Even when we’re locked in a room, it doesn’t get weird.”

He was going to kill Leo.

“Nah, who knows what he was on about. Probably some new trend he saw on TikTok.”

You uncrossed your legs and spun around onto your hands and knees, crawling towards him. “You sure? It’s nothing like ‘you have a crush on me and you’ve been talking about me to Leo and he’s finally had enough so he locked us in this room to get you to confess’?”

Sho’s mouth hung open despite the voice in his brain screaming at him to get it together. You were just hypothesising, you didn’t know how he felt. But you were getting closer and your face was on level with his and the rest of his brain was short circuiting and he wasn’t sure he trusted his voice at the moment.

You paused. “It’s not that is it?” Silence. “Is it?” More silence as Sho looked away feeling his cheeks heating up. “It is.” You leant back, sitting down with a thump. Sho couldn’t bring himself to look at you. “Oh my god. It is that.”

Sho cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak but you raised a hand and he dared to glance at your face.

It was flushed and you were avoiding his eyes as carefully as he and just been avoiding yours. “Just…just give me a second.”

Sho nodded and leaned back against the door, bringing a slightly trembling hand to his head to brush back his hair.

“So, you like me?” Your voice was stronger and, despite the flush that was still evident, you were about to meet his eyes.

Sho nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I didn’t expect you to find out this way though.”

You let out a laugh. “I wasn’t expecting to tell you I like you back this way either.”

Sho blinked, letting your words sink in. You liked him back. You. Liked him. You liked him as well. His feelings were mutual.

He felt a smile begin to spread across his face and saw the same grin mirrored on your face. “You like me too?”

You nodded. Sho wasn’t sure which of you moved first but the next thing he knew, you were hugging him and he was hugging you back and everything felt right in the world, even if you two were still locked in the storage room.

You pulled back from the hug, keeping your faces close together. Sho felt a fluttering in his chest as you began to draw closer…and closer…

And then fluorescent light bathed the two of you as the door swung open and Leo shone a torch down on the two of you.

“Well, that took longer than I thought. If it hadn’t wrapped up soon, I was going to have to leave you two there until morning.”

“Were you sitting outside that whole time listening in?” Sho felt you stiffen in his arms as you realised your private conversation may not have been so private after all.

“Well I had to know when to let you two out. Really Sho, after all that and your secret got blurted out before you had the chance to tell her yourself. I’m ashamed.”

Sho gently pushed you away from him and began to rise to his feet. He stretched a hand down to you and help you up as well. Once you were upright, he smiled at you.

“You want to help me kill him?”

Your grin returned, clearly seeing the sparkle in his eyes. “Could be a fun first date.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[cursedmoon-doll13]

If It Serves You.

(Headmaster!Severus Snape x Reader)

Cw: Non/Dubcon + Aftermath, Afab Reader, Dark-ish Snape, Unprotected Sex, Powerplay, Sex as Bargaining, Facefucking, Crying, Fingering, Creampie, Begging, Degradation (use of slut) and Praise, Reader calls Snape ‘Headmaster,’ Former Student Reader, Mentions of Torture/Child Abuse, Denial of Feelings.

READ WITH CAUTION

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: As a professor of Hogwarts, your past ambitions, your fragile hope and unrelenting diligence have all led to nothing. Now, you are powerless beneath the rising force of He Who Must Not Be Named and his army of Death Eaters. The only thing left you have to give is your pride; your weak and vulnerable body.

Or, you beg the new headmaster to show mercy to your students in exchange for sexual favours.

Dividers by @/saradika

Of course, there was no pressing need to check and recheck the potions’ storage. Certainly no need to catalogue it twice. You did almost it out of instinct, or force of habit. Yes, It’s healthy to maintain a routine, including routine inspections, just like- just like-

“Professor ___,” comes a gruff voice from behind. In your nervous state, you imagine it is a Carrow, and freeze in panic. “Why are you here?”

You whirl around. No. It’s Professor Slughorn.

“Oh,” you straighten your robes. “Horace. I was just taking inventory.”

“Were you? I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.” He says brusquely.

“Of course, of course you can.”

Your voice carries the same placid, appealing tone with which you’ve used to calm your pupils. You wince at the sound of it. Then, his expression loosens. Not immediately, but little by little, settling into the creases and wrinkles of stress and age. His walrus moustache droops into a familiar frown.

“I’m… I’m very sorry, ___,” he says. “Whenever I leave my storage unattended for too long, I take this terrible notion that some very bright and brilliant student is going to brew a polyjuice potion. Heh.”

His laughter rings rather hollow.

“Yes, those were my thoughts exactly,” you concede, heaving a sigh. “It would be so simple. Not for all of them, but some of our best could do it. And then they would make a reckless attempt at escaping, or even try to impersonate one of those Death…”

You stop yourself, and peer carefully into his face.

You’ve noticed how Horace has visibly deflated, how he has lost his colour over the past few months. How could you not? You would never accuse the Slug of being slovenly, but you’re well aware that beneath all the powder his eye-bags are as sunken as yours.

“It is unfortunate that one of my… One of our best…” It seems that he cannot finish his sentence. Nonetheless, you know who she is.

“It’s a very unfortunate thing,” Professor Slughorn mutters idly. “Very unfortunate…”

He’s fiddling with a ring on one liver-spotted finger. His lips purse periodically, as if a throb in his temple is threatening to burst.

“Horace, It’ll all be alright,” you try to reassure him, knowing you cannot guarantee this.

The only response you receive is a distant nod. He does not stop fussing over his ring. Then, he turns abruptly stony again:

“Well, then,” he says. “You’d best be on your way.”

He dismisses you as curtly as he would a student, but you don’t protest. You know that when you leave, he will pacify his anxiety with a sleeping draught.

As you exit the dungeon and traverse the silent halls, the early winter chill rattles straight through your bones. It seems that Hogwarts grows colder each passing day; colder and emptier. Even when teaching, your classroom is as quiet as death.

Alchemy has never been a popular elective, and now you are down to very few students. Some had also disappeared completely over the Summer, mostly those without Pureblood status or families to support them… You try not to ponder too deeply on it. For their sake - and perhaps also for your own - you keep it together.

Yes. You must stay stubborn and strong. Especially considering what you are about to do now.

You shiver in your thin robes outside of the Headmaster’s office. The griffin sentinel glares haughtily down at you, and for a second you fancy it alive, judging you guilty for some crime. Thinking this, You glance this way and that, wary of onlookers. 

But all of the students are asleep; or at least, they should be. Most of your coworkers have also retired for the evening. You here stand alone. 

You take a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Sugar Quill.” Your voice echoes eerily. 

The griffin does not budge. The new headmaster has changed the password, of course. You suspected as much, but it was still worth attempting.  

“Amortentia,” you try next. No response. 

You shift, acutely aware of how ridiculous you must appear; a Hogwarts professor stumped by a statue. 

“Polyjuice. Veritaserum. Bezoar… Asphodel.” 

Nothing. 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” you huff, already spiked with tight, uneasy tension. “It was so much easier when Dumbledore…”

A low, heavy rumble breaks your train of thought as the spiral staircase emerges. You quickly mount it and climb upwards, boots clattering on the rising stone. It gives way to a large study lined with bookshelves.

You’ve made it into Dumbledore’s office. 

Except it is no longer his. You must remind yourself of this fact often, and each time it stings, like a tiny pricking thorn ingrown into the heart. The study is far draughtier than you remember; devoid and bereft in the absence of Fawkes.

No, Albus is not here. Instead, what scowls over at you from behind the Headmaster’s desk is the unmistakable face of Severus Snape, and he does not appear pleased to see you.

“Kindly inform me why you are in my office.” His voice is slow and measured, but you can sense the venom lurking underneath. 

“I don’t remember ever giving you the password,” he continues, alighting from his chair. “Or have you picked up that nasty eavesdropping habit from one of our pupils?” 

He spat that last word as if it was a curse. 

“No, Severus,” you say quickly. “I guessed it.” 

Severus. Or Professor Snape. But now…

You think you catch him pale ever-so-slightly, or perhaps that is the dim lighting of the room, casting dark, creeping shadows across the floor. While there has never been a cordiality or warmth to your relationship, you recognise that you have been spared the worst of his barbed hostility.

Before now, that is; now, the distance between you is far too great. 

“Did you now?” He sneers.

In response, you draw up, mindful not to appear challenging as you tip your chin. 

“I’m here because I have a proposition for you,” you announce clearly. “I hoped you would be reasonable and hear me out.” 

Snape’s eyes narrow icily and suddenly you are in his Potions class again, overseen with strict authority. One wrong move, and the concoction will spoil and poison you. His black robes billow as he approaches, expanding like the hood of a cobra. 

“There is nothing you could possibly offer me,” he says, folding one shrouded arm over another. “And so there is nothing to discuss. Leave.” 

Your nerves are strung so tight, you can’t help but object: “The Carrows are far too cruel in their methods! Too brutal. The students-” 

“Are very fortunate to have been granted mercy by the Dark Lord,” Snape interrupts, and you swallow thickly. Of course, you could not have forgotten the festering dark mark that now itches underneath his robes, writhing and serpentine.

“But it isn’t enough,” you say, throat sandpaper dry. A rush of urgency floods your system. Now. It needs to be now, before you lose your courage. 

(A gash on the cheek, a row of dark-purplish bruises and welts, a swollen eye, whippings and burns, scars from chains, all so frightened, but brave still.)

“If you agree to grant my students your protection,” your voice falters. “I will give… Myself to you.”

The silence that follows is agonising. His expression is indecipherable; taut and stiff. You’re beginning to think that maybe you weren’t transparent enough. 

Your trembling hands drift towards your top buttons, and you start to undo them bit by bit. 

“Stop,” Snape orders. 

At this, you freeze. Your heart plummets starkly into your intestines. Oh. You hadn’t even considered that he would - or could - reject your offer. You fear you may have tipped the bubbling cauldron over and left it melting through the carpet. As you linger numbly, Snape’s tongue darts between his lips. Light flashes behind his stern black eyes. 

Perhaps he’s considering it, perhaps… 

“Come here,” he says sharply. You obey. 

Shuddering in the winter chill, you watch the slow bob of his Adam’s apple, the twitch of his lids as his gaze dips steadily downward… Snape’s forefinger comes to brush the fabric from your shoulder, his knuckle grazing your collarbone, and your pulse quickens anew. 

“I’ll do anything,” you plead. “Please, Severus.” 

“You will refer to me as ‘Headmaster,’” he corrects.

“Headmaster…” 

You suck in a shaky breath. Standing this close to him, you can make out the lilac rims of his sunken eyes and the worry lines on his forehead. 

He’s tired… The thought springs to mind, unbidden. 

The hand that tends to the rest of your buttons is not rough, but the coldness of his touch makes you flinch. Snape pulls down your outer robes in one swift motion, and you can’t help but gasp. Your nipples perk from the chill, skin prickled with goosebumps. Underwear was unnecessary, and though you knew that from the start, you are stripped so quickly it still leaves you cringing. He moves to fondle your breasts, and your breathing shallows. You stare desperately towards the floor, towards some old, faded tea stain.

“Fall on your knees, ___,” he tells you. 

You kneel quickly in front of him, and he moves to cup the nape of your neck. You don’t need to be instructed; you do your best to steady your hands and unfasten the button over his crotch. You nudge out his dick, and see that he’s already half-hard. 

Before he changes his mind, you spit into your palm and use it as lubricant as you get to work jerking him off. You can feel him watching you, silent and still. This situation is completely wrong, all wrong, but the awkwardness of it is almost juvenile. 

“___,” he calls above you. You stiffen. You know that cautionary tone. “If you have enough cheek to wag your tongue at me, you can also use it for this.” 

You nod faintly, licking your lips. Of course, you should have prepared for this, too, but you have barely even steeled your nerves. Hesitant, you lean forward and run your tongue along the shaft, tracing a vein. Your movements are practically mechanical; dispensing small, kitten licks over the tip, continuing to stroke him. This is now a kind of out-of-body experience for you, the sort of bizarre circumstance you can only encounter in a very strange dream. 

But then, Snape decides your next course of action for you, clutching your jaw and muffling your whimpers as he sinks into your mouth. 

A teardrop falls softly onto your chest, and it only occurs to you now that you’re crying. You gag out a sob as the tip of Snape’s cock hits the back of your throat, unable to prevent loose spit from dribbling down your chin. Above you, his breath hitches. 

“Open your eyes,” he demands. 

You didn’t know you had closed them; squeezed them tightly shut. You peek up at his pale face. 

His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely black. Snape forbids you to keep eye-contact with a firm grip over your head, and you gag again as he rocks his hips. You clutch his thighs for purchase while he fucks your face, tears streaming down your cheeks. For distraction, you try to focus on him, and his pleasure-stricken expression lulls you in like hypnosis; the tightness of his lips, his dark brows slightly furrowed, the minute twitches in his jaw. 

Snape’s thrusts begin to stutter, but he tightens his hold on you and forces you to take all of him. He drags in a sharp intake of breath, and warm, slightly bitter cum pools onto your tongue. 

“Swallow it. All of it.” 

You gasp for air, gulping it down hastily. 

“You'll be getting used to the taste of me. Stand.” 

Snape urges you up and steers you over to his table. Before you can blink, you’re whirled around and caged against his desk. The edge of it cuts harshly into your naked thighs, and you yelp. You can feel his long black hair sweep over your neck, a sensation that is almost ticklish. Snape yanks down your robes and they fall limply around your boots. Now, you are truly exposed, shivering and naked. The only source of warmth is his body heat pressed into your back, the starched, dark fabric of his clothing. 

His cool hand dips around and feels down your stomach, and your breath hitches as Snape unexpectedly plunges several fingers into your pussy. You shock yourself with how slick you are, mortified at the way he tsks behind you:

“Little slut. Is this what you’ve always wanted?” Snape hisses into your ear, spreading the pads of his fingertips over your labia, teasing your clit. 

“Yes!” You choke out. 

“Yes, Headmaster,” he pinches your clit warningly and it feels like an electric shock. 

“Yes, yes Headmast- ah…!” 

He starts to rub in rough, merciless circles, and you immediately try to stifle a cry against your wrist. Snape rips it impatiently from you. 

“Don’t even try to deny it. I can feel how wet you are.” 

It’s surely not the truth. Surely, you tell yourself... 

One long, deft forefinger slips into your slit and pumps steadily in and out. You let out a soft moan, unable to resist the quivering thrill that coils in your abdomen. You didn’t realise he would even try to prep you, and, against your will, you feel some of your fear dissipate. 

“You think I didn’t notice, did you?” He scoffs. “Always so desperate for my attention, always clamouring for a better grade.” 

Memories of your seventh year at Hogwarts resurface and spiral dizzily in your head. The newest, youngest professor, but strict and competent, and— 

Dark, sweeping cloak, black hair, black eyes… 

I even once wished I could brush away the strands…  

Then he retracts his fingers, slowly, torturously, You hate how you yearn for his touch in its absence, how you crave the buzz to smother your discomfort. 

Snape bends you cleanly over the polished table, your still damp breasts pressing into the hardwood. He traces a long, thin finger down your back, tracing languidly across your spine; you could almost believe his touch is tender. Almost. Instinctively, you try to turn your head to face him, but he denies you with a firm hand gripping the base of your neck. You whimper as he lathers cold precum on your thighs, positioning his straining dick over your entrance:

“…Or was it praise you were hoping for?” His voice is low and subdued. Snape’s breath fans over you, and for a moment you falter.

No, of course you don’t expect— 

No, not from Professor Snape. Only your best was acceptable. To elicit a nod of approval, or even a commending glance, you couldn’t possibly hope—

“Headmaster, I— I only ever wanted you to…” 

“Beg for it,” his tone sharpens again. 

Snape slips the tip of his cock inside your folds. But then, he stops, and does not move. You are trapped between his desk and him, left pitiful and squirming. 

“Headmaster,” you say weakly. “Please.” 

“Please what, ___?” 

You grit your teeth, still bristling at the indignity of it all. But you know that, whether he’s enjoying himself or not, Snape has the patience to wait this out. 

“Please, fuck me!” you plead.

You gasp as he grips your thighs and slides himself in further with a lewd, wet sound. Your walls stretch around him as you adjust to his length. He groans softly and rolls his hips, sinking deeper into your cunt, until you’re utterly full of him.

Despite it all, it feels sinfully good, but his movements are so sluggish that you can’t help but whine pathetically into the wooden table. 

“And what exactly is it that you’ve always wanted?” 

What I always wanted, when I was in Potions class… 

“For you to p-praise me, Headmaster.” 

In an instant, you realise this is true. Deep down, you have always hoped for his sole attention… And now he’s invading that dark, primordial world in between, spurring on those secret and forbidden desires you should never have conceived. 

Snape slowly pulls out, dragging every inch of his cock, and then snaps his hips back in, briefly hitting that sweet, sensitive spot that has you seeing stars. 

“Please!” You add, letting out a shrill moan. 

“And do you? Do you want this…?” 

He mutters so quietly, it almost sounds like he’s begging you. Snape’s pace is set now, rocking powerfully into you as you fill the air with loud, desperate whimpers. 

“I do!” You breathe, mind-numbingly uncertain. 

But it doesn’t matter anymore if you want it or not; the sensation is so overbearing and so ruthless, unforgiving and unfair, just like him. You’re barely cognizant of the arms that curl around your naked waist, almost embracing you, until they provide cushioning against the sharp desk. 

“You take me so well,” he murmurs, “So well.” 

Your head spins, threatening to give up on you completely. You could never have predicted such a drastic change in demeanour. The way he’s treating you now is so different from his earlier cruelty; his affectionate caresses might be almost loving. 

“So tight, so good for me…” He groans again, heavily, and the vibrations thrill up your spine as he spears you on his dick. “You’re doing perfectly.” 

He kneads the soft flesh of your thighs, sighing blissfully. You can feel the spiking thrum of Snape’s heartbeat, the soft touch of his lips on your neck, kissing reverently over your shoulder blade. You wish you could just see the expression on his face, if you could only see Severus for one moment…

“Headmaster,” you pant, craning your head. 

“Don’t,” he says hurriedly. “Don’t look at me.” 

Snape doesn’t relent, forcing you firmly in place with a hard squeeze on your shoulder. There’s something thick and vulnerable in his voice that you can’t place, but all you can respond with is a needy cry as he speeds up, angling his thrusts just right. You can feel the familiar shock of pleasure coiling up in your belly now, surging from how deep he reaches. 

“I’m the only one who can fuck you like this, aren’t I?” He snaps without warning, bursting with emotion again. You can only nod frantically in response.

“Yes, yes, Headmaster!” You sob, your eyes stinging with tears again.

Snape’s movements only grow stronger, his breathing heavier and huskier. His fingernails are digging small, half-moon indents into your skin. You don’t try to stifle the wanton moans that spill from your lips anymore, clawing for purchase at the wood. 

“___… When you cum, you cum for me.” 

Uncontrollably, you arch into the table. Your leg is cramping up from the exertion, muscles pulled taut, and you’re going to, you’re going to—

Your orgasm drowns the rest of your thoughts in static, white, hot bliss that smothers you. Snape shudders and moans as he buries himself to the hilt, pumping you full of his seed. His black cloak sweeps over you as he pulls out, far too soon, leaving you quivering and dripping with his cum.

The last, mangled strands of lucidity swim hazily in your mind. It takes a moment for you to remember why you were here at all.

After a few seconds, he releases you from the confines of his desk without a word. You bend down and hoist the ring of fabric up past your hips again, though your skin is sticky and damp. After a deep, shaky breath, you dare to glance at Snape. 

There’s a thin sheet of sweat beading his forehead. Snape helps you pull your robes over your shoulders. He silently fastens your buttons back up again for you, and his touch is surprisingly gentle. You don’t rebuff him. Your hands are trembling enough as it is. 

“Promise me that you’ll…” You halt.

Your vision is still blurry, but you could swear he looks like the old Severus. Not the figurehead or the professor, but the man. The Severus you once knew. 

There’s a strange look in his eyes that you don’t understand, and maybe you never will. 

You’re so dead tired you can barely drag your feet back to the staff’s living quarters. You wake Minerva— or, no, she is already occupied by her usual routine of restless pacing, tugging at her tartan dressing-gown. While she does interrogate you a bit crossly, you can tell she empathises with your ‘insomnia.’

After that you gulp down a contraceptive and stumble into bed, boneless and weary. You don’t cry at all, though you feel that you probably should.

In a way, you’re glad that Minerva doesn’t appear concerned or worried for you. That means she hasn’t found out. There was a persistent paranoia in the back of your mind that she had, that Minerva had seen or heard or sensed it somehow.

You wonder if she’d feel disgusted, or if she would simply pity you. Maybe that would be worse.

You flick your wand and flush out the light.

No. No one needs to know what you’ve done.

A month passes. The grip of winter releases its hold, and spring emerges in its wake, fresh and pure. It’s as if you can finally breathe again.

You hope that you do not imagine the way your student’s faces regain some semblance of warmth. You hope you do not imagine the unmarred bodies, mercifully free from wounds. You also hope that it is not their own schemes or plans that embolden them.

They should leave those matters to you.

Somehow, it feels like the nightmare is almost over. But not yet. Not yet. You still await your orders, and nurse lofty dreams of freedom in your heart.

When night falls, you strip off your underclothes and climb the spiral staircase once more. It is not excitement that tightens your chest, but it is also not dread. Perhaps something else you also do not understand, and cannot afford to think of now.

Headmaster Snape is standing by his desk. You realise he’s been waiting for you. He has that strange, mystifying look in his eyes again.

He offers you a hand.

“Come here,” he says.