#the powered universe draft one

[powered-universe-official]

TPUD1 Chapter 6: Aftershock

The scale tips over

Electrode waits for the Circles to leave before storming to their lab. With everything that’s happened recently, Leto being forced to participate in a government-sanctioned raid, losing over 500 kind, loyal workers, the Circle Heads pledging themselves to Electrode. It’s too much. They need to blow off some steam.

They slam the heavy metal door shut, storming to the CD player in the corner. They turn it on and press play, letting their mind be lost to the music. They go over the experimental blueprints that they had drawn up last week, deciding to try and make something. Gods, they need to do something that wasn’t absolutely vile. No matter how good it felt in the moment, it always felt worse afterwards.

It needed to be done, though. All of this needed to be done. Life dealt them a shit hand with one decent card, and fuck they really should be used to the cards she keeps giving.

The CD ends, and Electrode hits play again.

They continue working, letting the music slowly take them away.

It ends, they hit play.

They work.

The third time it ends, the third time Electrode presses play, they stand and listen to the slow beginning, shaking as it continues and grows in intensity. As the song hits its climax, they finally let out a scream, a burst of electricity coming from them and causing the player to burst.

“No fuck fuck fuck no.” They snap out of their emotional stupor and open the player with some amount of difficulty. The CD inside is charred, and they slowly take it out. The disc is completely ruined.

“No, fuck, no this can’t be happening. Not today.” They cry out, feeling the lost sensation of anxiety rise up in their chest. “I can’t- it’s all I have.”

A plastic CD case is held in their peripheral vision. Electrode turns and sees Virtue holding it. “Have mine.”

Electrode shakes their head. “No, no, that’s yours. I-I won’t-”

“They were yours more than they were mine.” Virtue emphasizes. “I wasn’t there when it went down, but I was there when you joined.” Electrode looks at Virtue, who’s holding back tears. They pull their best friend close and hug them, sobbing into their shoulder.

There’s a mumbled train of ‘thank you’s and ‘I’m sorry’s from Electrode.

There’s a knock on the open door, and Electrode pulls away at record speed, eyes no longer red and a grin on their face.

“Leto! Welcome to the lab! Let me show you around!” They walk to the ex-hero, who looks exhausted and haunted. Virtue’s eyes trail Electrode with a hidden sadness. They place the CD next to the player. They take a deep breath, holding it for a moment, and finally let go.

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[wormy-worm]

ok u know what maybe if the world isn't ready for sunrazer post that means that the world IS ready for Amoveous siblings post. This is Milo and Enho and theyre my DARLINGS and i love them SO MUCH. i have. SOOOOOOOO many thoughts abt them but after the previous post massacre i do not really feel like typing all of that xoxo love <3

[the-magpie-archives]

The things we leave behind are often thought of as irrelevant- it's not what we leave behind, but who. I would argue, however, that what we leave can say much about how we lived, which leads me onto my point: what did Jon and Martin leave behind?

By the end neither of them really had many belongings. Martin might've had a flat during season 4 but the chances of him keeping it or anything in it when moving to the safe house are quite slim. At the point of moving there they each had all they'd be able to carry on a train to Scotland, not leaving much space for sentimentality.

But when the apocalypse started how much of this would survive? The cabin was the epicentre of the change, would anything there really last in a meaningful way, return to normal? But of course they did take some things with them.

Martin jokes about the bandages turning into snakes, so clearly they've had issues with some of their own belongings changing based on domains, so even what was valuable enough to bring with them could have been discarded.

Everything that survived the journey with them would have ended up in their makeshift home of the tunnels under the institute. No doubt it ended up spread out through their shared space, a homely mess, but as we all know there was no chance that it would ever last.

As the institute crumbled and Jon bled in Martin's arms they were lost, evidence of their existence crushed and broken down to dust; but not all of it. Passed off to Basira, abandoned in a location that somehow survived.

One golden lighter with a spiderweb design, and one tape recorder loaded with the last conversation of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood. Their remains.

[bmpmp3]

(falls to the floor holding my head in my hands) i can't keep making all my ocs the same vaguely eastern european vaguely indo carribean mixed race guy i cant keep doing this

(looks up. eyes glowing red. levitating with unknown power) or can i..................................................

[makermakeswriting]

TPU Chapter One: The Warehouse (D1)

Zephyr remembers when she was first picked up by an agency.

She was one of the 5% of the human population to have the Powered gene, giving her powers. She also was one of the even fewer Powered to be picked up by one of the Superhero Agencies. They helped her train how to be a more precise flier and helped her learn basic martial arts.

Of course, with her rise in prominence, there came someone else. Electrode. She has been told that in terms of power, Electrode was nowhere near the most dangerous, and yet she never seemed to be able to catch them. Hell, they didn’t even have a power. They just built things, and yet she has never been able to even touch them.

So Zephyr has been doing her own research on the few hours she got off, and eventually followed the sparse crumb trail to one of the warehouses. And today, on her first day off in a year, she was going to investigate. 

Donning simple black clothes, she sneaks onto the premises and goes to one of the many side doors. Checking the handle, it surprisingly opens with ease. She goes inside and closes the door behind her. 

The warehouse is unerringly clean and organized. On every wall are clear and large instructions on what to do in case of a fire, chemical spill, or technical failure, and the meanings of each symbol. She also finds a map and sees exactly where the office is, which is only accessible from a place listed as Work Room.

She quickly looks at the map, memorizing the way to the Work Room, and turns to see a henchman. He’s tall, wearing a simple blue shirt and large black pants. Around his neck is a lanyard with Electrode’s symbol on is: a circle with lightning bolts surrounding the outside. On the lanyard are a few pins, one with the trans flag, one that says “stay sexy and dont die”, and one with the Milky Way. 

“Uh…” He looks her up and down before a spark of recognition appears, and Zephyr steps back, preparing for a fight. “Oh! You’re Leto Marcella!” He smiles at her before realizing something. “Wait, why are you here?”

Zephyr is … very confused. Aren’t henchmen supposed to work for the villain? Why aren’t they trying to attack her? “Why does that matter to you?” She responds, not wanting to give away why she’s here. 

“Uh, because it’s your day off?” He asks like she hadn’t realized. 

But … “How do you know that?” She asks defensively, getting ready to attack if she needs to.

“Oh! Because Elecrode doesn’t want to fight you on your days off! Or hours, I guess. At least, that’s what they told me during initiation.” He shrugs before looking at the clock above the map. “Oh shit! Sorry, I have to go. Feel free to explore so long as you don’t commit arson or assault!” He runs off behind Zephyr, and she stands there in a fog.

She walks to the Work Room, vaguely aware of what was happening. She accidentally bumps into someone when she opens the door, their coffee mug falling to the floor.

“Ah shit not again.” They mutter, looking for a broom.

“I’m sorry!” Zephyr apologizes, running towards the one nearby and coming back as quick as she could. “I wasn’t paying attention!” She starts to sweep it up before looking up and seeing the person staring at them.

“What the fuck are you doing working on your day off?!” They cry out, pushing Zephyr out of the way, and her hands drop the broom and dust pan immediately. They grab the cleaning supplies and quickly sweep up the mess. They start to mumble under their breath as they go to throw it away, turning sharply to Zephyr once they’re done.

“Explain yourself!” They demand. 

Zephyr crosses her arms. “I wanted to check out the warehouse, make sure my months of hard work weren’t for nothing.” She huffs. “Why are you guys so nice? You’re supposed to be-”

“Evil? Yeah, that’s part of the job description.” The person goes to a coffee machine next to the trash can. “But the pay’s not bad. And there’s a clause that’s like, about ethical sourcing of all materials and food. I heard that Jeremy got a specific one about only stealing from people who get over a certain amount every year. Electrode is surprisingly good at writing contracts.” They take a now full cup of coffee and sips it with a hum. 

Zephyr relaxes slightly and steps forwards. “Pay?”

They turn to her with a smile. “Oh yeah, minimum here is like, $20 an hour. We also get consistent hours. Most people work eight hours a day, five days a work. A few of our more experienced employees, like me, work almost 24/7, except we get one day off a week, which we choose once we get that contract.” They take another sip of coffee. “But then again, we’re usually the ones who have less to lose.”

Zephyr almost chokes at the minimum wage. She doesn’t even get paid. She has a separate job outside of being a hero, two in fact. It’s why she rarely gets any time to rest. 

The person giggles at Zephyr, handing her a coffee mug. “Cappuccino, right?”

Zephyr takes the mug in shock. “How did you know?” She asks.

They grin. “Do you know this person named Virtue?” They say cryptically, and Zephyr gasps.

“Iced caramel latte?!” She squeaks, and Virtue laughs.

“Bitch I thought you knew my face!” They take another drink of their coffee. “I was your regular for five months, and we worked together for two!”

“Is this why you left?”

“It was the pockets- wait let me show you.” Virtue takes out three alarm clocks out of one pocket, and then goes back in to pull out a box of honeycomb.

Zephyr just watches in surprise. “This is the uniform?” Virtue nods. “Uniform at the Agency is spandex.” Virtue gags.

That’s when someone clears their throat. Zephyr turns to see Electrode’s mask staring at them. She almost screamed, but for some reason she couldn’t.

“Zephyr.” Their distorted voice filters through. “How’s the coffee?”

Zephyr splutters. “We’re arch rivals and you want me to give you a coffee review?” She demands. Electrode tilts their head. 

“Yes? Look I know you don’t know but we don’t fight in the warehouses. Conflict kept to a minimum.” They explain. “Especially after we built the underground library.”

Virtue shudders, so Zephyr can guess that whatever happened was pretty bad. “Okay.” She starts carefully. “I just, I don’t understand. You’re in a band shirt! I’m not allowed to listen to music anymore!” She cries out, and Virtue and Electrode gasp in horror.

“Babe, you need to quit now.” Virtue says, placing a hand on Zephyr’s shoulder. “Let us enlighten you to the wonders of music.” Electrode nods.

“I can’t, it’s a lifetime contract.” Zephyr laments, and Electrode gasps again. “I was ten, you can’t blame me.”

Electrode starts to spark, literally. “Those fucking assholes!” they yell. “Ugh, fighting you was so cathartic! What the fuck government?!”

Virtue takes out an eraser and throws it at Electrode, who calms down at that. “Sorry, uh, enjoy the coffee. I have a conference with those guys from Europe. If I don’t come out in thirty, you know what to do.” They turn and leave.

Zephyr is escorted home soon after by Virtue, who happens to live next door.

“Sorry about stalking you, by the way.” They apologize. “Electrode is very adamant that you two fight on your terms without you actually … saying anything verbally.”

“So you memorized my work schedule.”

“Exactly!” Virtue smiles. “Well, gotta get back. See you whenever. And you can always talk to me if you want to know more about initiation!”

Leto blinks, goes into her apartment, and goes right to sleep.

[4unnyr0se]

❥ moth to a flame | toru oikawa

warnings: timeskip! argentina oikawa, fem! reader, ushijimas ex! reader, alcohol consumption, recording, fingering, making out, HEAVY flirtiny/dirty talk, hickeys, rough sex, multiple orgasms, ushijima hate, exhibitionism, degradation, oikawa is a bitch ass motherfucker

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 5.1k

a/n: based off of this post right here, i hope i did it justice. also sorry to all the ushijima girlies out there

❥ song: moth to a flame - the weekend

Oikawa really fucking hated Ushjima. He hated how good he was. He hated how he could easily get his ass handed to him on a silver fucking platter. Not that he would ever admit that, of course. The Great King had too much pride ever actually to acknowledge that someone was better than him at volleyball. He knew that the ace was secretly talking behind his back, telling everybody that it was such a shame that Oikawa never went to Shirtatorizawa. Fucking dick, what the hell did he know? He had a dumb face. Ushijima was only useful for hitting balls into the opposing team's court. It’s no wonder he got drafted onto the Alders, no universities would accept him. Now, did Oikawa actually have any proof that Ushijima was dumb? Well, not exactly. But he didn’t need proof, Oikawa knew that already. He fucking hated Wakatoshi Ushijima and anyone that associated with him, including the ace’s pretty little girlfriend.

You were too pretty to be Ushijima’s girlfriend, way too pretty. There was no way someone like you would ever willingly be seen with him, right? He was probably blackmailing you into going out with him and posing for Volleyball Monthly; that’s how Oikawa found out about your little relationship. “Shiratorizawa’s Power Couple” the magazine title proudly boasted, using a photo of you standing a little too close to Ushijima for Oikawa’s liking. The only reason you were even featured was because you were the captain of Shiratorizawa’s cheer squad. Probably the only fucking good thing to come out of that school was you. You were wasted on Ushijima, no matter how well he could treat you. Oikawa was furious; Ushijima had a cute girlfriend, but he didn’t. It didn’t make any sense, right? Oikawa could have any girl he wanted, yet he chose you, someone he couldn’t have. What a mind-fuck that was. 

Ushijima kept dating you after high school, much to Oikawa’s annoyance. Rumors were circulating that you would marry and give birth to the next great generation of volleyball, but Oikawa stopped caring at that point. He started playing for Argentina and decided (begrudgingly) that it was for the best that he stopped obsessing over that one Shiratorizawa cheerleader. That perfect, pretty, popular, and so fucking sexy cheerleader. Oikawa was content with his new life in Argentina, especially knowing he would never have to see you or Ushijima again. Boy, was he wrong. 

The beach was sunny that day, and it was full of people doing whatever they wanted: making out, poorly playing volleyball, making sandcastles, whatever they wanted. Oikawa considered joining in on an amateur volleyball match, but he shrugged it off. They would probably recognize him, and while he enjoyed his fame, he preferred his female fans to his male ones. He instead opted to do what he did best: lie there and look pretty. His muscles rippled in the bronzing sunlight as he observed how the waves of the ocean danced, how the children laughed, and how the seagulls terrorized innocent picnic-havers. It was the best thing ever…until he got bored and wanted a drink. Something light, something with lime and coconut. He didn’t care what as long as it had those two things. 

The bar was unusually empty, which was great. His fame got him a lot of special treatment, but cutting the line at the beach bar was certainly different from them. He gave the bartender his order and gave him the pesos, turning his back to the employee as his drink got mixed. Oikawa zoned out for the better part of it, not thinking of much until he was snapped out of his thoughts by a feminine voice. 

“Virgin margarita, please,” you spoke so sweetly like honey was falling from your lips. Oikawa snapped his head in your direction, and his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. You, Wakatoshi Ushijima’s girlfriend, were standing a few feet away from him, in the cutest little black bikini he had ever seen. He choked on his saliva, pretending to brush it off as a cough. Fuck, did you notice him? There was no way you didn’t. Whatever, there’s no turning back now. Oikawa plastered his signature smirk onto his handsome features, staring at you through his designer sunglasses.

“Well, if it isn’t Ushijima’s illustrious girlfriend. What brings you to Argentina? Let me guess, he sent you to sign me to the Alders?” his voice was smug, annoyingly smug. 

You groaned and took off your sunglasses, nestling them atop your head. “Okay, you’re so wrong on so many levels,” you placed your hands on your hips, raising an eyebrow. “First of all, I’m not his girlfriend anymore. I broke up with Wakatoshi after he got drafted to the Alders, which probably answers your second question.” the ghost of a smirk dusted your lips. 

“Oh,” Oikawa was momentarily silenced. “But you’re still on a first-name basis?”

“And is that any of your business?”

“Wow, since when was Shiratorizawa’s princess so fucking bitchy? I thought you were Snow White or something,” he scoffed, stepping towards you with his arms crossed. 

“And you’re just as pretentious as people say you are,” you snickered. “For your information, Oikawa, I can act however I want. I broke up with his sorry ass, and I’m not telling you why. God, I can’t believe we’re at the same beach.”

Shit, he liked how you were talking to him. No one had put him down like that long ago, not since Iwaizumi. It was nice…did he like it when girls were mean to him instead of worshipping the ground he walked on?

“Hey, don’t get pissy with me, princess. It’s not my fault you just happen to go to the beach near where I live,” Oikawa scoffed. “What are you even doing in Argentina anyway? What, did university not work out for you back in Miyagi.”

You rolled your eyes. “For your information, asshole, I got into every university I applied to. I just…” you signed, rubbing your temple. “I just needed some time away from that place. Everything reminds me of Wakatoshi. It was just better for me to get away for a while.”

The bartender coughed awkwardly, holding your drinks. You both took them as the employee turned back around, visibly uncomfortable. Oikawa took a sip of the drink, nodding in approval. “So, I take it finding me on this beach wasn’t the most relaxing thing?”

“I thought you were going to be nice to me, but I guess I was wrong since you thought I was still with Wakatoshi,” you sipped your drink, the cool liquid drooling down your chin and onto your breasts. “But…I guess I can forgive you. After all, neither of us went to nationals since Karasuno got number nine and ten, right?” 

Oikawa chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. Fucking Tobio.”

“You know he’s on the Alders as well, right?”

“What? Oh, fucking of course he is,” Oikawa scoffed, placing his drink down at the bar. He looked at your form again, drinking in each curve that your bikini did such a poor job of hiding. Did you wear that thing on purpose to find someone here to fuck? Maybe Ushijima never fucked you right. Maybe he never made you cum. Maybe that’s why you dumped his sorry ass because he was a terrible lover. Oh, wouldn’t that just be a fucking treat?

“So,” Oikawa stared at the ground. “Do you wanna head back to my apartment? It’s within walking distance. Plus, I have drinks that aren’t stupidly overpriced,” he shot the bartender a dirty look. “No offense.”

You thought for a moment, your perfectly manicured finger tapping on your bottom lip. “Sure, that could be fun. Besides,” you leaned forward, exposing your cleavage to the setter. “If Wakatoshi heard about that, he would be so fucking pissed. So why not, hm?”

Holy shit. You were perfect. “Wow,” Oikawa was speechless, which was a rare fucking treat. “And here I thought you were all sweet and innocent,” he casually snaked his arm around your waist, shamelessly feeling your supple skin. “I guess I was wrong.”

“You’re lucky we hate the same person, or else I would have broken your arm off by now,” you snicker, allowing his hand to feel up and down your waist. “Now, where’s your apartment? Let me guess,” you pointed to an expensive-looking building. “Penthouse suite on the top floor right over there?”

“How the hell did you know that?” he raised an eyebrow in suspicion. 

You scoffed, walking in tune with Oikawa. “I mean, it’s painfully obvious. That’s the only apartment complex within comfortable walking distance, and knowing your ego, you probably chose the apartment on the top floor because you think you’re entitled to it, somehow,” you smirked, staring into his milky brown eyes. “Well? How right am I?’

Oikawa frowned, pouting like a baby. “...pretty right…” he mumbled.

“What? I didn’t catch that?” you pretended to cup your ear.

“I said you’re right. Jeez, since when were you this cocky?” he grumbled, pulling you closer to his muscular form. He was ripped, more ripped than he was in the sports magazines from high school. His chest was chiseled, and his shoulders were broad as if he had been sculpted by the gods themselves. You would never admit this to him (not sober, at least), but Oikawa was hot as fuck, even though he was a major brat. 

“I’ve always been this cocky, just not in public,” you looked up at the door of the penthouse apartment complex, the doorknobs brandishing an expensive golden sheen. “Wow, these sure are different than the Miyagi apartments,” you mumbled, rubbing on your arm. Oddly enough, you felt out of place, like you didn’t fit the right tax bracket to be allowed here.

“Well, cutie, I am a professional athlete. I make more than the entire staff does combined,” he bragged, waving to the desk attendant, who had the most annoyed look on her face. Maybe she knew what a dick Oikawa was as well. 

You bit down on your bottom lip, tapping your sandalled shoe against the cool tiling of the lobby. Did he just call you a cutie? You shouldn’t take it personally. He probably did that with every other girl he found attractive. Wait, does that mean he found you attractive? Oh god, did you actually like being flirted with by Toru Oikawa? You slapped your hands over your cheeks, attempting to hide the ever-blooming red blush.

“Are you okay? You look red,” he thought for a second, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Is Shiratorizawa’s Princess blushing?” he leaned forward, smirking as the elevator doors closed. His large and calloused hands pressed against either side of your head, trapping you between the wall and his shirtless frame.

“Shut up!” you slapped him across his cheek, leaving a stinging imprint on his flawless skin. He gasped, massaging his cheek. “You’re a pervert, you know that?”

“I haven’t even said anything perverted yet! No one hits me, no one!” he wined, uncaging you from the elevator wall. “You’re feisty,” he mumbled under his breath, something you couldn’t hear.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the elevator door dinged. You both left the elevator and walked to his apartment in silence, your hands massaging your arms as the cold air of the upper floor set in. Rich people have excellent air conditioning. 

“This is it,” Oikawa jiggled his key into the lock, pulling open the mahogany door. “Ladies first,” he winked, making you scoff as you entered the vast apartment. 

“Holy-” your words died on your lips as you took in Oikawa’s living space. How perfect and elegant it was. It was massive, boasting a designer kitchen with beautiful granite countertops and three ovens. Who the hell needs three ovens? “This place is huge! Damn, I forgot how much they pay professional athletes!” 

Oikawa chuckled at your childlike marveling, or perhaps it was envy? Either way, he could get used to you gawking over his wealth. “I know, I know. I’m fucking fantastic,” he strode over to the bar cart, mixing some peach juice and vodka. “I know this isn’t the most manly drink, but beer is so gross. Don’t you agree?” he handed you a glass, not even trying to hide the fact that he was staring at your tits.

“Oh, totally. Beer is gross,” you took a sip of the drink, smiling at the peach juice hit your tongue. “Oh damn, this is good. Where did you get this?”

“I’m not telling. You could buy out my entire supply!” Oikawa laughed, taking another sip of his beverage. “So,” he leaned against his kitchen counter, staring into your eyes with his half-lidded ones. “What will it take for me to learn why you dumped Ushijima, hm?” his voice was a purr, like a siren trying to lure you into the sea.

You rolled your eyes and sat down on the couch, admiring the tasteful throw pillows he had. “Well, if it gets you to shut up, I’ll tell you,” you patted the seat right next to your own. “You’re lucky I have vodka in me, or else I’d be really bitchy right about now.”

“Who’s saying you aren’t being bitchy?”

You shot him a glare. “Do you wanna know my breakup story or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes and sat next to you, purposefully spreading his muscular thighs. Fuck, he was sexy as hell. “Well? Let’s hear the story, cutie.”

“Okay,” you took a deep breath, locking your eyes on your pedicured feet. “We started dating because one of his teammates said we would look good together. Tendou, I think his name was. He asked me out, but it wasn’t very romantic. He was stoic, unfeeling. I guess he’s always been like that,” you paused, licking your bottom lip. “He was a good boyfriend for the most part, I guess. He was kind, and he supported me in anything I did. It’s just…volleyball was his top priority, not me. And don’t get me wrong, I loved cheerleading. Wakatoshi prioritized sports over his relationship, so I dumped him once he was signed to the Alders.” you looked up at Oikawa, a soft smile gracing your lips. “I’m happy I dumped his sorry ass.”

“Wow,” Oikawa mumbled, setting his drink on the coffee table. “I’m sorry he treated you like that. I always knew he was a piece of shit, and now I have the proof,” he smacked his lips together, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “C’mere, I gotta ask you something else.”

“Do we have to be this close for you to ask me a question?” you raised an eyebrow, secretly enjoying the intimacy.

“Yes,” Oikawa immediately responded. “Answer me this,” his voice dropped to a deep octave, goosebumps covering your arms. “Did he ever make you cum, or did you have to fake it every time?”

Your breath hitched in your throat, a blush dusting your cheeks. “Well, technically, no, he didn’t make me cum,” you whispered, knowing damn well that Oikawa had a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“I fucking knew it,” he pulled you impossibly closer, pulling your lip down with his thumb. “Poor little girl, hm? You’re big, strong boyfriend never gave you an orgasm. Did he even know where the clit is?”

You shook your head. “No, I had to show it to him, and he still has never found it.”

“Oh, that’s pathetic. And adorable. To think,” his lips trailed upwards to the cartilage of your ear, nibbling on it. “That a pretty thing like yourself had a boyfriend that wouldn’t give her what she wanted…that’s just tragic, don’t you think so?”

You looked at him, your eyes ablaze. “I guess so. What, did you wanna do something about that?” your hands slid up and down his thigh, dangerously close to his hardening cock. 

“I think I will,” without any warning, he scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder, slapping you on the ass. You squeaked and were thrown onto his bed, the crisp cotton sheets welcoming your burning skin. Oikawa crawled on top of you, pinning your wrists above your head. “I have an idea, something that will piss Ushijima off. That’s what we both want, isn’t it?” he planted a daring kiss on your neck, the aroma of your tropical perfume filling his nostrils. “I know you wanna see him angry, don’t you, cutie?”

Fuck, his words landed right at your core. You squeezed your legs shut, tilting your head to the side so he could plant more of his blazing kisses on your delicate skin. “Mhm, I wanna see him get so mad he does something he’ll regret,” you purr, gasping as Oikawa sank his canines into you. A soft moan fell from your lips, only encouraging him to leave more delicious bruises. He stopped his ministrations, licking his way up to your ear. “I wanna film me fucking your brains out,” his voice was a low rumble, practically dripping with want. “I wanna send him pictures of you covered in my fucking cum with your tits covered in hickeys. That’ll show him, right?” he shamelessly palmed your breast, wanting to tear that slutty bikini off your perfect body.

“Fuck, Oikawa,” you moaned, breaking free from his grasp. “If you’re gonna do that,” you sat on the bed. “We have to be equals in this, or he’ll think you’re fucking me without consent.”

“What? So, no bondage or anything?” he pouted. “Well, I guess that’s fair,” his milky eyes darted to one of his dresser drawers. “I…I have a professional camera in there, as well as a tripod. Don’t fucking ask why I have those, okay? If we’re gonna film a little something for your ex-boyfriend,” he playfully nipped at your ear. “We’re gonna do it right.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you chuckled, swatting his hands away as he fumbled with the string of your bikini top. “Nope, you have to undress me on camera. That’ll really piss him off.”

Oikawa smirked, setting up the tripod quickly. How many times did he use that thing? “You sure know him well, don’t you, cutie?” he hit the record button, crawling above you again. The camera was positioned to have the side-view of whatever you two decided to participate in. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the money shot with my phone,” he snickered, hovering his lips above yours. “Now, cutie, do you wanna make a movie with me?”

“Fuck yes,” and his lips were upon yours, ravaging them like he had drank a love potion. They moved in sync with your own, relishing in the mango-flavored chapstick you wore. He kissed you like he owned you from the second he saw you in that slutty bikini. The way his teeth clashed against yours was animalistic in his fight to be dominant, not even asking for entry before shoving his tongue inside your mouth. Your wet muscles danced, pulling moan after moan out of your lungs before he pulled away abruptly, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. 

“Gotta fucking catch my breath,” he chuckled. “You kiss like a fucking whore.”

“I bite like one, too,” you smirked, rolling over to straddle Oikawa’s waist. He gasped in confusion before quickly being silenced, the sensation of you harshly sucking on his muscular neck making him whimper. You chuckled, grinding yourself onto his pelvis, your most intimate parts being covered by thin pieces of fabric.

“Fuck, cutie,” Oikawa’s hands squeezed your hips, rolling the fat between his taped fingers. He bucked his hips upwards, making you yelp. “Take off that fucking top now,” he growled, fisting the sheets beneath him impatiently.

You giggled and reached behind your back, undoing the bikini knot teasingly slow. Oikawa knew what you were doing. He’d seen it a million times by now. Usually, he wouldn’t mind. It was just another beach slut taking her time, trying to draw out their experience with the great Toru Oikawa. But this time was different. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted you creaming on his cock the way Ushijima never made you. Besides, there would be a second time. And a third, and a fourth.

His hand cracked against your ass. “Don’t fucking tease me, cutie,” his voice rasped, his hands hungrily grasping onto your tits. “Fucking take this off, or I’ll rip it off of you. Show me those tits, don’t get all shy on me now.”

You squeak, your clit pulsating at the contact. “Fine, whatever you want, baby,” you threw your bikini top across the room, letting your breasts be exposed to the cool air of his bedroom. Oikawa groaned, rolling over so he was on top once more. His mouth found your breast, sucking at the pillowy flesh while his hands rolled over your pert nipple, alternating between each breast. He sucked on your areloas, making sure not to be gentle. He only got more confident with each slutty moan he ripped from your lips, relishing in the incredibly high ones he received when he bit down on your nipple. Your chest was littered with tiny purple circles and covered in his saliva, the desire in your belly practically bubbling over. His cock was painfully hard, pressing against your inner thigh. You swore you could hear it throbbing, begging to fuck your cunt. 

“Oikawa!” you whimpered, grabbing his ashy brown hair and forcefully pulling him away from your chest. “I-I think you marked me enough, right? C’mon,” your hand guided his into your bikini bottom, sighing as his thumb finally found your desperate clit. “I’m so wet down here for you, Oikawa. Don’t you wanna take care of me?”

Your voice was high-pitched like the girls in porn, and Oikawa fucking loved it. You were both putting on a show in shorts. A show to piss off a man that you both despised, but it was a show nonetheless. It's a sexy, depraved show.

“You moan like a fucking slut,” he pushed your bikini to the side, exposing your dripping pussy. Without a second thought, he shoved his middle and ring finger deep inside your heat, curling them slightly. You cried out, arching your back further into the mattress as his other hand still had a firm hold on your breast.

“Oh, you like that, cutie? You like getting finger-fucked by your ex-boyfriend's enemy?” he growled, fucking his fingers in and out of your weeping pussy at a relentless pace. “I wonder what they would say if they saw you like this, a slutty little mess under me. You’re such a whore for my fingers, aren’t you?” his thumb dragged over your clit, his fingers and his arm being so precise in their ministrations. Your pussy squeezed around his digits, feeling your first orgasm in such a long-time approach.

“P-please, Oikawa! Fucking make me cum!” you sobbed, your hands clenching onto the white sheets. You saw stars as your orgasm crashed over you, rolling your head to the side to stare directly into the camera. With your blown-out eyes and bruised lips, you looked fucking ethereal.

“Good fucking girl,” Oikawa popped his fingers in his mouth, tasting your slick. You tasted incredible, unlike anything he had ever tasted before. “Open up,” he ran his finger over your soaked core, gathering up more of your essence to forcefully shove inside your mouth. “Suck,” he commanded, and you did. Your tongue ran over his fingers while you made direct eye contact with him, making the setter impossibly hard. “Little slut.”

“M’not a slut,” you whined, spreading your legs further apart. You were contradicting yourself. You were on display for him as if his apartment was some kind of brothel. The look in his eyes when he saw your gorgeous body, your thighs still trembling in the aftershocks of your release. Fuck, it really looked like he ripped you straight out of a porno. 

“Then how come you’re spread out like one for me, hm? That pussy’s dripping all over my bed, dirty girl.” he slid off his swimming trunks, his cock slapping against his rock-hard abs. He boasted a proud, sensitive pink tip that was leaking with precum. He pumped his cock a few times before aligning it with your entrance, slapping the head against your clit. “Now, are you gonna beg for me to fuck you better than that pathetic ex-boyfriend of yours ever could?” he looked directly into the camera, mesmerized by the flashing red light. “Better than Ushijima, I’m better than Ushijima.”

“T-Toru!” you whined, pulling him down by his shoulders into a passionate kiss. You stared into the camera as well, giving it a wink. Using Oikawa’s first name would surely make your ex furious. It just had to. “Fuck me! Fuck me better than Wakatoshi ever could!” you sobbed, wrapping your legs around his waist so he had no hope of escaping. Your eyes were wet with fake tears, begging him to ruin you.

“Shit,” he groaned, pushing the head of his cock past your entrance. “That’s what I like to fucking hear.” he slammed his lips down on yours once again, bullying the rest of his throbbing length deep inside your heat. “So fucking tight.” Oikawa hissed at the sight of your greedy pussy sucking him in, his teeth nipping at your lips.

“S’fucking big, Toru! Fuck!” you cried, your nails leaving angry red crescent marks on his back. Oikawa revealed in the pleasure, continuing to make out with you as he fucked you harder, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix occasionally.

“You’ve ever been fucked this hard before, hm?” he bit down on your shoulder, leaving an imprint of his teeth. “No one’s ever fucked this pussy as good before, huh? Fucking answer me, cutie,” his hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing softly. 

You gasped, struggling to take his massive cock and breath at the same time. “No one’s, fuck, no one’s ever fucked me like this before, Toru!” you sobbed, sighing in relief as he let go of your neck.

“So fucking obedient. And you let her dump you, Usjijima? Fucking pathetic,” he rolled his hips against yours, hitting even deeper inside your pussy. His balls slapped against the cleft of your ass, the apartment echoing with lustful moans and squeals. He grabbed your jaw and pulled you in for another kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth as his cock ravaged your core. 

“Toru, I’m gonna fucking cum!” you sob into his mouth, your nails now leaving furious red scratches down his back. He whined into your mouth, his hips never faltering as they continued their unrelenting and unforgiving speed. Sweat dripped from his brow and into your hair, moan after beautiful moan being ripped from your lips as he fucked you like he owned you, like you were his. It was more than just a revenge fuck, so much more.

“Fucking cum on my cock, cutie. Be a good fucking slut and make a mess on this cock,” he growled into your mouth, pulling on your hair to force your neck to the side. He planted open-mouth kisses as you were pushed over the edge, crying out his name as your release coated his pulsating shaft. 

Fuck, he wasn’t going to last, not at the rate that your pussy was milking him. He eagerly reached for his phone on the mattress, and just as he felt his orgasm approach, he pulled out of your addictive cunt. The camera app was opened, and the record button was pressed, videoing Oikawa desperately fisting his cock before letting out a guttural, almost animalistic roar. His thick, white-hot ropes of cum painted your stomach and fucked out face, some even landing on your lips. Oikawa stopped recording and took several pictures, each with a different angle of your cum-covered curves.

“Gorgeous,” the setter muttered, tossing his phone back onto the now-ruined sheets. He got off the bed and grabbed the camera, winking at the lens as he hit the power button. The light stopped blinking, and Oikawa was satisfied. “Well, you just made your first porno. How do you feel about that, cutie?” 

You shrugged your shoulders. “It’s more of a revenge porno than anything, but I liked it,” you averted your gaze. “You’re a good fuck.”

He placed a hand on his hip. “Well, obviously,” Oikawa rolled his eyes, grabbed a box of tissues, and handed them to you. “Clean yourself off. I’ll run you a bath in a minute.”

You needed clarification. “You’re doing aftercare?”

“Why the hell would I not?” he sounded offended. 

“Because you seem like an inconsiderate piece of shit,” your words were so casual, yet so mean. Why did Oikawa crave more?

“I made you cum, didn’t I?” he snatched the box of tissues out of your hand. “Twice, I made you cum twice. That’s more than fucking Ushijima ever could.”

“Woah, don’t get your panties in a twist. It was just an assumption, damn.” you rolled your eyes, stepping off of the bed. “Now, I’m gonna need to borrow a shirt before I get the hell out of here. You kind of ruined my bikini top.”

Oikawa shook his head, placing the camera inside his drawer beside him. “You aren’t going anywhere, not until I’ve gotten as many orgasms as I want out of that slutty little pussy of yours.”

You chuckled darkly and pounced on him, straddling his waist once again. “Only if I get to be on top this time, okay?” you licked his neck. “I wanna see how the Great King reacts to Shiratorizawa’s Princess riding his cock.”

Oikawa grinned and pulled you down for another kiss, his cock already hard. You were in for a long fucking night.

Ushijima woke up to an onslaught of ringing sounds coming from his phone. Groaning, he turned to the side to see who had the balls to be emailing him at 2:56 in the morning. 

His eyes widened as he saw two video attachments, as well as several image attachments, of Oikawa’s cock plunging in and out of his ex-girlfriend's pussy. Her cries and moans quickly filled up his bedroom as Oikawa’s mischievous brown eyes locked with Ushijima’s green ones from behind the screen. He sat up, scrolling through the rest of the attachments. Each image was enough to send him into a rage, but the last one was what got to him. Your head resting on Oikawa’s chest, various hickeys covering your tits and neck as you slept soundly. On the other hand, Oikawa was smirking as he held up the number five with his fingers. Ushijima’s hands cracked his phone, shattering the protective glass.

Toru Oikawa was a smug-ass motherfucker.

[jackdaw-kraai]

I think there’s something rather strange going on with all the folks who insist that the Jedi Order in the PT was right and didn’t forbid love and Anakin should just have followed their teachings when the whole point of the prequels is that they are prequels. They come before the OT, and the OT proves the Jedi wrong. They literally do not make sense if they don’t do that.

Luke, in the original trilogy, gains his ultimate triumph, his ultimate victory, because he loved in defiance of the teachings of the old Order. He quite literally had the ghosts of the past telling him, explicitly and without ambiguity, that he has to put his love for his father aside and kill him, as is the duty of a Jedi. Luke has the weight of millennia of teachings weighing down on his shoulders, telling him they knew and know better than a young, inexperienced man barely out of his teenager years. That he should follow their teachings or be destroyed. That is an immense weight to carry, and many people would and explicitly have given in to it in-universe. What are your feelings and ideals in the face of such immense legacy, after all?

But Luke doesn’t give in.

He doesn’t bend.

He says “I may be young, and I may be new, but I believe to my heart and soul that love matters more than this legacy. Matters more than your teachings.” And he says this to the ghosts of his mentors. That is such a powerful moment and one I can’t believe George Lucas didn’t create deliberately for even a second. This young man, being told he has to kill or die trying for a system that is dead or dying itself, that couldn’t survive itself, and refusing to do so. He is the living refusing to continue the violence of a dead generation. He is the young man refusing the draft into a war the old generation started, saying “peace and love matters more than you being right.” He is the embodiment of breaking the cycle.

And the movies vindicate him.

The main villain vindicates him with his last dying breath.

Darth Vader, dying, says “You were right.” and admits he and his were wrong. The main antagonist, Luke’s nemesis, in the face of his son’s immense, defiant love, gives way and does the impossible: he comes back to the light and dies a Jedi. The very thing the old Order says was impossible.

They were wrong. They have to be. The narrative demands it, the movies don’t make sense without it.

The solution was never to continue the cycle of the old Order, or Luke would have failed there, would have failed when he said “I am a Jedi, like my father before me.” And claimed that defiant, deviant, condemned definition of being a Jedi over the one presented to him by the Grandmaster of the old Order. If the old Order was right, Luke would have to be wrong. Be wrong about love, be wrong about laying down the sword, be wrong about refusing to fight. He would have to be wrong.

But the old Order is dead, explicitly killed by a monster, in some part, of their own making. It’s members only existing as bones in the ground or ghosts speaking from beyond the grave. They did not deserve it, it should not have been inflicted on them, but the narrative is clear on this: “The old way is dead, and was dying for a long time before that. Long live the new.”

Luke is that new. Luke is the breaking of the cycle, the reforging of swords into ploughs, the extended hand. Luke says “I don’t care how much I was hurt, I refuse to hurt you back, and you don’t need to hurt me either.”

“We can end this together and choose love instead.”

And Darth Vader, killer of the Jedi, End of the Order, lays down his arms as well, and reaches back as Anakin, saying “You were right.”

It wasn’t Obi-Wan, Yoda, Mace, Qui-Gon, or even Ahsoka who achieved the ultimate victory in the end, following the tenants of the old Order. It was Luke. Young, inexperienced Luke, who saw that the age of legacy handed to him was only history, that the sword handed to him as his life was only a tool, and that the decrees of the dead were only advice. And he took it all, said “thank you for your experience, but I’ve got it from here,” and laid it all down to instead extend an open hand towards his enemy.

And his victory, his ultimate triumph, his vindication, was that he was proven right when his enemy reached back and became just another person. Just another person, just like him.

The Jedi did not deserve what happened to them, and they did not deserve to die. But the story is clear on this: the Jedi of old were wrong, and the Jedi of new, the Last Jedi, was right. No sword or death will ever end the rule of the sword or end the bloodshed. But love?

Love can ignite the stars.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

I would like to thank RTD for making so many people look back at Thirteen's Era and start to go "you know what? Maybe we judged the writing too harshly on this one." Maybe it is a good idea to bring in new writers and more women and people of color behind the scenes and allow them to write and direct things like Demons of the Punjab (top 5 ever Doctor Who episode) and the Haunting of Villa Diodati and Fugitive of the Judoon. Maybe Thirteen WAS camp, because the universe who decided to be a frog and the mud that did witchcraft and the Pting and the plastic that ate birds were unhinged and fun. Maybe we got some GORGEOUS cinematography out of it. Maybe Thirteen's take on gender is more interesting than the 60th anniversary specials. Maybe Yaz DID get an arc in the Flux/standalone specials and people just didn't pay attention. Maybe the Power of the Doctor paid more respect to former eras of Doctor Who than any of the 60th anniversary specials did. Maybe Chibnall acted with far more grace to the RTD Era (Jack) than RTD did to Chibnall (treatment of Yaz and Thirteen). Maybe it was actually cool to see less well-known or underexplored historical figures like Mary Seacole and Ada Lovelace and Nikola Tesla and Noor Inayat Khan end up onscreen. Maybe Thasmin wasn't queerbait, it was an interesting exploration of the doctor/companion romance IN KEEPING with Thirteen's established character with one of its keystone episodes written by a queer woman.

Yes, Chibnall was flawed. I'm never gonna pretend that the Battle of Ranskoor Av Kalos wasn't a piss poor finale that felt like a first draft of themes and idea. I'm not gonna pretend like the multiple companions in the TARDIS ever felt properly balanced or explored. Yes, the moment with the Master and the Nazis was FUCKED UP. The Timeless Child might have deserved more than one episode for the ImplicationsTM to be fleshed out. But EVERY Doctor Who Era has its flaws, ESPECIALLY when it comes to racism, and I'm TIRED pretending as if Chibnall's writing is significantly worse than the other two showrunners.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Ultimate (short) Guide to Crafting Captivating Book Titles: A Writer's Journey into Naming Novels

Embracing the Power of a Book Title

Greetings, fellow writers and wordsmiths! As we embark on the magical journey of storytelling, there exists a crucial milestone—bestowing our creations with a name, a title that encapsulates the essence of our narrative. The quest for the perfect title can be as thrilling as drafting the story itself. In this guide, we will unravel the art and significance of titling a novel, exploring strategies, tips, and the creative process behind crafting an engaging and magnetic book title.

Understanding the Importance of a Book Title

The Gateway to Reader Connection

A book title is the beacon that beckons readers to explore the universe you've crafted. It's the first impression, a snapshot that encapsulates the soul of your narrative. A compelling title can captivate an audience, generating curiosity and inviting them to step into the world you've woven within your pages.

Reflecting the Essence of Your Story

A well-crafted title encapsulates the core theme, mood, or central conflict of your novel. It should resonate with the narrative, teasing elements without revealing too much, leaving a trail of intrigue that entices readers to delve deeper.

The Art of Title Creation

Embrace the Journey: Start with a Working Title

Begin with a placeholder, a working title that captures the essence of your story in its rawest form. Let it evolve and grow as your narrative does. This title might serve as a guiding light until you uncover the perfect one.

Exploring the Heart of Your Story

Consider the central themes, characters, or pivotal moments within your book. Delve into the emotional core of your narrative and unearth words or phrases that resonate with its essence.

Utilizing Literary Devices and Techniques

Explore metaphors, alliteration, symbolism, or even poetic verses. Experiment with wordplay, juxtapositions, and contrasts. These literary devices can infuse depth and intrigue into your title.

Testing and Refining Your Title

The Power of Feedback

Share your title ideas with trusted friends, writing groups, or beta readers. Gather feedback on their impressions and the emotions evoked by the titles. Use this input to refine and narrow down your choices.

Alignment with Your Target Audience

Consider your intended readership. Does your title resonate with the genre and expectations of your audience? Ensure it's not only enticing but also aligns with the preferences of your potential readers.

Finalizing the Perfect Title

Distillation of Essence: Keep it Succinct and Evocative

Aim for brevity and impact. A concise yet evocative title can linger in the minds of readers. Often, the most powerful titles are those that say much with few words.

Research and Avoiding Clichés

Investigate existing titles in your genre to ensure your title stands out. Steer clear of clichés and overused phrases, aiming for originality and uniqueness.

Embrace the Artistry of Title Crafting

Crafting the ideal book title is an art in itself. It's the literary cloak that shrouds your creation, inviting readers into the tapestry of your imagination. Embrace the journey of titling your novel with the same passion and creativity you pour into your storytelling. Let the title be a herald, whispering the promise of a remarkable journey that awaits within the pages of your book.

As you venture forth, remember, the perfect title awaits—a key to unlock the hearts and minds of your future readers.

Happy writing and titling!

This comprehensive guide aims to take writers through the journey of creating an impactful and engaging book title, emphasizing the importance of a title and offering practical strategies to craft one that truly resonates with a novel's essence. If you need further insights, examples, or specific advice on any aspect of titling a novel, feel free to delve deeper into each section. Happy titling!

[ronearoundblindly]

okey dokey, I've had *a day* and will use this glorious...🥴 idek which body part to reference 😮‍💨...and merge it with your previous ask about cooking or baking for Steve and giving him a nice, comforting, home cooked meal. And his response to that act of service and caring. Because this is me, I will obviously be starting with ::gasp:: an argument. Don't you love how predictable I am?!?!

To Tire Is Human

No warnings, uhhh, canon language (sh*t)? Written in drafts so no exact word count. It's not long (2k maybe, very much unedited)!

"The hustle? What does that even mean?" Steve gripes as he finishes up various chores around the property.

"It means I do the work."

Your boyfriend rips apart the wood log he was about to start chopping. "Do the work? Do the work? For nine hours? After leaving home early enough to be at work for an hour before the actual work starts? Then staying at least a half hour to clean?"

"Unless I also have to restock," you add quickly just to really turn the knife.

"You have got to be shitting me," he nearly snarls, eyes down toward the pile.

You don't blame him for not understanding. He's from an era where people worked to live, the point was the living. This...is not longer that era, and you are not of that generation.

Of course, it frustrates him, too, because your work makes living almost impossible. With all that he just mentioned, the commute, and attempting to offer yourself the basic self-care of eating and washing, you don't have the energy to do chores, and you've certainly struggled to find energy enough to show Steve love.

"That's the gig nowadays. That's how us super-average humans do it."

The thing is that you are also so tired of having this conversation. You are tired of the guilt for not magically considering yourself the center of your universe because, despite jokes about every kid receiving participation trophies, it is deeply engrained in you that you are replaceable.

If you don't perform above and beyond, fired. If you ask for too much and offer too little, gone. If you don't constantly learn how to outpace others, useless. It never ends.

And, finally, Steve Rogers might not get this but you age. You aren't powerful to begin with, but day after day, you get weaker and older, while someone else on Earth gets smarter and stronger.

You don't want to hear the spiel. You can see from his pinched face that Steve wants to give the spiel.

You sigh in exhaustion and prepare to hear the whole Cap speech before you two go pick up dinner in town.

One day later that week, your work schedule falls apart and lands you back at home hours before Steve is due to return. Antsy to accomplish something--and looking for a snack,--you notice the perfect combination of ingredients, something saucy and salty, hearty, just like Steve melts for, and a fruity baked good.

It's a lot of steps, there's a lot of mess to clean up as you go, and then there's still a lot left behind. You're hastily rushing around to set the oven timer and yank a skillet off the burner. Perhaps the whole endeavor has gotten you in over your head.

Steve appears out of nowhere.

Well. Not nowhere, but all the chaos in the kitchen is making enough noise, you didn't hear the door.

"I have everything under control," you automatically say.

His expression morphs from one of surprise and concern to utterly overwhelmed. His eyes look glassy as he approaches and scoops you into a quick hug, hands tucking themselves beneath the hem of your shirt so he can feel your skin as he breathes you in.

He quickly releases you at the sounds of oil popping and sniffs, reverting to Cap mode.

"What do you need? What can I do?"

All you can think is that the table hasn't been set.

Steve eats his whole meal--entree and dessert--with his non-dominant hand just so he can hold yours.

He had one of your days.

He spent the drive home listing all the things he needed to do in his head, more energy for each tick, more time for sitting still, more of him to give...

...and then he got to enjoy a lovely dinner with you.

You spent your energy on him, on you both. You spent energy specifically to spend time with him, and Steve could cry but he won't. He keeps smiling, making happy, pleased noises with each delicious bite.

An hour ago, he wasn't sure he could feed himself or wash up. He's simply too tired.

You start playing with his hand, drawing patterns in his palm, lightly dragging your nails on the sensitive inside of his wrist. It makes him shiver.

There were at least four things he was supposed to do outside before it got too dark, a load of towels and sheets needs done, a basket of clothes waits to be folded and put away. He does not want to do any of it.

His fingers close around yours.

"Thank you," he interjects softly, "I was so tired."

You lean forward and plant a sweet kiss on his cheek, whispering in his ear, "you wanna leave the dishes to soak and watch a movie instead?"

Steve chuckles, turns his head to quickly kiss your lips, and nuzzles his nose to yours.

"Oh, you're a naughty minx, aren't you?"

Playfully racing up the stairs, ignoring the plates and glasses still on the table, you call back to him.

"Show some hustle, big guy! We got a whole lot of nothing to do."

He twitches, just for an instant, before finally deciding that grabbing the spare pillows from the guest room will add more to the movie experience than doing the dishes.

You're both going to do the work tonight: the work of taking care of each other, enjoying each other, and being human together.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[powered-universe-official]

TPUD1 Chapter 5: By Virtue

A meeting with important people

The next two days passed quickly. Between Electrode and Virtue being the only ones who could set up everything (the surviving crew were sent home for their protection), Leto still being in a daze from the massacre, and trying to clean up the warehouse, there was no time to dwell on emotions. Virtue is glad they can so easily remove themselves, even if that ability worries Electrode. They know how much their employer tries to keep the brunt of their job away from them, but Virtue has seen things Electrode doesn’t know they’ve seen. 

Things that help them do their job better. 

Virtue places Leto in a surveillance room, explaining that the feeds are from the meeting room. The screens are off, but if Leto wants to see what’s going on she is in complete control. There’s just one rule: don’t leave until Virtue gets them. Not Electrode, Virtue. For her safety.

Closing the door, Virtue quickly finds Electrode and walks next to them. Their old mask is in their hands, a bulky thing compared to the one they have now. A reminder of where they started; how far they’ve come.

“I should feel worried.” They tell their right hand. “I guess this is my tipping point.”

Virtue hums, looking at Electrode. They look well-rested, but Virtue knows how skilled they are with makeup. “Maybe so. That doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself.”

Electrode nods, looking at their mask again. With a sigh, they toss it into a trash can. “Let’s go. Marquess can only wait for so long.”

They enter the meeting room, the 13 Circle Heads sitting around the circular table. Electrode takes their seat, Virtue joining them by sitting in the chair to the right.

Skeleton says the first word, as Electrode won’t speak unless spoken to in these meetings. “Why did you call us, Leader?” He asks.

Electrode makes eye contact with each of the Heads, eyes glowing slightly. “A small unit was sent to my warehouse.” They start, and there’s a small gasp from everyone at the table. Their reaction is expected, Electrode’s warehouses are as secure as they come. “The States Agency tapped Zephyr’s room. She had found her way to the warehouse a few months ago, and came without telling a soul for the purpose of information-gathering.”

Many of the Heads look like they want to protest, say that Electrode just has a soft-spot for the midtier. They don’t, however. It seems they value their lives. 

“This unit, headed by an unknowing Zephyr, was made of police and lowtiers. The latter of which slaughtered 527 of my workers without mercy. Zephyr saved as many as she could, even taking a gift from one of the dying and listening to his last words.” Electrode looks down for a moment. “I tell you this because as of now, the plan is set in motion. Spread the word. The Leader of the Circles is coming out of the shadows, and there will be no mercy. Those who support a world that would kill hundreds in pursuit of one villain, a world that places young children in life-long binding contracts, shall be wiped away. 

The room is still for a brief moment that stretches on. Then, one by one, the Heads rise from their seats and place a fist over their sternum. One by one, each of the Heads swear loyalty and fealty to Electrode. It’s a moment of great magnitude and heavy implications. While the Heads had respected Electrode’s place at the top, never had they pledged. Not once in the history of the Circles had they pledged themselves to anyone other than their Circle.

Electrode is emotionless, face blank. They, too, slowly rise, hands on the table to keep them steady. They have a vicious grin on their face. 

“Today, we stop hiding our true power. Tomorrow? Tomorrow we make them pay.”

First Previous Next

[dduane]

Is there an alphabet or lexicon of the human version of The Speech? And if so, where can I find it?

No, there's not.

(And as I've been asked about this before, I'm just going to paste the answer in here—since though the original post is buried in the depths of Tumblr somewhere, I do have my saved draft.)

Per these, which came in very close to each other:

@melbetweenstars

This is something I’ve always wondered but never realized I could actually ask about until I read through that long meta response. (go me.) How much of the Speech do you have fleshed out? Do you create it as you go on more of a need-to-know basis, or do you have vocabulary and grammar structures ready to go? Basically I’d be really interested to hear any Speech-related meta if you have the chance because fictional languages are hella cool!

and:

@sansa–clegane

I just read your post on dark wizards and field terminologies, and am totally loving the Speech translations you provided! Now I’m wondering, though, how much of the language you actually have mapped out or established? I’m very curious as to what, for example, the standard “I - you - he/she/it/etc. - we - you plural - they” conjugation endings would be– or if there even are any in a language as complex as the Speech. I’M JUST REALLY INTERESTED IN FANTASY LINGUISTICS AAAHH

Linguistics is a big deal for me too, as people who read my stuff will have guessed. And needless to say, the Speech is on my mind a lot (along with other “magical languages” and their history/histories).

So let’s take a moment to first to make it clear what the Speech is not. It’s not what’s sometimes referred to as an Adamic language  (whether you take the meaning that God used it to talk to Adam, or that Adam invented it to name things.) It’s also nothing whatsoever to do with Enochian. It’s not an occultic language, or anything invented by human beings.

The basic concept is that the Speech is the language, or the very large body of descriptors, used to create the universe (and very likely others, but let’s leave that to one side for the moment). Such words are also assumed, having been used in the building of the universe, to be able to control the bits they’ve built. Every word, therefore, when used ought ideally to sound as if it contains some tremendous power. 

Writing something like that every time the Speech is used, even for a much better writer than I am, would be very, very hard.

(We need a cut here. Under the cut: Ursula Le Guin, C. S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, J. K. Rowling, and others. ...Also a fair number of beetles. And a bear.)

It’s worth mentioning as a matter of information that I met the concept of secret / divine magical languages in Le Guin’s Earthsea long before I ran into it in C. S. Lewis. (I came pretty late to Lewis’s non-Narnian work.) Yet here Lewis, as more than occasionally before, is my master, having been over this ground right back in the mid-1940s.

There’s a point in the final novel of the so-called “Planetary Trilogy”, that big fat (now endlessly problematic but still fun-in-the-right-moods) book That Hideous Strength, where Elwin Ransom—philologist, unwilling visitor to Mars and Venus, unnerved conscript into the wars in Heaven, and Lewis’s take on both the Pendragon and the wounded Fisher King—is instructing his friend and co-linguistics scholar Dimble on how to behave in a meeting with the newly awakened, and potentially quite dangerous, Merlin Ambrosius. (The POV in this passage is that of a lady named Jane who's just recently fallen into company with the group supporting Ransom.)

“You understand, Dimble? Your revolver in your hand, a prayer on your lips, your mind fixed on Maleldil [just think “Christ” for the moment: surprise surprise, that’s the parellel Lewis is using here]. Then, if he stands, conjure him.” “What shall I say in the Great Tongue?” “Say that you come in the name of God and all angels and in the power of the planets from one who sits today in the seat of the Pendragon, and command him to come with you. Say it now.” And Dimble, who had been sitting with his face drawn, and rather white, between the white faces of the two women, and his eyes on the table, raised his head, and great syllables of words that sounded like castles came out of his mouth. Jane felt her heart leap and quiver at them. Everything else in the room, seemed to have become intensely quiet: even the bird, and the bear***, and the cat, were still, staring at the speaker. The voice did not sound like Dimble’s own: it was as if the words spoke themselves through him from some strong place at a distance—or as if they were not words at all but present operations of God, the planets, and the Pendragon. For this was the language spoken before the Fall and beyond the Moon, and the meanings were not given to the syllables by chance, or skill, or long tradition, but truly inherent in them as the shape of the great Sun is inherent in the little waterdrop. This was Language herself, as she first sprang at Maleldil’s bidding out of the molten quicksilver of the star called Mercury on Earth, but Viritrilbia in Deep Heaven.

Now if that’s not like being hit over the head with a hammer, I don’t know what is.* That moment has been before the eyes-of-my-mind for a long time as I’ve worked with the Speech.

Note, however, that Lewis does a very wise thing here. He doesn’t actually spell out any of the words out for you. Because in the reader’s mind, there’s always the six-year-old saying, “Go on, say the word: see how it sounds, see what happens…!” And when you recite the magic spell, it doesn’t work. The words come out sounding, well, like any others. And maybe not your interior six-year-old, but your interior twelve- or fifteen-year-old—the ego-state that’s about keeping you from getting hurt or looking stupid in front of other people who aren’t privy to or supportive of your dreams—says, “See, it was just another word, just a bunch of nonsense. You got fooled. Dummy!” No wise writer, I think, willingly sets their readership up for such easy and constant disappointment. It's tough enough to weave, and hold in place, the spell that is prose. Handing the audience a potential spellbreaker, over and over again, is folly. 

And by rights the Speech ought to be like Lewis’s example above. If in reality you were to hear the words used to restructure matter or undo gravity, they ought to shake the air in your chest like a Saturn V launch, they should raise the hair on the back of your neck to hear them used; they should freak you out. But a long string of invented syllables isn’t going to do that. I’m stuck with using English to produce even the echo of such a result.

Which means I have to go Lewis’s route… mostly. Here and there I’ll add in a Speech-sourced word or phrase when it supports the narrative or makes it easier for characters to talk about what’s going on—as, when working with wizardry, you do sometimes have to call in precisionist-level language for words that have no casual English cognates: just as you would if you were working in particle physics or organic chemistry at the molecular level. But that’s all I’m going to do… because if you do too much linguistic work in this regard, you constantly run the risk of your readers being distracted from the real business at hand, which is the interactions between/among the characters.

The tech inherent to a work of fantastic fiction is always an issue in this regard. Ideally L. Sprague de Camp’s very useful definition of science fiction, tweaked here for fantasy, ought to be a guideline: “A fantasy story is a human story with a human problem and a human solution that could never have happened without its fantastic content.” Yet inside the definition, there’s still a lot of ways to go wrong. Too much merely human stuff, and a work of fantasy turns into a soap with some casual magical gimmickry—all too often these days labeled as “magic realism”, when it’s not publisher code for “We’d call this fantasy if we had the nerve and we didn’t think it was going to tag us as ‘genre’ and keep us off the best-seller lists”. Too little human-problem-and-human-solution, and it turns into a modern version of what James Blish (God rest him), when writing as the gently merciless science fiction critic William Atheling Jr., used to call “The 'Greater New York and New Jersey Municipal Zeppelin Gas Works’ school of speculative fiction”, where you tour your readership through the Wonderfulness Of Your Tech (magical or otherwise) until they expire of boredom while waiting for someone to fucking do something.

You have to find a centerline between the extremes—indeed pretty much a tightrope—and walk it with some care. I’d guess that J. K. Rowling ran into the need for this balancing act; while never having read the Potter books, I nonetheless get a sense that you get the occasional Wingardium leviosa without also being burdened with long strings of magical Latin. (Though I confess that the answer to the question “Where does the magic come from? And what’s it for?” as it applies to her universe could be of some interest. I have no idea whether this ever gets explicitly handled.**) 

Anyway, it’d be way too easy for the YW books to become long discourses on the Speech and its use. This aspect of the “tech”, I think, gets more than enough time onstage. Having once established that words are a tool, indeed the tool for a wizard, the ur-Tool, making every spell they build a resonance between what they do and the initial/ongoing work of Creation—my business is to stay focused on the challenge of driving plot forward by interactions between human beings (and all kinds of others) who have conflicting agendas.

…So much for the tl;dr. I do have some very basic grammatical structures tucked away, but they’re not in any fit state for other people to look at. The Speech, I think, is really best treated as an ongoing mystery that unfolds a little at a time, as required, and leaves everybody wanting more.

HTH!

*It also leads into one of numerous affectionate nods in this book toward Tolkien, as philologist, fellow novelist, and Lewis’s good friend. It's no accident that when Ransom meets up with Merlin himself, a little later in the narrative, the question of this language—the proper name of the Great Tongue is “Old Solar"—comes up again. When discussing what language they’ll speak with each other during their upcoming negotiations [they apparently start out in a rather beat-up and denatured medieval Latin], Ransom says to Merlin about the language he’d prefer to be working in, "It has been long since it was heard. Not even in Numinor was it heard in the streets.”

The Stranger gave no start … but he spoke with a new interest. “Your masters let you play with dangerous toys,” he said. “Tell me, slave, what is Numinor?” “The true West,” said Ransom. “Well,” said the other.

Yeah, “well.” Better scholars than I have dealt with the relationship between these two, as scholars and writers and friends, so enough of that for the moment. But it’s very sweet to see Lewis do something in his books that I’ve done with mine.

**It’s always possible, of course, that in the HP universe this issue is a surd: like asking “where physics comes from”. (Well, not a surd precisely, if your spiritual life tends a certain way. Mine tends toward “Whoever or whatever made the universe, that’s who made physics. And they must really like it, because they made a metric shit ton of it!” (This answer also works for beetles, though that's a slightly different issue.) :)

But if there’s a most-fundamental difference between my wizardly universe and Rowling’s, it might be best revealed in the third question that came up for me directly after “What if there was a user’s manual for human beings/the world/the universe?” and “If there was, where would it have come from?”: specifically, “And why?”

***There's a bear in the Pendragon's kitchen. Thoth only knows what initially brought that on for Lewis, but it's a character insertion that pays off later, so (shrug) wtf.

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | six

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel and rachel have dinner. a confession is made. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, JOEL POV, sexting/nudes, joel has bad restaurant etiquette lmao, descriptions of arousal, references to past smut, the guilt and shame that sometimes go so neatly hand in hand with wanting, miller daughter cameo, mild angst, discussion of a car accident. word count: 4.8k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: just a reminder that this is set within ALP5, when joel goes to have dinner w rachel. just a short little peek into my beloved professor’s mind, and some context between j & r. hope you like it x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part six of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five.

Sunday.

“Nina thinks it’ll rain tomorrow. Overcast too, probably.”  

There’s a faint hum through the phone as she speaks. A vague buzz that crackles and pops in almost every beat of silence. Not for the first time, Joel wishes she would let him buy her a new phone.

A gust of wind whips against his face and he cringes, turning his back against the draft.

“Okay,” he replies. “That’s okay, right?”

“It’s fine,” she grumbles. “Wanted to take you to this bar, though. They do these tacos we love. Nina says it’s the best Mexican place in New York.”

“Now how many times do I have to tell you there’s no good Mexican food in New York?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joel can practically hear her rolling her eyes. He chuckles.

“What time are you coming ‘round?” Ellie asks. “I’ll be in the studio for most of the day, but we normally get home around five. Could do dinner around eight?”

Joel hesitates, and then raises his voice to be heard over the rushing wind. “I was actually thinkin’ I’d come see your studio.”

A moment of humming, crackling silence.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he continues, peering in through the window of the restaurant. He thinks he can see Rachel through the frosted glass – her mess of dark curls vaguely visible, tucked away somewhere in the corner of the space. He hears Ellie breathing through the phone as he looks. “And s’been too long since you showed your old man any of your paintings.”

“Joel,” she huffs, and it’s that smartass, pained tone that has him grinning wider than anything she’s said up until this point.

It’s few and far between lately – hearing that name coming from her mouth. Joel. Something that’s been intermittent for almost a decade, and has been steadily decreasing since she moved to New York five years ago.

Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad, Joel, Dad.

Joel for years, and then one day—Dad.

It was Summer; Ellie was eighteen and he was thirty-nine, and this word that he’d grown so accustomed to hearing suddenly felt like a fist squeezing around his heart. It became something new, something different. Because Joel knew that, for her, family had always meant mistrust. Had always meant loneliness. Knew that sometimes her childhood felt like a knife stuck in her throat, and on those days, she had to decide whether to leave it in and stem the blood flow, or pluck out the blade and watch everything turn red.

And then one day, years on, it seemed that she’d drawn that dagger enough times. The blood stopped, the mistrust fell away, and—Dad.

Dad to Sarah and now, finally, Dad to Ellie.

“Ellie,” he imitates her tone, well-versed in mirroring her attitude after so many years of practice.

A voice rears up directly behind him and Joel stiffens, glancing over his shoulder to watch a couple exit the restaurant. Coat collars dragged up to protect their necks, arms linked as they smile and start down the street. He imagines Rachel sitting inside, alone, and his smile falters. He knows he should go back in soon, but can’t quite bring himself to cut this short.

“Yeah, okay,” Ellie answers finally, and he can feel the weight that rests in those words.

The admission, but also everything that goes unsaid alongside it. A silent acknowledgement of years spent reading between the lines, trying to know each other; years of her locking her bedroom door, hiding her journals, her artbooks, her pencils. Anything to keep someone else from seeing the way she expresses herself – from understanding that she feels anything. And this yeah, okay – well, it’s as close to I love you as the two of them ever get.

Joel says, “I’ve been missin’ you, kiddo.”

And she says, “I know.”

More silence. More contemplation of how to respond, how to keep emotions level when he is not Joel in this moment, but Dad.

Plucking out the blade.

“Ten tomorrow morning. I’ll send you the address,” Ellie says after a while. “Don’t be late or I’m not showing you shit, old man.”

Heat blasts his face when he steps back inside the restaurant. He tugs his jacket off as he wanders his way toward their little corner table inside San Vecchio—old saint. A small Italian place that Rachel likes to visit whenever she’s the city, and has slowly but surely grown on him.

When he gets close enough to see the table his stomach drops, face twisting into something apologetic as he lowers himself into his chair.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, staring at their food. Brought out while he was on the phone, sitting untouched; she didn’t even pick up her fork in his absence. A shameful heat rises in his face. “I’m sorry, Rach.”

“Hon,” she just laughs him off. “It’s okay, it only just came out.”

He nods, grateful, and lets her pour him a generous glass of wine. Red. A bottle of the Carignan, please, he remembers her telling the waiter. Although, when he takes a sip, he can’t tell the difference between this and the twenty-dollar cabernet he buys once a fortnight from the grocer.

They press the lips of their glasses together and murmur soft calls of cheers and another conference done, the words all but swallowed up by the raucous sounds around them.

“How is she then?” she prompts, never able to tame her curiosity.

“Ellie?” Joel’s eyebrows jut up, and he sets his wine glass down. “Good, yeah, good. It was nice to hear her voice, I, uh, I’ve missed too many of that kid’s calls over the past few months.”

Rachel nods, and when she smiles his chest feels a little lighter, because it’s the type of smile that says it’s okay, everything is okay, you’re a good dad, you took the call. And she has always had that kind of soothing effect on him, since the day he met her all those years ago. There’s this compassion to her character; a warmth akin to that of a sister. Smarter than hell and kinder than she’s ever been given credit for.  

“Are you seeing her while you’re in town?”

“Mhm, tomorrow.”

“Well, that will be lovely,” she beams and takes a sip of her wine. Carignan stains her mouth. “Is she still with Nina?”

“She is.”

“God, that must be, what, four years they’ve been together now? That’s great, Joel.”

“I’m happy for her,” he smiles, gripping his fork. “They’re renting out this art studio together at the moment – Nina’s an artist too, did I—?”

“Yeah, you told me.”  

“Yeah, they’ve been using the space to work on some new stuff. Ellie was tellin’ me ‘bout this gallery downtown, how they’ve offered her some exhibit space. Gonna have a show down there in March.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” Rachel’s eyebrows raise, top lip quirking into a soft smirk as she twirls her fork through a mess of red pasta. “Do you think they’ll get married? Follow in Sarah and Tim’s footsteps?”

Joel can’t help but laugh at the idea. He tries to imagine Ellie and Nina in a chapel, or on a beach, or anywhere, professing their love for one another with friends and family watching on. Tries to imagine Ellie, all tattoos, messy hair, and gangly arms, tucked into a suit or a dress. The image doesn’t come easily.

“I don’t really think they’re the type,” he admits, and Rachel laughs too then.

“No,” she agrees. “I guess not.”

She asks more questions about the girls, the way she always does. Asks about Sarah’s job at the primary school, if teaching is all she thought it would be.

And something like halfway through their meal, around a mouthful of food, Rachel says, “You know I’m glad we’re here, because I need to ask you something.”

Joel’s hands still, face going slack as he meets her eye. There’s something conniving in them. Something sly in the way she smiles, baring her teeth at him. It makes his stomach twist into a tight, burning knot. What does she know?

“Okay,” he says slowly, lowering his knife.

“So,” she hums. “At the conference yesterday…”

“Yeah?” he rasps, blunt nails digging into his thigh beneath the table.

“I couldn’t ask you about it because I didn’t want anyone to overhear us, but… did you see what Professor Neilson was wearing? That blazer?”

“Jesus,” he deflates.

“Oh, come on,” she sputters, and there’s lipstick stained on her front teeth and he finds himself smiling too, relaxing.

“You’re a filthy gossip, you know that?” he raises an eyebrow.

She grins back at him. Winks and says, “Don’t act like you don’t love it, Miller.”

So, for an hour they eat, and talk, and drink. Don’t stop until their cheeks are sore from smiling and their ribs are tight and aching from laughter.  

With full bellies and rosy cheeks, they scrape their plates clean. Lips purse and pucker around final sips of wine, and then… and then Rachel reaches across the table and places her hand atop his.

And Joel has never noticed that she has sunspots across her knuckles. Never noticed that she wears a ring on her pinkie finger, one with a dark emerald stone in the middle. Never noticed the thin white scar beside the nail on her index. She squeezes his hand, the pad of a finger skimming his wrist, and he remembers how he held someone else’s wrist only hours before this. Felt her skin beneath his fingers – the frailty of the tendons and veins beneath it, swimming with life as his thumb pressed down.   

Joel feels his eye twitch. Works to keep his face relaxed, calm. And when she leaves her hand there, he laughs a little. A choked, wary sound. Turns his hand over so his knuckles are against the table and his palm is against her palm and squeezes once in return. Rachel isn’t smiling anymore.

“You okay, Rach?”

“Do you…” she pauses, mouth twisting into a shy smile as she clears her throat. Joel feels something heavy settle in his stomach. A type of dread that curdles and burns like red sky at morning. “Do you remember when Sarah was in that car accident a few years back?”

Joel swallows. Her hand feels too warm against his, her palm tacky with sweat.

“We were… we were at work, and… and Tim called you and told you she was in the hospital—”

He almost cringes at the memory. Her husband’s name flashing across his phone screen during a lecture. Stomach churning and why is Tim calling me, heart racingand Tim never calls. Remembers hearing those panicky breaths down the line and thinking Texas and Maine had never felt further apart than in that moment.

“You drove me to the airport,” he nods. His knuckles feel tight – he wants to pull his hand back and crack them. Wants to feel the joints pop beneath his skin, let the tension slip away like a sigh.

“You were so distraught,” Rachel sighs. “I’d never seen you like that. So uncomposed, so… chaotic.”

Joel huffs out an awkward laugh and tries to pull his hand back, but she squeezes harder. Keeps it in place beneath her own.

“What’s this all about?” his eyebrows furrow, face pinching into a sort of scowl. He can feel it, he can always feel it when his face does this. So unpleasant, so unwelcoming, and he knows it. Just never figured out how to stop it from happening.

“We were in the car,” she continues, and her eyes are so earnest now. So wide, the whites shining, her lashes darkened and fanned out around them in a way he’s never seen before. She’s wearing makeup. “And you didn’t even have a bag packed, you just wanted to get to your girl. Needed to see her with your own eyes, make sure she was okay.”

His jaw feels tight inside his head; teeth clenched painfully, digging into the gums around his molars as the memory plays in his mind.

Tim’s voice wavering, crying, she was unconscious when they pulled her out.

His hand is numb beneath Rachel’s. She’s fine, he reminds himself. Sarah’s fine, that was years ago.

“I think I knew then,” she says quietly.

“Knew what?” Joel tries to keep his voice level. Ignoring the odd feeling that twists in his chest and has his heart racing faster, so much faster than normal, faster than it has ever raced for Rachel.

“That I loved you.”

It’s almost dreamlike, the way everything seems to blur and fade around them after she says it. Or perhaps nightmarish is the right word. A sharp pain sparks between his ribs and he feels his body stiffen and then loosen all at once. Face, shoulders, hand beneath hers – everything softens. Fuck. His mouth tastes like sandpaper, tongue resting fat and gravelly against the roof of it as she stares at him.

When he doesn’t say a word, she says, “I’d always known you were so kind, so generous to the people around you. But to see the way you love? It’s… shit, Joel, I just knew.”

He’s convinced his throat is tightening.

“And I held it in all of these years, and I’m sorry for that. I was just never sure of how you felt, and you never tried anything with me, never hinted at any feelings. But after the conference yesterday...”

“The conference?” he whispers. He pictures that bench outside NYU. Remembers the nasty wind, an empty champagne flute on the ground, the side of his body going hot where it pressed against hers.

“Walking around that hall together,” Rachel smiles. “You kept holding your arm out for me to hold, and I thought, god, maybe this is it. Maybe you actually feel the same.”

Joel imagines that this must be what people describe as critical velocity. Everything that once was smooth turns turbulent. Every second, every minute, that he’s allowed himself to careen forward, wanton and reckless, on the deliciously destructive course he’s set for himself – all of it just for someone close to him to step directly into his line of fire.

And his silence is so painfully telling. He knows immediately when it’s been too long, too much quiet, too many seconds of nothing said, of no reassurances offered. The muscle in her jaw ticks, and a vertical line appears between pinched eyebrows. Confusion, surprise, hurt. Her hand pulls back, and he tucks his in his lap quickly.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, shit.”  

Joel is suddenly certain that he’s going to be sick. His hands shake beneath the table, a violent tap tap tap where they’re clasped against the inside of his thigh.

“Rachel—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Please, don’t apol—”

“I shouldn’t have said—”

“Rachel,” Joel’s voice raises, just a little, just enough to make her pause, enough for conversation at the table beside them to halt for a second. “If anythin’, I should be the one apologisin’.”

She laughs; a sad, quiet thing. Shakes her head at him.

“I guess I… somewhere in my head, I thought you knew,” Rachel says quietly. “Thought you….” The unspoken words hang in the air between them. Thought you felt the same.

And it hurts. His skin prickles at the sound of her voice; laced with pain, with rejection. Your fault, he thinks. That pain is your fault.

“Is there someone else?” she asks then, and her voice is so feeble. So small, so un-Rachel that it makes his chest feel tight. Your fault.

Joel sighs, cringes, fumbles for the right words. The words to explain something that he himself doesn’t even fully understand. Words that will make her feel better, that will put her at ease. Put him at ease.

“It’s not….” he trails off, half-prepared to lie. But then he meets her gaze. Sees the tears that have settled on her waterline and knows he can’t. Wants to hate her for asking, wants to beg her to take back the question. But in the end he just admits quietly, “I suppose there is.”

She sniffles, and when she speaks again, it almost sounds like a question.

“You never mentioned anyone.”  

“I know,” Joel nods. “I’m sorry, I think I just… it’s complicated, and it… it’s new.”

“New,” she repeats softly. “And you never… you never thought of me that way.” This time it isn’t posed like a question. There is nothing open ended about it. Instead it’s resigned; final.

The corners of her mouth are downturned, and her lower lip wobbles, a movement so miniscule that he could have missed it if his eyes weren’t trained on her face. Trying painfully to understand this situation that feels as if it has crept up on him in his sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” Joel finds himself saying again, and he thinks his eyes must be wide, unblinking, because they’re dry, and he feels panicked.  

In his mind all he can think of is every cup of coffee in her office, every borrowed book, every sly joke in the corridor at work. Comforting smiles offered at conferences, snarky notes passed back and forth during faculty meetings. His friend. One of the truest, longest, most persevering ones in his life. One so dear to his heart. The idea of all of that being no more seems almost too painful to contemplate in the middle of a restaurant, with your fault thundering in his chest.

Rachel waves a hand. Feigns nonchalance and offers a watery smile.

“I’m happy for you, Joel,” she says. He doesn’t miss the waver in her voice, nor the harsh splash of crimson humiliation that stains the skin of her face. “I am. Really.”

Except he doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know what there is to be happy for. Can only watch her face. Can only sit, and stare like a fool at the way the skin beneath her eyes tightens as she draws back tears.

“I’m—” Rachel swallows. Sucks in a huge breath and flattens her palms against the table. Her napkin, stained with soft blots of red and brown, is pressed beneath the fingers of her left hand. The one with the sunspots and the ring and the scar. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’m going to use the restroom—”

“Rach,” he tries, hand reaching across the table for—for what? Joel isn’t sure. What is there to do? To say? “What can I do?”

“It’s okay,” she stands, holds a hand out to silence him. Steps out from the behind table and squeezes past him. Her fingers brush against his arm as she goes. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I just need a second to freshen up.”

Joel watches her weave through the restaurant, shifting around tables, until her back disappears through a door at the far end of the room.

There’s a minute of painful quiet. A sort of buzzing in his ears that won’t go away. For a moment all he’s aware of is the look of disdain coming from the woman on the table to his left, and the sharp pain in his chest, and then the sounds of the restaurant come rushing back in. Cutlery scraping against plates, conversation, laughter, the sound of a bell ringing. And something buzzing, really truly buzzing this time. Something against his leg.

Joel pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries not to wince when he sees her name on the screen.

Are you enjoying your dinner?

The glance he spares over his shoulder is short, searching, looking to see if she’s coming back yet. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

Yeah, the restaurant is nice.

What are you doing? 

Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed

Something tightens in his stomach, and he knows what she’s doing, knows this game so well. The way she always manages to creep beneath his skin. Knows exactly what to say, to do, to have him hanging on her every word.

His fingers hover over the screen, contemplating a response.

Is that right? he types out, and then grimaces, backspacing quickly.  

Want some company? he types next.

“Christ,” Joel mutters under his breath, erasing that too.

Embarrassment itches across his body. And then guilt, like a tidal wave chaser rushing to cool his inflamed skin, as he notices Rachel walking back toward him. You fucking asshole.

He straightens in his seat, tucking his phone out of sight as she hovers beside the table, eyes darting between him and her empty chair. She doesn’t sit down again.

“I think,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I should probably go. Early flight to catch, you know? I need to get some rest.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

He can feel his mouth hanging open, dumbfounded, ridiculous, as his brain scavenges for something to say. Never the right words, never when he needs them. Not for her, and not for Rachel.

Rachel reaches for her purse, and he holds out a hand. “Hey, let me… I’ll cover this.”

She pauses, nods. “Thanks.”

“Course,” he says gruffly. She pulls her coat from the back of her chair, wraps it around herself and does the buttons up slowly. Her mascara is smudged. “Hey, Rach, can we… should we talk about this some more? I don’t want to—”

“Not tonight,” she interrupts sharply. “Please, Joel, I’m sorry, just…. not tonight.”

—lose you.

“Sure, okay.” His throat is tight, your fault lodged heavy against his Adam’s apple. “You need help to get a taxi?”

“I’m fine,” she places a hand lightly on his shoulder, and presses her thumb against the skin beneath his collarbone. “Get home safe, okay? We can talk in Maine.”

“In Maine,” he repeats, and the words split and sour inside his mouth. “Okay.”

He doesn’t watch her leave. Doesn’t want to have to see her retreating from him. Doesn’t want to think about if this will be the last time they get to do this.

The waiter returns and he pays the bill, hastily jotting down a generous tip, and offers the women at the table on his left a tight-lipped smile before standing up.

When he finally makes his way outside, he finds a tax idling by the curb, lights on. The driver notices Joel staring; rolls down the window and raises his eyebrows. Where to?

Joel only shakes his head a little, leans his back against the dank, cold brick wall behind him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before opening his phone, and sends two words.

Show me.

And then, when she doesn’t respond for a moment, he sends another message. Insistent now. Desperate, and even more desperate not to let it show.

I know you want to show me, sweetheart.

And when she does show him, it takes all of his might not to let this guilt consume him. Takes everything not to ruminate on how quickly he can shift from I’m sorry to Show me.

Because her skin.

So much skin.

Soft, smooth; shrouded in a robe that covers more than he’d like, and he knows how it tastes. Knows how it feels. Could press his fingers, his lips, his nose, to every part of it that he’s touched, in the exact same places, from memory alone.

It’s cold outside – windy, the beginnings of tomorrow’s storm twisting through the air. He feels it snake across his neck, curl beneath the lip of his collar, as he takes in the curve of her breast, the stiff point of her nipple, peeking out from behind white fabric. His cock stiffens in his pants.

He gazes at the softest part of her stomach, the thatch of curls that cover her mound, and wants to press his palms against the plush of her thighs. Wants to lay himself atop her, feel that skin against his again, hear her whimper and moan beneath the broad weight of him as he slips inside her. Wants to snatch her finger from her mouth and glide it inside his own. With her slick and her skin against his tongue, he’d sink his teeth in and inhale that warmth, that beating, pulsating force that he’s found himself so intoxicated by.

And to think, only hours ago, he was doing just that. Lowering himself to the ground in a public bathroom and drinking her down. Feeling the muscles in her thighs pull tight and then loose against the sides of his head. Anything to satisfy the craving that only she seems to inspire in him.

Resolute, persistent – a probing, prodding thing that nips at his heels and thrusts him forward at a double time pace.

A hunger that follows him down the nights and down the days.

A hunger that can only ever be sated like the taking of a sacrament – on his knees, devotion in his eyes.

Jesus.

Are you wet?

You know I am.

Are you touching yourself?

Joel’s jaw tightens. He holds his breath and waits. Can’t quite tell what would be worse; knowing that she’s touching herself, alone, thinking about him, or that she isn’t, that she’s waiting for him. He can feel his cock leaking against his thigh.

No.

He exhales heavily, and the faintest hint of a groan slips out with it. Fuck, pull yourself together.

Joel’s fingers float over the keyboard, and for a moment he thinks of Rachel.

Thinks that if he could only bring himself to look up, to look away from her, he might be able to see Rachel still. The back of her coat, the dark scrawl of her hair, disappearing into the night. Joel thinks of the tears in her eyes, taunting him, threatening to spill spill spill, to streak down rosy cheeks and wet the hollow of her throat. Feels something throb and crack in his chest – a painful, resounding ache that hurts so much like fear, like loss. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

And wouldn’t that be so much easier? If he were to look away, to chase his friend down the street and tell her that he was wrong, that he wants her, that it makes sense for them to be together. Wouldn’t it be easier if that were true?

But he doesn’t stop looking at her. He thinks of Pothos, of Himeros, and stares at the soft curve of her stomach, the indent of her belly button.  Looks at the way her lower lip rests below her finger and pictures it swollen, slick with a medley of her spit and his. Even notices a small mark, nestled in the crevice between her hip and the top of her thigh. A fading remnant of where his teeth had once pinched – like a tangible little footprint, whispering that he was there.

Longing and desire flame between the cracks of his ribs; a bright white heat that curls itself around your fault until he manages to shake the thought.

What was it that Kaminsky said? There was no mythology: Odysseus hanged himself. Homer drank to death and stank of mud.

And perhaps he was right; for there is no witness to this. No being over his shoulder, God or mortal, to lay their eyes upon this moment and understand that all he has ever known of love is deprivation. That fondest, blindest, weakest part of his being that has always yearned for, or perhaps grieved over, this love that once seemed so intangible and now, at last, maybe he has been deemed worthy of.

Alone so long, living in a body grown accustomed to such quiet. Familiar with no touch other than that of his own rough palms. And now… the intensity of it shakes within him. The urge to sink his teeth in like a bad dog and hold, hold, hold, to consume and be consumed, and never yield to anyone who wants to take this away from him.

No, there is no looking away from that, from her. Joel feels the noose tighten around his neck the longer he stares – a dog on the leash of its own longing, that need only sharpening with every second that dares to pass.

And Joel knows that nothing has ever been easy. Considers the idea that maybe that’s how it was supposed to be for him. And perhaps he doesn’t want easy, doesn’t want simple. No – Joel was always drawn to the flame.

Good.

Dinner finished early. Where are you?

And that flame welcomes him now in kind. The arms of a lover spread open for embrace; the address of her hotel sent directly to his phone.

Joel looks up and makes eye contact with the taxi driver again. Light still on.

Where to?

**the Kaminsky mentioned in this is Ilya Kaminsky, and the quote is from Dancing in Odessa.

thank you for reading! x

[milfhunter6698]

Under pressure pt2

synopsis: Upon joining the NYC firm as a new associate, you quickly find yourself facing the pressure of working under the firm’s star senior partner, Victoria neuman. With a reputation for excellence and an eye for potential, she was searching for a junior partner who can meet her exacting standards. You, with your impressive credentials and unwavering ambition, seemed like a perfect fit…until the pressure of meeting those high expectations started taking their toll. 

Warnings: 18+ eventual smut, no use of (y/n), cursing, no describing reader’s appearance, explicit language, fluff, angst, teasing, hurt & comfort, power imbalance, slight AU, some similarities to cannon, mentions of the boys characters (Hughie), slight age gap, rival associates, young!reader, older!Victoria, slow-burn. 

notes: So.. what do we think? this is slightly proofread so sorry if there’s any errors, this is kind of a random time to post but like I said posting schedule is gonna be a bit messy, but I’ll make sure I’ll give ya’ll a heads up if I’m gonna take a week off or something like that. Now that you have two chapters only in one week so enjoy! (also so sorry guys If I didn’t respond to some of your comments I don’t know what fuck all had gotten Into my tumblr but thank you some much I love every each single one of you).

chapter 1

wc: 2.8k

It was a new day the sun rose, casting a warm glow over the city. You arrived at the office, your steps heavy with the weight of the previous night’s argument. The excitement and enthusiasm of your new role had faded, replaced by a sense of dread and fatigue. The tall office building loomed above you as you walked in.

You made your way through the bustling lobby, Suddenly, you collide with another person hurrying past. Your coffee cup tipped, spilling its contents all over your suit.

“Great,” You muttered under your breath, watching in dismay as the coffee soaked into your jacket. “The universe must really hate me right now.”

You quickly made your way to the woman’s bathroom, where you used paper towels to scrub the stain from your suit and washed your hands.

With a deep breath you stared at your reflection on the mirror fixing your hair, before heading back to your desk, hoping the day would get better.

As you settled into your cubicle, Victoria approached with a file folder in hand. A warm smile on her face, “Hey, I have a new assignment for you.”

You stood, ready to listen. “What’s the case?”

She placed the folder on the desk. “We’ve just been retained by Garnet Technologies, a major player in the tech industry. They’re being sued for breach of contract and intellectual property theft by a rival company. The stakes are high—they’re seeking damages in the millions, and the allegations could seriously damage Garnet’s reputation.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you opened the folder, scanning the details. “This looks like a complex case.”

“Exactly,” She said. “I need you to handle the initial research and help draft the response strategy. You’ll be working with Sam Reed from our litigation team, who will guide you. This is a chance to prove yourself.”

You nodded, “Understood. I’ll get started right away.”

As the day progressed, you threw yourself into the case. Spending hours poring over documents, emails, and internal memos related to the dispute. The complexities of corporate espionage and the high stakes of the lawsuit were challenging but also invigorating.

During a brief break, you ran into Hughie in the break room. He glanced at you, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Still working on the Garnet case?”

“Yeah, just getting started,” You replied, trying to keep your tone neutral.

He leaned against the counter. “Good luck. It’s a tough one. Don’t get too comfortable. You’ll need more than just brains to crack this.”

Before you could even say anything, he grabbed his coffee and left, leaving you with a sense of unease. You can’t help but think this guy is a total weirdo..

Later in the afternoon, you met with Sam Reed, the senior litigator who would be overseeing your work on the case. He was a seasoned professional with a no-nonsense attitude. You discussed the case’s intricacies, and you took notes diligently, absorbing every detail.

As the day wound down, you stayed late again, determined to make significant progress. The office quieter, with only a few people scattered around. You continued working late into the evening, analyzing data and preparing a draft for the case strategy.

Then finally you escaped the office, the darkness of night swallowing the city. Your footsteps carried you to the subway, and as you stood there, leaning against a pillar wall, the soft green hue from the tunnel lulled you into a daze. 

Your gaze drifted to the ground, only to see a rat holding a soda can with its hands, taking a drink. You shook your head, unsure if it was real or if you were just hallucinating from the exhaustion.

In need of a distraction, you pulled out your phone, your thumb lingering on the name you hesitated before dialing. You brought the phone to your ear as the voicemail played, and you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper, "Hey, I'm really sorry about everything. Can we please talk? I missed you."

A frustrated huff escaped your lips as you slipped the phone back into your pocket, stepping onto the train ready to head back home.

A loud thud interrupted your concentration. You looked up to see Victoria standing by your desk, a thick file dropped onto the surface with a decisive motion.

“How’s the progress on the Garnet case?” She asked, her tone brisk but not unkind.

You glanced at the file, feeling the pressure of her question. “I’m making headway. I’ve been analyzing the documents and working on the draft for the response strategy.”

Victoria nodded, her gaze assessing. “Good. I expect a preliminary report by the end of the day. We have a meeting with Garnet’s CEO tomorrow, and I need to be prepared.”

Before you could respond, Victoria turned on her heel and walked away, leaving you with a stack of paperwork.

You stared at the file, feeling the weight of both the task at hand and the lingering personal issues from the other night. With a sigh, you rolled up your sleeves and began to work, trying to push aside your personal frustrations and actually focus on the demands of your job.

The Garnet case had been hanging over the firm’s head for weeks. For you, it was an overwhelming task, but with Victoria’s guidance, she had managed to stay afloat, delivering on the expectations she set.

The conference room was tense as they sat with Garnet’s legal team, the final negotiations reaching their climax. Victoria, ever composed, led the charge, while you sat beside her, following every word. When the final settlement was agreed upon, and the opposing counsel conceded, there was a collective sigh of relief from their side of the table.

As you two left the building and made your way back to the firm, Victoria turned to you, a rare smile on her lips.

“You did good today. We couldn’t have pulled that off without your work on the documentation.”

You felt a surge of pride. “Thanks, I’ve actually learned a lot from watching you.”

Victoria gave a small laugh. “Let’s hope you’ve been learning the right things.” She paused, then glanced at her watch. “What do you say we grab a drink? Celebrate a little.”

You hesitated, the exhaustion from the past few days catching up with you. But then again, it was Victoria, and this was a rare invitation. 

“Sure,” you nodded, feeling both excitement and nervousness bubble up.

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting across from Victoria at a fancy bar just around the corner from the office. It was dimly lit the atmosphere was warm and relaxed, a far cry from the intense formality of the firm.

“Here’s to kicking those bastards’ asses and walking away with another win,” she said, her voice playful but still sharp.

You clinked your glass against hers. “And to not getting fired,” you joked.

She smirked. “Not yet, at least.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

You both laughed, the tension of the day easing away with every sip. After a few drinks, You started to loosen up, the pressure of your first major case behind you. As the conversation flowed, you found yourself speaking more freely than you had intended.

“So, how are you settling in? Surviving the chaos?” Victoria asked, leaning in her seat, her eyes watching you with mild curiosity.

You shrugged, swirling the ice in your glass. “Yeah, I think I’m getting the hang of it. Still trying to balance everything, though. The job… and other things.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Other things?”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to share more. “Yeah, well like my girlfriend and I… it’s been tough with all the hours I’m putting in here.”

Victoria’s expression shifted slightly, and you saw it a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Girlfriend, huh? You didn’t mention her before.”

You gave a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah, well, things have been… complicated. She’s not exactly thrilled with the late nights and the job taking over my life.”

She leaned in a little, her tone softening. “That’s a tough balance. This job—it doesn’t make things easy on relationships. Not everyone can handle it.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in. “Yeah… it’s been hard to find the right balance.”

Your eyes met across the table. For a brief moment, neither of you said a word. There was an unspoken tension, a subtle spark that neither acknowledged, but both felt.

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting. “I guess I need to figure out what’s more important… this job or—”

“Or her?” Victoria finished the sentence for you, her tone gentle but probing.

You chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Something like that.”

There was a pause, the kind of silence that invites temptation. Victoria’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should have. She leaned back, breaking the moment, but the air between you felt charged, as though something unsaid had passed between you.

“I should probably call it a night,” You said, sensing the shift but not wanting to take it any further. You wasn’t about to jeopardize everything you had worked for—not on your  second week at the firm.

Victoria gave a small, knowing smile. “You’re smart, You know where your priorities lie.”

She finished her drink and stood up, gathering her things. “See you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the rest of the case—I’ve got it under control.”

Weeks blended together and you returned to work, the hum of the office and the endless paperwork becoming your new normal. You and your girlfriend had worked things out—sort of. But you both agreed to take it slow, trying to deal with the tension between your job and your relationship. Still, the strain lingered in the back of your mind.

One morning, as you were reviewing a case, your thoughts were interrupted by Victoria’s voice from across the room.

“Do you have a minute?”

Startled, you looked up to see her standing by her office door, gesturing for you to join her. You quickly gathered your things and followed her in. She closed the door behind you, motioning for you to take a seat.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone business-like but with a hint of something more personal. “We have a major charity event coming up. The firm’s sponsors are throwing a gala next week, and I think you should attend.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A gala? You mean one of those black-tie events?”

She nodded. “Exactly. It’s a big deal for this firm. We’ve got some key clients attending, and I think it would be a good opportunity for you to network. I could introduce you to some people.”

You hesitated. You weren’t really the one for flashy events, but the opportunity to meet high-profile clients could be valuable. “Are you sure I’m the right person for that? I mean, I’m still new.”

Victoria smiled, her tone softening. “You’ve already proven yourself. And besides, you’ve handled bigger things this past month—this will be easy in comparison.”

She leaned forward, her eyes catching yours. “You’ll be fine. Just think of it as another case to handle. And… you won’t be going alone. I’ll be there.”

In a flurry of movement, you stood in front of your closet, rummaging through your clothes. They flew in the air as you tossed them around, desperate to find something suitable. Your eyes met your reflection in the mirror as you slipped on a dress. You twirled, checking the fit, only to immediately change it.

Minutes ticked by as you searched for the perfect outfit. Eventually, you settled for a more casual look a black sleeveless halter waistcoat, V-neck, and front buttons. You added the final touches, an earring to complete the look, when your phone chimed on your bed.

A message from your girlfriend popped up

‘Hey, wanna come over tonight?’ 

Guilt washed over you, and you chewed on your lip. As much as you wanted to you knew you couldn't. ‘Sorry, can't. Got an event to attend. But I promise, I'll make it up to you. Wish me luck, xx.’ 

You stepped out of a sleek black car, the cool evening air brushing against your exposed skin as you gazed up at the grand hotel hosting the gala. This was the kind of event you’d only heard about—the kind where power and influence mingled effortlessly over champagne and whispered deals. 

Beside you, Victoria stepped out, her presence commanding attention clad in a gown that exuded elegance and authority, it shimmered like moonlight under the hotel's bright lights. 

The dress rode low, leaving her back exposed as it hugged her perfectly. She was absolutely breathtaking Your eyes were drawn to the elegant necklace, its chain draping over the nape of her neck, trailing down her spine. You swallowed hard, adjusting your suit.

You had a girlfriend, and you knew you shouldn't be caught in this web of temptation, but oh god Victoria made it so damn hard to look away. Pushing those thoughts aside, You brushed off any lingering feelings and followed her into the hotel.

“Ready?” she asked, casting you a glance as you both walked toward the entrance.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you muttered, regaining composure. You felt the slight pressure in your chest, but you hid it behind a smile. This wasn’t just another networking event—this was about showing you belonged.

Inside, the ballroom was glittering with chandeliers, the sound of soft jazz filling the air. Victoria wasted no time, immediately drawing you into the circle of high-profile clients and business moguls, introducing you as if you’d been at the firm for years.

She introduced you to a silver-haired man in a tailored suit. “One of our rising stars. She’s been handling some important cases, including our recent win with Garnet.”

The man raised an impressed eyebrow. “Garnet? That’s no small feat. Impressive.”

You gave a polite smile, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, all while trying to ignore the subtle charge in the air whenever Victoria brushed against you. A hand lightly on your shoulder as she guided you through the room. A fleeting look that lingered a second too long. Each interaction felt like a game you weren’t consciously playing, but one that neither of you could really stop.

As you moved from one circle of clients to another, You caught snippets of Victoria’s past—her long history with the firm, how she’d risen to prominence by closing massive deals, and her reputation for being a force to be reckoned with. She carried herself with poise, yet there was something about the way she interacted with you tonight—more relaxed, almost playful.

At one point, while you were speaking to another client, she leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “You’re doing great,” she whispered, sending a spark through you as goosebumps danced across your skin.

You managed to nod, swallowing back the sudden rush of nerves. “Thanks.”

After an hour of mingling, you found yourselves near the bar. You sipped your drink, trying to steady yourself from the undercurrent of tension between you two. You weren’t sure if you were imagining it, but you felt it—something is different tonight.

Victoria leaned against the bar, her eyes scanning the room. “You’re a natural at this, you know.”

“I’m just following your lead,” You replied, feeling the need to keep the conversation professional, though the weight of the evening pressed down on you.

She smiled, but there was something in her gaze that softened. “You’re too modest. You’ve been holding your own.”

Before you could respond, a man approached—someone new, someone you hadn’t yet met. His dark eyes flicked between Victoria and you, and the atmosphere shifted. He had the look of someone important, someone who carried a different kind of power.

“Victoria,” the man said smoothly, a knowing smile on his face. “It’s been a while.”

“Michael,” She replied, her voice cool but polite. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The man glanced at you, sizing you up before turning back to Victoria. “And who’s this?”

She said your name, her tone firm. “She’s one of our top associates.”

You extended your hand, but Michael didn’t seem particularly interested. Okay asshole? you raised an eyebrow. He Instead, kept his focus on Victoria, his smile growing wider. 

“Well, good luck with that. But if you ever want to step away from Reed Caldwell, you know where to find me.”

There was a subtle edge to his words, and for a moment, you could sense the tension between them. This man, Michael, wasn’t just a client or rival—he was someone from Victoria’s past, and his offer was more than professional.

Victoria’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes hardened. “I’m right where I need to be, Michael.”

The conversation ended with a curt nod, and He disappeared into the crowd, leaving you and Victoria standing by the bar.

“What was that about?” you asked, curious about the strange tension.

She sighed, her gaze distant for a moment. “Old rivalries. Michael’s been trying to poach me for years, but he’s not my concern. We have more important things to focus on.” She turned to face you, her smile returning. “Like how you’re going to handle this deposition tomorrow.”

The shift back to business was sudden, but the undercurrent between you remained. You finished your drinks, the night carrying on, but as you left the event, You couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. Not just in the way you saw Victoria, but in how she viewed you, It stirred something within you it was intriguing yet so.. 

[styxwanderer]

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished |

〚Twisted Wonderland x Elphaba!Reader〛

[you the wicked witch from the west had died, but to your surprise you had woken up inside a coffin in an unfamiliar world. You had also noticed your magic had more freedom and your power seem to mix to those in this world] < FYI : no Fiyero doesn't exist in your OZ world, you are completly alone, >

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆꒷꒦꒷⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆꒷꒦꒷⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆꒷꒦꒷⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

you had accepted your fate to be painted as the villain and died by a very underhand method such as being thrown water. That pesky girl who has killed your sister, and the con who had framed you the real magician. You had tried your best to help everybody and every creature from a crueler fate, only for those same people to go against you, going as far as holding a witch hunt for you.

Fated to be scorned just for the green hue of your skin, something you had no control over. Such a heinous thing humanity is. you could hear the party that they will throw over your death, No one mourns for the wicked, save for your best friend, Glinda, who had been wiser than to judge based on appearance, a true friend. Unfortunately, she too was unable to save you from your grueling fate.

Yet here you are, trapped in a coffin.

"Have I finally died?" you thought. What more does God want from you, did They think that punishment is not enough for you?

you scoffed at the thought.

You were startled when the lid was suddenly slammed open by a racoon? Cat? looking creature with fire ears demanding your robe?

' Did this creature think this robe on me is going to fit him?'

'Also where did this robe come from? and did he think that by giving the robe he was going to let a woman bare naked? what a crazy guy'

so, you ran, pulling the hood, as you thought it is better for no body to find out that you are horrendious green from head to toe, and finding yourself in an impressive library. The creature had cornered you Just before the headmage trapped him in his leash using his power.

"Ah, i've found you at last. Splendid. I trust you're one of this year's new students." he then went on and on about how you should've controlled your familiar.

" Woah! we never have a student as... green as you.. how unusual." he said upon seeing your hand. You quickly covered your hand with your robe just as you had covered your face.

" that is alright, Here in NIght Raven collage we accept everybody just as how they are as long as they are chosen by the mirror of course."

He then forced you to go back to the room with coffin. There you found a lot of students wearing the same robe as you.

' is this the same type of school as Shiz University?'

The headmage, Crowley end his bickering with some other students before beckoning you to move to the mirror. You had yourself walk foward to the strange talking mirror. As strange as your original world is you had never seen a magical talking mirror. Sure, a talking face, but it is a mechanic created to be an illusion by that horrible con, Oz.

you hated the attention that is suddenly drafted towards you, you slouch as you reached the Dark mirror.

" The nature of your soul is........ unclear to me."

" what did you say?!"

" sure i can sense a magical power residing on this girl, yet it is unfamiliar, strange, foreign.. i have never encounter this sort of power in my whole life. therefore no dorm is appropriate."

Dorm? Magic power? what the hell is this mirror on about.

" Are you suggesting the black carriage went to receive a Girl?! and with a strange magic? Absurd! the student selection process has not erred once in its century of existence! how could this happened?!"

"HMMPH! ME! Let me have this student place!" the creature who called himself Grim had broken free from the leash. He then started insisting and creating a huge chaos.

in a panic you noticed you still have your grimore with you. odd i thought i had given this to Glinda to protect. you quickly flip over the pages.

you found and recite a spell for the target to follow your word for a brief minute just before the little guy breathe his flame towards a red eyed boy.

"Sit boy, down."

to your surprise most of the students and the headmage himself had fallen down to their butt sitting as they looked bewildred.

" a... i meant that creature not you."

"RAGHHHH!! UNHAND ME UNHAND MEE!" Grim shrilled.

" how... HOW DARE YOU? UNHAND ME THIS INSTANT!" said the red hair boy

" impossible..." said the pretty glasses guy.

" How brazen of you to order Me around, I will rip you into pieces." said the lion eared guy. odd he reminded you of that cowardly lion you had saved, such ungrateful creature whomst had blamed his cowardice on you.

" You! How dare you make me touch the floor!" said the gorgeous blind guy with purple tip.

"Whoaa?!! i am on the floor?!! How??" the boy with the bandana wrapped around his white hair exclaimed.

" Wuh WHAAA.. what is this ssr op power?! scary..." the floating tablet shouted.

" To be casted with a spell how unruly the new student this year is. OH, woe is me... Uncast me this instant!!!"

The other students had started to cuzz profanities at you as well making you more nervous. ' Ah its this again, everytime i tried to help.. i get punished..'

you fumbled around confused as usually in your world the enchantment would only work towards the target intended and usually the enchantment you practied were a permanent one, you hoped this won't last long.

" don't tell me you do not know how to unchant your spell?"

"uhhh..."

thank fully in a moment your enchantment is broken as the headmage start to stand up and dust himself, so as the other students.

The red haired boy spring up and start to point his gem pen? towards you.

" OFF WITH YOUR HE--"

" that won't be necessary Mr. Roseheart. Now you!"

The bird feathered headmage ripped oven your hood as he exposed you to the whole school followed with gasps acrossm the room.

" she is green?!"

" i never seen a green person before."

You grow weary and insecure as you tried to remove the headmage hold on you.

"I'm sorry i didn't mean to, But i acted in panic because this cuz is going to fire his flame to that white haired guy!" you defended yourself.

" haaa.. for now throw this creature out of the game. and the ceremony should end here." he said as you saw students following the guys somewhere.

" now you come with me.."

he tried to bring you back where you came from to no avail so he settle for you to reside in the abandoned dorm, of course that is interrupted by the same creature. although, your impression of him seem to falter as he was obedient towards you and you found his catlu behaviour rather cute, so you dont mind to have him as your companion. Crowley explain the situation to you, but since you are a girl you are still exempt from the courses and sadly are forced towards cleaning duty. He of course didn't hear you when you state that you had died in your world and so his agreement are something you can't refuse.

The next day you are met with Ace and his cocky personality trying to get even with the incident at the opening ceremony, you, not wanting to throw another chaos, refrain from using your spells since you had not learn the extend of the effect of this world to your power, but of course, Grim had to assert himself and created the chaos for you.

You are then met with Deuce who had helped you catch the running criminal trying to run away from his job, this of course before the chase went on and you three ended up breaking the expensive rare chandelier and had to find the replacement stone. and the story goes.

that is the story of how you become a NRC student with your trusty companion or familiar, Grim and how you and grim, with your fellow 1st year whom you meet along the way have an epic adventure to deal with overblots.

>> to be continued<<

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

( there will be more parts to this stay tuned, If you wish to be tagged, please let me know)

[spiderhanzzz]

"I'M FUCKING SPIDERMAN, BABY" — han jisung.

who would've guessed that the guy you've been texting on tinder is spiderman?

word count: 2.7k

pairings: spiderman!han x journalist intern!reader

genres: humor, fluff, slight angst, comfort, kind of fake dating???

warnings: swearing, drinking, han is referred to as peter, reader and han are both uni students, mentions of vomit and violence, mild injuries, lowkey blackmailing if u squint, no use of y/n & gender neutral reader, han calls reader "pretty" once, usage of "baby" and "sweetie" too

playlist: les childish gambino, dare gorillaz, novacane frank ocean, i bet you look good on the dancefloor arctic monkeys, making the bed olivia rodrigo

a/n: my first fic raaahh!!! >:3 so so excited for u 2 read all these crazy ideas swirling inside my head

“...whoever provides the information on Spider-Man’s real identity will receive a cash prize of $1,000 US dollars…”

Your gaze bores to the glow of your old crappy TV. You haven’t had the time nor funds to purchase a new one, given that your only employment at the moment is a journalistic internship. It’s a good agency, the same one reporting on screen right now, and you acknowledge how hard you had worked to get the position. Nevertheless, you wish you prioritized financial gain over prestige, because now you’re stuck in your run-down apartment in New York, investigating the biggest issues for no money at all.

So you guess it’s not that big of a deal that you have no leads on who the hell Spider-Man is. If any higher-ups scold you, you could just hit them with those snarky remarks you’ve kept in the back of your mind all this time. How do you expect incentive from me if you’re not even paying me? I’m writing all your scripts because everyone else is a damn deadbeat! Maybe then they’ll start appreciating you.

You released a heavy sigh. All this nonsense is giving you a permanent headache, and it doesn’t help that you spend most of your free time scrolling mindlessly on your phone, which lights up with a new text notification the moment you start thinking about it. Perhaps you’ve spent so much time on your phone it’s becoming a part of your brain?

Peter Han: hahah tbh im pretty busy this week, but i’ll let u know for sure :)

A light shade of embarrassment tints your face when you catch yourself smiling at the text message. Usually Peter— the cute guy you’ve been texting on Tinder— never uses any emoticons. In fact, he’s been acting pretty uninterested and dry with you, which wouldn’t bother you as much if it weren’t for the fact that you desperately need a date to your friend’s birthday party next week.

Despite your humiliatingly destitute lifestyle, you pride yourself for your unmatched abilities to blend into any crowd. So like any other New Yorker, you decided to surround yourself with upper class Manhattan socialites. They like you; they don’t need to know about your financial status.

But with great power comes great responsibility, and with great social life comes great expectations. Last week it was a certain Kate Spade wallet with the intentions to match with the whole group of girls, and the week before it was table manners at a European restaurant (how in the hell were you supposed to know which fork to use for a crème brûlée?) This week, though, they gave you the most impossible task of all: get a date.

And you would. Truly, you would. It’s not like you’re particularly unattractive or unlikeable or anything like that. It’s just that you haven’t dipped your toes into the dating pool since university started, and you’re too far gone now. Your peers are fluent in these unspoken rules of dating and you don’t even really know what a situationship is.

Thus why you’re acting a little bit too desperate with Peter.

As you draft a response to him— is it better to use two or three y’s in hey?— your train of thoughts are interrupted by a loud thud on your balcony, followed by a shadow of vibrant colours. Your couch is situated safely so you can see right out the window, but angled in a way that someone outside wouldn’t be able to see you inside. You found this hack on social media on a particularly paranoid rush of nerves and thanked whoever that person was every single night.

Hesitating for a minute, you consider your options: a) attempt to fight off whoever is in your building, b) run out and alert security, or b) pretend like you didn’t hear anything and pray you don’t see your own face on TV tomorrow instead of Spider-Man’s.

If you were acting rational you would have chosen the last option. After all, it’s New York— if there’s anything prevalent here, it’s crime. But you are just so fucking bored. 

So you grab a baseball bat and swing open the window. 

“Get the hell off my balcony, dude!”

To your surprise, you stand face to face with a pair of dangling Converse All-Stars (really dirty ones, too). In your spur of confusion you come to the conclusion that whoever is sitting above your flat has the ugliest red socks you’ve ever seen in your life.

“What the fuck, man?” The person exclaims. “You bruised my knee!”

“That sounds about right for messing with my place, no?” You say, stepping out onto the balcony to get a good look at the stranger.

Just when you think you couldn’t get more disoriented, you realize the man you’re looking up to is not a stranger at all. It’s none other than Peter Han, in a full on Spider-Man suit.

“Peter…?”

The stranger, AKA Peter, breathes out a nervous laugh, raking his hand through his messy hair. Cute, you think.

“I think you mistook me for someone else. I’m not Peter.”

“Okay…” You say dubiously. “Why are you wearing a Spider-Man suit then?”

“I’m a… uh… cosplayer?”

When his eyes meet yours, the truth sings: he’s been caught. Peter Han is Spider-Man.

He’s terrified, you can tell. You don’t blame him— you would be too in his position. But it’s not just the fact that you know now; it’s also the mischievous glint twinkling in your eyes. Just what the hell are you thinking about that could be so amusing right now?

“W-what’s that look for?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. Maniacal laughter bursts out of you like you’ve been possessed by the spirit of a circus clown, and you have to hold on to the balcony railing to stop yourself from falling over. “Oh, Peter, you naive little fool.”

Peter’s brows furrow in confusion. You mentally curse yourself for admiring how handsome he looks when he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m on the case to find out Spider-Man’s identity. Well, your identity, I guess.”

“You did not tell me that.”

“Yes, I did.” You cross your arms over your chest, shooting him a judgemental look. “You’d know that if you paid any attention to what I have to say.”

“Look, listen…” Peter braces his lean arms on the side of the window to lower himself on your balcony. Standing face to face, you note that he’s not as tall as you thought. “I know I haven’t been the warmest person to you, but I would literally get on my knees and beg for you to please not tell anyone about this.”

You hum in amusement, taking a step closer to him and raising your chin with undoubted sanguine. Like this, you’re almost the same height as him. “As tempting as that sounds, I’d rather have you doing something else for me.”

Peter chuckles in disbelief, eyes wandering to the sky as if to ask God what have I done to deserve this absolute nonsense? His palms rest upon your shoulders when he looks you dead in the eye and says, “You are not blackmailing me, sweetie.”

“That’s a lot of confidence for someone who has very blackmail-able secrets.”

“That’s not even a word!”

“Whatever.” You peel away his hands from your shoulders, straightening your posture and pulling your shoulders back. Peter faces you with a puzzled gaze as you offer him your hand, clearing your throat and stating, “Peter Han, I would like to make a deal with you.”

He doesn’t move. “And that is…?”

“Date me.” Seeing his face contort into an even deeper state of befuddlement, you follow up with elaboration. “One date to a party next week, and just a few meet-ups and texts to prove that our relationship is going strong. In return, I’ll pretend this whole exchange never happened.”

You’re both silent for what feels like hours, eyes fighting a silent mental battle, until Peter’s rough palms finally envelop your own. You’re aware of how crazy and delusional you sound, but you swear he pulls you in just a little bit closer.

“Deal.”

It’s your third year in the city, and you’re still not fully familiarized with the parties. Contrary to your expectations of drunk sweaty bodies dancing up on each other, your friends’ definition of parties consists of low warm lighting embracing their glittered luxury brand dresses as they swirl their fancy little martinis and cosmopolitans. You appreciate it, really, since you don’t have to use up your voice every other night just to shout over the deafening electronic music. However it’s much harder to appreciate the pressure it puts on you to behave a certain way— dance like nobody’s watching, but be aware that they are.

As you slowly walk to approach your friends (rule #32: no running in public spaces, you’ll look like an idiot) you feel a large hand brush softly against your waist. You turn to face your date for the night, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you take in his appearance. The only suit he’s wearing now is an all-black tuxedo with no tie, the first three buttons of his shirt opened. His black hair is brushed down smoothly, pieces of it falling just right to frame his glowing face.

“You clean up well,” you remark, circling your arm in his as you guide him towards the bar where your friends are sitting.

“I could say the same to you, pretty.” With the sleek black shoes he’s wearing, he’s a few inches taller. Slightly looking down on you, he gives you a subtle wink.

God, he’s such a heartthrob.

Your friends round up to give you hugs and kisses to welcome your presence, ever so politely. One of them acknowledges Peter’s companionship. “You must be the date.”

“That I am.” Peter returns the approach, showing off his adorably heart-shaped smile. “Peter Han, pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the night runs as it does in your dreams the night before. By the time you had arrived, your friends were already buzzed enough to pay no mind to the way the leather is peeling off your only pair of formal shoes nor to the typo on your fake branded bag. Just the way it’s supposed to be.

Peter doesn’t leave your side the entire night, only lifting his arm around your waist to grab more drinks for the both of you. Occasionally you catch him absentmindedly rubbing your back, and occasionally you catch yourself wondering how someone who spends so much of his life fighting can be this gentle.

During a small bathroom break, one of your friends pulls you aside and whispers, “He looks at you like you hung the stars, you know.”

If you weren’t so swept up in the feeling of finally belonging under the subtle incandescence of a high-end bar in Manhattan, you would have noticed the way Peter’s eyes darken when he read a notification off his phone, or the way his lips press into a tight line when he gazes at you, laughing your heart away amongst your friends.

So you’re nothing short of confounded when he wraps his arms around your waist and leans down to mumble, “Baby, I have to go, there’s a work emergency. I’ll catch you later, alright?”

Your friends bid him farewell and you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, immediately turning away when you feel his body tense. When he walks out the door, you keep your eyes focused on how his soft hair loses its shimmer as he walks out into the night.

And you try to enjoy the warm liquid pouring down your throat for the fifth time tonight, savoring the way you can almost taste a bit of yourself pull away from reality each time, knowing at least one of the people around you will walk away tonight asking, “don’t you think that Peter is a bit cold?”

You sit on the edge of your balcony, something you never do unless you’re going through an existential crisis or drunk off your ass. Tonight it’s both. As usual, the distant sirens and exclamations of curses wrap a tight band around your head. You’re dizzy; either from the alcohol or situation or both.

The ocean of fluorescent lights from the streets of Queens drift your mind to recall just how you ended up here. Three years ago, you were a fresh high school graduate with a million opportunities in front of you. Now you’re broke and rely too much on the validation of your non-broke friends to fulfill the void inside you. The thought of eventually having nobody but yourself after you graduate makes you wanna vomit on a passerby’s head.

“Hey, baby.” A particularly resonant voice startles you out of your thoughts. Peter is swinging from your balcony railing, a pair of gray sweatpants and zip-up jacket slung over his Spider-Man suit. “Sorry for ditching early. I got pizza and flowers to make it up to you, though.”

He swings himself to sit down next to you, placing the box of pizza and bouquet in front of your crossed legs. When he pulls his mask over his head to remove it, your eyes glance over his cuts and bruises. They definitely weren’t there earlier.

“What happened?” You unconsciously bring a hand up to his face, brushing your knuckles tenderly over the sensitive areas. It’s only when he winces that you drop your hand back down to your lap.

“Some guy tried to rob a bank.” Peter shrugged, refusing to meet your gaze. “Turns out he brought a bunch of other guys to back him up.”

“Did you win, at least?”

Though his face is turned down, you can see Peter’s eyes crinkle into a smile underneath his tousled hair. “Yeah, ‘course I did. Who do you think I am, a loser? I’m fucking Spider-Man, baby.”

Ten minutes later you’re seated face to face, still on your balcony, with you dabbing a cotton pad onto his injuries. No words were exchanged; you just went in and out to grab your emergency medical kit and grabbed him by the chin. The pizza box is left unattended, but neither of you care much about the hunger puncturing your insides.

“Why do you look so down?” Peter inquires as you place a Hello Kitty bandaid on his cheekbone, giggling breathlessly as you do so.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” He brings his own hand up to your face, brushing away the strands of your hair on your forehead. “I mean, you’re smiling now, but your eyes have this sadness to them. So, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

What the actual fuck? It literally takes you every nerve in your body to fight the urge to propose to this man right then and there.

“Hey, come on,” he urges, delicately pulling your face an inch closer to his. His thumbs run down your flushed cheeks, and it takes you a while to notice he’s brushing away your tears. “I said talk to me.”

“Well, you’ve probably already noticed that I’m different from my friends.” You wrap your fingers around his wrists. “I guess I thought I could pull off the whole socialite act, but I’m starting to feel so…”

When you can’t find the words, Peter finds them for you. “Lost?”

He presses his forehead to yours as you nod softly. “This might not be the best time, but I think you’re a star.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you shine the brightest amongst everyone else’s shadow. And your friends probably see you that way too. Also that I really, really want to take you out on a real date.”

“You were right, it’s terrible timing.” You fake pout, pretending as if your heart didn’t skip a beat at his words.

“Sorry, sorry!” Peter laughs, setting distance between the two of you once again. There is no inclination to pull him back, though; the space devoid of someone else finally feels comfortable.

“My answer is yes, by the way, you can take me out on a real date. Unfortunately no blackmail this time, though, I think I'm gonna quit that dumb internship.”

Both of you share a fit of affectionate laughter. The temperate scent of food merges with that of the flowers and caresses your senses as Peter opens the box of pizza. “If they ever make fun of you for not being rich, we can always stage one of them as Spider-Man. We'll even get $1,000 from it, then you'll actually be rich."

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Spidey.”