masterthompsonsfaggot-blog

[lokisis]

The innate feeling of love humans have for everything.. when they find out that something is unloved they go out of their way to love it unconditionally. Something so deep rooted in our genes it can't be removed. To find something broken and battered to love, because it satiates a need. Why do we do that? Why do you do that?

[shadowdragonempyrian]

Daily Writing Challenge - Day 13 - "Pride/The Maw"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of bronze. The enemies had begun scheming, he mused. His maw shut as he drew in air through his nostrils. A testy lash of his tail ensured that he could move forward towards the blue dragon in front of him. She had narrowly escaped due to her inate gift of arcane as she teleported behind him and latched onto his flank. Her fangs sunk through dense scale. His hind leg reared up to claw at her underbelly as to dislodge her from his frame.

Though he had no time to react when the collision of the Red Dragon had come immediately after his momentary freedom. A large maw snagged around his throat, nearly crushing the windpipe in its grip. Outraged by the sudden teamwork of his foes, he writhed his head back and gouged his horns into the face of the red dragon. It released its hold on him as he dove down to get some distance.

But once more, he saw that bronze dragon fly by... And then, the blue dragon was in front of him once more. She had been an easier target, he felt and he lurched for her again. And strangely enough, she gripped onto the flank in the exact same manner as the first time she had attacked him. Except it was as if she did it again.

"Ah... so the Bronze wants to divide and conquer..."

Rather than dislodge the blue dragon, Empyrian instead swept her body around so that he could hold her in place when the red dragon came to bite at his neck. Though this time, the red dragon landed his mark on the wrong target. Before the chronomancy could be put into effect again, Empyrian charged the smaller bronze dragon. His claw swept outward to grab at the bronze. Though instead, his claw would catch sand. Frustration and ire had fueled his resolve to pursue the bronze instigating dragon.

Opening his maw, he was prepared to snag a bite onto the bronze's tail. But instead, he would get a hit to the throat by a missile of green. He hadn't seen the young drake when she struck, and he felt disoriented due to the lack of oxygen. Or perhaps it was something else entirely?

Something was filling the space in his throat and making it more difficult to breathe. He could feel his body straining to put strength into his wings to fly and his claws to scrape at his throat to remove the growing plant in his neck. His talons cut through thick roots and he'd remove them as quickly as they emerged.

"Now!" The bronze's voice called as the red dragon swooped over its head to grip onto the black dragon's wings. The pair would descend towards the swirling vortex that had once belong to the Well of Eternity. Chaotic energies from the demonic influence struck out at the pair, hitting them as they fell. Upon contact with the water's surface, both dragons were stunned at the impact. Their resolve lost as the water pulled them into the abyss below.

Whirling and twirling around beneath the surface, Empyrian felt his vitality waning. His vision was a blur as he spun and spun. His claw outstretched towards the surface as a whisper reached his mind.

"You... will... die." Any thought to retort against this whisper was answered with sudden darkness...

Sightless and angry, Empyrian awoke. He felt himself being pulled somewhere against his will. It was a freefalling sensation that didn't offer the 'free' part of the fall. How was it that he died so soon? He was a healthy adult dragon, that had many years yet to go to become a wyrm. All of the malicious intent of corruption through the Earth-Warder was still very much a part of him in death.

He had work to do!

Suddenly, his memories began to rush by him. Certain instances of his youth and adulthood skimmed through before the focus was on the tyranny of his rampage.

"The Maw." The voice sounded automated and artificial. What pondering he might have done was lost as the pulling sensation intensified. He wanted to thrash against the voice, but futility was the nature of life beyond death.

Upon being condemned, he'd eventually hit the ground. His soul was dark and hideous. And those around him were easily engulfed by his malevolence. Much like an elemental that splits into small furies, this was an amalgamation of sin. And he festered throughout the barren landscape with not a direction or purpose aside from mayhem.

As he further coalesced into a larger monstrosity, his will forced the other souls to shape his former body. Shadowy limbs took on draconic features as claws manifested from ethereal energy that was warped and twisted. Horns sprouted from a ghostly head and solidified by infusing with rock in his surroundings. His entire bone structure was components of the place he was thrown into damnation.

Though a body was not enough. And while his strength compensated for much against similar entities, he required eyes. Whispers of older souls told him of the need for attaining anima. And so he would construct a means to see. Though it was clear this hellscape was lacking in that resource he so desperately needed.

At least... for some time anyway.

Strangely he could feel the menace that was exiled to the Maw. And he inhaled the fumes of leaking anima like it was a freshly bled kill. He did not hesitate to charge forward and feast on this unfortunate soul's frame. And not long after, red eyes would take the appearance of the shadowy sin-touched soul-eater.

What he saw was a broken human - and while he could have just as easily consumed him, there was a rigid pity for it. Perhaps because Empyrian could at one time understand the infamy of terrorizing the world by one soul alone. And thus... he would turn away, knowing that all that remained with this man was weakness.

@daily-writing-challenge

[wincestismyguiltypleasure]

Amber, I'm kind of obsessed with casino owner!Jensen and his pet. And how angry Jensen's gonna be when the new security guard Chad tries to 'rescue' Jared. And how Jared plays along with Chad, because he kinda wants to see what Jensen does and the guy's hot so it's fun. And how Jared's punished when Jensen finds out just how far he let things get with Chad, especially when Jared says "Well, if you'd fuck me more often maybe I wouldn't look for toys to play with while you're busy." (bad puppy!)

KELLY!! THIS IS WHAT I'M HERE FOR!!

If there's one thing Jared knows with complete certainty, it's that Jensen Ross Ackles is a possessive, vendictive son of a bitch. He does not share, and he does not take kindly to anyone putting their hands on what he considered his. Which is precisely why Jared was willing to bet his teeth that Jensen would go absolutely ballistic once he knew about Chad and the dark purple hickeys that he'd left all over Jared's, temporarily uncollared, neck.

But his dirty little secret was out in the open now, and Jensen hadn't so much as batted an eyelash. The casino owner's inate ability to foil him at every turn serving as painful reminder why Jared had quit gambling in the first place.

"You're right, Jared," Jensen says, taking a small step forward. Then another. Jared's blood pressure raising higher and higher the closer he got.

Of course, his first instinct was to reach out for Jensen, beg him for forgiveness, and keep his fingers crossed that he'd be able to sit down tomorrow morning. But that wasn't an option because Jared's pride had been hurt this time, and not in the break you down and make you beg for filthy things kind of way either. No, his Dom's reaction, or lack thereof, had made him feel unwanted. Like Jensen could care less who used his body just as long as Jared came crawling back to him after they were done.

So when Jensen reaches out, warm palm cupping his cheek tenderly, Jared resists the overwhelming urge he has to lean in and nuzzle against it. He'd be damned if he was going to let Jensen win that easily.

"You're absolutely right."

The rough pad of Jensen's thumb brushes over Jared's parted lips in a soothing manner. And even when Jared nips at him playfully, because he's desperate to get a rise out of his Dom, Jensen doesn't flinch. No signs of frustration darken his handsome features, or anger giving his hands a slight tremor. He just stands there in front of Jared, staring thoughtfully into those wide, innocent eyes.

It's intense, to say the least. But then again, intense was practically Jensen's middle name.

"I am?"

Jared blinks nervously a few times, clearly confused but Jensen doesn't give anything away. He just pats Jared's cheek softly and continues. "Mmhm. I really have been working too much lately."

Panic swells in Jared's chest, thick and suffocating, when he sees Jensen's lips twist upward into cruel smile. Realization hitting him full force in the gut like a freight train, and just like that, Jared finds himself whimpering in Jensen's embrace. The hot tears welling up in the corners of his eyes reminiscent of the first time that Jensen had caught Jared breaking the rules.

"Hey." Jared's chin is pinched between Jensen thumb and index finger before he can even blink. Grip tight enough to bruise as he forces the younger man to look him in the eyes. And right then Jared thinks damn, this is it. The moment that his Dom cuts the lovey dovey bullshit and puts him on his knees.

That's why when Jensen presses a soft kiss to his cheek instead of landing a cruel backhand, Jared is at a total loss. His bulletproof way of getting what he wanted from Jensen shattering all around him like jagged shards of broken glass.

"Don't pout, Jare. Tonight, I'm all yours."

"O-okay," Jared concedes, trying desperately to swallow down some of the acidic bile rising up in his throat. Barely managing a slight nod of agreement before Jensen turned on his heels and dissapeared, leaving Jared in his bedroom half-hard and shaking. The younger man not quite sure if Mr. Ackles had just made a threat or a promise.

---------

When Jensen calls him to the living room later that night, Jared gets his answer. It had been both a threat, and a promise.

"Ah, there's my boy," Jensen purrs, tracking every one of Jared's cautious movements with a predatory gaze. And suddenly, standing there in just a thin pair of light grey boxers, at his Dom's request of course, Jared feels more vulnerable and exposed than he has in over two years.

"Wh-what's going on?"

Jared takes a hesitant step forward, tearing his eyes away from Jensen with more difficulty than he'd like to admit to focus them on the blonde motionless heap just visible past Jensen's broad frame. A surprised gasp ripped from his lungs when Jared studies it a little closer and suddenly recognizes that longing gaze.

"I know I said we were going to have some alone time tonight, sweetheart," Jensen says, soft and apologetic. Yet still managing to look every bit like the pissed off alpha male that he was standing there in his navy blue Armani suit, clearly ready to do some serious damage. To Chad's vital organs or his ass, Jared wasn't quite sure. "But Mr. Murray just seemed so lonely out there on the casino floor. Hope you don't mind that I invited him over."

Behind Jensen, Chad's bright blue eyes were boring into the back of his boss' head with murderous intent. And Jared could tell by the state of his disheveled clothes and the fresh cut oozing blood above Chad's right eye, that he'd been thrown onto Jensen's couch rather than seated there. Hands bound behind him tightly with what Jared could only imagine was rope or a zip-tie. The single strip of silver duct tape secured across his mouth clearly the only thing keeping Chad's temper at bay.

"Jen-" Jared began, making a move toward Chad only to he stopped dead in his track when Jensen raised his finger. Those gorgeous green eyes buring bright with rage as he pointed to the ground, slow and deliberate.

"Sit."

Jared hears Chad make a wounded sound when he falls to his knees without question. His palms automatically resting flat on top of his bare thighs as he leaned back on his heels, head bowed in submission.

"Good boy."

Jensen's voice is smooth as honey. His words of praise drizzling down Jared's spine, warm and sticky-sweet, soothing him. And by the time Jensen had closed the gap between them, Jared's shoulders were relaxed. The last bit of tension draining from his body completely when Jensen reached out to scratch behind his ear.

"Very good, pet."

Jared hums his acknowledgement but he doesn't dare move. Because despite Jensen's words of affection and his gentle touch, Jared knows his Dom is one wrong move away from completely snapping.

Bending the rules now would only make things worse. And Jared is absolutely positive that neither he or Chad could handle that.

"Baby," Jensen coos, running his fingers gently through his pet's sweaty hair when he notices the pained expression on Jared's face. "I need you to talk to me."

Communication, this was good. This was something they'd learned together over the course of the death-defying rollercoaster ride that was their relationship. And it was definitely a relief to know that Jensen's finger was on the guard of the gun and not the tigger, so to speak.

"C'mon, Jare."

Jared takes a ragged breath and nods, daring to steal another glance at Chad before he looked up at Jensen, body trembling.

Outside he could hear the rain staring to pick up, thunder rumbling low and eerie in the distance but still, it was nothing compared to the storm raging in his Dom's eyes. So much for thinking Jensen didn't care.

"I'm worried about...him," Jared says, voice cracking. He makes sure to put an emphasis on the word "him" because Lord knows if Jensen had heard the guard's name come out of Jared's mouth, that there'd be six, not seven, bullets in the magazine of the Colt .45 Jensen kept tucked in his waistband and blood splatter all over his pristine white walls.

"Aw," Jensen mocks, eyes pitch black and full of venom. Clearly not giving a shit that he sounded petty. "Is my sweet puppy worried about his dumb little toy?"

A hard yank on his hair makes Jared lean up on his knees, whining. Chad's eyes growing wide with concern when Jensen's free hand found Jared's throat and squeezed. "Well, rest easy baby. I'm not going to kill this useless waste of space...Unless," Jensen pauses, tilting his head to the side like he's weighing his options. "Unless you want me to?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jared can see Chad squirming a little, sad and helpless, and he hates himself for even considering Jensen's proposal. God, he wasn't this person. Or at least he'd convinced himself that he wasn't.

Before Jensen it was so much easier to ignore the darkness that had been gnawing at his insides for what felt like eons. But then this gorgeous, sadistic bastard came into his life, an unstoppable force, pushing Jared's boundries and offering him things that Jared would've NEVER asked for on his own. It was too much, and he wanted it all.

And yeah, the idea of Jensen bathed in the blood of a man who dared to put his hands on Jared was a (huge) turn on, but he can't do this, not to someone with a good heart like Chad.

"Jensen, please."

Jared's throat is dry, his voice raspy and broken as he reaches up to grab his Dom's wrist. "I'm so sorry. Just- punish me and let him go. This is all my fault." And it really is. Jared was never interested in Chad, at least not in the way he'd let the guard believe. Sure, they'd some fun, but it had all been a desperate attempt by Jared to get Jensen's attention. Everything Jared did, every time he acted out or pouted, it was all because he craved seeing that look in his Dom's eyes. This had always been about Jensen, and if he hadn't pretended that it wasn't, Jared knows now that he would've gotten everything that he wanted.

"That's very noble of you, baby." The older man digs his nails into Jared's sore skin as he hauls him up from the floor. There's a hint of amusement on Jensen's face now, standing there nose to nose with Jared. And somehow, this wild eyed, unstable version of his Dom terrifies Jared more than the cold, calculated one. "But I assure, I don't plan to hurt Mr. Murray. Well," Jensen stops short with a sly smirk before correcting himself, "you know what I mean."

"But I thought-" Jared's eyes dart from Jensen to Chad and back again, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"I know what you thought, Jare. I know everything that goes on in this pretty head." Jensen interjects, tapping his index finger lightly against Jared's temple. He smiles, bright and toothy, and Jared can feel the color drain from his face. "But believe it or not, Mr. Murray is here on his own volition."

Jared's jaw nearly hits the ground when he registers his Dom's words, teary gaze now focused on Chad who looks extremely apologetic and twice as embarrassed.

"The restraints?" Jensen is standing behind Jared now. He can feel the buttons on Jensen's dress shirt digging into his back, strong hands settling possessively on his hips, pulling him closer. "Just a precaution," Jensen explains, pressing a hot kiss to Jared's neck that makes him shiver. "In case he decided that he wanted to play the hero again."

Jared feels white-hot pain, sharp and intoxicating, twisting up his spine when Jensen bites down on one of the raw hickeys that Chad had left on his throat. Toes curling against the carpet as his dick throbs, dribbling pre-cum all over his boxers, head starting to spin. God, Jared doesn't think he's ever been this hard before in his life and it hurts so fucking good.

"Wh-what are you gonna do now?" Jared dares to ask while Jensen nibbles at his throat. Clearly trying to cover up Chad's handy work with a possessive mark of his own. And Jared's hand is trembling when he reaches up blindly, cupping the back of Jensen's head in his palm to bring him closer. Because fuck it. He'd already broken every rule in the book and he was still breathing, so why stop now?

"First," Jensen growls, delivering a sharp smack to Jared's outer thigh that immediately makes the younger man drop his arm. A half choked groan spilling from Jared's lips when his Dom suddenly flips him around so that they are face to face again. "I'm gonna spank your ass purple."

Jensen hands are warm and rough as they slid down Jared's sides, claiming every inch of smooth, tanned skin along the way. "And when you're so sore that you can barely think, begging for me to stop," he adds darkly, hands settle on Jared's ass. Fingers groping and kneading at the meaty flesh before Jensen pulls his ass cheeks apart, hold tight enough to make Jared whine and buck his hips. "I'm going to bend you over the coffee table and fuck you within an inch of your life. And I'm not going to stop until the only word that you can remember is my name and you're drooling all over Mr. Murray's cheap shoes."

Behind them, Chad is fighting against his restraints, mumbling something Jared can't quite make out but he's sure it's along the lines of "fuck you."

"And when you think you can't take any more," Jensen continues, completely ignoring Chad's temper tantrum, "I'm going to throw you over my shoulder, take you to the bedroom, and do it all again."

Jared's knees almost buckle when Jensen leans in to rub their noses together playfully. His lips ghosting over Jared's, so close and warm, daring his sub to close the gap between them and take what he wants without permission. But Jared's learned his lesson. Stays put even though he's dying to taste the jealousy on Jensen's lips.

"Can I wear my collar then?" He asks, soft and hopeful, pretty eyes locked with Jensen's.

"Of course you can, baby. I'm never going to let you leave the house without it on again."

Jared almost cries tears of joy when he hears the wicked tone in his Dom's voice. A sick part of him wishing that Jensen wouldn't even let him leave the house until he made sure Jared knew just who he belonged to.

"Thank you, Mr. Ackles."

"You're welcome, pet."

Jared feels a bit unsteady when Jensen steps back to take him in. His dark, hungry eyes giving Jared such a thorough once over that it makes the younger man's cheeks heat up with blush. He wants Jensen so bad right now that he can barely breathe. His need to be touched, to be controlled by the only man who knew how to handle him, hitting Jared like a sucker punch. He was so turned on now that it was causing him physical pain, and to make matters worse, Jared knew he had a long, torturous night of begging ahead of him before his Dom would even consider do anything about it.

"Oh, and don't worry Mr. Murray," Jensen says suddenly, looking over Jared's shoulder to address Chad directly for the first time that night, "If you sit still and behave, I'll make sure to leave the bedroom door open so you can hear my puppy scream."

Fuck, maybe Jared's plan had worked after all.

[changedfaethebetter]

Okay but I can’t get the idea of a Wicked OT3 Muzzled AU out of my head?

(Slight context; Muzzled is about a world where music has power, and singing is the only way to harness magic. Following a war between the elites and the Blackhearts (essentially just traditional bad guys- there’s no set defenition but in the show they include demons and witches and pirates ext.) all Blackhearts were stripped of their status, pushed into slums and magically Muzzled so attempting to sing causes them great pain. It’s set twenty years after the war so all of the main characters grew up in a world where Muzzles are normal.)

So, Glinda would be in Ambrosia’s position (though slightly less... awful) right at the top of Princess society, kind of enjoying tormenting the Blackhearts, and using her magic for some pretty frivolous things. She has power, the perfect man, and she’s getting ready to take over her father’s Kingdom. Everything is perfect, right? She’s always been raised to hate Blackhearts; they tried to kill her father after all. They won the war for a reason! Still, after she sees how painful the muzzles are up close she does feel a little bad- still, they brought it on themselves, right?

Fiyero would be Prince Mode- he does genuinely love Glinda, but he can’t help but feel pretty uncomfortable about just messing with Blackhearts for no reason. He actually ends up feeling really bad for Elphaba after the Princesses trick her... but not bad enough to intervene, though he does apologise afterwards. He actually enjoys hanging around with Blackheart prisoners even if his attempts to connect with them are a little misguided.

Elphaba would be Malfalia- coming from a Blackheart family who still hold a lot of power within their society but who are rejected by most because of their involvement in the war, with only one incredibly cold parent most of her peers are afraid of. She actually ends up idolising royal society against Blackheart tradition growing up, since she doesn’t like the Blackheart ideas about violence, and she’s constantly desperate to try and sing so she can prove she’s one of them- right up until the drunken Princesses humiliate her and prompt her to fight (and break) her muzzle despite the pain using her own inate power.

Elphaba takes advantage of her broken muzzle to infiltrate Princess society- no Blackheart has ever broken their muzzle before so, they wouldn’t suspect her right? Well, she doesn’t think things through super well, but luckily they were too drunk to remember her, because green skin isn’t normal even amongst Blackhearts, but Fiyero vouches for her and she’s in.

“I’m Princess Fatef- Fantasi- Fae. Princess Fae.”

“Fae? I’ve never heard of any green princess before.”

“I’m from the- uh. Spring...well...shire Fae. It’s pretty common over there- there’s magic in the water...”

“Springwellshire? I don’t think-”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of that! You’re out west, right? You have got to tell us about it!”

Elphaba is pretty cautious of Fiyero at first, unsure why he lied about having heard of a made up place just to help her, but- well, he’s actually pretty sweet? He seems to be getting pretty fed up with the constant go of Royal society, and just wants some peace. Elphaba in turn knows she can’t make any real change until they trust her, and the two of them end up spending more and more time together camped out in libraries or side rooms avoiding the constant parties.

Glinda gets pretty jealous at first of the new girl taking Fiyero’s attention away, and challenges her to a song battle. Though powerful, Elphaba is inexperienced and ends up losing, and getting hurt. Glinda feels so bad she ends up taking care of her until she’s well again, and hey, this new Princess is actually kind of fun? It’s nice to have a break from the never ending glitterati lifestyle, and Elphaba actually makes her laugh? The three of them end up becoming close, and Elphaba isn’t sure she can bare to hurt either of them any more, her plan starting to falter.

By the time rumours about a green-skinned Blackheart girl going missing reach their part of town, causing a stir in the castle, Fiyero and Glinda both love Elphaba too much to throw her out. They protect her from the mob, and she educates them about how difficult life really is for Blackhearts since the war. It takes a long time but Glinda starts fighting her father for change, and by the time she takes the crown herself, she has Elphaba and Fiyero by her side, and they’re able to break everyone’s muzzles. Elphaba doesn’t quite destroy Princess society like she was hoping, but with the trifecta strong and in love and ruling the kingdom together they’re committed to making things better for everyone.

“The trifecta of a Prince, a Princess, and a Blackheart harmonizing at full power! Of course! We’re free!”

[salami-dono]

I wrote this story with Salami and Cervelas on July 15, 2018. I haven’t looked over it since I wrote it. But now I’m gonna share the part I like.

Cervelas steps out of the house behind Salami. The sunlight is not kind to his eyes. It only takes a second for the pain to shoot through his skull like lightning. When was the last time he came outside?

Salami notices his poor brother wincing and offers him his favorite hat. Zer accepts it and places the hat on his head. The brim of the hat casts a relieving shadow over his eyes. It’s good enough protection. He thanks Salami for his kindness.

“You’re welcome!” He beams with pride.

Mutton may deny it, but he’s done a fine job raising this one, Cervelas thinks.

“Did you bring me out here just to get some fresh air? I appreciate it, but—what are you doing?”

Salami is looking around as if he’s searching for something. Then he checks around the corner of the house.

“Oh, there you are!” Salami laughs.

“What’s going on here, Salami?”

His brother points at the wall. He follows him and he can’t believe what he sees. It’s a giant rodent with short brown fur and giant, bulging yellow eyes. He’s never seen anything like this monster. Whatever it is, it defies gravity the way it rests against the wall. The disturbing grin on its face doesn’t make Zer feel any safer. And on the end of its tail is… a ball?

“What IS that thing?” Zer finally manages to say.

“It’s a Bombchu! A real one!”

“What do you mean ‘a real Bombchu’?”

Salami recounts the fantastical story of the Bombchu that put the entire castle town on lockdown, and how he was able to whisk it away like it was a cute puppy and not a terrifying monster. Then, Zer realizes something. A Bombchu is a mouse-shaped, self-propelled bomb. If this is a “real Bombchu” as Salami claims then does this rodent also… explode?

“Uh oh! It’s doing it again!”

The Bombchu strikes its tail against the wall and the ball at the end of it sparks. The ball is a bomb! Who let this devil child take this, this... a-BOMB-ination home?!

It screeches and hops off the wall. Cervelas grabs Salami and runs off with him. Salami’s favorite hat is lost in the scramble. He leaps off the edge with his brother and braces for the explosion.

But nothing happens.

They open their eyes and peer over the stone wall. The Bombchu is running in circles chasing its own tail. Its fuse has gone out.

“It’s a dud,” murmurs Cervelas.

The bomb failed to go off this time but it’s still dangerous. It could go off at any moment, especially with the rodent carelessly swinging its tail around.

“It’s broken,” Salami muses.

“Did it do that before?” Zer asks, keeping an eye on the Bombchu.

“Yup! I wasn’t scared.”

Salami does not know fear apparently.

Zer wonders how it’s possible for a living bomb to exist. Perhaps real Bombchus create their own cocktail of gunpowder and store it in their tails. Maybe this one doesn’t have it. Therefore, it cannot explode.

No, this creature can’t be natural. This thing must’ve been created through some kind of magic. He despises magic.

Cervelas climbs up the ledge and his younger brother follows from the steps. He calls for the rodent. The Bombchu hops and scampers over to the little boy. He catches the rodent in his arms and embraces it. Zer can’t tell if it’s okay with this or not. The grin on its face is unwavering. He inspects the end of its tail while Salami is holding it. It’s shaped eerily like a man-made bomb. Everything about this creature is unnerving to him.

“Are you gonna keep it?” Salami asks, catching Zer off guard.

The pair look at him expectantly. He stands his ground against the ugly and the cuteness.

“And let it eat my gunpowder and blow up our house? No, I don’t think so.”

“But you have to! It needs you.” The Bombchu yaps as if it agrees with him.

Cervelas pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Why is this happening? His eyes hurt again. Without the hat, the pain from the sunlight is excruciating and impossible to ignore. He retreats back into their house. Salami comes trotting after him with the Bombchu in tow.

“I’ll go get your blue medicine!”

[softhaos]

SQUARE ONE

pairing – lee jihoon x reader  genre – fluff + humor + romance + demon!au description – he should be helping you take over the world but does the exact opposite instead. alternatively, he’s internally cringing at your evil plans and should get over it as fast as possible but decides to prolong his company, even if it ends up with even more cringing and banging heads against the wall. warning – includes my usual borderline crack stuff, this time in the form of aspiring villain!reader as tragic + petty as dr. doofenschmirtz and jihoon being the male counterpart of vanessa song rec – turtle | twice word count – 1,911 words author’s note – i swear the fic isn’t as much of a crack fest as the summary makes it out to be

When you presented your aim of world domination to him, Jihoon didn’t need to listen to your proposal twice to say yes.

He regrets it.

Jihoon doesn’t know himself what went through him when he sealed the contract with you. All he knows is that he was rash and dumb and not in his right mind at that time. Usually, he takes his time, weighs his options and ponders whether it’s worth it assisting the petty person who summoned him. Even though you were just one out of many petty humans who wanted a deal with a demon, it only took Jihoon those two simple words, world domination,  to make up his mind on a whim.

Before you, Jihoon had to keep up with blatantly idiotic teenagers who thought summoning wasn’t possible and middle-aged single people who wished for the downfall of their neighbor who happened to live a glorious life. What they wanted to achieve was quite saddening; saddening in a sense that they really needed to rely on somebody else to commit the deed. From causing their snobby classmate to end up in a scandal to vandalizing the rich neighbor’s mansion, everything was mere child’s play for Jihoon. Though it was his job to cause a ruckus on Earth, he wanted to wreak much greater havoc than just shaving off someone’s ex-girlfriend’s hair. If he could, he would’ve done something by himself, but there was this one tiny, ridiculous thing that prevented him from doing so: demons are only able to assist people, not execute the plan with their own hands.

Jihoon was so done with the childish and belittling goals he had to do; sometimes he had to do the same petty thing even more than once. So naturally, when you made him appear in front of your eyes and desperately raved about wanting to take over the world, Jihoon didn’t bat an eyelash with his immediate agreement. You even had proof showing that you tried overthrowing the world by yourself. (Those were some inventions that didn’t seem too miserable but backfired when you switched them on.)

After a few days of somewhat getting a grasp of you, he utmostly regrets his decision.

Though your plans sound like music to his ears, you surely aren’t. Because you don’t have what it takes to be an evil mastermind. Okay, Jihoon admits, your ideas are actually brilliant, but that’s just it. You don’t have the skills to be villain nor do you have the personality to be a proper one. Sometimes, Jihoon wonders whether your parents dropped you when you were an infant or else because wow, Jihoon has never thought he’d ever meet a person as clumsy and idiotic as you. Your type of idiotic is on a whole different level than the idiots Jihoon has ever met. Somehow, you always manage to get the most obvious and easiest things done in the wrong way and your mishaps on the dumbest motions make Jihoon want to return back to hell (or at least, make him bang his head against the wall and it hurts).

What physically pains him the most is how much sooner you would’ve fulfilled your world domination plan if it weren’t for your mishaps while tweaking on your inventions. Much to Jihoon’s dismay, you had to mess up during the most critical tasks even though the critical tasks were easy to do. The routine once you completed building the prototype of your newest invention goes like this: Jihoon figures out why it doesn’t work yet (assuming you didn’t switch it on and the machine didn’t blow up), tells you the faults and how to fix it (he would do it himself but sadly, he’s a demon and can only give you instructions) and then you do the exact opposite of what Jihoon tells you to do.

And lastly, the prototype explodes and Jihoon saves your ass before he a) screams at you, b) tries to contain his frustration and cringe it off or c) bangs his head against the wall.

It stings his non-beating heart even more when he figures the root of your mistake.

“I told you to cut off the red wire, y/n, not the black one!”

“I know! But the red and the black one were so close to each other I accidentally cut off the wrong one! It- hey, I’m not done yet. Jihoon, where are you going?!”

Another prime example, and frankly, probably the moment that takes the cake is the time you mixed up left and right: “What was so hard to get under left and not right? I said left a dozen times!”

“Well… I thought you meant the other left!”

“There is only one left, you dimwit! Besides, I even drew you a picture so you wouldn’t make this mistake and- how in the world did you manage to place the instructions upside down, y/n? The words are upside down the way you read this!”

Honestly, it’s a miracle that your house hasn’t broken down yet for some unfathomable reason and Jihoon doesn’t complain about that. Nonetheless, it doesn’t help his unease. The fact that you add the suffix ‘-inator’ to a random word to name the creation certainly doesn’t help either.

With time, he still winces at your fatal mistakes, still cringes and goes through an internal debate and still bangs his head against the wall when things don’t run smoothly, which is basically every single day. But when he cools down, he suddenly isn’t too affected by it and though he sighs because wow, another day of cleaning up the mess hooray, there lies an undertone of amusement in those things.

He finds himself rolling his eyes at you in a playful manner when you whine around and indirectly apologize for ruining your own invention and therefore, also postponing your ultimate goal of world domination as well as prolonging Jihoon’s attachment to you as your demon assistant. He lets out a snort whenever you refer to your machines as ‘lazer-inator’, ‘fogblast-inator’ and various other inators due to the stupidity of those names, but also because it was hilarious and softening and bewitching seeing your eyes glimmer with expectation and hope.

Long story short: You don’t physically ache him as much as before (because Jihoon refuses to admit that he is in the process of becoming a lovesick demon crushing on a wannabe villain).

Much to his dismay – he’s pretty sure some angel or so is responsible for this – you started learning how to get things right. It worried him when he saw you the first time spending all night reading a pile of books and digging out old sketches to pinpoint the errors in them. His distress shouldn’t be justified, Jihoon knows, but he doesn’t want it to happen yet. He’s selfish, sure he is, he’s a demon after all, but causing trouble should be more important than chasing after someone, or in his case, staying at someone’s side. Jihoon is glad there is no rule book for demons. Otherwise, things would’ve taken a bad turn long before.

But when he finds fewer mistakes in your prototypes, fewer complaints and whines coming from your mouth and fewer mentions of inators on a daily basis, he grows desperate.

Jihoon knows better than to prevent you from trying to rule the world, yet he still does it. The only reason he does it – aside from preventing the contract to expire because once you reach your goal, it’s a trip back to hell and a waiting game for Jihoon until another person strikes him up with their so-called evil masterplan – is that he knows it’s not really your life devotion. He's grasped enough of your personality to know that you’re not actually evil, that you don’t hold any serious grudge against the world and that in the end, you’re just another curious idiot who wants to see if the impossible is possible.

(The last part is only partly correct. You’re not just another curious idiot, you’re his curious idiot. An idiot nevertheless.)

Jihoon doesn’t know how you feel about him exactly. He often wonders if you like him just as much as he likes you or even more or sadly less. In any case, he certainly knows that contrary to your words, you don’t want to get rid of him as fast as possible. Otherwise, you wouldn’t cling to his sleeves whenever you are being a whiny annoyance even though he has expressed his bitterness or draw doodles of him as a stick figure on his corrected sketches. The latter doesn’t necessarily amuse him because you just ruined his corrections and your drawing skills equal to those of a toddler and Jihoon finds toddlers a pain. But he still acknowledges your attempts.

He has hoped the day would never come but it came: the day where there isn't a single flaw in your umpteenth prototype invention branded with the name ‘snow-in-summer-inator’. Being the demon he is, he purposefully adds a hefty mistake into the sketch and hands it back to you, hoping you’d just take it as it is.

“Jihoon, you sure this is wrong? I double and triple checked with all the other plans.” you look up from the sketch and shoot him a suspicious glance.

“Look, it’s either you believe me or not. If you’re oh-so-confident about your skills then go through with it. Just remember the countless other times where you thought you got it all right but turned out you weren’t.” Jihoon shrugs in response and pretends not to care. All he hopes for is that you are dense enough to buy his words.

To his luck, you are that dense. A part of Jihoon wants to make him sicker through the floor because how on Earth did you manage to win over his attention with that blunt naivety?

The rest follows the usual routine. You fix it up (this time, you tamper with it), switch it on, the block of metal makes a weird noise and Jihoon brings your ass away from the danger zone before it blows up.

Once the black smoke cleared up little by little, you swat his hands away and unlike the normal cycle, you’re the one who screams at him. “See? I was right, Jihoon! I! Was! Right! Hah- wait a sec mister, we aren’t finished yet! Hey, don’t you dare leave, you have to help me clean up your mistakes–”

It should frustrate Jihoon that you are back at the beginning, back at square one to the ultimate goal of world domination. After all, his purpose and passion are to wreak havoc and cause disorder in the world. But in a sense, he does cause turbulence in the world; not on Earth, but your little world makes the cut.

Long story short: World domination is all fun and such, but Jihoon prefers to simply cause you some chaos (because Jihoon is the type of guy who shows his affection by pissing his crush off).

[ibroughtthisonmyselfpixels]

Part 2: The Cross-generational Perspective

In which the influence of Cupid Hawthorne can be felt as early as junior-year history

Warning: contains a scene of murder (of a young person) more explicit than in the previous part, focused on in great detail - specifically, strangulation - and murder as a whole is discussed throughout. There’s also minor homophobia / historical gay denial from a forum poster, transphobia disguised as “it’s just a joke bruh” rhetoric, very mild NSFW implications in one paragraph, and a requisite Cuphead reference since Vidcund would have killed me if I didn’t work King Dice into this somehow.

Castor didn't start collecting trophies deliberately until the third kill. By then, they were more at ease with the monumental task they'd set themselves, and more certain of what He would expect of them. Besides, the higher the body count, the harder it is to tell the victims apart without a souvenir or five. A broken button here, a tie there... Every little helps.

The first and second are both embodied by the same thing – though the need for reminiscence there is more out of desire than duty.

Automatically, they reach for a side drawer on the desk, an old shawl wrapped in a plastic bag wrapped in their hand in seconds. It's how Moms used to store the old photo album at home (may still do, actually; they need to pay them a visit next weekend). But, if anything, the history book inside is even more precious and handled with greater care, each page the wing of a gossamer moth. To desecrate His face would be nothing short of sacrilege.

Their finger runs along His pale jaw, and they pretend the deep-set eyes widen slightly at the sight of them.

Soon, Cupid. I'm nearly there.

The eyes that will first see that face on the page belong not to the nonbinary person they will become, but a teenage girl who happens to carry the name and the penis she had at birth. Her identity is just one of the many things Castor has picked up over time, like pierced ears, the zits that turn her rounded face into a game of connect-the-dots, and a keen interest in aspects of academia that most of her peers refuse to touch.

That last one especially. She didn't get into AP History through luck alone, after all. And it's paid off – she's learned more about the 1920s and 30s in the month or so they've been covering it than anything she gleaned from comparing the differences between World Wars I and II. To a Sim who drinks knowledge like it's water, such a thing is invaluable.

No matter how grisly that knowledge is.

“--looking at the rise of gangsters, mobs, and other such criminals, and how that relates to what we've already studied,” says Mr Piper, breaking through her thoughts. Ah, today's one such 'grisly day', then. “It's no secret that Roaring Heights, even today, has something of a fearsome reputation; when we made our list of qualities a few weeks ago, 'bad crowd' was a term that came up a lot, as I'm sure you remember. The existence of these criminal syndicates was and still is a large factor in those bad crowds, both proverbial and literal.”

“Like the Hook?” shouts a voice (as best as he can with it cracking) from the back of the room. “Is the Hook a syndicate?”

“No, Elliot. And I thought we agreed we wouldn't bring that urban legend up in class again.”

Elliot groans, but he does stay quiet after, thank god. It's not even from the right decade... Weren't it still Sunshine Cove back then?

“I'm more referring to actual families with lengthy histories of illegal activity: the Reeves, the Dandys, and so on. But we're going to focus exclusively on the Hawthorne family today, since they are particularly notorious. Who here knows which crimes the Hawthornes are the most tightly associated with?”

Hands rise sporadically around the room. Sam Nguyen's was up right away, but she was born there, so she's known about everything in this module so far.

Tallying the results in his head, the teacher stops when he sees her own hand still down. “Castor, I'm surprised you don't know,” he remarks.

“I've heard 'em mentioned in passing, Sir; I've just never had a chance to look into it.”

He seems to accept that: “Okay then. Glenn? Any ideas?”

“Extortion tactics, Sir? That's what most mobs do.”

“No it ain't! Haven't you seen CSI? Mobs are about murder. Culling the good guys, making them sleep with the fishes, capiche?” Orchid slips into an attempt at an Italian accent towards the end, one that doesn't jive well with the usual Hollow twang in the slightest.

“Uh, they probably wouldn't talk like that if they're--”

“Don't they blackmail people too?”

“That's the same thing, Clover!”

“Not really; extortion's more about getting what you want, blackmail's about them getting what they don't--”

A sharp tap on the desk with a spare whiteboard duster brings the class to silence and order... very temporarily, since it's broken by the sound of Steve's text-to-speech system. (God, she's just imagined that with a bad Italian accent too...) “Does it depend on which member of the family you're looking at, Sir?”

“That's right, Steve. And so are the other three of you, in that sense. Different generations of Hawthornes have those three aspects covered at different ratios. But while extortion and blackmail were reportedly the roots of the family business, it traces back to the 1910s, beyond the scope of the decades we are looking at this term. It's the second aspect – the murder –” Mr Piper lets the word hang in the room for a short second – “that cast the blackest mark on both them and the town as a whole from the years 1920 to 1930. If you can all turn to Page 74 in 'A Roaring Heights History' for me?”

Ever on the ball, Castor joins the others in retrieving their copy from the bottom of her quite hefty backpack. Damn lack of foresight. The air's thick with the sound of pages turning, numbers counted, 74, 74... ah-ha, there it is. Chapter title on the left, picture on the right, captioned: 'Cupid Hawthorne, feigning grief'. She glances at it by chance --

-- and the very foundations of the Earth shift beneath her.

He's so... striking. So real, despite the medium; like a firework given form. His jaw is practically a V, set in a scream, his lips curling back to show near-perfect teeth. Hair – no, she can hardly call it hair, it's a mane, swept wherever the wind takes it. His nostrils flare, highlighting a nose prominent enough to warrant sculptures, monuments. Eyebrows slant heavy in the fierce expression, and the eyes underneath...! There are a million and one stories within those eyes, greyscale though they are, every imagined fleck of those distant polaroid irises a new memory, of anger, of family, death, blood, anguish...

For a wild moment, for a wild lifetime, she imagines that it's her he is looking at, that his gaze is fixed upon her alone, that she's the reason for this burst of passion within such a soul. His voice, abstract, unheard, repeats within as the name lingers on his mouth, Castor, Castor.

When the world turns again and the echo fades, she's left adrift between peace and unrest.

Looking up to the classroom again is like stepping out of a cinema into a rainy day: brighter than hoped, darker than expected. To her surprise, only two minutes have passed since, given the clock's hands. She looks back at the people behind her. Sam, Steve, even Elliot... His face looks up at them all from the paper, captured and reflected from multiple angles.

And yet none of them seem to see him. If they look, it's briefly, before returning to the text underneath. There's a rarity in their books, and they're choosing to ignore it? Wait, Sam's looked up too – confused – was she, too, caught in the--?

“Uh, Castor?” she whispers. “You okay? You look pale. Need to see the nurse?”

“Uh-? Y-no, it's okay. I'll be fine.”

Castor quickly turns back to the front, to the task at hand – if such a thing even exists. There's words beyond the caption, and the teacher drones on, but they all seem strange now, nonsensical. An emotional dyslexia.

Is she really the only one to feel it? The only one to see Cupid Hawthorne, emblazoned in history, and have a reaction so...

visceral?

The haze the history lesson left behind shields her from the rest of the school day, for better or worse; she's unceremoniously home before she realizes it. Mom One is working tonight, so only her jade-green mother is there to greet her. Dinner's brief, a bowl of mac and cheese and a slice of sheet cake from the local baker's, and then it's time for homework. In theory, anyway.

In practice, the first word she types into Google, on reflex, is “Hawthorne”. She makes no attempt to stop it after that. She does have a week for most of these pieces, and a reputation of being prepared to uphold...

Result after result pours onto the screen, and with it information and revelation. First, that out of all the people in the room that morning, Orchid had been closest to the truth. Matters of money and influence are barely mentioned, with some of the forum users she digs up not even knowing that the criminal activity went that deep. All talk is of the War of the Hawthornes: the players, the game, and even a fraction of the cause.

Crimedivi So turns out they used to run bachelorette challenges in the old days too?? They weren't c**** popular like now, but there were apparently enough of them that RQ ran one, and Cupid meddled in it by killing everyone off!! I mean, wtf???? Even if you don't like your family that's just low you know??????

Castor assumes the asterixes are due to the forum's format, rather than self-imposed (especially when the same poster later refers to it as a series of 'a**a**inations').

Allystelle205 I've heard about that too! That's why no one knows who Rose Quartz ended up marrying in the end, I think: she had to protect his identity to make sure Cupid couldn't track them and kill them again... :O

xxxgogetterx “his”? wasn't she pansexual? there wouldve been women in there too dumba**

Allystelle205 Dude, gay people didn't exist in the 1930s! They would have been killed for--

She scrolls past that hot mess quickly until she finds a mod post warning them that her sexuality's neither up for debate, nor the actual point... she thinks. It doesn't have his name in it, so she doesn't get all the details.

movethatpawawayfromyoursim Anyway, back on topic...... @crimedivi it wouldn't have been the first time Cupid killed off his own family. Pretty much everyone else in it are dead because of him after all – three in that car crash, one got shot, one got strangled. I forget which is which. After that level of evil, killing her suitors to get to her really isn't that much of a stretch

Crimedivi ik ik but until then no one else had to get killed OUTSIDE off the family right?? and think about it, there's NEVER been a bc since where this has happened, people dying cus they wanna get married!!!! its just a new layer of bad somehow yknow??? kinda makes me wanna be sick!!

SpeckleP Especially since Rose Quartz was like reeeeaaaally mentally ill. There's records out there of her being in an asylum once upon a time in Bridgeport I think it was. They say schizophrenia but I think it was more that Cupid had such a hold over her that she broke herself so he couldn't hurt her anymore or something like that? Imagine getting out of there only to lose even more people to him and not knowing why...

Crimedivi now I really AM gonna be sick thanks SpeckleP!!!!!!

She looks at her hands, poised on the keyboard, then over to her open book. He's still there in print, facing away from the gossip about his motives and deeds that splits the screen. Castor slants him towards her again, giving him another long look, waiting for... she doesn't know what. Another change? How can there be change, when he has already infected her mind so thoroughly? How can there be anger, revulsion, at such a sight? And yet it's so easy for others to feel, firmly in the corner of the family scorned...

The book goes back down. Maybe there's something to what Sam said, after all. Maybe Castor is sick – just in a very different way to little Crimedivi.

This notion doesn't bother her as much as she thought it would.

The topic staggers on for another few posts (including a very pointed remark about the healthcare system from AtheistKatherine33) before stalling. Perhaps another website will bring her more insight.

Searching more specifically for “Cupid” this time, it's not long before she's inundated with a wall of neon text that looks like it's from the era of GeoCities, if not somehow earlier. But it doesn't take long for her to convert it into something resembling legibility. It's broken up by a picture – not a copy. This one's captioned “most recent known photo”, but he's less clear here, a calmer face in a crowd of dots and stripes, caught only by a red circle. His arm is linked with that of a black man to his right, in... is she imagining it? Or is it a protective sense? A partner of some kind? That'd be odd, given the era, and yet... they're standing so...

For the first time in months, Castor's chest feels a dismal flickering that she recognizes as dysphoria. She winces. Not now, not... Reading, more reading. She sinks into the paragraphs on paragraphs, feeling the flames of that shrink under a much greater fire.

1914-1918: Records show that Cupid H served in the Roaring Heights branch of the Allied forces during the events of the first World War. Debates are thick on the ground as to how many casualties can be attributed to him in this time ...

Winter-Spring, 1920: After a meeting with a rival syndicate, Oleander, Dogwood and Gillyflower H are killed in a car crash. It later transpires that the crash was due to sabotage of the vehicle in question; despite denying it at first, Cupid would later admit to being the culprit ...

Summer, 1920: Cupid strangles Blush H, then goes on to shoot Bow H in a duel to the death. These are the first murders that he is known to have committed directly, without the use of war as an excuse or a car crash as a buffer. Reports persist, though unsubstantiated, that Cupid was crying during these acts ...

1925: After five years of being in charge of the family business, Cupid H goes into an unexplained exile, leaving the company with no head and no direction ...

1930: A further five years of absence end with a secret reappearance in Raspberry Hearts. Cupid infiltrates the bachelor challenge of his sister Rose Quartz H, using Grey Tundora as a proxy to eliminate all competition. By the time only he and the person who will marry her remain, Cupid reveals himself to her, and--

“Cassie?”

“Mm?” She jolts herself back into the room in time to see a body in the doorway. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Are you okay? I've called up to you four times.”

Oh crap... first too little time has passed, now apparently far too much. “Sorry, I've just been doin' a spot of reading up. I'm fine.”

Mom Two doesn't budge. “I hope you did some of your homework before--”

“Oh, this is homework... sorta. Extracurricular – y- nothing you’d understand,” she reassures a little too quickly for her own mouth.

“What of, hon? Anything in particular?”

Yeesh, what is this, the Inquisition? I'm keepin' him waiting... “Just stuff, Mom. School stuff? That's what extracurricular means. And if I don't get back to it soon it'll be extra-extracurricular, so if y’all could... y’know...?”

The face in the door twists, disconcerted, confused. “Are you sure you're okay? You're not normally so ornery. If there's anything wrong, you know you can tell me and Laverne, don't you?” That look, backed with the sadness under her words, brings mollified shame to Castor's cheeks.

“No, nuffin's wrong. Sorry, didn't mean to shout; s'been a heck of a day, is all. I'm okay, though, honestly,” she adds before more worry can spawn from that. “Promise.”

This, at least, seems placating enough, since her parent smiles again. “Promise promise?”

“Yup. And if I'm wrong, sic Mom One on me in the morning.”

“I will. Anyway, I'm near about past going, so I'm heading to bed. Don't stay up too long now, will you?”

“I won't,” says Castor, already acutely aware of how much of a lie that could turn out to be. “Night, Momma.”

“G'night, little spark.”

And thus Mom Two finally departs, leaving her child to dive back into research, first online then back to off, under the watching eyes of a man briefly seen.

It's little surprise that she sleeps late, book tucked under the pillow; yet, inexplicably, she still jolts awake just before sunrise. She dreamt mostly of Cupid. She couldn't help it. A man so mysterious, powerful, and – judging by the hand pressed between her legs – experienced could invade the dreams of anyone if he desired it. (The fact that he would be several years her senior doesn't cross her mind, addled with mingling red and white splatter stains as it is.)

She spends so much time scrutinizing the parts of the chapter she missed over breakfast that she clean forgets to make up her usual teapot-ponytails. The excess hair weighs more than usual at her nape, a pleasantly strange sensation; few comment on it when she gets into school. At this point, they tend to let her more unconventional fashion choices slide.

Well... most of them do. As morning drags her kicking and screaming into the sticky, perpetual hours of lunch period, an exception first seeded years ago is set to prove the rule.

“Hey, Cassie. What's a gal like you doing in the boy's bathroom?”

Ignore him. Just ignore him. Focus on freshening up.

“Helloooo? I said, what's a gal like you doin--”

“That ain't gonna work, Lemonlips. I'm in too bad a mood.” Focus, focus. Sweep 'cross the eyelid, left to right...

Merlot barks out a laugh that morphs into a gravelly hack halfway through, courtesy of the cigarette aflame in his pale-green hand. “Shit, you're always in a bad mood now. What the hell happened to your sense of humor, babe?” he drawls, lingering on the final word as though it in itself is an insult.

Nothing, your sense of humor just switched into makin' me the butt of every joke when you worked out I was trans, her mind snarls, fingers curling around the eyeshadow brush. But there's no sense in voicing that. She's explained it to him before, even before their friendship dissolved, and he's never gotten it. Out of ignorance or malice, she still doesn't know.

Thank Christ he was in none of her classes today. After the morning she's had – distracted by a roaring beauty, sidelined by a surprise pop quiz in her worst subject, caught passing a note to Floss in Biology – more of Merlot than is necessary would turn her into the very being in the photo.

“I'm only saying that with you saying you're a girl all the time and wearing your hair like a girl and putting on that f-” he stalls, apparently thinking better of it – “makeup like a girl, you oughta be in the bathroom with the other girls. Sue me for making a good point every once in a while.”

A swift wave of red across the other eye. She loves this color; it puts more emphasis on the contrast within her pupils and less on the zit that’s somehow appeared in her eyebrow, what the hell? “Last week I was in the girl's bathroom, and you kicked up a stink about that too. Made out like I was a predator, remember?”

“Jesus Christ, I was only jok--”

“Yeah, well, it weren't funny. It were sick.” On to the next shade in her kit, a deeper hue this time, reminiscent of roses and blood... She wonders how often Cupid saw this color in his line of work. “Besides, everywhere else is full up today, so I'm stuck in here with you--”

“Riiight, right, gotcha,” says her fellow Berry dismissively. “Can't stand the thought of them being prettier than you.”

“It's not--”

“Don't lie, it's always been like that.” He stubs out his smoke on the wall, leaving one of many little marks on the linoleum. “Envy's your Achilles heel, babe, your deadly sin. That's why you broke it off with me, that's why you decided you were a girl – cus you knew you could never match up to what I've got to offer if you just stayed a boy like I asked.”

Her teeth grit together... is she being particularly touchy today, or he particularly aggravating? “Lemonlips, you know for a fact that's not true. I--”

“Bullshit it's not!”

Pain erupts in ear and vision both – “Gyah!” – he's much closer and louder than before, and the alarm's made her jab the brush through her closed lids and into the actual eyeball. “Sunnuva... ” Owww, she thinks as she pulls it out, sending an ugly smear along her right cheekbone, that's gonna sting somethin' awful.

“Sorry. Y-you okay?” she hears beyond the ringing. “Didn't... fuck your face up, did I?” There's a tremble in the tone, an off-key one. Did that actually...? Blinking the injured eye rapidly, she cracks open the other, casts it at him – Adam's apple quivering, but a smile in the mouth and the...

Laughing. The son of a bitch is still laughing.

The brush falls to the floor. Her hand reaches immediately, instead, for her standard trusty watch enclosed in a trouser pocket. By all rights she ought to have done this the second he saw her, but she had to give him a chance, didn't she? Like she does every single... ugh. She prays this time will be quick. Calm and quick.

“Uh, w- what are you doing?” the idiot says, still trying to stifle his guffaws.

“You know what I'm doing,” she replies, evenly. “What's important is what you're doin'. Doing.”

“Oh please, you think I'm gonna fall for that again? I'm getting wise to your tricks, Cas-”

But she is wiser. “No tricks, Merlot. Think about what you're doing. Think about what you're saying. Think about how you're breathing. Think about that breath, caught in your chest. Let it out for me.” The rhythm to her words is coming naturally, as is the subtle swing of the watch, a distraction to the other's eye. Even in their early days, he was drawn to this. “Let the breath in. Let the breath out. Focus on that. The breath in, the breath out. Focus on the breath. Focus on my voice, focus on the watch. Let us fade, let us stay, stay where you can see us. Focus on the breath and the voice and the watch.”

“Yyou're...” The protest is stoppered; he's already slurring.

“Focus on the voice and the watch. On the voice, the watch. The voice. Only the voice. Let the voice guide you. Let me do the work. Focus on the voice. Ignore how your eyes droop. Ignore how your tongue feels heavy. Ignore how your bones slouch. Focus on the voice telling you this. Focus all of your being on the voice. Ignore your tiring. Focus on the voice. Focus... and sleep.”

And he's slack against the wall, dropping to the floor in a well-executed trance state.

There. Now maybe he can shut up. Castor retrieves the brush from the ground, repacks her makeup kit, slips it and the watch into her bag. She's still got a while before class begins again. She can grab a snack from the cafeteria, she decides. Fix her eyeshadow elsewhere, add some blush. Read some more about...

She pauses in front of the door.

On any other day – on the same day, in any other world – this pause would be brief. She would shake it off, swing open and out into the school as herself. The satisfaction of seeing him down for the count would be enough, enough to quell everything, the haunting of her dream, the reminder of what was and what's to come. That would be the end of it.

On this day, she turns back.

A slow approach to her former friend. A discarding of the backpack. A lowering onto bended knees to see him up close. His yellow buzzcut is coarse, a shaved pattern disappearing. The insectine lines across his face are slack in slumber. Long eyelashes rest upon cheeks.

This much is true – he was pretty to her, once upon a time. But there is greater beauty than her own to compare him to, now.

He's not wearing his usual scarf; it's a warm sort of day, so it doesn't call for it, she supposes. The uniform looks incomplete without it, though. Too small for his body, too wide for his neck. His neck. Exposed, thin. The lump of a voicebox within is less clear, hidden by its stretching out, its length. She looks more carefully – there's a vein, or perhaps another birthmark of the skin, crawling to his chin.

It occurs to her, looking at it, how fragile a neck can be. There's only skin and blood protecting the windpipe, and not even that much of it. Anything could sever it, whatever the sharpness. A knife. A pen. A hand. Two hands.

Those of a criminal. Those of a hypnotist.

--three in that car crash, one got shot, one got strangled--

The bathroom at once seems much wider and taller than before, swamping them both. A dizzy Castor looks at her fingers again – red with makeup, green with potential.

Could I-? Could I...?

--the first murders that he is known to have committed directly--

She finds herself reaching out, softly, towards the breathing vessel. Two fingers, a thumb. A pulse underneath. He doesn't stir; the trance must be deep. So very...

He wouldn't even notice. He wouldn't wake. He'd never wake again, would he? No more of those thinly-veiled jokes. No more memories, tainted. No one hurt by him ever again.

And the ocean within her head would stop crashing at the shores of the skull.

--Cupid strangles Blush H--

Left hand joins right. Both fasten, like a collar, around the sleeping Merlot's throat.

Solid ridges form under her touch, columns of muscle. Tighter; the drumbeat rises, a steady rhythm. Tighter; she feels it when he subconsciously swallows. A circle smaller by degrees, the more she squeezes, her grip steadying with each of her own inhales and exhales. Calm and quick.

Calm and quick. Don't get carried away. Don't waste this. Could never waste this. Is she hearing herself, or him, or Him? Who's pretending to be her? Is this pretension? Too many questions. Too much air in the body of this waste of space, his arrogant being, his brother. Flush it out, flush it all out. Let oxygen drip away.  

A quickening of the arteries – a fluttering, a stirring. Dammit. Merlot's coming out, he's aware, he's seeing the vice grip and the body attached to the grip and the eyes of red and green and blue that see him too. He tries to gulp in alarm, to shriek... it won't help. How can it help if he can't breathe to do it? He struggles underneath her, fails to back away, to press forward. His own limbs, ineffectual, reach up to grab hers, to pull her away from this most vital of tasks. A begging for mercy, when he offered her none. A chance to let go.

She presses harder.

He croaks, panics, claws at her haphazardly, barely scratching the surface, much less the spirit; they're limp before he knows it. He's kicking out now, but she isn't dislodged. He has no quarter in this battle, this war, this slaughter. Not anymore. Not now she can sense that nothing's passing through, nothing in, nothing out. Focus on the breath. Hah – focus on the lack of breath. Focus on the blood vessels bursting, tinting the whites of him. Focus on the single tear. Focus on the fear, the danger, the regret, rising, then falling, fading, fading away...

When her own trance lifts, her palms can no longer feel his heart.

Castor finds herself unable to move at first. Then, gradually, carefully, she peels away from him, shuffles back to get a better look at this: her destruction. The body is unchanged on the fundamental level; buzzcut, filled with lines, lashes thick. But it's only a shell. Merlot, as she knew him, as grew up with her, as turned on her, simply isn't there, a victim of his own cocoon.

...no, not of that. A victim of me, she thinks. Thinks again. Victim. Killed. Killed him. It's almost tuneful. I just killed him. I've literally just killed a man. Didn't even need a car to do it. Just hands. 

Wonder if anyone heard me doing it. ...wait, what if they did? What if they find his body? This is going to get out eventually. Lots of things do in this school. What if it does and they find out I did it? What if they see my fingerprints? What would Moms think? What would Mr Piper think? Floss, Sam, wh- what would...

What would He think?

The bag's been dislodged, somehow, in the scuffle. She pulls it back to her, as though in a dream. An errant streak of pink is on the front cover; she can clean that up later. What's important is Page 74, and the Cupid within. The restrained rage. The black and white look that's...

changed. Everything that was within before has coalesced into one emotion. She doesn't have to guess to know it's for her, or to know what it is.

Pride.

The world is suddenly and startlingly hot and cold and wet. She crushes the book to her chest, His picture flat against her heart by coincidence or design. At the same time, there's a smell of ichor and bone and fog, wrapping around her legs. The walls rumble motionlessly.

Of two things, Castor is certain in this moment. First: that Death has come to take the carcass, the damning evidence, of Merlot Lemonlips away. Second: that she will love Cupid Hawthorne for the rest of her limited existence.